Archive of Our Own

Chan arrives for dinner in a bluster of annoyance and thinly veiled frustration. Minho invites him in and steps aside to let Chan kick off his shoes, shutting the heavy oak against the chilly Baltimore fall night before its winds can trespass into his home.

“You’re late.” It’s not a rebuke, but Chan’s face twists further into a grimace.

“Flight was delayed,” he says, pulling the beanie off to reveal a head of wild blonde curls. It can’t be his natural hair colour. Minho always wonders at the sole vanity Chan allows himself. If, between his dusty house and rescued dogs, he makes quarterly trips to the salon to get his roots freshly dyed.

Minho holds a hand out for his coat and Chan gives it to him after a momentary hesitation. He’s getting better at it.

“Another murder?”

“When is there not?” Chan follows him through the foyer, past the living room into his kitchen, his socks shh shh shhing behind Minho’s silent footsteps. “For some reason the serial killer population seems to converge in on Baltimore.”

“Maybe they’re drawn to you.” Minho glances over his shoulder just in time to catch a look of disdain cross Chan’s face. It’s such a pretty sight—his already handsome face contorting in irritation, resignation at the reminder of his own power.

“Whatever.” Chan tosses himself into the stool at Minho’s counter. It is a rudeness Minho wouldn’t let slide with anyone else. He discovered rather quickly, however, that Chan was the exception to all of his rules.

“Would you like some wine?” Minho’s already moving to the fridge in anticipation of Chan shaking his head.

“Do you have any—” The beer bottle is set in front of him and Chan waits politely for Minho to hand him the bottle opener. Minho’s seen him crack a bottle open on his own dining table, but he won’t do the same in Minho’s house—affords Minho a courtesy he doesn’t his own possessions.

“You don’t have to feed me every time I come here,” Chan says, just like he does once a month, as if he fears Minho will somehow take offense at his continued presence.

“You are no longer my patient.” Minho pulls the braised meat, along with the appropriate vegetables out of the refrigerator. He’d prepared it earlier in the evening, knowing Chan would arrive hungry. Minho disliked making his guests wait. “I would grow bereft of your company if we didn’t see each other once a week.”

“I’m just saying,” Chan mutters around a long pull of beer. “It’s like you’re worried I don’t eat enough or something. Like you’re fattening me up for slaughter.”

“Nonsense,” Minho says lightly. The leafy head of a radish topples off and lands in a growing pile of vegetable carcasses. He lets his eyes linger on Chan’s body and hides a smile as Chan squirms in his seat, avoiding his gaze. “You’re much too skinny to eat.”

Chan dislikes being perceived in equal measure with claustrophobia and people trying to understand him, but Minho enjoys prodding the fleshy part of his consciousness that shies away from any sort of scrutiny. It made Chan a compelling client, and later, a compelling dinner guest.

“I have no use for other people’s attention,” Chan always used to say. “I see too much of them; they don’t need to see me.”

“But they want to,” Minho had offered delicately and delighted in Chan’s aggrieved sigh.

Chan coughs and finishes his beer in one long pull. Minho makes his way to the fridge and hands him another one. In a flawless stainless steel Demeyere Atlantis pot goes the meat and the braising sauce ingredients. He feels Chan’s eyes on him as he pours in soy sauce, matsul, a grated pear, and a handful of other aromatics, all bobbing to the top like misshapen eyeballs. Apples in a barrel during Halloween.

“What are you making?”

“Galbi jjim,” Minho replies, leaving the meat to cook and turning to his freezer. “I thought you’d like something warm and hearty when you returned from—where was it today?”

“Sun Valley.”

“Idaho.” Minho wrinkles his nose. He dislikes the barren west; no culture or history to speak of. Then he considers Los Angeles and revises that statement—he dislikes the west in general. Anything past the Appalachian mountains holds little interest to him.

“Sawtooth National Forest, actually.” Exhaustion threads its way through every vowel Chan utters. He runs his hand through his hair, mussing it even more. Minho’s fingers itch watching the strands stick upright. He adds stock to the pot instead, turns the flame up high, and returns to his cutting board.

“Mmm. What was it this time? Bodies hidden in tree trunks?”

“If only.” Chan’s eyes are closed now, temple braced against his fist. “At least it would be interesting to be in her head.”

Minho raises an eyebrow down at the small pile of neatly circular carrots forming under his sharp blade. “Her.”

“She’s… cold,” Chan says slowly, absently, like his mind is still thousands of miles away, buried under the mountains, under dirt and rubble, lost to nature’s slow encroachment. “Calculating. Her anger burns like blue flame.”

Mushrooms follow the carrots and radishes. “How many bodies?”

“Nine, but I know there’s more we haven’t found yet,” Chan murmurs. His head slips against his hand and he readjusts with a small sigh.

“Chan. My living room is far more comfortable for you to relax in.”

Chan’s russet eyes open and pierce through him. “I don’t need to lie down. I’m not an invalid.”

“My armchairs are not meant for invalids.” Minho lowers the boil on the stock to a burbling simmer and rounds the counter to touch Chan’s wrist lightly. Chan pretends he abhors touch; his gift refuses to let him close to anyone, lest he see too much. He uses the excuse like a fort, keeps himself isolated. An island buffeted against a cyclone. When Minho rests two fingers on Chan’s blue-green veins, Chan’s shoulders lose a millimeter of tension. His countenance takes on a hue of deeply buried desperation. “I will rouse you when dinner is ready. Please.”

Chan’s eyes always rest somewhere above his left brow bone. The space between Minho’s hairline and his eyebrow. He doesn’t move away when Chan rises and the scent lingers in the air as Chan brushes past him. Juniper berries and timur.

An exquisite combination. Minho can almost taste it on his tongue.

He collects Chan’s empty bottles and sets them in the recycling before turning his attention back to the meal. As a rule, Minho dislikes dinner without at least three components on the plate, but the intricacies of gourmet cooking are lost on Chan, and Minho dislikes discomfiting Chan more than he does abandoning his principles.

He peels fresh chestnuts with a sharp paring knife and adds those along with chopped jujubes to the stock. Emerald stoneware pasta plates are ladened with a perfect hill of rice, accompanied by a trio of banchan bowls—kimchi Minho’s had fermenting in his fridge for months, along with three marinated quail eggs and half-inch cubes of radish kimchi.

The meat is tender, falling off the fork when he ladles it into the plate. Steam rises in thick curls. The sauce thick and dark brown. The perfect consistency.

He sets the table, arranging everything in a perfect shape before going into the living room. Chan’s dark circles are large, shadowing his high cheekbones. He’s got one of Minho’s throw pillows shoved between his shoulder and cheek. His mouth is open.

Minho imagines sliding his cock in between those perfect lips. Gripping those lovely curls in his fist and dragging him down until Chan’s throat spasms around the intrusion. Seeing those all seeing eyes fill up with tears, making eye contact at last.

He’s barely touched Chan’s shoulder when Chan startles awake, breathing harshly. His eyes dart around in alarm before he settles on Minho, chest settling.

“Dinner is ready.”

Chan nods. Wipes his mouth roughly with the back of his hand and stands. The throw pillow falls to the floor and Minho leaves it be, following Chan closely on the way to the dining room.

Chan makes a rough noise of surprise. “This looks good.”

“Taste it before you sing my praises,” Minho instructs. He waits for Chan to pick up his spoon and fall upon the food like a starving animal before he picks up his own utensils.

“Fuck,” Chan mumbles, eyes shut as he swallows. His lashes are doubly distracting fanned out over his cheeks like that. “This is beef? Who the fuck is your butcher?”

A sharp autumn night. The rhythmic crunch of leaves and dead twigs under his shoes. A high pitched cry barely masking a sobbing plea.

“Please! Please—don’t hurt me!”

Minho doesn’t roll his eyes when he grabs the thick polyester jacket and yanks the body down, but it’s a near thing. The offending material is sticky against his hand and Minho snarls in displeasure. Fear makes the meat fattier.

He prefers it this way.

“An Italian man up in Roland Park keeps the best cuts aside for me. I’ve been his patron for a long time.”

“Buying high grade meat even as a teen were you?”

Minho smiles. “I’ve been lucky to maintain good relationships with the community.”

Chan rolls his eyes and Minho smiles. He watches Chan eat, lingering on his hand bringing the meat up to his mouth, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Wishes he could peel his skin open to see his stomach, his gut, his intestines, all working together to satiate him, all from the food Minho made.

Slowly, Minho picks up his spoon and turns his gaze away.

Chan doesn’t linger long. He rarely does.

“The drive to Wolf Trap is long.” Minho doesn’t inject any inflection into his voice one way or another but Chan is already shaking his head.

“I have to feed my dogs,” he says, shoving his feet back into his mud splattered boots. “I’ve already asked too much of my neighbour the last two days.”

Minho nods and hands him his jacket. He doesn’t help Chan put it on, but he does watch as the collar sticks under itself and crumples. Imagines Chan in a proper wool coat, in something dark and long. Maybe the colour of charcoal. Highlighting the angles in his face.

He opens the door again, to the chilly autumn air. To the cloudless night and the scarce stars. The moonlight that spills along Chan’s curls, fragmented and scattered.

“I’ll see you next week, Dr. Lee.”

“Next week.” Minho nods. He stands outside, watching Chan climb into his scratched, stained station wagon and pull away. He stands outside for a long moment, observing the still night. Then he shuts the door and heads into the living room to pick up the fallen pillow.

When he brings it to his nose, his mouth starts watering. The scent of elderberries is strong, reminiscent of gin, salted with Chan’s exhaustion, his stress. Minho can taste him on his tongue. He takes several deep breaths, then sets the pillow down on the chair and goes about the task of cleaning his kitchen.

Their weekly dinners are a highlight of Minho’s relatively packed weeks. He sees his patients, picks out a meal from his rolodex, entertains a few friends when he has the time. The ballet season has come into full swing and Minho attends the weekend performance of the Nutcracker, just like he always does.

“I don’t see your charming little pet around.”

Minho takes a slow sip of his whiskey before he turns around to meet Seonghwa’s glimmering eyes. He’s dressed in pinstripe high waisted trousers and an angular blazer, cropped at his waist. He garners several side looks from the more conservative theatre members but Seonghwa doesn’t seem to notice.

“Chan isn’t a big fan of people.”

“And you don’t count,” Seonghwa agrees, sidling into Minho’s space with a secretive smile. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I always do.”

“A patron of the arts,” Seonghwa says. Minho glances sideways at him but Seonghwa’s smile doesn’t waver. “I do wish I could have seen you in Korea.”

Minho takes another sip, rolling the smooth liquid along his tongue. “It was a short career.” He’s not quite sure how Seonghwa found out about his past, but he refuses to let the realisation show on his face.

“I’m sure you were masterful, regardless,” Seonghwa pushes, a silvery, needling tint to his words.

Minho sets his empty glass down on the counter and watches the nearly invisible bartender whisk it away soundlessly. “How is your husband? Is the business thriving?”

Seonghwa’s smile wavers a little. “Hongjoong’s fine. You know how the Baltimore elite are—they never let him rest.”

“Maybe I should pay him a visit sometime,” Minho offers. The bartender returns with a new glass and Minho picks it up, adding, “I’m always in the market for a new suit.”

The smile has completely vanished from Seonghwa’s filled-in lips. “Of course,” he says stiffly. “You know how happy we’d be to have you.”

This time, the smile that rises to Minho’s lips is natural. “Lovely. I must have you both around for dinner soon, as well.”

“We’d love that,” Seonghwa manages, face paler now. He sets his unfinished drink on the bar counter and nods to Minho. There’s a little jitter to his step as he walks away without saying goodbye. Minho laughs into his drink.

Chan arrives for their dinner on time for once, and then falls asleep at the counter in the scant seconds it takes Minho to retrieve his beer from the fridge.

Minho stares at him, the neck of the beer bottle pinched between two fingers, before he returns it to the fridge, the bottle sitting alongside the case and a half Minho only buys for Chan.

With anyone else, the sheer daring and rudeness would have landed them a spot in Minho’s meal rolodex. However, Chan is the exception, never the rule, and Minho allows him to remain undisturbed. Partly because Chan gets little sleep as it is, but mostly because it’s a lovely sight: Chan lax and trusting in his kitchen, head pillowed on his arms, ignorant to the way Minho stares at him, greed twanging along his receptors, making his fingers itch.

He turns his attention to dinner, rather than reaching out and scraping his fingers through Chan’s hair. He silences his chopping to soft thuds against the wooden board, keeps the one eye on Chan as the flame roars to life under the pan gleaming with shimmering oil, coating a pile of potatoes.

Chan remains obliviously asleep through it all. He doesn’t stir, doesn’t even flinch when Minho experimentally flicks a tasting spoon onto the floor. His ease in Minho’s presence is staggering, especially when Minho has seen him push through six hour red eyes across the country, frowning in discomfort, rather than risk falling asleep on a crowded plane.

Minho is loath to wake him when dinner is finished—flank steak from a hapless, arrogant doctor, and crispy, golden potatoes laid over a chimichurri base—but he also refuses to let such food go to waste.

He hovers over Chan, fingers reaching out, itching to touch the bright curls. He gives in against his better judgement and lets his forefinger brush the hair at the nape of his neck.

Chan stirs, animal instincts aware, perhaps, that a predator stands so close. Minho has no intention of eating Chan—not just yet, anyway—and he continues, bolder than before, twining a curl around his finger. He imagines sliding his whole hand into his hair, fisting it, pulling Chan’s head back, making him bend, break for him. He satisfies himself with this light touch for now. Despite the split ends, it’s soft. Minho lifts a second finger, millimeters from touching when Chan’s eyes open and pin him where he stands.

Chan’s voice is rough. “What are you doing?”

Minho steps back, hand falling to his side. “You fell asleep. Dinner is ready.”

Chan blinks sleepily and then straightens, looking around. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. Come eat.”

Minho had already set the table, but held back the sides today to spare Chan the stress of options. Typically, he’d have a glass of red along with it, but Chan looks in no state to drink and Minho dislikes drinking alone when the occasion doesn’t call for it.

“Thank you for cooking,” Chan says like he does every week, as if the arrangement has been anything else.

Minho nods. “You’re welcome,” he says graciously, like he does every week.

Chan eats slowly, still struggling to pull himself from sleep. Fork tines scrape across the plate and his teeth press into his bottom lip every so often, as if trying to keep himself awake. He’s only cleared a third of his plate when he slows down, eyes fluttering shut.

“Chan.”

Chan straightens immediately. “I’m fine.”

Minho can’t help it—he rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say you weren’t, but you’re falling asleep in your chair and your face and my food are entirely too good to be covered in each other. Come on, up.”

“I can just head home,” Chan mutters, swaying as he stands upright.

“And crash the second you pull onto the road.” Minho wraps around the table to touch his elbow. He notes with satisfaction, the minute flinch that escapes Chan, like an electrical shock. He removes his hand and watches Chan follow its path with an expression like a kicked dog—too exhausted to veil his desire. “I have plenty of room.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” Chan mutters but it’s a small protest—a rote response.

“Your dogs are in the care of your neighbour and I delight in sharing breakfast with someone.” Minho leads him upstairs to the guest bedroom. It’s right beside Minho’s own room, but Chan doesn’t need to know that. “You have no excuses.”

He opens the door with a flourish. Chan’s sleep-glazed eyes land somewhere by his right ear. “Thank you, Dr. Lee.”

“You’re staying in my house, Chan. I think we can do away with the formalities.”

There’s a pause, then Chan nods. “Thank you, Minho.”

His name sounds so lovely spilling out of Chan’s mouth like that. Like the susurration of dance shoes against a newly polished floor. Like the ringing of church bells, undercut by a litany of voices, harmonising along the same hymns. Like a promise of what is to come.

“Spare toothbrushes are in the drawer by the sink. You should find everything you need, but please let me know if you require anything else.”

Chan nods and Minho steps aside. “Sleep well, Chan.”

The door shuts with a gentle click behind him and Minho stands there for a moment, observing the wood paneling for a moment before walking away. He can’t wait to review the tapes later.

Chan rises earlier than Minho expected, given the shadows under his eyes. He stumbles downstairs, dressed in the same clothes, curls tossed around as if caught in a maelstrom in his dreams, pillow marks pressed deep into his cheeks like elegant scars.

Minho laughs a little. “I’m glad to see you slept well.”

Chan rubs a hand across his face roughly. He has stubble shadowing his jaw. Minho wants to lick him. “Your mattress is unfairly nice.”

Minho passes over a pot of fresh coffee and turns his attention back to the stove. He’s making a simple American breakfast today—eggs frying in the fat left behind by the bacon. Mushrooms and tomatoes melding into each other.

“I’d be happy to furnish you with a similar one,” he says. “If you so wanted.” He’s been inside Chan’s house, seen the dismal bed he sleeps in, the secondhand furniture he uses. Any marginal addition would only be an improvement.

“Don’t buy me a mattress,” Chan says immediately and when Minho glances over his shoulder, Chan is upright at the counter, glaring at Minho through his hair. “I’m serious, Minho.”

The lack of formality pleases Minho. He turns back to the stove and smiles to himself as he plates up the food. “Are you teaching today?”

Chan makes a noise that could be anything between annoyance, displeasure or agreement. He takes the plate Minho offers him with a little nod of thanks. “Yeah, just the one class.”

“Then you should eat well,” Minho offers, settling down at the stool beside Chan. He smells like Minho’s body wash—neatly placed in the guest bathroom for his use—and Minho’s mouth waters. “You need your strength to deal with your eager students.”

Chan’s mouth twists. “They’re too eager.”

“They’re excited to learn from you.”

“They don’t know what’s out there. They act like it’s all a game.”

“A reality I’m sure they’ll become all too aware of soon.” Minho jerks his chin at Chan’s plate and Chan picks up his fork obediently. Minho’s unsure of who is passing through his mouth at the moment, but he’s sure they don’t deserve it.

Minho sees Chan off to work at the front door and considers the near future, when he will do the same, except then, he will run his hand through Chan’s curls, rest his fingers on the side of his throat, feel his pulse beat against his fingertips and reel him in for a kiss. Where he will feel Chan’s mouth part for him, yield to his pressure, allow him in, like he had the hapless stranger down his gullet only minutes earlier.

Chan crosses the road to his car and glances over his shoulder for just a moment before he opens the door and slides in. Minho tips his head and then turns back into his house. Sooner rather than later—it will come true.

Chan gets injured on a job. Minho isn’t around—he rarely is anymore. The FBI finally paid attention to the fact that unauthorized individuals were hanging around after one too many murderers slipped the ranks and Minho’s access was revoked. He’s also dismissed as Chan’s unofficially endorsed psychiatrist in the same breath, but that hardly means much. Chan reveals more when he’s disarmed by Minho’s food than he does staring him down in his office.

It comes as a shock when Minho opens the door on Thursday to find Chan damp from the downpour, holding a bone white cast to his stomach, looking miserable and irritated about his misery.

“Well,” Minho says and then finds himself at a rare loss for words. He moves aside to allow Chan inside. Goosebumps dot his bare arms—he probably couldn’t find a way to get a jacket on one armed—and his hair is damp, pressed to his skull. It gives him the look of a drowning mouse.

The door clicks shut behind them with a quiet noise. “What happened?”

Chan shrugs. “He got me unawares. Tackled me.”

Minho’s eyebrows rise. Chan is constantly surrounded by FBI agents, all of them armed. Chan himself is armed. The likelihood of someone catching him unawares is slim, close to impossible. Until today, it seems.

“Are you okay?”

Chan sighs. It’s a distinctly vulnerable sound from him and it catches Minho unaware. He pauses on the slow tread back to his living room.

“You’re uncomfortable.”

Chan gives him a baleful look. “My arm is broken.”

“No, you’re…” Minho pauses, considering, trying to read the set of his shoulders, the tension rippling along his skin. It usually comes easier than this. “Unbalanced? Unsettled? Why? Because someone caught you off guard?”

Chan’s mouth twists, annoyed, perhaps, that Minho is analysing him. “Because I didn’t expect it. I always expect everything. All the time.”

Minho cocks his head. “You can’t possibly expect your brain to keep up with that. Not even someone as gifted as you can read all the possibilities every time you enter a room, Chan.”

“Not the possibilities but the people—the person—I should be able to. I have been able to. I’m never wrong.”

Their eyes meet and Minho wonders, not for the first time, if Chan knows of his little secret. “Even you are allowed slips.” Chan’s expression darkens, clearly dissatisfied by the weak platitude. “We can discuss it further, if you’d like.”

“You’re not my therapist anymore.”

“But I am your friend… Or at the very least, a companion,” Minho says delicately. Nothing about them feels very friendly. Not Chan’s company, nor his presence in Minho’s home. Every nerve is set alight the minute Chan walks through his door. Every fold of his brain is consumed by Chan, his whereabouts, his thoughts, the smell of his skin, the shape of his hands. Minho wants to dig a separator between his ribs and splay him open, wants to feel the frantic thudding of his heart against his open palm, hear the air whoosh through his lungs, sink his nails into his viscera. He wants to know Chan, inside out, wants to taste every part of him, wants to bring him to the brink of death and then graciously, lovingly, like a God he no longer believes in, spare his life because he holds more value to Minho alive than dead. But only just. Nothing about that feels congenial.

“It’s fine,” Chan says. He walks ahead of Minho to the kitchen. Irritation threads its way through the words he tosses over his shoulder, “And I definitely don’t think we’re just companions, do you Dr. Lee?”

Minho, still struggling to pull himself out of visions of bathing in Chan’s blood, can only silently agree.

Dinner becomes slightly awkward when Chan realises what Minho has set for dinner. Burbling kimchi jjigae in stoneware bowls, accompanied by rice, marinated meat, recently grilled and still sizzling, all of his banchan set out in small little bowls.

“Well,” Minho says, once he has Chan sitting at the table. “I see this may present a problem.”

Chan glances at him. For once, Minho finds it hard to parse his expression. “I’m fine.”

“Nonsense,” Minho says. A frisson of delight sparkles through his system. “I won’t have a guest struggling.”

He abandons his own food and makes his way around to Chan, leaning over to pick up his utensils. Chan regards him with a faint air of alarm.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Feeding you,” Minho says simply. “There are far too many components for you to enjoy the dish properly and I won’t have my cooking sullied.”

“Minho—”

“Hands down.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence and then Chan’s hands drop to his lap—the broken one settling slower than the other. His ears flare red. “I thought you didn’t like invalids.”

“I don’t consider you anything of the sort, Chan.” The use of his name disarms him. It always does. Chan always makes an effort to hide it. It never escapes Minho’s notice.

Minho sets down the chopsticks and picks up the spoon. “Open.”

Chan’s mouth curls downward in a scowl. He rears back slightly. “I can eat by myself.” His uninjured hand remains obediently still.

“So you can. However, I enjoy taking care of you.” Minho hasn’t admitted it before but there’s been no need to. Chan dislikes any implication of care—sees it too close to the sting of pity. But Minho likes him like this. Helpless. In his home. At his table.

Chan’s jaw clenches for a second and Minho lovingly traces the line of his bone before he lifts the spoon to Chan’s eye level. One last press. “Allow me the indulgence,” Minho murmurs.

Those perfect lips part and Minho spoons the soup in. It’s hot. He doesn’t blow on it. Chan doesn’t wince, only swallows without hesitation.

“Is it satisfactory?”

Chan’s eyes are back on his browbone. He nods slowly and Minho allows himself a small ripple of satisfaction. He takes another spoonful of steaming kimchi jjigae and ladles it over rice before collecting the mixture back up into the spoon and holding it out to Chan.

Chan’s eyes flick somewhere to the left. Displeasure tightening his features. Still he opens his mouth again and allows Minho to feed him. Minho switches his utensils out and picks up the fermented squid. It’s bright red, full to the brim with flavour and Chan’s nose twitches when Minho brings it close. He eats it, and coughs a little but he doesn’t draw away.

Three more spoonfuls go by in similar fashion. At this pace, it will take them half an hour to clear the bowl but Minho could not be pulled away from Chan’s side even if the very earth split under his feet.

Chan’s ears are starting to turn red. He’s feeling the effects of the spice Minho loaded in. Gochugaru mixed with finely minced cheongyang peppers and thai chilies to kick up the level. An exhale slips out of his mouth that he can’t quite control, but he doesn’t back away, doesn’t turn his head when Minho holds out another spoon.

A bite of tofu followed by another spoonful of rice. A slice of perfectly marinated meat. A bite of kimchi.

The red flushes down Chan’s cheeks, following the delicate veins in his neck. Minho can almost taste the sweat beading at his skin’s surface. The glands opening up near his throat, around his temples.

Minho waits him out. Holds out another spoon and watches the soup drip down the side of his mouth before Chan quickly wipes it away, hand returning to his lap.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer.

“You know I can’t handle my spice,” Chan admits roughly after the eleventh bite, a young man’s sinewy calf in the form of ground meat sliding down his gullet with ease.

Minho picks up another spoonful. “I know.” He holds it out, closer to his body this time so Chan has to lean in. He does, neck craning outward to close his mouth around the spoon. His eyes flick up to Minho, landing on his philtrum this time, before darting away.

The curl of pleasure that winds its way down Minho’s spine is welcome. The thickening of his cock in his trousers even more so.

Chan keeps eating. He starts exhaling open-mouthed. From this angle, standing above him, Minho can see saliva pooling around his tongue, in an earnest effort to cool his body down. He sniffs, trying to keep his nose from running. But he doesn’t reach to wipe his face.

“Is my cooking to your liking, Chan?”

Chan nods roughly. He stretches his neck out, reaching for the next bite and then flushes when he realises there’s nothing on the spoon. Minho adores the blush of embarrassment that spills over his already red cheeks, but he doesn’t push it, doesn’t make him stew in it. Not just yet.

Wordlessly, he reaches down and takes another spoon, the metal edge scraping the bowl. They’re reaching the end. Another bite. Another swallow.

There’s a glimmer of tears at the inner corners of his eyes that don’t fall. His mouth is puffy and red, enlarging his full lips to the point of obscenity. Yet he’s obedient. So, so obedient. Staying put where Minho wants him to be. Minho wants to commit unspeakable acts upon his person. Wants to press him to the floor and fuck him face down, see his tears dot the polished hardwood, feel the clench of his hole hot and tense around his cock.

The final bite passes through Chan’s mouth and Chan lets out a small noise that sounds something like relief. Something like disappointment. When Minho follows the flush down neck, trails his eyes lower, he sees the obvious press against Chan’s faded jeans. His broken hand rests on his thigh, unmoving.

Minho puts the spoon down in the empty bowl and smiles with satisfaction. “Good,” he says and Chan’s ears darken.

“Is that all?” Chan asks, voice cracked.

“Would you like more?” Minho asks. He wants to put his fingers to Chan’s puffy mouth and feel the pulse of his heart there. Chan doesn’t reply. He’s slumped in the stool, spine curved, head down. He’s so pretty like this—Minho wants to break him more. “How do you feel?”

“Hot,” Chan snipes. There’s a beat and then, softer, “Still.”

Slowly Minho raises his hand and presses two fingers to his temple, slick with sweat. “Quiet in here?”

“It’s never quiet in my head.”

“Well, perhaps we could try harder next time.” Minho draws his fingers away and presses them to his tongue. Chan’s eyes widen. The salty taste explodes along Minho’s taste buds like the first bloom of spring still hidden under a layer of crunchy frost. Minho wipes his fingers off on a napkin and picks up the empty bowls. “When you want it,” he adds, rounding the table.

If Chan has a protest to that, he doesn’t voice it. He remains in his seat and watches Minho clean up, staying put because Minho had asked him to. Staying still.

If anyone were privy to their weekly meetings, they would probably have some questions about Minho’s cooking. Obvious issues aside, they would perhaps hesitantly point out the sheer amount of fat Minho puts into every meal he makes Chan. His rice is cooked with butter, his Western soups covered in cream. Chan rarely eats dessert, devoid entirely of a sweet tooth, so Minho has had to get creative. It tests his culinary skills, to maintain the same flavour and elegance while adding as many calories as he can.

From his days of being an unofficial consultant and handle for the FBI, Minho knows how little Chan eats. It’s a combination of lack of time, lack of interest and lack of cooking knowledge. Chan has few textures he likes, few flavours he can stand, and absolutely no desire to cultivate any of it for himself. Chan had simply gnawed off the end of a dense protein bar most meals while the other agents ordered takeout and held little boxes of fried rice and slices of pizza around the boundaries of crime scenes, chewing loudly and utterly irreverently while maggots oozed nearby.

By the time Minho was removed from his post, Chan had been more or less skin and bones, only a thin veneer of muscle left behind by sheer force of genetics and and from his days of doing housework around his ramshackle excuse for shelter. So he’d taken it upon himself to right those wrongs.

It had been trial and error at first. Chan likes Korean food but he can’t stand spice, so Minho had to go lower and lower until even his own sensibilities started to become offended. Chan dislikes pureed textures, so most sauces and dependencies were out, forcing Minho to adapt. Chan hates sour things, so Minho has all but cut most acids from his recipes. If anything, it’s forcing him to become a better cook.

Though, Minho would never allow anyone else the same grace he gives Chan.

When Chan arrives for dinner that week, Minho takes his jacket and notes with pride the softness along his jawline, the way his arms look bigger, and not just corded from muscle. Surely, he’s been unable to move around as much and his body has taken advantage of the sedentary change. He wonders if Chan’s stomach has lost its hardness yet, if his waist spills over the band of his underwear. If his thighs will yield to the press of Minho’s teeth, tremble under the threat. If his body will turn pliable, malleable for Minho to shape. To play with.

Dinner is crusted lamb that used to be an overly familiar waitress, along with a plum pomegranate reduction, brown butter lemon asparagus, and a warm potato mash with garlic cream drizzled over it. The flavour is toned down as usual to suit Chan’s palate.

Minho watches intently as Chan takes a bite with his uninjured hand, the movement slow and clumsy as he navigates using his nondominant side. Chan’s eyes widen and then narrow, his lips linger on the fork. He swallows, as if uncertain about it and then takes another bite. His reaction follows in much of the same way.

“Are you disappointed?”

Chan frowns down at his plate. “I’m never disappointed by your cooking.”

“You look surprised.”

There’s a pause. “It’s nothing.”

Chan is a terrible liar. He doesn’t have a need to—everyone takes his word at faith, his observations are unimpeachable, his actions stalwart. He’s always been believed and even when he hasn’t, did not care to change his actions.

Minho smiles. “If there’s something you’d like me to change, Chan, all you have to do is ask.”

A muscle jumps in Chan’s jaw. Ahh, he’s not so easily swayed. Minho enjoys this—the chase, the waiting. Hunting.

“It’s fine,” Chan says. He picks his fork back up and takes another bite. Dissatisfaction is writ along his handsome features. Minho drinks it in.

As expected, Chan doesn’t break easily. He returns week after week and eats the bland, buttery, high caloric meals Minho makes for him. He also refuses to fall asleep around Minho and returns home to Wolf Trap at the end of the night, despite Minho’s insistence he stay.

Chan is rebelling and it amuses Minho. Like a kitten learning to hiss and fight for the first time. He’s digging his tiny claws in, barely making impressions in Minho’s skin. A tantrum thrown: pouting, You don’t get my vulnerability if you don’t give me what I want. Minho knows any number of ways to make Chan suffer if he wants it, but he won’t be the first to break here. He wants Chan to ask for it. Want those lovely, obscene lips to part and beg for Minho to ruin him, all on his own.

He’s content to wait. He’s waited many, many years already.

In the time between, Minho attends more shows. Hosts a dinner party of his closest sycophants and otherwise mildly interesting peers. Chan spends a week and a half in New Orleans hunting down a murderer with a penchant for transforming his victims into tablescapes and comes back to Minho, worn down like the trunk of a rotting tree, eyes shadowed, appetite gone.

“I can’t eat anything,” he says, when he enters.

Minho nods. “I’ll make some tea.”

He does. It’s chamomile, with a sprinkle of crushed sleeping pills, meant to soothe and calm. Chan drinks five beers instead and orders a taxi home at the end of it all.

“It’s silly for you to run away when I have a perfectly serviceable bed right upstairs,” Minho says at the front door, the bright orange taxi idling at his curb is a blight on his otherwise perfect street. Chan is bathed in moonlight, sullen and drunk and beautiful with it. Minho wants to sink his teeth into his jugular, feel the last vestiges of his life slip out, while Chan kicks and struggles under him.

“No,” Chan says without turning around. “I’m going home.”

Minho says nothing. Watches Chan walk away from him. He goes inside without waiting for the taxi to leave.

A week later, the Chesapeake Ripper kills two more people.

He reviews the tapes.

Chan has only stayed over a handful of times and Minho drinks in the minutiae the several cameras carefully placed around the guest room reveal to him. Chan strips down entirely naked before he slides under the covers and Minho’s mouth starts watering at the sight of his soft cock, thick and large under a thatch of black. He wonders how much Chan could take, if he would relish the pain Minho bestowed upon him, if he would sob and beg and try to crawl away and force Minho to tie him down, if he’d go soft and lax in pleasure.

His fingers itch to touch. To create blooming works of art across Chan’s ivory skin, so taut and rigid it wouldn’t surprise Minho to find him cold to the touch, like marble. He would look so beautiful with mottled green, sunbursts of yellow fading to muddied red decorating his thighs, stomach, cock.

Chan rarely lets emotion slip. Minho wants to hear him scream.

On the laptop screen, Chan is curled up tight under the covers, a small grimace on his face as he tries to get comfortable. Minho notes the angle of his neck and makes a note to buy firmer pillows. He speeds the video up and watches Chan sleep through the night. He wakes several times, gasping, fingers fisting in the sheets, sweating and crying out and is asleep again within seconds.

Methodically, Minho makes his way through all the nights he has taped. He palms his cock and then unbuckles his belt. Strokes himself to Chan’s frightened whimpers. Tracks the sweat darkening the cream sheets. The outline of his body.

Minho comes with a soft groan and then reaches for the box of tissues on his desk. On the screen Chan’s breath is hitching again, his face smoothing out as he falls back into sleep.

If nothing else, Minho knows Chan will return to him. Week after week, despite the stalemate they are locked in, he returns to Minho. Probably because he has so few others he can trust. No one else who understands him. And doesn’t everyone crave that—understanding, intimacy, the desire to be known. Even someone who holds himself apart from the crowd, like Chan does.

Week after week, Minho feeds him bland food, even peppers in textures he knows Chan dislikes, throws in a dessert or two when the fancy strikes him. Chan is too well behaved to walk out on any dinner, too ingrained in habits from childhood to swallows whatever was put in front of you lest it be taken away too soon. Chan suffers and Chan wants but Chan eats everything Minho puts in front of him with thinly veiled churlishness.

When he does break, it’s simple. Glorious.

Chan’s arm is finally out of its cast and he enters Minho’s home without a jacket on, scowl matching the stormy weather threatening to bear down on his front door. His arm is pale and skinny—paler and skinnier than normal—and he’s damp.

“Do you have something against umbrellas?” Minho inquires sardonically. “I know you own one.”

Chan shakes his head, water flying from his curls like a dog. Minho surveys the mess, unimpressed. “It’s thirty feet from the car. What do I need an umbrella for?” He sweeps ahead into the living room without waiting for Minho. Minho casts one last glance at the water dotting his floors before following.

He’s already prepared tonight’s dinner, anticipated that perhaps the storm and the recent string of murders that had already hit the news would put Chan in a foul mood. Make him easier to push. He’s delighted to be proven right. Chan’s energy builds around him like a black cloud threatening a downpour as they sit down at the table.

Chan looks down at his plate. Cream pasta topped with a sprinkling of parmesan, not an ounce of flavour in sight. Minho’s own plate is entirely different. He’s made a simple hors d'oeuvre. In small cups of filo pastry sits smoked trout with spicy peppers finely minced, drizzled with chili oil, each topped with a blistered jalapeno slice. There’s a side salad merely for presentation. He doubts it will be touched once during the night.

Minho smiles. “Is something wrong?”

Chan stares at him. There’s a disquiet brewing there that delights Minho, jumps over his skin like fluttering wings. “We have different dinners.”

Minho’s smile widens. He’s certainly made some progress if Chan is actually voicing his opinions and not just taking it with a simmering irritation. “I was under the impression you didn’t like spicy food. This might be a step above your palate.”

Chan looks at him stonily then wordlessly picks up his fork. Minho makes no move to eat, only watches as Chan takes a small bite. Annoyance flickers over his face and he makes no move to hide it.

“If you don’t like what I’ve prepared, you’re more than welcome to have some of my dinner, Chan.”

Chan looks at Minho’s plate. His jaw jumps.

Minho tilts his head, eyeing him. “You’ll have to come over if you want it, Chan.”

They watch each other and then Chan shoves his chair back with an unseemly screech and makes his way over to Minho’s side. He stands over Minho, looming over him. “Well?”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Is this how you ask for things?”

He watches Chan’s face ripple, clearly undecided on how to play this. Then Minho pushes back his chair from the table to leave enough room. Chan’s expression darkens and he looks at the space between Minho’s legs. Minho considers nudging, one last silver-tongued press to make Chan fold for him, but before he can even open his mouth, Chan moves.

Bends his body slowly and surely and comes to kneel at Minho’s feet.

Instantly, a rush of headying power, so fulsome and thick, sweeps over Minho, rendering him dizzy. He folds his hands over his lap and looks down at Chan, who shifts before settling. The cold black tile that covers Minho’s dining room must be hard to bear but Chan doesn’t protest, only looks up at Minho’s right eyebrow.

“Would you like me to feed you, Chan?” Minho asks, amusement curling around the tip of his tongue.

Chan’s jaw tightens. “Yes,” he says, tense and tight.

Minho smiles. “Open your mouth.”

The muscle in Chan’s jaw jumps. He opens his mouth and Minho lifts one of the pastries up, feels his fingers brush Chan’s tongue as he places it there. Chan’s eyes flutter shut when he bites into it and Minho watches, ravenous hunger crawling up his throat. He finds great pleasure in this—having Chan kneel before him, allowing Minho to handfeed him. Chan chews slowly, winces a little when the first hint of spice hits him. He swallows and opens his eyes.

“Would you like some more?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Please.”

Desire slowly trickles into his blood, rushing downward to his cock. “How polite,” he murmurs. He picks up another hors d'oeuvre and places it into Chan’s waiting mouth. “Chew slower.”

He wants Chan to taste every ounce of flavour, wants the spice to flood his senses. Chan inhales briefly and then creaks his jaw shut. He twitches, presumably when the first taste hits him and then swallows slowly, exhaling after. He’s already starting to suffer. Minho’s perfect, weak little thing. Impressive in all else but this.

Minho picks up only a jalapeno slice next. “Stick your tongue out.”

Chan glares at him mutinous. His mouth stays shut.

“If you want this, you have to listen to me,” Minho says silkily. He’s in no danger of Chan leaving now. He’s free to push harder, make the first crack in Chan’s perfect veneer.

Chan takes a sharp breath and then slowly opens his mouth, his pink tongue sliding out. Minho places the jalapeno slice flat on his tongue. “Keep it there.”

Chan twitches, but he makes no move to disobey, tongue still sticking out, the vivid green slice sitting prettily in the center. Minho watches closely as the pepper starts to break down, the first hint of spice hitting his receptors. Saliva starts flooding his mouth and Chan makes the first noise of the night—a bit off grunt as he swallows around his proferred tongue.

“Is it spicy?”

Chan remains quiet and Minho reaches around, grabs a fistful of those curls like he’s been aching to all these years and yanks Chan’s head back. Chan scrambles for balance and ends up clutching the leg of the table , eyes widening in surprise, as Minho yanks him off his knees.

“When a question is asked, it’s polite to reply, Chan,” Minho says lightly. With his index finger he presses down on the pepper slice, making Chan gag as he forces his tongue back against his throat. His hand tightens in his hair. “Is it spicy for you?”

Chan chokes. A muffled, garbled yes spills out around his drooling mouth and Minho hums. He pulls his finger away and forces Chan’s jaw shut, smearing the saliva from his finger over Chan’s skin. “Eat it.”

Chan chews—quickly and haphazardly—and swallows the slice. A shimmering hint of tears rests in the corner of his eyes as Minho releases him, allows him to thump back to the floor. He pushes Chan’s damp hair away from his face and presses another pastry to his mouth, practically forcing it in.

“Good boy,” he purrs and Chan shudders, face going slack, head tipping into Minho’s touch. Minho pauses and then scrapes his nails experimentally against Chan’s scalp, hot to the touch now. Chan moans and when Minho looks down, he sees Chan’s cock pressing insistently against the jeans. “Ah,” he says. “Do you like that?”

Chan’s mouth trembles. “Yes,” he breathes, learning quickly, adapting to Minho’s expectations. Minho adores him. He pulls Chan closer. Runs his finger over a drizzle of chili oil on the plate and then pushes the pad of his finger along Chan’s gums, like he’s inspecting a show dog, smearing the oil along his soft flesh.

“I could open up your mind, Chan,” he murmurs as Chan groans, trembling all over. His nose starts to run. Minho can see the sweat beading along his sideburns, his hairline, down his neck. His mouth waters. “I could push you to limits you’ve never reached before. Take you over the line, if you wanted it. If you let me.”

Chan sniffs hard, but he doesn’t pull away. He’s shaking all over but Minho can see the slackening of his shoulders, the tension dropping away from his jaw, his head lolling into Minho’s hold. He can feel Chan’s blood pulsing against the hand he still has in his hair.

He feeds Chan again and holds his hand to his throat, feeling him swallow. Ingesting Minho’s sustenance. Chan’s tearing up. His face is pink, hot to the touch, his lips puffy and thick. Minho wants to push his cock into his mouth, wants to see the stretch of those lips around a gag, wants to see those tears still clinging to his waterline drip over his cheeks.

“Fuck,” Chan gasps when he swallows. He’s panting, tongue sweeping along the edge of his mouth in a desperate effort to quench the pain. His voice is reedy and thin, none of the usual strength behind it. Minho lifts his foot and brushes the side against Chan’s cock. Chan flinches like he’s been shot and his hips jerk up. His hands curl into his fists on his thighs.

“Do you want it?” Minho asks. When Chan manages a trembling nod, despite the hold Minho still has on his hair, Minho tsks, scrapes his nails meanly over Chan’s head. “Use your words, Chan.”

“Please,” Chan moans. Whatever his spice intolerance is doing to him, it looks like he’s losing his mind. He’s sweating profusely, red flushing down his throat, over his collarbones, covered by the neckline of his shirt. Minho wants to tear it apart, see how low the blush goes.

He presses the bottom of his foot squarely against Chan’s cock and feels it twitch under him, watches Chan groan and scrape his hips up, trying desperately to get some pressure, but Minho’s already moved his foot away. He drags Chan in by the fist of hair, knees dragging against the marble to get him close to Minho before pressing his foot back down.

Chan makes a keening noise, his eyes rolling back in his head. With his free hand, Minho traces his puffy lips, slides two fingers into his mouth and presses his tongue down until Chan’s drooling again, saliva dripping down the corners of his mouth and then grinds the heel of his foot.

Chan whimpers. His hands close around Minho’s calves but he doesn’t drag Minho’s leg down, doesn’t try to seek more pleasure. His hands are hot even through Minho’s trousers. Minho presses down harder, moves his foot up and down in a slow, stroking motion, brings Chan closer to the brink. Then he pulls off and digs the top his toes into Chan’s balls and Chan’s moan cracks at its peak, head lolling forward. He would have crumpled to the floor were it not for Minho’s fist in his hair.

“Are you going to come, Chan?”

“Yes,” Chan gasps. Minho doesn’t even have to tell him to ask. He begs on all on his own, hips jerking up, spilling pleas, broken and cracked, dropping them at Minho’s feet. Please, Minho—fuck please, just a little more—just—

Minho seizes his hair tighter and yanks his neck back, forcing Chan into an arch, just as he shoves his foot down hard. Chan sobs, tears clinging to his lashes, clutching Minho’s leg as he comes. Wet spurts dampen the underside of Minho’s sock but he hardly cares. He’s enthralled by Chan—the way his mouth slackens, tears tracking a shimmering path down his cheekbones, cock twitching under Minho’s foot.

He’s beautiful. He’s all Minho’s.

Chan slumps forward and Minho guides him until his cheek is braced against Minho’s thigh, inches from his cock. Minho ignores the insistent need for the moment, chooses instead to press his fingers against Chan’s lower lip, scrape his hair back from his face, run his fingers down his temple, down the tracks of sweat.

“How do you feel, Chan?” He asks. His fingers trail down to Chan’s throat where his pulse thuds like a frantic racehorse, incrementally slowing with every passing second.

Chan is still. Barely breathing. He slurs something, incomprehensible.

“There’s not a thought left in here, is there?” Two fingers pressed to his temple. A beat and then Chan shakes his head—one minute, jerky nod. His mouth is parted, saliva darkening Minho’s pants in patches.

Minho hums. He runs his fingers through those lovely curls. Relishes in Chan’s submission laid out before him, arranged like his most elegantly designed meal. “Good.”