It's summertime, which means—for Taemin—many good things.

For starters, it means that the nights are warm and the days are warmer. And that, in turn, means that spending copious amounts of time outside in shorts that may or may not be a bit shorter than necessary and tank tops that skim low down ribs is very much appropriate.

It also means that he can eat frozen berries from the bag all day long without getting the nasty throb behind his eyes because it's hot out, and that he can have a purple-stained tongue and lips and fingers, and that he can eat fudgesicles, which are possibly the best creation known to mankind.

The best part of summer by far though is Minho, because while Taemin knows he looks good in small amounts of clothing he's quite certain that Minho looks better. While Taemin looks pleasantly racy, Minho is meant for summer, absolutely. Taemin knows this to be true because the curls at Minho’s temples (which only appear in the humid summer) get bleached from black to brown and his arms become sculpted from hours of pig and horse and lightning and bump and one-on-one and two-on-two and just shooting hoops by himself, and his legs...

His legs are just yes yes yes.

His legs, actually, are the only reason that Taemin plays basketball at all. Those and the fact that Minho’s rather inappropriate racerback tank makes the sharp planes of his shoulderblades look really sinful.

“I don't know why I even play with you,” Taemin lies when he's forced to shoot from much too far away from the hoop because of some stupid rule Minho pulled out of his two minutes back. “I never win. You're too good.”

Minho flashes Taemin his summer smile, even whiter than usual next to his bronzed skin. “Stop pouting. I told you, it's because you don't ever concentrate on your form. Remember, the swan?” And he fakes shooting, mouth dropping open in concentration as he contorts his arms into some position that really looks nothing like a swan at all.

“I'm not pouting.” He is, actually, but the words are automatic.

“You're pouting,” Minho says, full of confidence. “But it’s cute.”

“You're cute,” Taemin shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to rearrange his face into a non-pout.

Minho snorts. “Yeah, no, I--”

“Love talk!” Kibum shouts from across the court, and Minho flushes berry red when Jonghyun wolf-whistles his agreement.

“Idiots,” Taemin says happily, his fingers curling around the ball as he crouches, trying to arrange his arms into a pre-swan movement. “Love talk, shmove talk.”

“No, no!” Minho jogs over, long fingers gripping Taemin's arms, rearranging both them and Taemin's heart in one go. “Like this!”

“Love birds!” It's Jonghyun this time. Then: “Ouch, Jinki. What was that for?”

Minho chokes on nothing (or perhaps he's choking on the words in the air, which Taemin supposes might actually be something after all). “They're idiots,” he tells Taemin, shaking his head. “All of them. Love birds.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Taemin’s feet kick up as he shoots, then misses yet again. “Ugh!”

“G! Ha! I win!”

Taemin barrels across the court, leaping onto Minho's too-smug back, determined to wipe the grin off his face. “The swan does not work, you cocky bastard. What are you trying to teach me anyway, huh?”

Minho sways under his weight, laughing and wobbling and warm. “It's not the swan's fault, it's more you--”

“Is not!”

It's hot out and Minho's arms are sweaty under Taemin's knees and Jonghyun and Kibum and Jinki are all watching and rolling their eyes and Minho is a blind idiot and Taemin is in love with the swan—or maybe it's just Minho himself.