Chapter Text
The music was harsh, the bass thrumming through Minho's body, leading his heartbeat to pound dully in his chest. His ears rang, and he white-knuckled his glass of whisky as yet another likely still in high school boy came up to him, dragging a suggestive finger down his tie and asking him to dance. Minho looked like an easy mark—he knew it. He'd only moved into this neighborhood yesterday, and the only clothes he had unpacked were those he needed for work. This was an ensemble for a corner office, not a basement gay bar. But here he was, resembling a sheep separated from his flock, trying to chase away his anxiety with something on the rocks and shitty EDM that made it too hard to think about anything other than how terrible it sounded.
Tomorrow was the start of his very first independent assignment. From the moment he graduated university, he'd been expected to work at his father's financial management firm, but he'd done little else in that time but act as a glorified intern, fetching coffee for the higher-ups, grabbing dry cleaning in lieu of his own lunch break. The only time he felt valued was at those benefit galas where his father would trot him out in a suit and tie like a show pony, nothing more than a handsome face for his wealthy clients to "ooh" and "ahh" over. After months of begging, his father entrusted him with this task: Save a prestigious restaurant from bankruptcy.
And thus was the reason Minho was in this hole in the wall attempting to drown any brain cell that had the audacity to form a thought. His father must have found it hilarious when Minho thanked him profusely for the opportunity, promising not to let him down, that he'd do whatever he could to bring this location back to success. After all, he'd picked Minho specifically so he would fail. The restaurant was owned by his stepmother, soon to join a long line of mistresses his father had wedded and hastily divorced. On the outside, his father had to keep appearances by sending aid to a company in their fold. But Minho knew what this was—It was a personal attack, and his supposed incompetence was being brandished as the weapon.
Minho downed the dregs of the golden liquid in his glass, trying to chase away those thoughts. He dodged yet another pair of wandering hands as he headed to the bar for a stronger solution. Pushing through the dense crowd, sweaty bodies crashed against his, elbows collided with his ribcage, and fingers tugged at his sleeves to try and pull him onto the dance floor. He shook them all off, intent only on that elixir to silence his emotions.
"Fuck off! I told you I've never seen you in my life! Leave me alone!" a nearby voice shouted. Curious, Minho turned just in time for the owner of that voice to tear free from the man who had him in his grasp, sending him off balance and tumbling backwards in Minho's direction. The glass he was holding was released from his fingers, shattering on the ground in favor of saving that perfect stranger from crashing down fully on the sticky bar floor. Minho instead took the brunt of the impact, his tailbone slamming against the dirty tiles as the back of the man's head crashed into his stomach, settling to rest at the crook of his hip. Minho's right hand sat uselessly on the man's chest, hyper aware of the sheerness of the fabric and the all-too-perceptible warmth of his skin under his palm.
Every cell in Minho's body crackled like a lightning storm as an upside down face gazed up at him with a beaming smile. Minho's heart boomed in his chest violently enough to send disorienting shockwaves through his skin and bones. His lungs expelled all the air in them with a quiet "oh." Here was a vision that the sense of sight was especially created for, like a portrait on a postcard in an art museum gift shop—beauty you couldn't walk away from: you needed to take a piece of it with you.
His features demanded to be appreciated. If Cupid was Korean, this was him. Soft crinkled eyes rimmed in kohl, plush pink lips, a nose that Minho felt a strange impulse to kiss: All of this was framed by a shock of white blond hair. An intriguing medley of scents wafted from his sweat dewed skin. There was a spice, like cardamom or cinnamon, twisted with a hint of citrus, like a fresh squeezed lime. When he turned away, flashing a glance at the man he shouted at moments before, Minho felt a wave of sadness swell underneath his ribs. However, he was not left despondent for long.
Lifting himself from Minho's lap, the stranger turned to kneel in between his legs, a gentle hand grabbing onto his left thigh. His other hand reached up, capturing the jaw of the stunned Minho in his embrace. He leaned forward, enough that Minho could feel the expelling breaths from his nose on his own skin. Minho's lips relaxed in anticipation of their proximity.
"Sorry about this," the stranger said in a low voice for Minho only to hear, and then their mouths were meeting. His tongue tasted like strawberries as it pushed against Minho's, wanton in its movements. Their lips melded together, warm and sweet, as Minho's hands encircled the stranger's slender waist, tugging him closer. The hem of his silken shirt shifted. Minho's hands made contact with bare flesh, impossibly smooth. His skin was hot and sweaty, but Minho found himself more turned on at the sensation than anything else.
The stranger pulled his lips free for air. Minho noted a smear of makeup across his chin, and brushed his thumb gently over it to wipe it clear, the stranger shivering slightly in his arms.
He whispered fervently once more: "Is he still there? Help me get rid of him."
Minho glanced up, his eyes scanning the crowd for this stranger's pursuer. He felt hands snake around his waist as he did, clinging to him tightly. When the man stepped forward angrily, Minho did not move, but unrelentingly stared him down. He let his palm work a path up the stranger's spinal cord, burying his fingers in the strands of hair at the base of his skull in a way he hoped was comforting to the blond, but a clear display of territorialism to the man. Finally deciding he wasn't worth it, the man scoffed and disappeared back into the crowd.
"He's gone," Minho said, praying the blond couldn't feel the pounding of his heart in his chest. "Let me help you up. Careful: It's a little slippery."
He pulled the stranger to his feet and stood awkwardly in front of him, not sure if he was meant to stay or walk away. Minho certainly couldn't bear to make the first step in a different direction.
A hand settled on Minho's shoulder, straightening the fabric of the jacket's collar that had become crumpled in the fall. "Thank you," the stranger said. "I—I only come here like once a week to dance and blow off some steam. That's never happened before. Maybe it's best if I go home." He grasped onto Minho's forearm, letting his fingers trail down the skin until they rested in Minho's palm. He gave a respectful bow, out of place for a club like this. "Thank you again. I—I owe you one, if I ever see you again—"
"Dance with me," Minho blurted out. "I—I mean, if you…if you want." Sheepishly he ran his fingers through his hair, tearing his gaze away from the stranger's face as his cheeks reddened with a blush, spying for his reaction from his peripherals. Minho's heart sang when the blond's face broke out in an ear-to-ear grin. He got his answer in the form of a hand latching itself to his wrist, tugging him along enthusiastically to the center of the undulating crowd.
Any attempts at polite distance absconded from Minho's brain the moment this man (whom he didn't even know the name of) began swaying along to the rhythm. Hooking Minho's arm over his shoulder, the stranger leaned into Minho's chest, slotting his backside perfectly into the dip of Minho's hips. The bass hammered up through the floor beneath them, ricocheting off their very bones and rendering it impossible not to succumb to the beat. Sweat beaded on his forehead and neck, and Minho regretted his outfit even more as he loosened his tie and popped a few buttons free.
The songs faded into one another, an endless loop that destroyed Minho's perception of time. They could have been out here for three minutes or three hours. All he knew is how wonderfully they fit together and how earnestly he never wanted this contact to end. Minho found his hand pressed against the stranger's stomach, his palm meeting warm bare skin where the shirt rode up, his fingers dipping into unseen territory below his waistband. The music thumped through his flesh, melding with Minho's. He couldn't recall if he'd placed his hand there or the man in his arms guided him, but none of it mattered. They were moving as one now, chasing the wave of pleasure, abandoning all inhibitions. The rest of the world peeled away like a layer of old paint revealing only them, lost in the sensations of each other's touch.
It was the moan the stranger let out as Minho's mouth explored the curve of his neck that finally made him conscious that he was half-hard. He hooked his thumbs into the belt loops at the stranger's hips, using them as leverage to try and reduce the friction every time the blond ground his backside against his pelvis. He was teetering too dangerously to the cusp of his pleasure, too close to coming undone.
"Fuck…" Minho groaned into his ear. "You're killing me."
After one last teasing swirl of his hips, the stranger swiveled around in Minho's arms with a smirk. He wrapped his fingers around Minho's tie as he led him down a shadowy hallway to the restroom. Kicking open the door, the blond man dragged Minho in, slamming him back against the entrance after a cursory glance revealed the place to be completely empty. From his lips to his thighs the man collided with Minho, one of his hands searching blindly behind his shoulder to twist the lock closed.
His tongue explored Minho's mouth hungrily, and the roll of their hips together revealed this stranger to be in a similar state of arousal to Minho himself. Minho's hands traveled down his back, cupping his ass and squeezing the soft flesh between his fingers as the stranger left Minho's lips in favor of kissing and nibbling along his jaw. He tugged at Minho's tie, loosening it entirely and tossing it onto the floor before popping a few more of his buttons open. His tongue licked a trail from the bottom of his exposed sternum up to the pulse point of his neck where he sucked at the tender skin, drawing unrecognizable moans of pleasure out of Minho's mouth.
"What—what's your name?" Minho groaned as the stranger palmed the front of his trousers, massaging him through the fabric.
He let out a chuckle that Minho would find adorable in any other scenario but this. "Call me whatever you want. You've already made me break my rules. Let me keep one. Now touch me."
Minho didn't need to be asked twice. With a firm grip on the stranger's thighs, he lifted him in the air and deposited him on the countertop of the nearby sink. Minho's lips forged a path across the stranger's collarbone as he worked to undo the column of buttons keeping the blond's tight leather pants closed. With each opened clasp more and more of that tantalizing flesh was revealed; Minho swore under his breath when his fingers brushed against the heat of the stranger's swollen cock, a realization dawning on him that he wasn't wearing any underwear.
His own pants were much less complicated. He pushed the stranger's knees open to step between them as the blond's hand disappeared inside Minho's briefs, giving him a few encouraging strokes as he closed the distance. The stranger hooked a leg around Minho's waist as an anchor, shifting himself forward to the very edge of the counter.
Their hands found each other, fingers mingling as they rubbed their erections together, joining their hands together as they pumped the two members between them. With a whine, the stranger leaned forward to sloppily lock lips with Minho, their hands occupied with each other's bodies. The blond dipped his hand inside Minho's open shirt, running his fingers over muscled flesh. When his thumb flicked over Minho's nipple, he nearly doubled over from the spasm of heat it sent through his body.
"You're so sensitive," the stranger chuckled into Minho's mouth, using his reaction as encouragement as he kept playing with Minho's chest. "Usually men need me to use my mouth to feel anything, but here you are coming undone under a little touch."
"What about you?" Minho huffed, drawing his face away from the stranger's as he studied his expression. His eyes were nearly black with desire, his forehead dotted with sweat, and his eyeliner was smudged from exertion. Maintaining eye contact, Minho pressed against the slit of the stranger's erection, placing pressure as he rubbed it in tiny circles. The blond's jaw fell slack, his head lolling back as he contended with the new sensation. Minho dove forward to bury his face in the stranger's chest, the semi sheer fabric no match for Minho's wet and powerful tongue.
"Fuck, oh fuck that feels good," the stranger moans. "I'm gonna cum. Grab some towels to catch it or something, I'm gonna cum."
Were the blond's pants not so tight, Minho might have slipped his hand down the back, intensifying his orgasm with a few expert fingers inside. He wouldn't have had time, however—Between the stimulation of his lips and tongue and the targeted strokes and rubs of his cock, the blond man was toppling over the edge of his pleasure before the last syllable of his warning left his mouth. Minho caught his head before it slammed back into the mirror, tugging sharply on the strands of his hair, and smiling when the moans grew somehow more erotic. The sounds triggered Minho's own release, and he leaned forward to sink his teeth in the stranger's shoulder, muffling his cries as his cock pulsed against the other man's. Though his hands were shaky, the stranger was unrelenting with his strokes, keeping up the pace and rhythm until Minho was completely emptied out.
Once Minho pushed himself off, the stranger grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, running them under the tap before beginning to wipe the streaks of cum off of Minho. Taking his lead, Minho did the same for him, dabbing at his shirt where his saliva had left a darkened patch. Their chests heaved together, out of breath, both of them searching each other's eyes for the answer of what came next. Neither of them were satisfied yet—neither of them were content with stopping here.
At the same time, they spoke:
"My place is near—
"There's a motel—"
They both broke down in a chorus of giggles, smiling at one another. Minho reached out to tuck the loose strands of blond hair behind the stranger's ear.
"Your place, then," the nameless man decided. "Let's go to your place."
—
Minho awoke to his cell phone blaring an alarm to rouse him from bed in time for work. With urgency, he snatched it from the bedside table, silencing it as he glanced to the other side of the mattress for his sleeping guest. His heart fell through his stomach when his eyes fell only on wrinkled blankets. Minho was ready to write it all off as a very erotic dream until he spied a smudge of eyeliner staining the cover of the pillow. Before he even realized what he was doing, Minho grabbed the pillow, hugging it close to his body. The intoxicatingly strange scent of the stranger wafted out.
Perhaps he was still here, Minho thought with a pulse of excitement, craning an ear towards the hallway to perceive any little noise. After all, what happened last night went beyond the bounds of mere physical attraction. The two connected in a way that Minho had hardly ever experienced before, and judging by the tears streaming down the stranger's face—not of pain, but of pleasure, he claimed—and the quiet voice in which he asked Minho to hold him closer as they lie in bed after several rounds of incredibly passionate sex, Minho found it impossible that he'd leave without so much as a goodbye.
Sliding on a pair of sweatpants over his bare body, Minho padded down the hallway in search of his missing visitor. He frowned in the kitchen when he noticed fresh coffee stains splattered across the countertop. Checking the cabinets, the one and only mug he'd unpacked so far had disappeared.
His frown turned into a full scowl when he entered the bathroom. The shower (which he hadn't even had the opportunity to use yet) was hanging wide open, a puddle of water lingering just outside its entrance. He could spy an upended bottle of his very expensive shampoo leaking out onto the floor, but he wasn't willing to risk a wet slipper to retrieve it in his current mindset: It would surely make him homicidal. The packaging of his new toothbrush was ripped open, not even discarded in the trash can half a meter to its right, the toothbrush itself thrown on the counter with some paste still adorning its bristles. Next to the packaging was a white towel smeared and streaked with the remainder of the eyeliner the stranger didn't leave behind on Minho's good pillowcase.
He chose to close the door, rubbing the bulging vein in his temple as he headed back into the bedroom. He'd deal with that in a moment, when he was no longer at risk of an aneurysm. Discarding his sweatpants, he opened up the wardrobe to pull out the outfit he'd carefully steamed and ironed yesterday. To his dismay, the white button down shirt was missing.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Minho muttered to himself. "My shirt? My fucking shirt?"
As he showered (nearly breaking his neck when he slipped on the puddle of shampoo) and dressed, he wished once more for the stranger's name and number, though this time it would be to report him to the local police station.
With a wrinkled shirt fished out of one of his moving boxes, wet (but not shampooed) hair, and the uncomfortable knowledge that he shared a toothbrush with a stranger, Minho set out early. He knew he wouldn't be able to face this day without caffeine, and he noticed a nearby café yesterday on his way to the bar.
When he opened the door, a fast-moving young man collided with him, sloshing his carrying tray full of drinks all over Minho's shirt and pants. Half his body was in pain from the searing heat of hot coffee, the other uncomfortably cold from the iced Americanos. Dipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled out several ice cubes and a palmful of syrupy whipped cream.
"Oh my god! Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" the younger man shrieked as he uselessly stuck napkins to Minho's clothes.
"Just get away from me. Now!" Minho growled in reply. With a terrified bow of apology, the man scampered back into the shop, presumably to replace the drinks he'd just lost. Kicking the cups out of his path, Minho angrily trudged down the sidewalk, the drips of coffee leaving a trail behind him.
The restaurant was several blocks away from his apartment, an easy walk rendered painful by the chafing of Minho's wet clothes against his skin. He could spot it from the café: Its gaudy pink exterior made it impossible to miss. Parked outside the front was a florist's van unloading bouquet upon bouquet of various colored roses. Minho's nose tickled in anticipation of all the sneezing he would be doing during his tenure here. He stopped at the street before, trying to calm his anger before he died right here of a stress-induced heart attack.
An exasperated, yet friendly-looking man nearly got struck down by a car as he jogged across the street to meet Minho. He tried to tuck the right side of his medium-length hair behind his ear several times, not out of necessity but rather as a self-soothing gesture, surprised each time to feel several small braids already securing it against his scalp. Out of breath, he put on a nervous smile, one eye on Minho and the other on the floral delivery situation.
"Hi, so sorry about this mess. Flowers were supposed to be here an hour ago, and the back alley is blocked by the produce delivery. You're Mr. Choi, right?" he asked, gesturing to the briefcase which was his giveaway in a trendy neighborhood like this. His eyes grew wide as he saw the stains on the fabric of his suit. He fretted, "Oh dear, what happened to you? Come with me, come with me! We have extra employee uniforms in storage. I'm sure we can find something to fit you. I'm Lee Jinki, by the way. I'm the manager here at our lovely Sarang."
Minho allowed himself to be led down a small side street, figuring that if this individual was planning on robbing or murdering him, it would be on theme with today's misfortune.
"It's Minho, by the way," he said as the manager held the sturdy metal door of the back entrance open. "My father's Mr. Choi. Please, just call me Minho."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, mister… I mean, Minho. You can call me Jinki, or Mr. Lee, whatever you prefer," he rambled. "Or hyung, if you'd like, haha! Is that too personal? Whatever you're comfortable with. There isn't much going on right now. Usually you'd hear the boys singing, or our sous chef is going around shoving food in people's faces. We don't start until lunch service, you see, so this is all prep time. Our head chef was late today—late for him, not late for his contract, mind you," he added in a nervous chuckle. "I think he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'd warn you to avoid the kitchen, but…" he trailed off again, following a different line of thought instead. "He needs coffee to start the day, the chef, and the waiter we sent to pick it up has gone missing, and the flowers… Well, it's certainly a hectic day. It'll be interesting to see what recipes come out of this chaotic mood. Anyway, I'm rambling, haha. I can't stop talking when I'm nervous. Here's the storage; let's see what we can find you."
Jinki passed over a pair of light grey trousers that fit Minho's waist well enough, but left him with a bit more exposed ankle than he was necessarily comfortable with. Peeling off his soiled shirt, Minho wiped himself down with a few cloth napkins that the manager was kind enough to provide with politely averted eyes. As he worked on buttoning up a pale pink shirt, the name "Jonghyun" embroidered on the pocket in white thread, Minho took the lead and walked out the door, wanting to start his first day without any more interruptions. The manager trailed at his heels, giving him directions from behind.
"I guess the best place to start would be the kitchen," he said with that same nervous tremor in his voice. "Everyone will probably be gathered there for breakfast. Last door on your left, with the window. One thing before you go in though, the chef… he's a little temperamental, so try not to…Oh! You're just going right in. Oh dear…"
Ignoring Jinki, Minho stalked down the hallway, slamming open the door with unnecessary force. He'd heard laughing, too much laughing for what a miserable morning it had been, and he decided to make it his problem. The assembled crowd looked up, startled at the thunderous entrance. There was a man stirring something sweet smelling on the stove, hair dyed like an oil slick, with cat-like eyes that rendered him instantly intimidating in spite of his otherwise pretty features. Beside him, a pink-haired and incredibly handsome man leaned with his back against the counter, an already bitten pastry halfway to his mouth. Two attractive younger guys sat at the counter in the midst of dicing vegetables. One smacked the other and whispered under his breath. Judging by his gaze fixed on his exposed skin, Minho figured it was about his state of dress.
"What is this?" Minho said with a scowl. "Is this a flower boy concept?"
"It's uh, the owner's request. She wanted to eat surrounded by handsome men. It's our chef's fault really, since he's so gorgeous to begin with. Really, uh, angel-like visuals… I guess that's a way to put it. I—I don't know. You can judge for yourself. Um, where is our prestigious chef, anyway?" Jinki unconfidently asked the already disinterested man who returned to stirring something on the stovetop.
"In the pantry. Trying to get inspired," the man answered with a small snort, obviously amused by this entire situation.
"Is that my shirt?" the pink-haired man next to him asked, squinting to read the pocket. He was quickly silenced by the cat-eyed guy shoving a spoonful of whatever he was cooking into his mouth.
The manager continued speaking. "He's the crown jewel of this place, really! He whips up the day's menu on the spot. It's the charm of Sarang: You never know what you're going to get, but you sure know it's going to be delicious!" Another nervous laugh choked out as he opened the door of what he presumed was the pantry. "Chef Taemin, can you spare a moment? The financial advisor is here. It would be lovely for you to meet him."
"Why are you talking like that?" a gruff voice shouted back. For whatever reason, a slight chill tickled the ridges of Minho's spine. "You've never called me chef, not even when you were just a waiter. Hold on, let me just grab this last thing."
With a grunt, the door swung open, almost smacking Minho and revealing a face he was all too familiar with, half obscured by a pile of haphazardly stacked produce and preserve jars. A short ponytail sticking out of the top of the chef's head like a miniature geyser displayed that tell-tale blindingly bright blond.
After everything that had happened this morning, of course the stranger from last night was here. And not only that, he was the head chef of the restaurant where Minho would be stuck for at least a month.
Just my luck, thought Minho. As the chef complained, Minho noted the stolen piece of his wardrobe adorning his body. It made him even more pissed off to see him wearing it better than Minho himself ever could.
"Sungjae, Junho, one of you useless excuses for an employee take this shit away from me. Is Jihan still gone? Where the fuck is my coffee? And where the fuck is this money guy?" the chef ranted, trying to adjust the things in his arms to give him a free hand. Minho cleared his throat behind him, and the chef followed the sound, spinning around to face him.
"Yeah, hey, what—" His words choked off in a stutter like a needle being torn from a still spinning record. Vegetables and fruit tumbled to the floor, glass jars shattered and splattered the petrified chef, the startled manager, and Minho himself with various jams and sauces.
"Taemin? Do you two know each other?" The pink-haired guy presumably called Jonghyun asked from across the room. As he spoke, he grabbed a mop, preparing to clear up this mess.
"No, I've never seen this man in my life. I'm sure I'd remember a face like that," Minho answered with a smirk. "Taemin, was it? Choi Minho." With a mischievous grin, stepping over the fallen veggies to snatch Taemin's palm up in an enthusiastic handshake. "It's nice to finally meet you. Love your shirt, by the way."
Leaving the stunned chef behind, Minho snagged a fallen apple from the floor, rubbing it off on the stomach of his shirt and taking a hearty bite. He'd missed breakfast this morning, too irritated by the tornado that tore through his apartment to stomach any real food. With a wink in Taemin's direction, he stepped out the door, his laughter echoing down the hall.
What better place to serve up a dish of revenge than at a restaurant?
—
[AN: Yay! Brand new story! I hope you all enjoy this one. For now, the general plan is to upload a new chapter every Wednesday. It’s still Tuesday for me, but I can’t wait to post this any longer. As always, comments are appreciated. Reading your reactions makes my day!]