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Felix is currently whooping Jisung’s ass at Mario Kart when Yeosang comes to collect them to film the wedding scene. 

It’s a blessing really, Minho thinks as they follow Yeosang and his iPad through the backlot of the cathedral that the production company has briefly taken over, because he’s not entirely sure how much longer he could’ve sat through Jisung’s whines every time he fell off Rainbow Road. One would have thought that Jisung was in the porn industry instead of being a music teacher who worked out the back of his dad’s guitar shop, and — if he wasn’t so oblivious about the effect that his sounds where having on his boyfriend seated next to him — Minho would said that Jisung was doing it on purpose. 

Felix had kissed him in goodbye, leaving him with the whispered promise of “You’re going to be making those noises for real when I’m finished here,” and Minho, halfway down the stairs of Felix’s trailer with his white suit jacket in hand, had gagged and made a note to himself to go back to his own trailer when filming was over. They had been a good distraction though, these friends of his, especially with the knowledge of what’s to come. 

With his Idol group The Strayz on a semi-hiatus to pursue solo activities, Minho had decided to dip his toes into the acting world. His manager Seongwha had managed to land him a surprisingly large role in Director Hwang Hyunjin’s latest project — a twelve-episode drama penned by up and coming writer Kim Seungmin, which centred around two chaebol families fighting for power within Seoul. Minho had been cast as Park Yunjun, the middle son and a quiet pawn in the Park family’s generational battle of politics and power against the Choi empire. Felix, a rising star in the acting industry, slipped effortlessly into the role of the youngest Park son, while popular drama actor Choi San stole hearts and screen time as the eldest son.

Felix had immediately flocked to Minho’s side when they’d formally met at the table reading. Minho had blinked, slightly taken aback by the beaming blonde that materialised in front of him like some kind of sprite. And even though he knew who Lee Felix was — half the world did, it was hard not to notice the burning trail of stardust Felix was leaving in his wake as he ascended through the industry — he still felt shivers whisper down his spine at hearing that famous deep voice. 

Felix had introduced himself with a bow. “I’m such a fan— I’ve been following your Idol career for a long time. I’m excited to be working with you on your first drama, and I hope that we can be friends! Please, if you ever need anything, I would be happy to help.” He'd finished with another deep bow, and Minho had been both grateful and stunned into silence by the bubbly energy that radiated from the man cast as his younger brother. Felix had taken Minho’s introverted little “Mhmm,” and head nod as an affirmative, and had attached himself to his side ever since, and the insight and help he provided was something that Minho was immensely thankful for. His boyfriend Jisung, whom Felix had met when he’d needed guitar lessons for one of his previous projects, had come along soon after that and Minho was indebted to their particular brand of cheeriness that smoothed over most of anxieties he’d had about his acting debut. Except for one.

It’s overdramatic, sure, but this is the singular scene that Minho’s been dreading filming, and his stomach won’t stop churning. He wonders briefly if vomiting in the cathedral carpark will convince them to cancel filming, and the smile that Felix shoots him does nothing to quell his nerves. 

“Felix,” Minho murmurs, “if you try and give me a pep talk I swear to God—”

Felix slips his small hand into Minho’s and gives it a tiny squeeze. His smile softens. “Breathe, hyung,” he says. “It'll be fine. It’s a wedding, not an execution.”

And— right. The wedding. 

The twist in the script came from the seemingly shaky Choi-Park alliance that was struck against the threat of the rising Kang family. An alliance that the patriarchs of the two families were solidifiying through the marriage between Minho’s Yunjun and the eldest Choi son, Siwoo — played by none other than Bang Chan himself. 

Minho will never admit it aloud to Felix and Jisung, but most — actually, all — of his anxieties about the wedding scene stem directly from that man. Bang Chan. Because if Lee Felix was an shooting star in the universe of the acting world, then Bang Chan was the entire Milky Way itself. Acting since a child, he had effectively stolen the hearts of the nation as they’d watched him grow up on screen. They’d seen him transition from the cute kid to the shy heartthrob of a teenager, before his final emergence as a powerhouse in the entertainment industry. Bang Chan was charming, funny, and polite. He was handsome — extremely so — and his face was everywhere — from magazines, to TV screens; on billboards and advertisements. And, with his proficiency in English, Hollywood had come calling. Seongwha-hyung had taken great delight in informing Minho that Bang Chan had been cast in no less than three Hollywood films this year alone. The man was, truly, a giant. 

And he was going to be Minho’s husband. 

Well, Minho amends as he lets Felix drag him onto set, fake husband. Because it’s an onscreen marriage, after all. But a divine entity somewhere out there must be favouring Minho if he’s being paid to be the fake husband of the Bang Chan for the next few months. There are worse fates that he could have been saddled with for his first acting role, even if Minho is so anxious that his lunch might make a second appearance if he opens his mouth. 

As coincidence would have it, this is the first time that Minho’s going to be meeting his husband (fake husband). Bang Chan’s busy schedule had meant that he was still filming overseas during the casting process — Minho still doesn’t know what kind of insane witchcraft that Seongwha pulled to get him cast opposite Bang Chan without a single chemistry test — and the table-read. The actor playing the youngest Choi son, Jeong Yunho, had read Bang Chan’s part as well as his own. Yunho was just starting to make his own name in the industry, and seemed quite kind. Minho had liked him, even if his height was… unfair. 

What Minho very much does not like is the fear that his acting career could be over before it even starts. Doomed to be ridiculed in history. Because how is he supposed to pretend to be in love with someone, to make it believable for the camera, when he’s never even met the man, let alone had a screen test with him?

Duh, he can hear Jisung chastising him, you act, hyung. 

The inside of the cathedral, closed to the public today for filming, has been decorated immaculately. The lighting team has done an incredible job at bathing everything in a soft, warm glow that beckons to Minho, ready to welcome him inside. Flowers are tastefully frothing out of vases that have been placed at the end of pews, and pale blue and white silk hangs drapes over furniture like mermaids on a rock. It matches the colour of the tie around Minho’s neck, the pocket square in the breast of his white suit. 

There’s a flutter of activity behind one of the main cameras that draws Minho’s attention — not a large group, but one that hums with authority, with purpose. It’s to this group that Felix pulls Minho, both of them still following Yeosang. Minho can feel the way his palms grow clammy with every step. Felix, thankfully, doesn’t comment.

Director Hwang Hyunjin is holding court in the middle of the small group, a script in one hand and a pencil in the other while he gestures in explanation. He’s wearing glasses that he doesn’t actually need, a newsboy cap, and his long hair is a mess of dark tendrils over his shirt. He’s in old jeans that are covered in small paint flecks and spatters, and on anyone else the outfit would look pretentious, like what they imagine an artist to look like. On Director Hwang — “Hyunjin,” he’d tried to insist that Minho call him when they’d been introduced, “just Hyunjin will be fine, I’m not fussed about the formalities too much,” — it just seems like the most authentic version of himself. 

The group also includes Seo Changbin, Director Hwang’s cinematographer, who has a penchant for obscenely-tight t-shirts that look like they’ve been painted on, the veteran actor that’s playing Minho’s father, Yunho, who’s looking sharp in his black suit and—

“Ah! Minho!” Director Hwang waves them over when he catches sight of him and Felix, and by this point, Felix is well and truly dragging a reluctant Minho behind him. 

Felix is beaming. “Director-nim.” He bows, herding Minho into place next to Director Hwang, and opposite—

Changbin lets out a low whistle. “Look at you two,” he says, taking in Minho and Felix. “No special lighting needed to make you two glow.” 

Coming from anyone else it would be cheesy, a pick-up line reserved for the most desperate of men, but Minho has learnt that Changbin means every word that he says. He can feel his ears warming, and is glad that the makeup hides the worst of it on his neck. He still hasn’t lifted his eyes to look opposite him, at the object of his terror, choosing instead to bow low at everyone in the group. 

“Minho,” the director says, thumbing through pages in his script. There’s the normal scribbled notations and marginalia that Minho has in his own script but then—

“Drawings?” he asks, curious.

Director Hwang makes an affirmative noise. “Sometimes I have a specific image in mind for a scene,” he explains, still flipping through. “Like— ah, here! I’ve been literally dreaming about this wedding scene for weeks, much like Cha—”

There’s a throat that’s loudly cleared from somewhere opposite Minho. “Director, if you would be so kind as to show Minho what you had in mind? Then we can do a quick run through of the blocking.”

Minho is no stranger to that voice. He’s heard it through his TV speakers, in his headphones, coming out of electronic billboards. Everyone in South Korea knows that voice. But it’s different hearing it in person. It’s different listening to it from less that three feet away — the calm timbre of that famous voice, the way that Minho’s name falls so easily from those lips. Minho is not ready for the manner in which his entire body reacts to it, the way that his blood fizzes and pops when he hears those syrupy vocal cords. All of his muscles have seized up and he can feel that his ears are so very, very red. 

“Director,” Felix says. Thank fuck he’s coming to Minho’s rescue. “I don’t think Minho-hyung and Bang Chan-sunbaenim have been introduced yet.” Felix’s voice is smug, and Minho’s eyes widen because actually, he hasn’t come to Minho’s rescue at all, that dirty little dongsaeng; he’s just thrown him in a twelve-foot-deep pool of water without a life jacket. 

Director Hwang inhales a shocked sound. “Really? But— oh, this is perfect,” he says. His eyes are shining behind the lenses of his glasses. “This is perfect,” he repeats. “An arranged marriage where the participants are only meeting at the ceremony itself. Two enemies that can’t help but fall in love as soon as they set eyes on each other— your reactions are going to be so perfect—” 

He continues on in this vein for sometime, but Minho has stopped listening. It doesn’t sound perfect to him, actually. It sounds terrifying, like an unavoidable catastrophe. How is he supposed to look like he’s in love with Bang Chan-sunbaenim, if he’s so anxious he can’t even look him in the eyes? He’s glad that Yunjun doesn’t have too many lines because Minho’s acted before, yes. In music videos, in front of the camera, masking with fans. But he is sure that whatever skills he has are decidedly not going to be a match for the famous Bang Chan, that whatever it is that’s being asked of him is not going to end well. 

A hand is suddenly thrust into Minho’s line of sight. It’s pale with neat, manicured nails and veins that wrap delicately around muscles and tendons like strands of ivy. It’s a strong-looking hand. A nice looking hand. 

“Lee Minho-ssi, it’s an honour to finally meet you.” 

Minho stands there dumbly, and a sharp elbow from Felix is the one thing that gets him moving. He reaches out, takes the proffered hand automatically, and— it’s warm, the grip is firm, but gentle, and when Minho finally, finally lifts his head to look at the man who’s going to be his husband — on-screen husband — he finds himself peering at the dark crown of Bang Chan-sunbaenim, who’s bent low in a respectful bow over Minho’s hand. 

“Oh,” Minho finally manages to stutter. Another elbow dig from Felix. Minho is going to over-salt his beef the next time he cooks for him. “And you, sunbaenim,” he says, dropping into his own hasty bow. He narrowly avoids smacking his head into Bang Chan’s own and God, what a fool he’s being. Every single bit of Idol training for social situations has completely, utterly evaporated from Minho’s brain in the face of this man. His neck and ears are stained crimson. 

Felix sighs deeply, mutters a word that suspiciously sounds like “Pabo,” and forget the salt, Minho is going to put so much spice in his food he’ll be shitting fire for a month. He straightens up, and makes the mistake of looking directly at Bang Chan, who is smiling at him so brightly his that eyes are crescents. Minho has met a few famous people over the course of his Idol career, but none of them were as brilliant or distinguished as this. 

This must be what it feels like to look directly into the sun, he thinks, his eyes skittering away to the ground, to his feet — anywhere but Bang Chan-sunbaenim — and Minho suddenly knows how the moon must feel, paling in comparison to the sun with it’s weak and watery light. 

"Please— it's Chan. Just Chan," the other actor protests, and Minho nods vaguely, still unable to lift his eyes.  

Director Hwang claps his hands together happily. “Shall we?” He gestures to the set in front of him. 

Their little group steps up to the altar where Minho is going to marry Bang Chan, South Korea’s favourite celebrity. He’s known since he was cast that this wedding was going to be occurring, but it’s only now, when Minho’s on the precipice of the event itself, that the reality is starting to set in. 

Felix is chatting amiably to the other actors that have been cast into the Choi family, and Minho shadows him, not quite willing to be left alone. It has not escaped him that he has the least acting experience on set, and he prays to that same divinity that threw him and Bang Chan together that he makes it through this without embarrassing himself too badly. Something tells him that he’s not doing a very good job so far. 

They walk through the scene briefly, making sure everyone knows where they’re standing and how the scene’s going to run. Changbin checks the shots, and then they’re all good to go, except—

“My priest,” Director Hwang says frowning. “Where’s my priest?”

Minho, too busy being hyper-aware of where Chan is in relation to himself at all times, blinks himself out of his stupor to notice a distinct lack of a priest amongst the people milling about. 

A slim woman with a headset and a sharp haircut has been hovering behind Director Hwang as he’d talked, making notes on her iPad. She steps forward now. “I’ll find out, Director-nim,” she says. 

“Thank you, Yeji,” Director Hwang says distractedly, but Yeji is already pressing a button on her headset. 

“Here! Sorry, sorry—! We’re here!” 

There’s a flurry behind the cameras, and Minho can’t quite see what’s happening with the brightness of the studio lights in his eyes. But then two young men are bustling onto set, although Minho notes that the one in priest robes is a lot more hesitant than the production runner next to him. They stop, and both bow hastily when they see everyone looking at them.
 
“Yah, Jung Wooyoung!” Changbin shouts loudly. “How do you lose a priest?”

The man playing the priest is already flushed with exertion, and at this, he colours even more. Perhaps he’s almost as nervous as Minho. A makeup artist immediately attaches themself to him, dabbing at his sweat and touching up his foundation. He looks very young, and his eyes are as sharp as his cheekbones. He bows deeply in apology for his tardiness. He opens his mouth, undoubtedly going to provide a verbal apology as well, but he never gets the words out before Director Hwang is calling for them to start filming. 

And then, with everyone finally assembled, Minho’s wedding begins.

The actor playing his father takes Minho’s arm and slowly begins to escort him down the aisle. He’s busy telling Minho — no, Yunjun, he’s Park Yunjun now — about his duty to his family, his need to be a husband without reproach but not one that doesn’t forget where his loyalties should lie. Yunjun murmurs his assent to his father, taking care to keep his voice low enough so that it doesn’t disturb the guests but not so low enough that the boom mics can’t pick it up. He smiles serenely, in the way that has been ingrained in Yunjun since he was a small boy, inclining his head to some of the more esteemed guests, and then. Here it comes. The line from his father about needing to protect his head and his heart from the devil that is Choi Siwoo, to guard himself against the utter ruthlessness that his new husband is known for displaying in the boardroom. And that’s Minho’s cue to finally, finally lift his head and let his eyes slowly slide up the aisle to meet the gaze of the man who will be his husband. 

(Fake husband.)

Meeting the eyes of Bang Chan is, Minho thinks, what sky-diving would feel like, if he wasn’t so terribly afraid of heights. That same sick, adrenaline feeling, like lightning in his bones. A deep swooping in his stomach as he free falls, and the way that he loses all perception of his limbs as numbness starts to build in his fingertips. It’s the way that he can sense every atom in his body vibrating, feel his vision sharpen into a vivid technicolour. Minho’s body simultaneously feels too large and yet not big enough, with the way that his heart is thrumming at the bars of his ribcage, begging for freedom. 

And then he blinks, and Chan is still there, still waiting for him at the end of the aisle.

He truly is so devastatingly handsome. It’s one of the only coherent thoughts that Minho manages to articulate, too preoccupied by the sharp lines of Chan’s black suit and the swell of his broad shoulders that are barely-contained underneath. But it’s not his body that is tormenting Minho right now. It’s the expression on his face as he stares at Minho, still gliding down the aisle. It’s the way that the tiny muscles either side of his mouth are slack, his lips parted slightly. There’s a softness to the lines around his eyes — eyes that have not left Minho’s in the time since they first made contact across the infinite space between them. And staring at Chan, Minho is struck with the odd feeling that the other man has the ability to peer into the very substance that makes up Minho’s soul. He would shiver at being perceived so deeply if he had an ounce of control over his body.

Bang Chan-sunbaenim certainly is an exquisite actor. 

Without the guidance of his on-screen father, Minho would have stumbled his way down the rest of the aisle. As it is, the only warning he gets prior to climbing the steps to the altar is a brief squeeze to his hand from the veteran actor, who seems to realise that his charge is more than a little emotionally inebriated right now. There’s a brief moment where bows are exchanged, and then Minho’s on-screen father hands him to Chan lifting Minho’s hands from where they’ve been resting in the crook of his elbow, and placing them firmly in the possession of Chan. Minho can only stare down at where their palms are nestled against each other, the way that Chan’s fingers wrap around his own, much smaller hands. Consuming them. Minho would like to be consumed very much. By the floor. By the devastatingly handsome man who’s holding his hands. 

He watches as his fingers are gently squeezed, and Minho’s head lifts automatically, seeking out the eyes of Chan. And then, once he finds them, he finds himself free-falling from a great height without a parachute once more. His only hope is that the landing will be gentle, but he fears that it will be anything but. 

Director Hwang calls “Cut!” and— Minho drops back into his body with an abrupt thud, suddenly shocked back to the reality that there’s an entire set of people around staring at him. He thinks that the director compliments him and Chan, but he can’t quite hear anything over the sound of his own heart in his eardrums. They adjust their positions, reset, and then start filming again, starting from where the priest begins the marriage ceremony. Neither of them drop their hands during the brief interlude. 

The young actor playing the priest is bubbling with nerves. He stumbles over his words, even with the script hidden on the lectern in front of him, and his voice is too quiet. Minho would feel sorry for him, if he had the ability to think coherently right now, especially when they break for a second time so that a makeup artist can press a paper towel into the beads of sweat that have formed on his hairline. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this,” he’s trying to say. 

“Nonsense,” Lia, the makeup artist, reassures him. “You’ll be fine, it’s just nerves. Everyone gets them.”

“No, really,” the priest insists. “I—”

“I like the blonde,” Chan murmurs. He’s still staring at Minho. He hasn’t stopped. He must be one of those method actors, Minho supposes. 

“Mm?” 

“Your hair,” Chan clarifies. “I like it, it’s pretty. I don’t think I’ve seen you as a blonde before?”

What Minho means to say, is “Thank you, sunbaenim. They dyed it to match with Felix’s hair.”

What he actually says is, “Mm?—Uh—oh—Lix—brothers—I mean—uhh—sunbaenim… thanks?”

Chan’s laughter is light and airy, and his eyes are doing that thing where they curve into upside-down smiles. Minho likes the way he looks when he laughs. He likes the sound of Chan’s laugh. He hopes he does it again, even if he’s probably just being polite to Minho as his co-star. Then his thumb smooths over the back of Minho’s knuckles, and he really needs to stop that before Minho spontaneously combusts on camera. 

“It suits you, regardless of the reason for it,” Bang Chan-sunbaenim says. “It’s pretty.”

There’s a hysterical feeling building in Minho’s throat as the word pretty rings in his head on repeat, chiming like one of those church bells he’d heard earlier. Minho’s ears are burning, and his bites his lips, trying to put a halt to the embarrassed smile that's bunching his cheeks. He has to turn his head away. 

Lia finishes with the priest, and then they’re ready to roll again, with the director coming over to give a last second pep-talk to the shy priest.

“You’re a priest, yes?” he says encouragingly to the young actor. “So be a priest! Have some confidence and project your voice! We’re here to marry these people, so let’s get them married, Father!” He punctuates his last few words with claps, giving the actor a quick pat on the back before he settles himself behind the cameras again, and they’re almost ready to start rolling again, when— 

“Minho, can you look at Chan for me, please? With the eye-contact, like you were before. Yes, yes that’s perfect, we’re just going to get some shots of that, thank you, and then Father, I’ll signal you to start the wedding ceremony.”

It takes an innate strength that Minho doesn’t know he has to raise his chin again. He blinks a few times, takes a deep breath, and lifts his eyes. Bang Chan-sunbaenim, ever the consummate professional, is already looking at him with that same soft, wondrous expression. His mouth is relaxed in a tiny, shy smile that curves the edges of his lips, like he holds a secret that he’s excited to tell Minho. And Minho—

Minho, for the first time since his Idol debut, doesn’t quite know what his face is doing in front of a camera. Initially he also tries to school it into something gentle, something tender and marvellous that belies how the shy Yunjun is starting to slip headfirst into— not ‘love’, not just yet, but certainly an emotion that is rapidly approaching a deep infatuation with his soon-to-be husband. But. Somewhere after meeting Chan’s warm, dark eyes, Minho gets lost.

It’s not the unsettling feeling of being ‘lost’ from childhood, where one step off the forest path had you dreaming of wolves, and things with sharp teeth. It’s not the curling dread in your guts of an empty fuel tank, one wrong turn too-many in the dark and a phone with no service. That horrifying absence of safety. No, this is a different type of ‘lost’, the kind where you start a book in the morning and look up after the the final page to find the sun is already setting. It’s like staring up at the stars and letting your mind fall blank, seeing all of those glittering diamonds in the black fabric of the night, so luminous and vivid. And it is, for Minho, rather like all of those nights at in the practice studio where he used to press shuffle on his music and let his body take over completely and dance until his bones could no longer keep him up right. Time is a construct that has ceased to exist for Minho. The only thing that he can truly say that he’s aware of is the man standing opposite him.  

Had Minho been clear-headed and in possession of his faculties, he would have perhaps noticed the way that, after the initial stumble, the priest’s monologue is… different. It is not the scripted words of text that Minho has studied over and over in his preparation for this scene. The content might be similar. The sentiment might be there. But the words are not the same. Yet no one stops the priest. No one calls “Cut,” or “I object!” like in a Hollywood movie. No one calls a halt to the wedding. 

And so they continue.

The first hint that Minho gets that they’ve reached the vows is the pause to allow Yunho to step forward from his sentinel position behind Chan. His hand is buried in the inside pocket of his jacket, and he pulls out the small velvet box, opening the hinges and putting the wedding rings on full display. Minho remembers those rings; he’d tried his on the other week to make sure that it would fit. And it had. Perfectly. 

They're beautiful, those rings; two perfect circles of white-gold with parallel lines of diamonds that run along both edges of the band. The only difference is that Minho’s band is slightly narrower to account for his smaller hands and ringed in white diamonds, while Chan’s had two neat lines of black diamonds. Minho remembers finding the black a curious choice, but the stylist that was fitting him, Chaeryeong, had waved it off as “another one of those character development things that directors like.”

Now, Minho watches as Chan drops one of his hands to turn to Yunho, plucking Minho’s slim band out of the velvet box. His mouth moves as he turns back to Minho, and Minho watches his lips move in the same way one would study a work of art, or an acclaimed literary text, but the sound is… muted. Non-existent. Chan’s movements are slow and deliberate for the cameras, who are drinking up every angle they can of the shot. His ring looks so small and dainty in Bang Chan-sunbaenim’s fingers, diamonds flashing in the light.

Chan smiles at Minho again, but this time the smile is— different. It falters, slightly, as his eyes study every facet of Minho’s face, and there’s a small hitch in his breathing when his gaze flicks down to Minho’s mouth. It’s not a hesitation or a change brought by disappointment, but rather an expression that belies the gravity of the situation. That he’s here, about to marry this stranger of a husband that… maybe Choi Siwoo wishes isn’t such a stranger, after all. 

Minho misses the rest of the vows. He’s too busy staring at the shadow of Chan's eyelashes when he glances down at Minho’s left hand, too caught up in watching those lips press together in concentration when he finally, gently slips the ring over Minho’s knuckles and slides it to the base of his finger. The ring had felt cold and heavy in the wardrobe department when Minho had tried it on last week. Now, the metal has been warmed by Chan’s fingers, and he barely notices the weight of it. When another stroke of Chan’s thumb over the back of his hand has him casting his eyes downward, the image of the elegant wedding band sitting snug on his finger is not as jarring as Minho had thought it would be. It’s a curious thing to him, how right everything feels, but he somehow never thinks to question why that is.

He doesn’t realise that it’s his turn to speak until there’s another gentle pressure around his fingers that brings his consciousness back into his body just in time to hear a laugh that’s more air than noise, and a tiny whisper of “Minho.”

Minho is still too dazed to be cognisant of the missing honorific, or the fact that it’s his name and not Yunjun’s that was murmured, but a repeated flick of Chan’s eyes in the direction of Yunho has his brain scrambling out of stasis.

“Oh.” Minho’s own eyes widen in surprise. “Oh.”

Yunho steps forward, inclining his head as he offers up the jewellery box to Minho. His body is still not quite his own, so his movements are not as smooth as they should be. Minho is terrified that he’ll do something horribly stupid, like fumble with the ring and send it clattering to the cathedral floor, but by some miracle (again, that same divinity that brought him here in the first place), he doesn’t. He’s less graceful in his actions than Bang Chan-sunbaenim was, but his fingers close around the wedding band of his husband, clutching it tightly to his palm. 

He looks at the priest for assistance. The priest smiles, and it's somewhat indulgent as he repeats the vows for him. Minho’s tongue is as heavy and cumbersome in his dry mouth, but he makes it through his lines without stumbling, without hesitating. They feel… different from the lines that Minho’s been religiously learning, or maybe his mind has simply become too jumbled and foggy in the presence of the unknown variable that is Bang Chan. 

When it’s time to place the ring on his husband’s finger, Minho has to drop the hand that’s still being cradled by Chan. Carefully, he unfurls his fingers to reveal the ring, but once he has it between his thumb and forefinger, his brain— freezes. Again. Minho feels himself stare across at Chan, wide-eyed. In panic, in awe, in what the fuck am I doing?— Minho doesn’t quite know. There’s too many emotions crashing together inside of his body and they’re over-riding every blocking and scene rehearsal that he practiced. 

“Hey.”

It’s the tiniest whisper from Chan. Minho doesn’t even know if the boom mics will pick it up. He swallows, still dry-mouthed. 

“Breathe,” Chan murmurs. “Just— breathe, Minho-yah.” His mouth blooms into a kind smile, one that’s small and precious and just for Minho. Not Park Yunjun. “Just breathe.”

The affirmation soothes Minho’s stumbling brain, eases his thoughts. He recovers enough to take a juddering inhale, and nods, just a minuscule movement of his head, but one that Chan sees nonetheless. His eyes soften in response.

And then, still staring Chan, Minho slips the ring onto his husband’s finger. 

***

Minho’s brain might not be working at one hundred percent capacity right now, but it's not quite clouded enough that he misses the section of script where the young priest announces that they may seal their union with a kiss. 

It’s at this point that Director Hwang calls “Cut!” and comes over to join their little group. Minho wonders if it's obvious to him just how out of sorts he’s feeling, but the director is breathless and his eyes are shining. Minho finds him a little hard to look at if he’s honest, with the way that his whole body is vibrating with his enthusiasm.

“Perfect!” he’s saying. “You two are absolutely gorgeous. The emotions, the feeling — fantastic job, I don’t think we need to re-take any of that.” 

Minho feels… awkward. He didn’t even do anything, did he? He doesn’t remember. The only thing in his mind is the presence of his on-screen husband. 

“Alright,” Director Hwang starts again. “The kiss. It’s a pretty big moment, but you remember how we discussed it before, right? Okay, we’re going to do it exactly like that, but I’ll need you to hold your positions to make sure that we can get all the angles we need. I’ll talk you through what I want, but you two have been impeccable so far. I doubt we’ll need to spend too much time on it.” And then he turns thoughtfully to the young actor in priest robes. “That was— a little unexpected,” he says curiously, “for you to ad lib so much of the ceremony. Please do try to stick to the script in the next part of the scene.”

The priest flushes, and bows low, mumbling a contrite apology. 

“Should we do another take?” Bang Chan-sunbaenim asks. He’s back holding Minho’s hands, fingers curled around each other. Totally a method actor, Minho thinks.

Director Hwang waves him off. “No, no,” he reassures. “I have everything I need. Besides, I don’t want to risk ruining the magic,” he adds, swirling a finger around the two of them. “I want to keep going while the chemistry is good.” He retreats back behind cameras again.

“How are you holding up?” Chan asks with another squeeze to Minho’s fingers. He’s back to looking at Minho with that quiet expression again. “Are you good?”

“Oh? Mhm.” Minho nods. Talking, it seems, is the one of the things that he’s decidedly Not Great At today. 

There’s that soft laugh again, that crinkling of eyes from Chan. It really is very distracting when he keeps doing that. Minho wishes that he wouldn’t do it. Minho doesn’t want him to stop doing it.

Director Hwang calls out a warning over the microphone he’s holding, and then they’re rolling again. Theoretically, this should be a very easy scene for Minho. Park Yunjun is, when the audience meets him, a shy wallflower who finds both his voice and his strength by the end of the season; a growth that is mirrored by the development of his relationship with his husband. So timid Yunjun is nervous as he anticipates his first kiss as a married man— the weighty pressure of familial expectations for this wedding grappling with the inexplicable, tender emotions for a husband he’d been raised to loathe. It is up to Choi Siwoo, used to taking initiative in every facet of his life, to lean in and deliver a light kiss to his pretty new husband. 

All Minho has to do is stand there and look, the script directs, as threatening as a trembling kitten. He’d scoffed when he’d read those directions, and practicing his expressions in Felix’s trailer earlier had had Jisung laughing so hard he’d cried. It’s Chan who has to do all of the hard work, leaning in slowly like Director Hwang instructs him to do — inch by inch, so the cameras can get the appropriate slow-motion shots, making sure to tilt his head just so. 

Minho doesn’t remember any of the expressions he’d practiced in the mirror. He doesn’t know what his face is doing at all, except Bang Chan-sunbaenim is getting closer and closer. They’re so close that Minho can see the reflection of the bright lights in the irises of Chan’s warm eyes, and the way they look like tiny stars. His hands are trembling — from anxiety, from anticipation, he can’t say for sure — and he gets another subtle squeeze in response. It’s soothing. Grounding. But it still doesn’t stop his eyes from fluttering closed when his overwhelmed brain starts to malfunction and shut down in protest.

Director Hwang calls for them to hold a few seconds, and Chan is so close that Minho can feel the tiny puffs of air from his breathing. They’re gentle on his face, and the one absurd thought that Minho has is that at least his sunbaenim doesn’t have bad breath, and then the director is giving the direction to kiss and Minho doesn’t remember anything else. 

Chan’s lips are light. They are gentle, and soft, and completely obliterate everything else from Minho’s mind. He feels insane— his body is running hot, but it is also freezing cold. Every single nerve ending is exploding like fireworks yet at the same time he can’t feel anything at all. It’s both too much and not enough, and Minho feels like a wayward desert traveller who's just stumbled upon the oasis that will restore his vitality.

When Minho starts to kiss back it’s simply a result of his muscle memory kicking in rather than a conscious decision. He can’t even remember if Yunjun is supposed to kiss back in the script, but he doesn’t think so. The kiss is supposed to be chaste. Mild. It feels anything but with the way that Minho parts his lips, the way he sucks at Bang Chan’s luscious bottom lip. He thinks he might whimper at the touch of tongue, he’s not sure. He’s not cognisant enough to be aware of anything besides Chan, only Chan, and the delirium of being devoured.

Director Hwang’s voice is a low mumble in his ears. Minho can’t understand him, but Bang Chan-sunbaenim must be able to because he’s suddenly he’s pulling back slightly. It catches Minho a little off guard, and he’s still leaning forward when his senses return in a flood of stimulation and he hears the director ask him to open his eyes and stare at his husband. 

The two of them are so close that their noses are almost touching. Minho is giddy and light-headed, and he chooses to blame it on the fact that they are so close they’re inhaling in each other’s spent oxygen. He can’t quite meet Chan’s gaze. It feels too weighty, too substantial, so his own eyes bow under the pressure, flicking back and forth between his eyes and his lips as he tries to bite back a shy smile that doesn't quite belong to the gentle and sheltered Yunjun. 

Director Hwang calls “Cut!” again, and perhaps he praises the two of them, Minho doesn’t know. It’s bad form to be ignoring feedback from his director, but he’s still riding that floaty feeling that buzzes in his veins. And then, when his brain starts to emerge from it’s slumber, he realises just how close that he and Chan are standing — close enough that he can feel the burning heat of his body — and panics, snatching his hands back as he steps away. 

“Minho—? Minho, are you alright?”

Minho nods. Forces his tongue to work. “Th-thank you, I’m fine, sunbaenim.” He’s not strong enough to look back at his new husband (on-screen husband), so he turns, automatically facing the church pews, and then wishes he hadn’t when he makes the mistake of looking at Felix. He’s seated in the front row with the rest of the actors cast in the Park family, and is looking at Minho with a decidedly-ridiculous expression on his face. His lips are pressed together and his eyes are wide. It’s a similar expression to the one that Minho’s eomma used to make when he was a misbehaving child in public. It screams we are going to be talking about this later, and for an actor, Felix is really fucking bad at being subtle. 

Minho doesn’t get to ruminate on it for too long however, because after a few touch ups from Lia, he and Bang Chan-sunbaenim are being ushered over to a small table that’s set up on the side. Director Hwang had explained earlier that they just wanted some shots of the two of them signing the wedding certificate to later edit into a conversation between the two patriarchs of the Choi and Park families, “—so don’t worry about your handwriting, we’ll get a calligrapher in if we want close up shots of the signatures being written.”  Minho hadn’t even thought to be worried about in the first place.

They film the signing of the wedding certificate first. Ever the gentleman, Chan pulls out the chair for Minho, inclining his head, and Minho doesn’t have to fake the blush spreading across his cheeks. The priest has also followed them over, along with Yunho and San to act as witnesses to the signing. 

It seems, Minho realises, that every time that Chan is near him, he loses his fucking head. That’s the only explanation he has for what he does next. 

When Director Hwang gives the signal of “Action,” Bang Chan-sunbaenim leans over Minho. One hand is resting on Minho’s chair, the other picks up the pen that’s been carefully laid out on the table in front of them. Every hair on the back of Minho’s neck is standing on end, and his muscles lock as they gain an awareness of the proximity of Chan’s body. Director Hwang had wanted the two of them close, wanted them to play up the chemistry building between the newly-weds. So when Chan leans in to sign the certificate, his arm drapes across Minho’s back and his face is so close that if Minho turns his head, it would only take a slight tilt of his neck to press his lips to Chan’s jawline, to rub his nose against his cheek. It also means that Minho can now smell his cologne — spicy, heady and masculine — and finds a tiny nick by his ear that’s cracked under the makeup where he’s cut himself shaving at some point. Minho remembers when Doongie had scratched himself on a bit of broken glass a few months ago, the way he’d sat there licking the wound to clean it, to heal it. Minho wants to lean in and lick the wound. He wonders if he would taste blood. He wonders if his saliva would make it heal quicker. Then he feels insane for even thinking something like that, and tries to swallow the hysteria away before his thoughts become audible in his expression. 

It doesn’t work though, because once he’s signed the certificate Chan turns to look at him. Stare at him. Minho feels— perceived. As if his entire body has been flayed open, his ribcage exposed to reveal that beating, traitorous thing that’s fluttering erratically inside of his chest. 

“Minho,” Bang Chan-sunbaenim whispers after— actually, Minho doesn’t know how long it’s been. It could be two seconds. It could be two hours. “Minho-yah— the pen.”

Shit. 

It’s a fight to drag his eyes back to the table in front of him. His face is flaming, and Minho has never been so grateful for makeup in his entire life. The pen sits neatly by the wedding certificate, and when he picks it up it’s still warm from Bang Chan-sunbaenim’s hand. He transfers it to his left hand, the diamonds on his wedding band shining beautifully as he twists his wrist, and for once doesn’t hear the expression of surprise that he normally gets when he does this. Chan has not moved, and his mouth is still hovering by Minho’s ear, his jawline. Every single nerve within Minho’s body is screaming and he can’t properly fill his lungs with oxygen.

He signs the certificate. It’s not pretty, or neat, but it’s there, printed in legible Hangeul. Lee Minho. 

And then he’s a married man. 

Well. 

Fake married. 

***

“Eight times,” Felix tells him, gleefully scandalised. “That’s how many times Director Hwang said your names before you two stopped kissing. Eight times.”

They’re finished filming for the day and are back in Felix’s trailer for the obligatory ‘my-hyung-just-kissed-the-hottest-film-star-in-the-world’ debrief while they wait for their respective cars to come and take them home. Except it’s not so much of a debrief as it is Felix taking great joy in recounting every second of Minho’s interactions with Bang Chan to Jisung, who is hanging on every word like a neighbourhood halmeoni. 

Minho, face buried in his hands in the small armchair, lets out a strangled sound. This is not the first time that Felix has brought up this particular moment. Jisung sits on the couch opposite him and gasps in the most delighted manner, as if he’s not hearing it for the fifty-second time. 

“He called you Minho-yah,” Felix is howling now, clutching at Minho’s shoulders. “Hyung, everyone heard him drop the honorific.”

Jisung screeches, flinging himself backwards with all the drama of a Victorian woman swooning on a chaise lounge.
 
Two months, Minho vows to himself. He will use so much spice in Felix’s food that he will shit fire for two months. “Well,” he forces himself to say loftily instead. In the absence of strangling his dongsaengs, he settles for rubbing his fingers over the empty space where his wedding band had sat. “I suppose that when you’re as established in your career as Bang Chan-sunbaenim is you can do what you want.”

Felix gives him a long and pointed look.

“Or who you want, apparently,” Jisung whispers into the silence and Felix starts cackling again. 

“I know where you sleep, Han Jisung,” Minho threatens. Really, he’s only pretending that he’s annoyed. It’s embarrassing, sure — the minute breakdowns from Felix, the exaggerated reactions from Jisung. But it’s been a little lonely while The Strayz has been on a semi-hiatus, and it’s nice to be around friends again. Even if it’s at his own expense.

The filming of the wedding ceremony had gone rather quickly after they’d signed the certificate. They’d wrapped the scene to focus on a few more shots of dialogue between the two patriarchs of the families. Chan had hovered near Minho, had opened his mouth and looked like he wanted to say something, but then Director Hwang had called him over to discuss a few things for the scenes he was filming tomorrow. A strange shadow had passed over his face, and he’d settled for combining a “Good work today,” with a bow lower than was probably necessary for his junior. 

Minho, still coming out of his stupor, had bowed back as low as he could while realising that he was still seated at the small table and about to smash his forehead into the wooden surface, forcing his stumbling tongue around a similar response. Felix had materialised at Minho’s elbow not long after, wide-eyed and smirking, and with a small hand on his arm, had whisked his hyung away.  Minho would have liked to have said that he didn’t turn back to gaze back over his shoulder to meet Chan’s eyes. But that would have made him a liar. 

“No, but hyung,” Jisung is saying now, “look at you. Even the famous Bang Chan would be lucky to have a shot with you.”

Minho scoffs. “Flattery is not going to get me to remove you from my hit list. Or buy you dinner tonight.”

Felix grins. “Nah, they’d have to actually talk to each other if that happened,” he says to his boyfriend. “They both looked just as dumbstruck and dazed as each other.”

Minho shoots Felix a look.

“It’s true!” Felix says hotly. His body lifts up off the couch in his exuberance. “Bang Chan-sunbaenim was just as much of a pabo as you were, Minho-hyung.” 

Minho is, fortunately, saved from answering by a sharp knock on the door. The three of them still immediately. Felix steps over Minho to open the door, pulling it back to reveal Yeosang, who bows.

“Ah, Felix,” he says when he straightens up, always the epitome of politeness. “I’m looking for Minho, is he with you?”

“I’m here,” Minho says, coming to stand behind Felix in the narrow doorway. 

Another quick bow from Yeosang. Minho finds him adorable. 

“Minho,” he says. “The director has a few things he wants to discuss with you— will you come with me?”

“Oh,” Minho says. “Okay. Sure. I’ll get my things.” He grabs his shoulder bag. Felix is looking at him quizzically. “Must be feedback or something about my upcoming scenes,” Minho shrugs, adding in a hasty goodbye to his two friends before slipping down the stairs to join Yeosang. 

He gets a strange sense of deja vu while following Yeosang through the steadily-emptying parking lot of the church, and it doesn’t take too long before they’re back inside, following the winding corridors to the small clerical office that Director Hwang has taken over. There’s already quite a group of people gathered in the office, probably more than the recommended number that can fit comfortably in the small space. Minho quickly flits his eyes from person to person as he closes the door behind him — Director Hwang, Seo Changbin, Bang Chan-sunbaenim, the young actor playing the priest, who’s nervously twisting the sleeves of his jumper from where he’s huddled in the corner with a lanky-looking man, and—

“Seonghwa-hyung?” Minho’s confused, and starting to feel more than a little anxious. He’s not sure why his manager is here in person, leaning against a bookcase that’s cluttered with religious texts and paraphernalia. There’s a peculiar miasma hanging over the room. Minho can’t quite name what the feeling is, exactly, but it makes him uneasy. 

Seonghwa, who’s normally so happy to see Minho, isn’t smiling now. “Minho-yah,” he says, gesturing to one of the chairs set out in front of the desk. “Come in, take a seat.”

There are only two chairs in front of the desk. The one that Seonghwa waved him towards, and the other, currently occupied by Chan, who had risen to his feet to bow when Minho entered the room. He takes the empty chair, and Chan also seats himself again.

“Hyung,” Minho says cautiously, addressing Seonghwa, “what’s going on?” Then he stops. Stares. “Hongjoong-hyung?”

It’s hard to tell if Hongjoong is smiling, or if it’s just his face, but he inclines his head at Minho. Next to him, Chan shifts slightly. 

“You know Hongjoong-hyung?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Minho says. “That’s—” Seonghwa’s husband. Minho had been invited to their wedding.

“—my manager,” Bang Chan-sunbaenim finishes, and Minho flounders, thrown by the revelation.  For Seonghwa to be there is one thing, but for Hongjoong as well? His stomach twists. Both men are normally so incredibly busy that it’s rare for him to see both of them at the same time. 

“Hyung,” he starts again. He doesn’t know who he’s addressing. “Did something happen?”

Seonghwa looks at Director Hwang behind the desk, who sighs, steeling himself for— something. Changbin leans over and squeezes his shoulder in support. He leaves his hand on the director’s shoulder. 

“I need to start by offering my sincerest apologies to both Channie hyung and Minho. This shoot is my responsibility, and more care should have been taken, more checks should have been put in place, and if you want to blame anyone, then please. Blame me.” Director Hwang is bowing low. He’s taken his hat off from earlier, and his long hair is messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it in a state of agitation. 

“Hyunjinnie, it can’t be that bad, right?” Chan is leaning forward. He’s calm and sympathetic. Soothing. Minho hadn’t been aware that the two of them knew each other, and shoves down that strange tug of jealousy. A quick kiss and an on-screen marriage — that's the only claim he has to the famous superstar Bang Chan. He has no right or reason to be jealous of anyone. 

Director Hwang straightens up, fixes both of them with a look. He bites his lip, then hesitates, glancing to Seonghwa and Hongjoong for assistance. Hongjoong shifts his weight, standing up from where he’s been slouching against the bookcase and offers a nod in reply. 

“It appears,” Director Hwang says, picking his words carefully, “that when Chan hyung and Minho were ‘married’ earlier during filming… It appears that that was a legitimate marriage ceremony.”

Minho feels like he’s in an elevator that’s had its cables cut and is immensely glad that he took the proffered chair. His mouth is dry, his ears are ringing. Surely— no, that was a joke. 

“You’re joking, right?” Chan is saying. He’s smiling, like he can’t quite believe it, like he’s ready to laugh at the punchline.

“Unfortunately not, hyung,” Director Hwang says quietly. 

Chan is quiet. Then— “What?”

Seonghwa is peering at Minho. “Minho? Are you alright?”

“Um,” Minho says. He doesn’t finish his sentence. He can’t. Married? No. It was all just a fake wedding for the cameras. An on-screen marriage. Choi Siwoo and Park Yunjun got married, just as the script said. Not Bang Chan and Lee Minho.  

Everyone is still looking at him. He feels— more than a little floaty, except this time it’s not the ‘floaty’ from earlier, where he had Bang Chan-sunbaenim to tether him back to Earth. Now Minho feels loose and disjointed, like his body will disintegrate in a small puff of wind. He swallows, and an ache in his palms has him realising that he’s unconsciously clenched his hands into fists to try and ground himself.

There’s no point in histrionics— Minho doesn’t even think that he’s capable of something like that right now. Everyone is gravely serious, so it’s not necessary to repeat a variation of the what the fuck that’s screaming through his brain to check if this is just a farce, some bad joke that everyone’s in on. And neither Seongwha nor Hongjoong would be here if it was a hidden-camera prank — which, again, Minho doesn’t think would be allowed on a set like this. So. That leaves only one option. 

That they’re telling the truth.

“How—” Minho’s voice is raspy, and he has to clear his throat before it comes out stronger. “How does something like that just… happen?” He’s impressed with himself for sounding remarkably steady for someone who’s suddenly had his whole life shaken up and redefined in a matter of seconds. 

Director Hwang sighs deeply. Beside him, Changbin pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales painfully.

“Jung Wooyoung,” Changbin says in an exasperated tone. “That’s how it happened.”

Chan is frowning. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

Hongjoong echoes Director Hwang’s exhale and looks at Minho and Chan. “It seems,” he says, “as if this ‘Wooyoung’ person was responsible for making sure that the correct people were called to set.”

“And they weren’t?” Chan guesses. Minho is impressed by how well he’s taking the news. By how calm he’s reacting. There’s no yelling, no tantrums. Of course, he never thought that Hongjoong-hyung would represent anyone in the industry who’s a terrible brat, but— there is an impressive amount of composure that Bang Chan-sunbaenim is displaying.

By way of answering his question, Director Hwang, Seongwha and Hongjoong all turn to stare at the two men in the corner — the actor who played the priest and his companion. The companion looks familiar, while the young actor flushes under the attention. He looks like he’s been crying, with his puffy eyes and burnished red nose and he quails under the attention, but his friend squares his shoulders and meets the room with a dead-eye glare of his own. 

“Seungmin,” Director Hwang says steadily, “no one is blaming him.” 

Right— Minho remembers why he looks so familiar. Kim Seungmin, the writer of the series.

“It is not,” Seungmin begins hotly, “Jeongin’s fault that you can’t manage your own set.” Changbin winces.  

“Can someone please explain?” Chan asks. He still sounds confused, rather than frustrated or upset, but his question settles the room before an argument can break out. 

The director waves at the men in the corner. “I would like to introduce you to Yang Jeongin,” he says. “Our priest.” He picks up a sheet of paper and hands it to Chan, who tilts it so that Minho can read it as well. It’s the call sheet from the day’s filming. Minho’s eyes start scanning the list of cast and actors. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, but then his eyes snag on something. 

“But— the priest is listed as—”

“Jongho,” Director Hwang finishes for him, leaning back against the wall. “Choi Jongho.”

There’s silence, as everyone in the room lets Minho and Bang Chan sit with the information. And Minho can see it, in black and white right there on the call sheet. Choi Jongho, playing the priest. 

“And nobody picked this up?” Again, Bang Chan-sunbaenim is— not accusatory, no. Incredulous. Curious, Minho might have also said. But he has a quiet authority that no one is daring to contradict.

“Jeongin tried to tell your runner,” Seungmin says from the corner, and Jeongin has his eyes on the carpet, bright red again. Minho doesn’t know if it’s from the situation, or Seungmin speaking for him. “He tried again to tell wardrobe, and again on set.”

“Okay,” Chan says, and Minho is comforted by the way that he’s taking control, managing the situation, because this day has been one thing after another, and he doesn’t feel like he has the brain capacity to do that himself right now. The word married is still reverberating in his ears, but it seems to get more incessant with every second that passes by. “That still doesn’t explain how this marriage is legal though.”

“Jeonginnie?” Seungmin looks at him, tucks a hand onto his shoulder for support. 

Jeongin grates his bottom lip between his teeth, twisting his mouth in the same way that his hands are clenching the soft sleeves covering his wrists. He glances up briefly, and Minho notices that he can’t bring himself to look in the direction that he and Chan are sitting in. 

“I’m—” He clears his throat softly. “I’m— an actual— priest.”

There is a silence that is so sharp it’s deafening.

“…What,” Minho manages to stutter out, and besides him, Chan sits up straighter.

“I’m sorry,” Jeongin pleads. “I really am— I didn’t mean— I thought it wouldn’t matter, with all the props and the different names— I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, I didn’t mean to cause you so much trouble.” He’s falling to his knees, burying his nose in the worn carpet in the lowest bow that he can manage, and he looks so pitiful that Minho can’t even be angry at him. Chan must be thinking the same thing, because he stands, bridging the little distance between them to crouch down and place a gentle hand on Jeongin’s back. He’s still mumbling apologies, and Minho thinks he sounds close to tears again. 

Bang Chan-sunbaenim is murmuring softly to Jeongin, something about it not being his fault. His compassion almost makes things worse, with Jeongin only flinching and speeding up the rate of his apologies. Chan glances up at Seungmin, who takes pity on him and kneels down to coax Jeongin back to his feet. 

“You… don’t look like a priest,” Minho says, and Jeongin doesn’t. All the priests that Minho’s ever seen have been wrinkly old men. Musty, and draped in funeral shroud-black. And while he realises that that is, in fact, an incredibly stereotypical view, this is the first time he’s been proven wrong, and it’s… a little jarring, to look at young Jeongin, with his snuffles and his over-sized hoodie and think priest, despite Minho having seen him draped in church trappings mere hours ago. 

In fairness to himself, he supposes that he had been rather... distracted.

“How did we end up with a real priest?” Minho asks dumbly. Seungmin shoots him a look. “No— I mean— wait. This isn’t this your church, is it?” He gestures broadly to the space around them.

Bang Chan-sunbaenim has come back to sit down next to Minho now that Jeongin is standing again, and the young man is still not looking in their direction. 

“It’s not my church. I was visiting Seungmin hyung on set,” Jeongin says quietly. “I’m not— not actively preaching right now.” His eyes shift automatically to Seungmin, who bristles under the weight of the room’s eyes. 

“What,” he snaps. “Is it a crime to visit your boyfriend at work now, too?”

Minho blinks. Hongjoong’s jaw drops open, and there’s a flicker of surprise across Seongwha’s face that he quickly smoothes out.

“Priests can date?” Changbin asks incredulously.

“Not Catholic ones, no,” Jeongin clarifies. His voice is still quiet, treading carefully amongst the inhabitants of the room. “I’m about to be laicised.” At everyone’s blank looks, he lets out an awkward laugh. It’s short, sharp; more of an exclamation of air. “Um. I’m about to start the process of leaving the Church,” he explains. Minho doesn’t think that Jeongin realises that he’s doing it, but his eyes seek out Seungmin’s own, and its the first time that he’s seen the writer relax his facial muscles since he stepped into the room. 

Chan huffs a laugh. “That explains why the ceremony differed from the one in the script.”

Jeongin’s shoulders pull in on themselves and he drops his head. “Sorry,” he says again. “It just… happened.”

Ceremony. Something clicks in Minho’s mind. He can’t quite remember specifics, but—

“Wait,” he says, “we would have answered with our characters’ names right? Instead of our own during the ceremony?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Director Hwang crosses then uncrosses his long legs, but there’s no getting comfortable in this awkward situation. “Names weren’t used in the script, but I’ve been informed” — there’s a quick glance at Jeongin — “that in this case it doesn’t matter. The ceremony was conducted impeccably, and performed by a Catholic priest inside a church. That — and the signed wedding certificate — is enough in the eyes of the law.”

“We’re still looking into it,” Hongjoong admits. “But I have lawyers trying to find a loop hole somewhere.”

Minho swallows. 

“The wedding certificate?” Chan asks.

Everyone looks back at Director Hwang again, who slumps his shoulders. “Apparently,” he says delicately, “the new head of the props department was a little… overzealous with their quest for authenticity.” 

“Okay,” Chan says slowly. “But it would be the characters names on the paper, right? Not—” He falters when Director Hwang fishes around on the desk in front of him, finds another sheet of paper that he hands to Chan. Minho leans in, and can hear the way that Chan swallows. It must be bad news then.

And yeah. Minho would say that seeing the names Lee Minho and Bang Chan signed in black ink is bad news. 

He flushes deeply, feeling utterly embarrassed that he’s let his professionalism slip like this on his first acting job. His face and neck are warm, so, so warm, and he can’t meet anyone’s eyes. 

He’s stupid. So incredibly stupid. To let himself become so distracted by— what? A man? Bang Chan-sunbaenim might be a world famous actor, but he is still a man at the end of the day (a kind, and handsome and charming one, with a really nice smile, and strong hands and pretty eyes), and Minho let himself get carried away like an absolute idiot. 

“To be fair,” Director Hwang starts when no one else says anything in the silence, “you two were… very immersed in the scene.”

Minho thinks of Felix saying he said your names eight times before you stopped kissing and wants to melt into the floor. He wants to close his eyes and magically disappear like someone in those silly superhero films that Jisung likes. There is a lump in his throat that he can’t force down, and it tastes very much like mortification. Besides him, Chan hasn’t said anything either. 

Married. The two of them were really married, weren’t they. 

Minho was really married to Bang Fucking Chan. 

“I’m sorry hyung,” Changbin says, and Minho doesn’t realise that he’s talking to Chan until he snorts. “As crazy as it sounds… as unlikely as it is… we’ve had lawyers look over this, and all of this has been verified.” 

Married. 

Minho thinks it’s at this point that the shock is catching up with him, that everything is starting to hit him. Because it’s one thing to be told he’s married, like some kind of bad joke, but it’s another thing to be shown the evidence of it, especially by two of the people that he trusts most in the world in Seonghwa and Hoongjoong. 

There are, Minho supposes, worse things in life than being married to one of the hottest actors in the world. But he will concede that from the other perspective, the view is… less than ideal. Finding yourself suddenly married to a mid-range Idol of an aging group that’s struggling to stay relevant with each and every comeback? Well. To the broader public of South Korea, Minho is barely a household name. He’s kept his head down, stayed away from scandals, and has a few decent hits from the early years of The Strayz to give him some sort of claim to fame besides ‘that Idol with the thighs’ from his viral fancam a couple of years ago. But it’s a shaky claim to fame at best, one that’s reduced to a lot of “oh, what’s his face from that one group with that song”. He hadn’t admitted it to anyone but himself, but truthfully, Minho has been pinning a lot of hopes on being able to reinvent himself through an acting career, because it's looking more and more like his company is not going to renew the group’s contract next year. 

So. Minho may have found himself on the better end of the deal, but that didn’t mean he wanted to make things any harder for Chan, who’s been abruptly saddled with the millstone of Minho around his neck. Or rather, finger. Chan has already been so kind to him as a senior. As a scene partner and co-star. But Minho’s not sure that that kindness extends to being married to him. And he won’t blame Chan if it isn’t.

Minho doesn’t quite think that he’s going to throw up, but he’s feeling hot and there’s a muffled sound in his ears. Married. Him. When his eomma calls him later and asks what it was like to meet the famous Bang Chan, to work with him, what will Minho say? Oh sure, Eomma, he’s everything they say and more. By the way, he’s also your son-in-law.

That loose and floaty feeling from earlier is returning, but this time it’s a terrible kind of floaty, one that comes from a heavy weight compressing his chest, and Minho feels like the world is tilting out from underneath him. He’s being dragged down beneath a cold, dark sea; there’s a tightness in his lungs, a burning in his throat, and— 

A hand on his knee.

“Minho? Minho, are you okay?”

Minho blinks, looking down at the hand. He knows that hand. He shouldn’t, not so soon. But he does. He knows what it feels like to hold it. 

“Minho, can you breathe for me?” 

The hand squeezes his knee gently, and it’s a heavy, settling weight. It’s an effort, but Minho manages to shudder out a breath, to drag his eyes up and look at Bang Chan-sunbaenim. He’s squatting in front of Minho, staring up at him with palpable concern. His dark eyes are earnest and kind, and Minho finds it a little easier to breathe — although perhaps that’s just a result of Chan counting out breaths for him slowly. 

“Better?” Chan asks after a while, and Minho nods. Chan smiles, but even though it’s an eclipse of that sun-bright smile from earlier, it is no less powerful. It still manages to worm its way into Minho’s chest and latch itself there behind his ribcage.

“Are you okay?” Bang Chan-sunbaenim repeats his earlier question. His tone is gentle, and he’s pitched his voice low, only for Minho’s ears. “It’s… a lot, isn’t it?”

Minho nods again. The movement is jerky, but he doesn’t quite think that he can speak yet. 

“I promise you, Minho, we’ve got lawyers looking through this; we’re going to get this sorted out,” Seongwha says. 

Chan still hasn’t moved from his position in front of Minho, and he’s rather glad of it, actually. His hand is still on Minho’s knee, thumb rubbing back and forth, and it’s nice. Comforting. Minho doesn’t know if he’s aware that his thumb is even doing that, but he doesn’t want him to stop. If he was brave enough, he would reach out and cover Chan’s hand with his own. Squeeze his fingers in reassurance.

But he’s not. So he doesn’t.

Hongjoong excuses himself when his phone buzzes in his hand, and the room is quiet in his absence. Minho’s breathing has settled down, and he doesn’t feel lightheaded anymore. No one speaks until Hongjoong re-enters the room, tucking his phone back into his pocket. 

“Well,” he sighs, “it looks like we’re locked in to this marriage for now.”

We? Minho wants to ask, but he knows that Hongjoong-hyung didn’t mean anything by it. 

Hongjoong is still speaking. “Apparently, as the priest who married them, Jeongin is legally obligated to file the documents of marriage, so there’s no sweeping this under the rug and pretending that it didn’t happen.” In the corner, Jeongin drops his eyes to the floor. “I know someone with a friend at the local gu office — they can make sure that everything is handled discreetly. Then we can start the process of getting it annulled.”

Chan’s thumb stills on Minho’s knee. 

“I’m assuming that we don’t need to draw up an NDA to keep everything that has been discussed here within these four walls?” Seongwha says, slowly dragging his sharp eyes over the room. Everyone shakes their head, cowed by his gaze. “Minho?” Seongwha says. “I know you’ve become close with Felix, but that means he can’t know anything about this either.”

A heavy stone drops into Minho’s stomach, and he swallows. He knows that the careers of both himself and Chan are hanging on this weak thread, but the thought of lying to his friends sits uncomfortably with him. 

“Minho?” his manger asks again. There’s nothing that Minho can do besides nod his assent. “Okay,” Seonghwa says. “Then I don’t think that we can do anything more about this tonight. You two should go home. It sounds like Hongjoong and I have a couple of things to go over with Jeongin, but you two go and get some sleep. Try to look after yourselves. I know this news may have come as an unexpected surprise, but… We’ll sort this out.” Seonghwa’s smile is nothing more than a little quirk of his mouth, and he reaches over in the small office space to squeeze Minho’s shoulder. 

Director Hwang bows again. “Hyung,” he says, “Minho. I am so deeply sorry for letting something like this happen.”

“It’s okay, Hyunjinnie,” Chan says. “It’s not your fault.” He stands and holds out his hand to Minho, who finds himself pulled upright. He’s not as unsteady on his feet as he feared he would be, but his body is still moving somewhat robotically. Chan notices.

“I’ll make sure Minho gets home safely, hyung,” he tells Seonghwa. He has Minho’s hand tightly in his own, not letting go, and picks up Minho’s abandoned bag with the other. He says farewell to Hongjoong and the room at large, and then carefully leads Minho out of the office. 

There’s no one out in the corridors, but even so, Minho misses the weight of Chan’s hand in his own when he drops it in favouring of placing it on Minho’s shoulder in case they run into anyone, even at this late hour. He lets himself be guided through the back corridors of the church, but they stop by unspoken agreement when they reach an empty alcove.

“Are you okay?” Bang Chan-sunbaenim asks. 

Minho’s throat is rusty, but he feels like he’s regained his voice again, like he’s a little more of himself again to be able to answer Chan. He folds himself into a hasty bow. “Thank you, sunbaenim,” he blurts. 

“Ahh— no, Minho, don’t,” Chan says, flustered. “It’s ‘hyung’. Just ‘Chan-hyung’ is fine, I don’t need— not when we’re—” But he stops, unable to finish the sentence. Minho sees that he’s flushing when he straightens up from his bow. 

“Hyung?” Minho tests out, the word feeling heavy on his tongue. 

Chan is nodding. “‘Channie-hyung,’” he repeats. 

“Well.” Minho clears his throat awkwardly. “Thank you, Chan-hyung. I’m sorry, I was a little—”

“Caught off guard?” Chan is smiling once more, and it’s warm and pleasant and full of understanding. Minho thinks that maybe this is a man who was born to smile. “I don’t blame you, it’s all… been a bit of a shock.”

Minho hms. “You seemed to take the news pretty well though.”

Chan makes his own distracted noise. “Ah. Um. Actor,” he finishes, pointing at himself with a deprecating shrug. “I might just be better at hiding it.”

“Yes, of course,” Minho says. Then, needing to fill the awkward silence that follows, “Well. You’re very good.”

Now it’s Chan’s turn to blush. “Thank you.” He bows, and Minho wants to put a hand on his shoulder and pull him up because he really doesn’t need to be bowing that low to his— well. Husband? 

Husband.

“I’m sorry,” Chan says. “This must be incredibly inconvenient and uncomfortable for you. This whole… situation.” He waves his hand vaguely. 

“Oh,” Minho says stiltedly. Then he frowns. “But— you too though? I can’t imagine that you would have willingly chosen to be attached to some… no-name Idol.”

He means it as a joke, as a way of trying to lighten the mood but it falls flat. Chan stares at him, and Minho’s embarrassment is growing stronger with each passing second, rising in a strong heat that covers his ears. Then Chan blinks, bites his lip. 

“Actually,” he starts, and then cuts himself off, looking away. He coughs, tries again. “Actually, I know who you are,” he admits, shyly, like he’s not just throwing a primed grenade out into the open with his admission.

Minho stares. “Yes,” he says dumbly. “Your co-star?” He can’t quite bring himself to mention that other thing. That other newly-acquired title that belongs to the two of them now. 

“No, I mean.” Chan’s neck is becoming rather red as well. He pulls out his phone, the screen illuminating his face when he turns it on. He navigates to his music app, then tilts the screen so that Minho can see. “I know who you are. I’m— a fan of your work.”

He what. 

Minho’s brain, once again, short circuits, and all he can do is blink in stunned silence at the man in front of him that’s holding his phone out for Minho. He doesn’t know what to say, so he glances away and shifts his attention to the screen instead. 

There’s an alphabetical list of Favourite Artists on Chan’s music app, and Minho shifts closer, peering over to see an image of The Strayz staring at him. Without thinking, he leans in, presses his finger to the glass and watches the group’s discography fill the screen. His arm is brushing against Chan’s, his cheek almost resting on his shoulder while he uses his forefinger to scroll through their albums, EPs, special singles. Beside him, Chan has gone very still. Then—

“That’s not an official release.” Minho squints, pointing at an album with no cover art. 

“Ah— no, I—” Chan is trying to take his phone away, but he’s not quick enough, and Minho’s brain, fed by curiousity, has come back online in time to over-rule his previous timidity and mental fog around Chan. He presses himself even closer, leaning in to tap the blank album cover before Chan can pull his phone too far out of reach. 

“Oh,” Minho says, going very still. “Oh, that’s—”

A few years ago, to drum up extra buzz around one of their tours, their company had approached them with the proposal of performing solo songs as part of their concert setlist. These songs weren’t actually released to any mainstream streaming platforms, but a few fans had uploaded their own footage onto Youtube, had done the same thing when their concert film was released. The group had tried to keep things interesting by changing up the solos throughout the second half of the tour, and Minho can see that his two solos — Limbo and Kanade, done for their Japanese leg of the tour — as the only songs saved under the blank album. 

“Um,” Chan says awkwardly. Minho realises he’s still curled into Chan, and steps back in a hurry.

“Oh— sorry,” he apologises. His face is overly warm. 

“No—it’s.” Chan coughs. “Um.”

They’re silent. Then Minho stabs at Chan’s phone.

“Explain,” he says, remembering to add on a “hyung,” for good measure. 

Chan, Minho notices, is rather pretty when he's all red like this. “I, uh, travel a lot,” he says. “So my sleeping schedule is— not great. And I’m so busy that I find it hard to switch off and relax, especially when I should be sleeping.”

Minho stares. Raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t explain why you have pirated music on your phone.”

Chan’s blush keeps spreading. Over his neck, his ears. Minho wonders where else it goes, before trying to banish the thought. He probably shouldn’t be thinking this way about his husband/on-screen husband/co-star that he’s about to divorce. 

“There’s— not a lot of things that help me relax,” Chan admits. “But. Um. You’re one of them. Your voice is one of them,” he hurries to correct. “I like. Your songs. Your voice is— calming.”

He can’t make eye contact with Minho, but that’s okay. Minho suddenly can’t look at him either. 

“So when your name came up for potential casting,” Chan continues rather shyly, “I actually— I was excited. To work with you. To finally meet you.”

“O-oh,” Minho stutters out. Then he drops into another bow. “Thank you.” Bang Fucking Chan knows who he is. Bang Fucking Chan wanted to work with him. He doesn’t know what else to say, and his face feels as red as Chan’s neck looks while this new information is swirling around his brain. 

They would both continue to stand there, dumb and blushing, if Chan didn’t clear his throat. It echoes in the empty space. “Anyway. I have a car here — let me take you home?” He must see the way that Minho’s eyes widen because he quickly clarifies, “No, no — to your place I mean. We might be married, but I’m not expecting—” Chan cuts himself off. “Sorry. I’m not normally…” He waves his hand, huffing slightly. “What I meant was, can I take you home to your place?”

Minho finds it endearing to see the human side of Chan, away from all the cameras and the crowds and the fans. He is finding that he rather likes seeing him stutter and blush, and being just as caught off guard as Minho is feeling. He thinks, given the opportunity, that he might even like this human version of Chan — once he can make himself concentrate and behave normally around him, that is.

So he blinks and nods and says “Sure,” and tries to pretend that the revelation that Bang Fucking Chan knows who he is isn’t as earth-shattering as it actually feels. 

The car park has emptied out by the time Minho and Chan exit the church buildings. Minho’s expecting a driver, a sleek black limousine given Chan’s level of fame, but Chan leads him instead to a mid-sized SUV. It’s still black and expensive-looking, but it’s a lot more subtle that what he was prepared for. He’s also taken aback when Chan unlocks it, slipping Minho’s bag — he’d refused to give it back, even when Minho tried to insist — into the back seat before sliding into the driver’s side. Chan notices Minho staring.

“I like to drive myself to set when I can,” he admits with a soft laugh. Minho tries not to think about how much he likes that sound. “Some days it can be the only time I get to myself. Hop in— I’ll let you put in your address.”

Minho tentatively lowers himself into the passenger seat. The interior smells like leather and Chan’s cologne. It’s not an unpleasant mix, but he tries not to make it too obvious when he inhales. He gives Chan his address, and then can’t prevent his eyes from wandering around the car.

“What, expecting a Ferrari?” Chan smiles, navigating smoothly out of the car park. He lifts a friendly couple of fingers off the steering wheel to wave at the security guard as they exit. “Nah, I left that one at home.”

Minho’s laugh is more of a shaky exhale. Then he stops, eyeing Chan. “Wait— are you—?”

Chan laughs again, brighter. Minho feels warm inside his chest, and it’s not from the seat heaters that Chan had flicked on. “I don’t drive her as much as I would like,” he says. “But… yeah. This is more incognito though.” He’s too busy watching for traffic, so he doesn’t see the way that Minho’s eyes widen. 

As if he needed the reminder that his new husband was— rich. 

Seoul is as busy as ever, and Chan spends most of his time concentrating on the traffic around them, so their conversation is sparse. Minho is too nervous to ask him questions, so most of the time they sit and quietly listen to the soft hum of Chan’s playlist through the speakers. He regrets his lack of courage when Chan pulls the car up in front of Minho’s apartment and it hits him that their little bubble — where Minho gets to call the film star ‘hyung’ and listen to him laugh and watch the way his hands flex on the steering wheel while he hums — is about to pop. Minho may be married to the man (as of five hours ago), he may be his co-star, but the fact remains that Hongjoong and Seonghwa are working away at that very moment to get their charges un-married. And— perhaps the associations that come with marriage is a step too far, too soon. But Minho is admiring this human side of Bang Chan, with his rumpled clothes and the way his smile reaches his eyes, and… he doesn’t know if he’s ready for this to be over just yet. 

The companionship, he tells himself firmly. Not the marriage.

He swallows down his disappointment as he turns to thank Chan for the ride, to reach back for his bag behind him. But Chan beats him to it. 

“Look,” he starts, and Minho’s hands still, dropping back to his lap to give Chan his full attention. “I know this is— a difficult situation. This… marriage was not what either of us was expecting.” Minho snorts at this, and he sees Chan visibly relax at his laughter. “I’m not saying we suddenly need to start acting that way or anything like that. Y’know, like. Husbands or anything.” 

Minho almost chokes hearing the way the word sits on Chan’s tongue. It kills him that he could so easily get used to hearing it. 

Chan clears his throat. “What I’m trying to say is… I’m not expecting anything different from you, okay? We’re co-stars before we’re— the other thing, and with both our managers married to each other…”

“Hyung?” Minho says. Despite the unfamiliarity, the word is feeling right on his tongue. But Chan is rambling, and he’s not sure what is being asked of him.

“Sorry.” Chan stops, embarrassed again. “What I’m trying to say is that… it’d be nice to come out of this experience with a friend.”

“A friend,” Minho says.

“Yeah, friends!” Chan says with a broad smile, happy that Minho’s latched onto the concept. “I mean, we’re going to be spending time with other while we’re filming anyway, and I assume with this— extra situation, so. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to, y’know? Someone who knows what it’s like.” He raises his eyes conspiratorially. “That’s if you’ll have me?”

Minho’s body is back to doing that thing it does where it forgets how to normally regulate itself when Chan is around. If he’ll have Chan? He feels his mouth go dry and his entire body shiver at the thought that one of the biggest Asian film stars wants to be friends with little old Lee Minho. 

“Minho-yah?” Chan prompts, and God, Felix was right; he has been dropping the honorific. Minho’s body is a furnace, but he manages enough self-control to nod shakily.

“Sure,” he says, forcing his tongue to move. “Yeah. Friends. I’d— I’d like that, hyung.”

Chan’s grin is blinding, his teeth flashing and his eyes disappearing. There’s a weird clenching in Minho’s chest. 

“Great!” Chan says enthusiastically. He fumbles for his phone in the centre console, almost dropping it in his haste. His thumbs tap across the screen, flicking open new pages, and then he hands his phone over. Minho takes it, and there’s a brief moment where their fingers brush. Every nerve ending in Minho’s fingers is fizzing, and the phone is warm from where it’s been resting in the palm of Chan’s hand. 

“You should put in your phone number,” Chan says, when Minho takes the phone. “Then we can— chat. You know. If you need anything.” He’s rambling again, stumbling over his words. 

“Ah, sure,” Minho says, hastily pulling out his phone to hand it over to Chan. The actor is beaming when he taps in his number, and Minho does the same. Just before he hands Chan his phone back, he pauses, tilting his head. 

“Minho— nah?” he says, confused. Chan has written his name in English and— it’s his name, but it’s also not his name, with another word tacked on the end. There’s a tiny giggle from next to him. 

“Minhona Ryder,” Chan says. Minho’s eyebrows crease, not quite understanding. “Like the American actress, Winona Ryder?” Chan clarifies. “It’s a bad pun, but— it’s a joke about how she accidentally married Keanu Reeves during the filming of their Dracula adaptation.” Minho frowns at him blankly. “Oh, you don’t—? Ah, doesn’t matter, it’s not really that funny, anyway,” Chan says, and he seems a little deflated. 

“Hm,” Minho says contemplatively, and start typing in the blank contact name field in his re-acquired phone. He has to nudge Chan’s arm with his elbow to get his attention, and then shows him ‘Dracula’ saved as Chan’s contact name. 

Chan snorts. “Actually Keanu wasn’t Dracula, he was— y’know what, never mind,” he says, giving up, but he’s happy again, and Minho is oddly proud to know that he’s the reason why. 

There’s not much else left to do besides thank Chan for the ride, which he does so. Chan tries to wave it off, reaching into the backseat to hand Minho's bag over. Minho hesitates before opening his door, delaying the inevitable once again, but then sucks in a final breath and exits onto the pavement. 

“Thank you, hyung, for the ride,” he says again, with another bow of his head.

“It’s fine, don’t even worry about it,” Chan says, leaning down to see him clearly through the open passenger window. There’s a pause, where they just— stare at each other again, and Minho bites his lip. 

“Hyung,” he says. “This wasn’t— I didn’t make all this up in a dream, did I?”

“Then I would have to be sharing the same dream too, right?” Chan asks with a wry grin. 

“No— hyung, you know what I mean,” Minho says, and hears a low chuckle from inside the idling car. 

“Here,” Chan says, reaching out with his hand. Minho leans forward through the passenger window and holds his own hand out. Chan takes it, squeezes hard, and then gives a tiny pinch. Not enough to hurt, but enough to surprise Minho. 

“Nope,” Chan says. “Looks like you’re real after all.” There’s a pause. He presses Minho’s hand once more and then lets it go. “You should go and get some sleep, Minho.” 

“You too,” Minho says, for lack of anything else to say. “Um. You should text me.” Chan’s mouth drops open slightly. “When you get home,” Minho rushes on awkwardly. “You know. Because friends let each other know when they get home safely.”

“Friends,” Chan says, rolling the word around in his mouth. “Yeah, I like that.” It sounds like sweet honey on his tongue. Minho has the odd thought to lean in and suck it off, to see if his mouth tastes the way it did when he kissed Chan earlier. He settles instead for smiling and waving Chan off, watching until he loses the glow of his tail-lights amongst the rest of the traffic. 

***

It’s a little while later. Minho has managed to make it up to his apartment, respond in a vague manner to the increasingly demanding texts from Felix and Jisung about his disappearance, and has just cracked the lid off a well-needed cold glass of beer when his phone vibrates on the counter. 

It’s a short video from Chan, and Minho watches as the camera focuses on his hand depressing the handle of his apartment before panning down to show him slipping off his shoes. He lines them up neatly on the rack by the door, and then waves his hand gently in front of the camera, finishing in a thumbs up pose.

Dracula:
Home :)

Minhona Ryder:
Good. 

Minho pauses, then before he can think too much about it his fingers start typing again. He regrets his message as soon as he sends it, but there’s a little Read notification that pops up straight away, so he can’t delete it like he wants to. Worst comes to worst, Minho decides, eying off the barely-touched beer, he’ll just blame it on the alcohol after a long and trying day. 

Minhona Ryder:
You should be careful about the videos you send on the internet 
what if I was a weirdo with a hand or foot fetish

Dracula:
As far as fetishes go, it could be worse ;)
Just don’t ask me to sign them for you haha

Minhona Ryder:
Feet are off-limits, got it
That doesn’t mean I can’t try somewhere else

Minho’s had two sips of beer, he can’t even blame this shit on the alcohol. 

He bends at the waist, leaning over to thunk his head on the kitchen counter and breathes deeply before exhaling a loud groan into the silence of his apartment. What is he doing? he wonders. He’s literally just met Chan today. Married him. And now — when Minho could barely speak to him a few hours earlier — he’s somehow finding it stupidly easy to talk (flirt?) with him over text message about feet of all things. 

Get it together Minho, he tells himself, and then picks up his phone once more to do some damage control. 

Minhona Ryder:
Seriously though
Thanks again for the ride hyung
And for being so calm about everything that’s happened today
It really helped
A lot

Chan hasn’t responded by the time Minho’s washed up and crawled into bed. He hesitates, and then sends one more message. 

Minhona Ryder:
Good night hyung
See you on set tomorrow

Minho turns off the light. Sleep comes easier than he thought it would, but his dreams are full of a warm smile and kind brown eyes and a laugh that warms him from within.

Dracula:
It’s no trouble at all
Seriously, any time you need anything, I’m here, just ask
I’m happy to help

Dracula:
Good night Minho, get some rest
See you tomorrow, husband ;)

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