Archive of Our Own

Thomas lives and breathes for his job. Is he passionate about it? Well, that would be an entirely different story.

The short and simple answer would be no, because, no, when he was eight years old and wide eyed and all the grown ups still believed that he had the potential to do great things with his life, he wasn't dreaming of being a flight attendant.

To be fair, truthfully, it's not exactly like he remembers what he was telling his parents, then, and every other adult who ever asked him. At the muddy edges of his edges, he'd guess his eight year old self probably ran around saying something heroic, like a firefighter, if not something entirely unrealistic, like a dragon slayer.

Either way, he imagines they shook their heads and laughed at his words all the same. Not a condescending laugh, a fond laugh, rather, shaking their heads at his eight year old brain and his wild imagination.

Thomas isn't eight years old anymore, he hasn't been for a long time. Thomas is twenty-six years old, and the longer answer to that question, the complicated answer, because it's impossible for it to be simple, really, is that he can't really imagine himself doing anything else besides this.

At this point, he's grown into this job in the way of a dent so deep in your couch you'll never quite sit in it the same way ever again, or maybe of those weeds in your backyard you just can't get rid of, the ones that keep coming back summer after summer after summer.

Whichever way it might be, Thomas will have his five year anniversary as a flight attendant this year, and no matter if he's passionate about it or not, either way, he's really fucking good at it. As full of himself as he might sound, he knows this for a fact, that he breezes through every routine to the point where he's almost running on autopilot these days, and that he's pretty much trained every single other attendant on his team, save for Brenda, whose status as his best friend feels so permanent that he somehow manages to forget that she used to be his mentor, too.

He supposes he can't really call her his best friend when she's also taking the title as his only friend at the very same time. It's a contradiction worthy of a sitcom laugh track, and since he's going on five years at this job now, that means five seasons, and everything past the fifth season is usually when the quality starts dwindling.

The fifth season is also usually when the writers start introducing new characters and writing out the old ones, or maybe it's the seventh or eighth one, he's not quite sure. Whoever's writing the sitcom that is his life, though, seemingly hasn't gone through this process yet, because this year started in the same uneventful way as every other year has, and his routines are the same as they always have been.

This is a good thing, though. Change is exactly the thing he took this job to avoid, and he can't see any change on the horizon even as he enters his fifth year at MAZE Airlines, so everything is still good.

Well, good is a big word. It's a scary word, even. Maybe good enough is better. Yeah, that seems fitting, less commitment, less terrifying, more comfortable. That should suit him fine.

Thomas' life isn't a sitcom, by the way. It really would be an awful one, if it were, not that he'd do a better job at writing it himself. He supposes it would work as a workplace sitcom that could earn itself a half-hearted chuckle or three, that could be more cringeworthy than downright hilarious and still run for way longer than necessary, although he wouldn't exactly be a good main character.

This is what he thinks about when he wakes up in a hotel room in São Paulo, and as he gets ready in the early morning hours before his scheduled flight at 6:45 AM, and as the taxi driver drops him off in front of the airport on the day of his five year anniversary. Thomas has been a flight attendant for five years to the date, and it's a lot less exciting than it sounds, because it appears like the day is going to play out just the same as any other normal day.

This is a good thing. He repeats it to himself three times while he goes through the same security procedures he could do in his sleep, and he still hasn't managed to get the wonky wheel on his suitcase fixed yet, and he doesn't know when he'll get his shit together for that, but he curses it and keeps moving none the less, not giving himself time to think about it.

He naively thinks that, at least, that it's all good, until he's greeted with ten voices yelling his name as soon as he steps foot into the aircraft.

"What the fuck?!" he curses under his breath, almost tripping over his suitcase again, "You guys scared the klunk out of me."

"Oh, get over yourself!" Brenda giggles, standing in the front of their small group, proudly presenting him with a cake that suspiciously looks like a birthday cake, candles and all, "Happy anniversary, dickhead."

Well, this is definitely out of the ordinary. Anyone else who isn't Thomas would probably be over the moon that their co-workers went out of their way to celebrate them like this, and he doesn't want to sound ungrateful, but things like this, well, Thomas isn't very good at them.

Things like marking the passage of time, or his routine changing, or thinking about the past, most of all. Or being friends with people. Thomas is really bad at that.

This is why he smiles sheepishly at Brenda and the rest of the crew. He's suddenly very aware that he's not just a part of the furniture in here, and he finds he doesn't really know what to do with his hands while everyone's eyes are on him, clearly waiting for a response.

"You really didn't have to do all this," he tells them as he clears his throat, because if the cake wasn't enough, they've also tied balloons to the seats, and stretched over the hang luggage compartments is a banner with his name on it, written in glittery bubble letters.

"We've got a gun to our heads, Thomas, we do this or we're not getting paid," his best friend tells him in a deadpan voice, rolling her eyes at him the same way she does every other morning flight they have together, way before her coffee's kicked in, "This is the part where normal human beings say thank you."

He scratches his neck, feeling like shrinking in on himself and disappearing under the weight of all this awkwardness. "Thank you, guys. Seriously, I appreciate you."

"We know you do," Brenda snickers, receiving various echoes of agreement, "Now, make a wish!"

"I don't think that works when it's not my birthday, Bren," he says, eyeing the five blue candles hesitantly, which only earns him his second Brenda eyeroll of the day and a lifted eyebrow from Rachel.

"Did you become the authority on wishes overnight and just didn't tell us, Thomas?"

"Uh, no."

"Then listen to your superior and make your wish," Jorge adds, "That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

"You heard the man," Brenda tells him, and Thomas complies, blowing out the candles and closing his eyes, too, might as well commit to it, even as he very promptly refuses to think about anything that could resemble a wish.

It's not like he has any idea what he'd wish for, if wishes worked, that is, which they don't. If he was eight years old, he'd probably wish for his parents to take them to that waterpark with five different slides and to eat his own weight in hot dogs, the place Chuck always talked about. He shouldn't be thinking about Chuck, though.

Rachel claps her hands twice when he opens his eyes again, carefully picking out every candle once Brenda transfers it to a trolley table. "Now let's dig in before it gets too late!"

"I haven't had breakfast," Thomas admits, and his best friend wraps an arm around his waist as she drags him closer, simply following along with the motion.

"You never eat breakfast," she reminds him, "Which we still need to fix, by the way."

"Sorry," he breathes, more to himself than anyone else, but Brenda fixes him with a stare that's meant for him and no one else, one that probably looks like a glare to anyone else, one that Thomas knows actually means please stop worrying me.

Well, Brenda's never said that out loud. She could mean something entirely different, to be fair, she could just be telling him to shut up, for all he knows. He can't look back at her for too long, though, because the guilt just starts building up in his throat, so he has to look away before he ultimately chokes on it.

"Cake is breakfast," Zart decides.

"It really isn't," Fry counters, but he accepts a slice regardless, squeezing Thomas' shoulder with his free hand on the way to the cockpit, "Eat some, you deserve it."

"Thanks, man," and he means it, even if he still feels entirely out of place right now.

He shouldn't be, logically speaking, after all, the only ones who's been here longer than him is Brenda and Jorge, and he doesn't know why he's actually surprised that they would come together to do such a nice gesture for him, either. He's been on a lot of teams over the year, and sometimes rotation is inevitable, but this is by far the longest they've stuck with one crew, and they really do look so close knit after almost three years together, a little work family actually worthy of a sitcom.

And then there's Thomas, who feels like he's watching it all from the outside, invading their space like a raccoon robbing their trashcan for leftovers to survive on. It's not like they don't include him in things, it's actually quite the opposite, but this, the celebration, the cake, it's just… too nice.

Everything is too nice. The attempts at getting to know him are too nice, and so are the lunch invitations on their layovers and the extra tickets to various museums and other sightseeing activities that he always politely declines, it's all too nice. Nicer than he deserves, anyways.

"I told you not to make a big deal out of this," he mumbles to Brenda, hoping his gratitude is still visible, and luckily for him she doesn't seem to take it to heart, but it does earn him his third eye roll of this morning alone. He's incapable of holding back a smile because of it, a less awkward one, one he hides all his other emotions behind, but he still means it wholeheartedly.

"And I told you I've chosen to ignore that," she smiles back innocently, "Five years is a big deal, Thomas, whether you like it or not. And I got your favorite! It is your favorite, right?"

He nods just as gratefully, because, yeah, his empty stomach probably won't be happy about the choice of an ice latte and chocolate cake as his main source of nutrients, but he can't bring himself to care all that much. "Thank you. I mean it."

"I know you do," she says over a mouthful of chocolate, and they make eating the rest fast, because they really should get a move on, and once everything's cleared, Brenda hugs his side and pokes his cheek for no apparent reason, "Silly boy."

Albeit Thomas' embarrassment over the whole celebration part of the day still clings onto him with an iron grip as they prepare for boarding, it appears it's only a small wrinkle in what is otherwise the same schedule he's had for five years now.

He supposes it sounds dull. It's not like any of these things he does excites him, it's not like he's passionate about cleaning seats or checking passports or showing the same safety instructions to yet another group of passengers who are only listening with one ear or sleeping through it, but again, this is the routine he's perfected, and he'd like to keep it free of change, still, even after five years.

Following the rules, every step calculated, every step as old as time. It just feels safer this way.

That's what it is. This is safe, and safe is good. Safe might be boring, but it's not like every single person on the planet other than himself is working their dream jobs, that would be statistically impossible.

Thomas doesn't need to be passionate. He just needs to be safe.

Besides, not exciting tasks aside, he supposes getting to travel as much as he does and getting paid for it is pretty nice. He supposes other people dream of doing exactly that, so he reminds himself to be grateful for it, and he really is, the not changing nature of it all, even if he's been spending more time in his hotel rooms than he's been spending time exploring new places and making new life experiences.

He's been to Brazil more times than he can count on two hands by now. Even more times to Spain, Egypt, Australia, Japan, India, and he's been to every single American state countless times, too, so even if he knows it's entirely, logically impossible for one person to have seen everything, sometimes, he does feel guilty, when he doesn't feel like stepping outside the door at all.

Besides, he meant it when he said that he appreciates the team he works with every day, because these are nice people. He's not sure if he can call them all friends, if you're allowed to call someone your friend when they're only talking to you because they're forced by a paycheck, and also by being quite literally trapped together half the time for a living, so he hesitates, even though these are nice people.

Thomas isn't sure he deserves it with how nice they are. He isn't exactly making an effort at being social, and even if he hopes he's presenting himself in a way that's at least… tolerable, he wouldn't exactly call himself a very interesting person.

He's just Thomas, and he's not sure that fits in anywhere, or that he's needed or wanted anywhere, either.

If they don't want him here, they sure are good at pretending like they do, and he appreciates that effort, too. He's worked with a lot of people over the years, too many faces and not enough names he can remember, but he likes this group the most, and it feels safer, the familiarity of how everyone works together, a rhythm easy for him to follow.

Brenda has been determined to bring him out of his shell since the first day she started training him. He doesn't understand why she keeps fighting that battle, but he knows that she wears her heart on her sleeve, that she's brutally honest and has never lost a fight, and that she's sometimes the only call he'd ever want to and consider to pick up the phone to.

She also has this ability to read his mind before he's even started thinking himself, and it's a little scary and comforting at the same time.

He likes the job, kind of, most of the time, or half the time, depending on the day. Even if he didn't, the people would be worth it. And he'd definitely rather be here than going home. Anything is better than going home, so he supposes it's just a bonus, that the place he finds himself isn't entirely torturous.

Thomas prepares himself for take-off, and now he's got a ten hour flight to Portugal ahead of him, so puts his phone in airplane mode again and gets ready for another day of no change.

Thomas discovers that, about four or five hours into what was supposed to be just another long distance flight, this day is going to be so far from normal as he can possibly imagine it.

He didn't wake up expecting a change like this, then again, it starts like something entirely mundane. It starts with two passengers approaching him after he's done with his coffee round, two teenage girls with polite smiles on their faces and a nervous kick in their step.

He supposes it already started, whatever this is, when Brenda assigned them their stations for the day, and told him that he and Aris were going to be in charge of the first class cabin. No matter how it started, though, it takes him far too long to be pulled out of whatever train of thought he was lost on.

"My apologies," he clears his throat, not sure how long they'd been standing there waiting for him to respond, "Let me get out of the way for you."

"Oh, no, sorry," one of the girls is quick to answer, "We're not in first class. I'm so sorry, I know we're not allowed in, and we really don't want to disturb."

"We just wanted to ask if we maybe could go in, just really quickly, and ask for an autograph?" her friend adds, "Sorry, this is probably so annoying. It's just, we're really big fans, and we're not sure we'll ever get the chance to do this, so we thought we might as well try and ask."

Thomas has gotten similar requests a handful of times over the years, and he's learned that he's pretty bad at hiding his confusion, or more like, he's bad at hiding that he's not very online or up to date, so to speak, with the world of celebrities. It's one of the many things Brenda has relentlessly teased him about, although it has also turned into having him guess what these people are famous for just from their names alone, which is one of her favorite games to pass the time with.

This is probably why he shakes his head at himself, feeling lost for words, and maybe because he had neglected to skim the passenger list after the surprise in the morning threw him off his track.

"Sorry, I'm really not supposed to let anyone in here who doesn't have a first class ticket," he tries an apologetic smile, "But if you want, I can go and ask-"

"I really don't mind," a new voice enters the conversation all of a sudden, popping up behind Thomas, and he turns around to reveal a man with an easy grin on his face, "We can take a picture, too, if you like."

The girls get noticeably more nervous as soon as the man addresses them, jumping in their place and fumbling with the notebooks in their hands. Thomas also jumps a little, although he imagines he's doing it for entirely different reasons.

Truth be told, he has no idea who this person is, as they clearly do. Truth be told, he's not really sure why he's getting nervous, maybe he's still too tired and too wound up, so wound up that a stranger with a black leather jacket and jeans riding low on his hips and the strongest jawline Thomas has ever seen is suddenly making him acutely aware of the shirt he failed to iron in a rush, and how extraordinary flat and lifeless his hair looked today, and he doesn't even want to think about what his breath must smell like.

He is, of course, very much thinking about all of those things right now. It also takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that his mouth is currently hanging open as he watches this man talk to the girls, so he shuts his mouth, maybe tries and fails to smooth out his uniform and runs his hand through his hair while the other man isn't looking, which probably only makes him look even more of a mess.

He doesn't know why he's thinking about all these things. He supposes it could have something to do with the white tank top clinging to the stranger's very visible abs, or his hair styled in a quiff and what looks like vines of ivy wrapped around his left hand in black ink, or maybe it's how the smile on his face is radiant and attentive and not at all fake.

Thomas has seen his fair share of celebrity interactions over the year, and he supposes he's just not really used to this, how this man is taking more time out of his journey to talk to fans of his than he's seen anyone do, seeming genuinely interested and asking them questions about their trip and their favorite songs and other things he can't really pick up on in the haze of his own frazzled mind.

He latches onto that detail, though, the guy's a musician. He should remember that. For what reason, he isn't sure yet, but it feels important.

Time seems to have come to a halt, now, when the man's deep brown eyes are suddenly directed straight at him, a curious expression on his face. Thomas would really like it if he doesn't look stupid right now, even though he definitely does.

"You alright, man?" that voice leaves the man's perfectly shaped lips again, and Thomas feels his own mouth go dry as he stares at them and the rings adorning them, until he reminds himself that no normal human being should be staring at that. Right, act normal.

"Of course," he forces himself to reply, even though he probably doesn't sound very confident about it, "Nothing to worry about, sir."

The man in front of him lets out a groan. "That makes me sound like some rich bastard, I'd rather drop dead. Please, just call me Minho."

Thomas blinks at him three times before he reminds himself that this is where a normal human being would also introduce himself.

"Right, sorry," he says, feeling more and more awkward by the second, "Force of habit. My name's Thomas, by the way."

"I know."

"Huh?"

"You're wearing a name tag."

"Oh," Thomas says, looking down dumbly and remembering the obvious, and when he looks up again, he swallows hard, feeling… something under the attention of Minho's burning gaze, "Right, I am."

"You sure are," the man agrees, the smile on his face remaining, turning strangely, clearly amused.

And because Thomas is definitely, clearly too wound up, too tired, maybe he's a little shy for the first time in as long as he can remember, he doesn't know what the fuck's happening inside his brain or what this stranger is doing to him, but since this Minho is still looking at him, he decides he should probably stop embarrassing himself and start acting cool. Or normal, at least.

"Right, well, uh, let me know if there's anything you need," he hurries, hoping the smile he's flashing looks normal and not like a grimace, "If I can be of assistance, I mean. Anything at all."

He isn't sure if time has started moving in slow motion, or if Minho just looks at him for what feels like ages, but the man definitely doesn't look like he's in any hurry to sit back down. Thomas should seriously stop staring, because the other man biting his lip before he talks to him is making him feel dizzy, and he's not exactly one to get flight sick.

"Thank you, Thomas," the stranger says lowly, a particularly delicious sound, and hell, fuck, he needs to stop this train of thought from leaving the station immediately, before he does or says something really stupid, "I appreciate that."

Minho draws the curtain back to the first class cabin behind him, and it's only then Thomas really stops and realizes how he was holding his breath for no reason at all. He also finds himself jumping again, when he notices Aris right next to him, like he just popped out of thin air.

"You-" he fumbles for his words, "How long have you been standing there?"

The man shrugs. "Long enough."

Thomas waits for him to say more, but nothing ever comes, so he tries again while his colleague snatches the empty coffee pot out of his hands, already back to business. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't worry about it," Aris says innocently, "It's just interesting."

"What is?"

The man shakes his head with a chuckle, which only confuses Thomas more, but he does drop a rather valuable piece of information before he leaves. "He's in a band, by the way. Death Cure. Just thought that might interest you."

Aris is gone just as quickly as he appeared, and Thomas should really just carry on with doing his job, but, yeah, maybe, possibly, he can't get Minho out of his mind, though it's probably, mostly to do with much of a complete mess Thomas made of himself in front of him. He reminds himself to be more professional next time, though he's not really sure what that thought even means, next time.

It's not like he thinks they will talk again. It's not like he hopes for it.

And yeah, maybe he pulls up his phone during his lunch break and searches up the name Aris gave him. Maybe he learns that this is a band about to embark on their first world tour soon, and that this Minho is a guitarist, which maybe does interest Thomas, just a little bit.

His break's over before he can get any further on this mission, though, whatever that mission may be, so he bookmarks their website for later. For educational purposes, obviously.

The rest of Thomas' ten hour flight passes by in a flash, nothing out of the ordinary, which he can't really tell if he's disappointed about or not. He shouldn't be, no change was what he wanted, still, he arrives at the hotel room he's been provided with until their next departure in three days time, only a tiny bit annoyed that he didn't happen to find an excuse to talk to a certain passenger again.

He throws himself onto the bed and curses at himself, because, no, what the fuck is he thinking about, that's so deeply unprofessional. Whatever happened on that plane was just a conversation, barely even anything happened altogether, which is how it should be.

And he curses at himself again, and his stupid head, because he can't concentrate on the book he bought last month or the movie he rents on the television, either, with the image of Minho roaming around inside his brain.

Thomas tells himself to ignore it. He's pretty good at ignoring his problems, usually, the backlog of unread and unopened emails in his inbox a pretty solid piece of evidence of that, but it's past 9PM, and he's biting his nails and not hearing a word that Meg Ryan is saying on the screen, so he supposes he might as well admit defeat and open the bookmark that's been sitting in his browser for hours now.

Aris was right, this band is interesting, and Thomas is obviously just a normal level of curious. Totally normal.

Besides, it's not like he only reads about Minho, because he really doesn't, in fact, he pulls up their Wikipedia page and a way more detailed fan page for them, and then, well, he's already researching, he might as well check out the band's joint Instagram profile and Twitter account, and scroll through their YouTube channel for a bit, just to get a sense of their general vibe. It's where he's at when he belatedly realizes that he hasn't actually taken the time to listen to their music yet, so he puts up their most recent music video and makes a pointed effort to not just stare at the guitarist the whole time.

And he really doesn't, because the song is really good. It's a break-up song infused with equal amounts of heartbreak and rage, and it's catchy as all hell, and yeah, maybe he finds his eyes drawn back to Minho every so often, but that's no one's business but his own. And since the next video starts automatically, he decides to let it play in the background while he reads further on them.

They're a five piece group, lead by Sonya in front, who's got pink streaks in her blond hair and sings most of the songs. Harriet is the bassist, with a baby blue guitar decorated with doodles and matching the blue locks in her brown hair. Thomas learns from the fan page that the two women have been a couple since the band first started, serenading each other on stage and making him feel a little heavier and a little too much of everything, right about now.

It's a blond man on the keyboard with the same accent as Sonya, and Thomas' research tells him that Newt is the singer's younger brother, the two sharing most of the songwriting credits between them. Meanwhile, their drummer is a woman with icy blue eyes called Teresa, a childhood friend of Harriet's, and the five of them apparently all met each other during their final year of high school.

And then there's Minho, of course. He can't really deny it to himself, that he's drawn back to the guitarist again and his gelled black hair and the smug grin he wears on stage that drives the audience absolutely crazy. His guitar is a bright red and features two stickers reading MANEATER and WOMANIZER, although it's probably the man's strong arms and long fingers that Thomas pays way more attention to. Yeah, he can be self-aware when he wants to be.

This little online rabbit hole he's jumped into, it eventually leads him to Minho's personal Instagram account, which he stares at for way longer than is probably necessary or normal. His most recent post is a carousel of pictures from last week, and Thomas carefully presses on it, God forbid he likes it by accident, only coming to a halt at the guitarist flexing his biceps in a mirror selfie for… a couple of seconds, really, the entire collage of tattoos that he only got a sneak peek of on the plane on full display.

The rest of it is a collection of photos and videos of the band practicing, eating together, at a club for what looks to be a birthday party, social things like that, things that Thomas hasn't done since… well, ever, and it's all finished off with another selfie. This time, though, it's Newt holding the camera and laughing with his eyes closed, while Minho's licking his cheek.

Thomas exits the post and the account and the entire app, throwing his phone across the bed like it burned him. It's strange, how he feels his mouth go dry again. He's being ridiculous.

He's being stupid, he thinks, he picks up the phone again and bites the inside of his cheek, feeling like he saw something he wasn't supposed to see, even though that makes no sense at all. He'd put jet lag to blame if he had any, but he doesn't, so Thomas decides he's done enough research for the night, that is, until his thumb hovers over the link that says tour dates.

Specifically, it's hovering over the part where he loads up the page and it tells him that Death Cure is performing in Lisbon, in the very city Thomas is stationed in right now, the night before his evening flight to London. It also tells him that there's still tickets available.

He can only get as far with that thought to decide that no, absolutely not, that's just straight up creepy. Then again, it's not like Minho would actually know he's coming…

No, no way. He can listen to their music like this, from the mostly-comfort of his hotel room just fine. That's why he's considering it after all, not because he's smitten by a hot guy he met one time and only talked to for a few minutes, at most. Not that he's thinking about how objectively, crazy hot he is. Thomas is just really, very interested in the music.

There's no need to go to a concert for that, anyways, and the last concert he went to was when he sneaked out after his parents went to bed at sixteen, and they never, ever let him hear the end of it, because he let his brother eat one too many hot dogs and he threw up all over his hoodie, and…

No. Just no.

It's the obvious, safe decision, that Thomas is going to spend his next three days in this exact same hotel room. He's going to use his flight attendant benefits on room service, and hopefully find a B-movie in their system that he hasn't watched half-asleep fifty times already in other hotel rooms in other cities, and, most importantly, he's not going to think about the hot guitarist from first class.

That's a promise he makes to himself before he turns out the lights. He's never going to think about him again, and he's going to be on his way in three days' time and his life will just be the same as it has been for the past five years. It's better that way.

Turns out, though, that not thinking about that guitarist from first class is a lot harder than Thomas initially thought it would be.

He felt like he was doing a decent job at it yesterday, at least until Brenda's name lit up on his phone screen, at least until he opened the link to the Instagram reel she sent him and was confronted with his recent search history from just a day ago, and, well, here he is once again. On the floor of his hotel room, this time around, scrolling through concert videos and BuzzFeed interviews and fans posting their predictions for Death Cure's upcoming single.

This is getting a little pathetic. Thomas has been spending the better part of the day justifying this as research, spiraling about whether it technically counts as stalking or not and dropping everything, back and forth on an eternal loop. He's exactly proud of it, and on top of that, guilt washes over him when he realizes that it's been hours and he forgot about replying to his friend's text altogether, so he types up something quick and hopes she won't call him.

It's not like Brenda isn't used to that, and she'd dismissed him every time he'd tried to apologize for his neglect and his distance and… everything, but that doesn't make him feel any better about it.

Thomas is a terrible friend. Thomas should be a better friend. Thomas hasn't had a friend in a long, long time, because it's easier like this, waiting for everyone to slowly forget that he even existed in the first place. Even if it doesn't feel easy, the alternative has always been a lot worse.

She's the reminder that he could've spent his three days in Lisbon a lot better than lying in his hotel room all day thinking about a man he met one time. This is how it goes just about every single city they go to, but it's a striking difference, because it's never been about a stranger being stuck on his mind, not until now.

And Minho is stuck in there. Thomas has to admit that to himself. Minho has become a song he can't get out of his head for the life of him, and he swears that he's trying to shake him out, but as the hours pass and the evening settles over him again, it's proving to be impossible.

He only briefly wonders if this should be a cause of concern, because he soon gets distracted again, his feed refreshing to an advertisement reminding him of that festival the band is playing at tonight. As in less than four hours, tonight. Thomas also briefly wonders- no, he knows that this would be a bad idea to even consider, but he's considering it, and the first comment he sees is someone selling their ticket, and he has never been a religious man, but that must count as some sort of sign.

This is what he tells himself, anyways. He also has to convince the seller that he's serious about buying the ticket, which is fair enough, given the short notice, but he hurries and secures the purchase before he can talk himself out of it again, and so now he finds himself at the very back of a buzzing crowd, trying not to bite at his nails as he waits for the band to go on stage.

Thomas doesn't do this. He doesn't make impulsive decisions, he doesn't seek out social gatherings, and he definitely doesn't get obsessed with former passengers, there must be some ground here for a restraining order, so, safe to say, he's worrying about a lot of things that are entirely his own doing right about now.

As much as he tried to justify pulling this stunt with the certainty that Minho won't know, and he probably won't even recognize him either, if he did see him, because Thomas is forgettable like that, he still figured that it would be best to lay low, regardless. He feels kind of ridiculous obscuring his face with a cap and the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, especially standing in the middle of festival guests sporting bare legs and sandals, but he can live with standing out like a glaringly obvious needle in a haystack for one night.

Everything changes once the lights dim, though. The crowd practically roars as each member makes their way to the stage one at a time, Sonya starting out alone, her raw vocals soon joined by one instrument at a time with the drums entering last, making it all transcend. Thomas didn't study the set list close enough, but it's getting increasingly difficult for him to not be moved by the energy of this, to not want to be a part of this experience that everyone else around him are sharing.

He probably looks even more ridiculous and out of place while he's swaying to the music, but he can't bring himself to care. He's too busy to care, too busy with watching Minho parading around the stage like he owns it.

Thomas can't take his eyes off of him. This might be a cause for concern, but he can't help it and allows himself to indulge, just for a night. He'll forget about all of this in the morning.

Thomas doesn't exactly forget about it, but he's become pretty good at ignoring all of his problems, so that's pretty much the only goal he's got his eyes on, as they're on their way to London a little past seven in the evening. He did actually manage to squeeze in dinner before they boarded, but he could really use an early night of sleep where he isn't thinking about a certain guitarist half the time.

He can't help but remind himself how stupid that spontaneous decision he made was, and that he should push it out of his mind, but the thing is, he kind of doesn't regret it at all.

It's stupid. He went to a festival where he barely interacted with anyone and didn't have a single drop of alcohol, but he listened to Death Cure's entire set, and he kind of had fun. It's stupid, because he was hiding himself like some creep and he went back to his hotel room to sulk straight after, but in that moment, on that field, he couldn't help but dance.

That's a pretty new feeling. Thomas can't remember ever feeling like that.

The shock of it doesn't hit him like a punch to his gut, rather, it creeps up on him quietly, smiles at him like a cheshire cat veiled by darkness. It's only by the time they touch land that he realizes it, that he hasn't spoken more than three words to Brenda the entire day, too caught up in this little weird, internal battle of his.

"What's up with you?" his friend asks him, linking her arm with his and swinging her bag over her shoulder and balancing two coffee cups at the same time, which is honestly madly impressive, "You've been quiet today."

Thomas blinks at her, locking his phone screen a little faster than necessary and for no good reason, either. "When have I ever not been quiet?"

The woman hums. "Not like this, though. You didn't gossip with me today."

That's true. They always find moments to shit-talk the unreasonable to straight up just arrived from hell passengers they deal with on a daily basis, and even if it's Brenda who initiates it, most of the time, Thomas is pretty sure he'd go insane without it. He should probably tell her how grateful he is for it, for her, one of these days.

"Sorry," he says hastily, "Just a lot on my mind, I guess."

Brenda nods. "Anything you'd be willing to share with me?"

Thomas weighs his options. His best friend will definitely think he's a stalker, and the line is… blurry, to say the least. She will probably also remind him of how terribly unprofessional he is, and the possibility that she will come to the conclusion that he's an awful person scares him too much to get personal tonight.

"I think I'll just have to deal with this klunk on my own," he smiles sheepishly, because it's true, that's what he should do.

The woman looks at him for a moment with an unreadable expression on her face, and then she takes his hand in hers. "Okay," she accepts it, "You don't have to do it on your own, though. You know that."

"Yeah. Thanks Bren."

"You're very welcome," she replies as she squeezes his hand, "You're staying in my room tonight."

"Are you sure-"

"Don't you dare ask," Brenda warns him, "I'm renting Notting Hill and painting your nails and you're going to enjoy it."

"Of course," he agrees, giving her a salute for good measure. And he does, in fact, enjoy it, very much so, even though it takes him three or four hours to fall asleep after his best friend's already passed out.

The thing is, it would've probably been fine, if that was the last he ever saw of Minho. Logically, that would be the only thing that makes sense, he figures as much, because he sees hundreds of passengers every single day, so the chances of seeing one person more than once are slim to damn near impossible.

It's also by the nature of his job, of course, that he never stays in one place for a long time. It may also be by choice. A very active choice, at that.

The thing is, what Thomas assured himself was impossible suddenly becomes very possible just three weeks later. He's almost certain he must be hallucinating, at first, but no, he blinks enough times at the passenger list to confirm that Minho's name is, indeed, written on it.

It's not that weird, really, this is a flight to New York and they're a New York-based band, after all, according to the Wikipedia page. He hasn't memorized their Wikipedia page. Not completely, anyways, and they're not that big yet, so it's not that long-

Doesn't matter. It's fine, because Thomas is a professional, and he's not even assigned to first class tonight, so all he has to do is make his round collecting trash and try his best to not stare at the guitarist and he'll be fine. He doesn't get very far with his attempt.

"Thomas," Minho's voice grabs his full attention immediately, he's a little embarrassed by how fast he turns around, too, "Fancy seeing you here."

He'd like to say that the other man doesn't make him stutter, except he'd be lying, and he needs to remind himself that there's other people around them, he's got to get his shit together.

"Uh, hey, yeah," he chuckles, definitely not nervous, "I was just… Uh, are you having a good flight?"

Minho gives him a small nod, the sweet smile on his face having this calming effect, somehow, the only Thomas can think of describing it is serene. Thomas might be going crazy.

"You're not in first class today?" the guitarist asks, and Thomas must be fooling himself, surely it's not disappointment he's hearing in his voice, he must be tired, really tired.

"Oh, no, sorry," he says.

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Uh," his words falter with him, and Minho looks at him with curious eyes, resting his chin on his hand like he's genuinely interested in the stupid bullshit Thomas is letting out, "I don't know, really. You can still call me- I mean, I can still help. Help you. If you need anything."

The other man's smile grows wider, and he lets out a yawn before he responds, his nose scrunching up as he does. Thomas needs to stop staring at his face, no matter how perfect it is. "I wanted to ask you for some hot water, actually, if it's not too much trouble?"

He nods, a little too eager, maybe. "Be right back."

When he returns, Minho smiles at him like that again, all relaxed and happy and pretty, and he digs up a tea bag from his carry-on before he looks at Thomas again, almost as if he's waiting for something. "Don't you want to sit down for a minute?"

Thomas almost chokes on nothing but air. "Oh, uh, what- I really shouldn't-"

"Just five minutes," the man says, "I won't tell."

He finishes it off with a wink, and, well, Thomas suddenly finds it impossible to say no. And when he sits down, it shocks him, almost, just how comfortable these seats are.

"Take one of these," Minho tells him, pushing one of the complimentary wrapped chocolates over the table to him, and Thomas probably stares at it long enough like it's something dangerous, since the man continues, "I'm not gonna eat it, anyways. It'll just go to waste if you don't."

Thomas swallows, trying and failing to avoid direct eye contact, getting drawn back to Minho and the curve of his lips under the dim light of the overhead lamps. The other man is still leaning towards him. He's hallucinating this, he must be.

"Good point."

It's not like that small conversation, which was barely even a conversation, really, meant anything, except for the part where it somehow meant a lot of things to Thomas, the part where he's barely sleeping three nights in a row after it happened, too busy being hung up on Minho's every word.

It happens again a month later on an afternoon flight to Glasgow, and you'd think that he wouldn't be torturing himself with it for such a short distance, but it's somehow even worse, because the guitarist greets him by name as he enters the plane, and it's fucking impossible for Thomas to not mirror his grin with his own, only half as good one, nowhere near as bright, he never could. It's also impossible to ignore the odd looks Rachel is giving him and his horrible attempts at smiling, but he pretends like he doesn't notice, anyways.

Okay, so, maybe Thomas has a little crush. A celebrity crush, that is, which is probably pretty harmless by nature and not something that has him hopelessly hoping and craving for even the smallest interactions with a man where every single meeting of theirs is ruled by sheer luck.

He probably shouldn't be getting disappointed whenever Minho isn't on board of one of his flights, which is, like, ninety percent of the time. That ten percent, though, it dawns on him how much he lives for them, all of a sudden.

He tries to tell himself that this is normal. Right, attraction is normal, right, attraction is natural.

Minho also just so happens to be the most gorgeous man under the sun, the most gorgeous person Thomas can remember laying eyes upon, period, so you can't really blame him, can you? The fans online definitely seem to agree with him, which is what he tries to remember, but he's also going a little insane, because he can't decide if the universe is taunting him or if the universe is trying to give him a sign, given how he keeps running into the guitarist.

It's one in a million that it's happened this many times, now. And maybe Thomas has completely lost his mind, or maybe Minho is flirting with him.

He's probably delusional. He tells himself that, at first, because the other man giving him bright grins and falling into step with him as he's switching connections, as they just so happen to be going the same way, that's just a coincidence, really.

Whenever Thomas passes by his seat, though, he's taking off his headphones, and he's taking time to talk to him, he's asking him for recommendations and biting his lip while Thomas tries to get coherent replies out about how his day is going, because Minho is interested in hearing about that, for some reason.

Every single interaction with him gets stuck in his mind, and Thomas tries to brush them off, he really does, because he doesn't want to read into things that might not even be there at all, he isn't the kind of person that does small talk and social interaction nor is he good at it, so maybe that's all it is.

Then again, it's on a flight to Sydney that Minho asks him for help to get his bags into the overhead compartment, and Thomas naturally agrees, maybe a bit too eagerly, and he feels the other man's eyes on him and gets a sneaking suspicion that he didn't actually need the help at all. When he locks eyes with him again, Minho is stretching his limbs in a way that gives Thomas the most perfect view of his faded t-shirt riding up his stomach, exposing his toned abs, and though his gaze really shouldn't be traveling to his calves nor his sunkissed arms, it does.

"My hero," the guitarist says, almost whispered like a secret for the two of them and no one else, and it hits Thomas with a sudden surge of bravery, enough that he tries leaning over, closer than he ever should be with a stranger or a passenger, just to make sure he isn't imagining how Minho's eyes comes to rest on his lips. He isn't.

"Anytime," he says, "You, uh, you just let me know if you need me. If you've got any problems. Or not."

He's rewarded with an even brighter, thoroughly pleased grin in return. Yeah, he's pretty sure the other man could've handled lifting that carry-on by himself just fine. Not that he's complaining. He's rather starting to get ideas about other things Minho could do with his arms, and he needs to stop that train of thought from leaving the station immediately.

Instead, Thomas starts getting the idea that maybe he should try doing something about this. He shocks himself with it, because he isn't the kind of person to take chances in life, but it's taken him months, and then it takes Aris walking up to him on his break with a smug expression on his face as he tells him that Minho specifically asked for his assistance and no one else's, and then he knows what he wants. And since he can't think of a less stupid way to go about this, he slips over a note as he heads past the other man's seat.

Thomas isn't sure how these kinds of things work. Whatever this thing is.

He's new to making impulsive decisions, very new, and he's definitely new to knowing what he wants and asking for what he wants and not feeling guilty for wanting something, anything, in the first place. Thomas is standing in the first class bathroom, though, feeling like a lost puppy.

There's one, single thing he wants, and it becomes even clearer to him when Minho appears and switches the sign behind him to OCCUPIED, and when the man leans his back against the closed door like he's got all the time in the world, Thomas bathing in the warmth of his gaze all the while.

The silence stretches between them for ages, for miles and miles, until he realizes that he's at fault for Minho being here in the first place, clearly patiently waiting for him to speak over the hum of the airplane engine. As much as Thomas knows what he wants, though, he didn't exactly have a plan for how to get it.

His plan went as far as getting the guitarist in here, and, well, here they are. He wants more, though, he obviously does, but saying it out loud only seems more risky right now, more terrifying, and the option to fake a heart attack or some other medical emergency to avoid the terrible possibility that he's completely misinterpreted every sign Minho has or hasn't sent him, well, that suddenly sounds a lot more appealing right now.

Thomas has backed himself into a wall. Literally speaking.

"Hey," he says, never having felt more stupid in his life. Top three stupid moments, at least.

"Hey," the man replies back, and then he takes one step forward, which is apparently all it takes for Thomas' throat to go dry, "Nice place you got here."

He chuckles, and it's genuine, but he wants Minho to come closer and he doesn't know why he just doesn't ask him to, begs him for it, but it's like some of the wires in his brain have been crossed. Thomas just stares at him helplessly, hoping he'll somehow be able to look inside his mind and see what he desires, since his mouth isn't of any use.

He knows that's a big ask, of course he does. He knows that he sounds boring, like the most boring fucking person on the planet when he speaks again, probably because he is, but he can't help it.

"I've seen better."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Ultra long hauls," Thomas drones on while Minho takes a second step forward, absentmindedly fiddling with the lapel pin on his sleeve, "I mean, sixteen hour flights, they've got- First class bathrooms are insane there, it's like- Rich people shit. They've practically got a fucking spa in there."

Minho hums. "Crazy."

"Yeah, crazy," he agrees, but he doesn't have much time or space left to consider just how stupid he sounds, before the guitarist has taken a third and final step, and now he's suddenly right in front of him, leaning one hand against the wall right next to Thomas' head, successfully caging him in.

Maybe his silent begging worked, after all. Maybe Minho is a mind reader. That would be fucking fantastic, because all Thomas can think about is how there's no space left between them and how he wishes there was even less, about what place on his body the other man would potentially touch first, and whether he'd be able to taste the five cigarettes in a row that Thomas anxiously smoked before boarding on his breath or not.

That's only if Minho actually wants the same thing as he does, obviously. What a crazy thing that would be.

"Thomas," the man speaks up again.

"Yeah?"

"You didn't invite me in here to talk about the bathroom facilities, did you?" he asks, and Thomas sucks in a breath, hoping and praying to a God he's never believed in before that this is a sign that this is going in the direction he wants it to.

"Uh, no," he laughs awkwardly, "Guilty as charged."

The guitarist tilts his head as he looks at him, studies him, and he thinks he might feel the hairs on his neck stand up as Minho's breath hits him.

"Well, that's a relief," the man chuckles ever so softly, "Because I was just thinking about how cute that uniform looks on you."

Thomas gulps. Either he's really, extraordinarily bad at reading the signs, or Minho's just given him an open. Despite his miraculous mind reading powers, though, the man's still looking at him expectantly, an innocent smile on his lips, clearly in no rush to do anything before Thomas takes that thing he wants out of his brain and puts it on his tongue, instead.

"You think so?" he asks, just because he has to be sure.

Minho nods. "I really do."

For all the times Thomas has wanted things and not taken them, he decides it, today, that he's not going to do that this time around. Thomas isn't going to think about the consequences of his wants today, because he's come this far, and for some unknown, wondrous reason, it seems like the man whose body is now perfectly aligned with his wants the same thing.

He definitely doesn't want to spend a night alone in his hotel room thinking about what might've happened and regretted not doing what he wants. So, Thomas stops thinking, and he does, instead.

"Funny," he mutters, not sure he's coming off he's very confident in his flirting, if this sad attempt at implying what he wants without just straight up crawling on his knees begging for it even counts as flirting in the first place, "Because I was just thinking about how it would look a whole lot better on the floor."

Minho laughs almost in surprise, the sound like bells ringing from above, like the flight just took a wrong turn and winded up in heaven instead. If this is what heaven is like, Thomas has no reason to complain.

"Is that so?" he asks, an eyebrow lifting in curiosity, and Thomas nods eagerly.

"I mean, you can test it out," he manages to say without it sounding like a whine as opposed to actual, coherent words, his feigned nonchalance all but given up within the span of seconds, "If you like."

It's a slow kind of torture, the way Minho's eyes proceed to travel their way down Thomas' body, taking their sweet time eating up every part of him, before traveling back up to rest on his lips. He thinks he might actually have a heart attack, now, if he has to wait any longer, but luckily, the guitarist finally decides to put him out of his misery.

"Maybe I will," the man ponders, his smile turning into a smirk that Thomas thinks might be capable of cutting off all his oxygen, just like that, "Keep the tie on, will you?"

To be completely honest, he can't really tell if there's more blood rushing to his face or to his dick, right now. He doesn't care much for thinking about that, though, or anything at all, except for how he just wants to stop talking.

"Yes, sir," is all he can think of saying, and he doesn't feel stupid about it at all, which is definitely a first, because he hears Minho's breath hitch and watches Minho's pupils dilate in real time, just seconds later.

"You know what, forget what I said earlier," the guitarist says, "I like the sound of that."

Thomas does keep the tie on. It's a small space constantly in motion, which isn't exactly a setting he'd think of describing as sexy, but their joint effort of wrestling him out of the rest of his uniform leaves his entire body burning, and finally getting Minho's hands on him, his fingertips finally traveling down his spine and his nails digging into the soft flesh of his ass cheeks, well, it definitely makes up for hitting his head twice on the low ceiling in the process.

He also tries really hard to keep himself quiet, but that's a whole fucking challenge of its own, because the guitarist is sucking bruises into his neck like it's the greatest privilege a person could have, all the while he's got two fingers inside him, slowly stretching him wide open. Let's just say, it's really easy to forget that he's currently supposed to be working.

Thomas has honestly lost any sense of how long he's been away, because it feels like time isn't moving at all in here, and yet, he still wants Minho to stop teasing him already, still wants him to hurry up with the condom, still just wants.

"I'm ready," he tells him barely a second after his fingers have left him feeling empty, chasing his body warmth when he moves back, "You can take me."

"Impatient, are we?" Minho whispers right into his ears, goosebumps spreading on his skin like wildfire, "Tell me what you want, baby."

Thomas swallows hard, trying to remain steady on his feet despite some unwelcome bumps in the air. He's lucky the other man's still got a hand firmly on his waist, and he thinks it fits there quite well. "I want you to fuck me. You can be rough with me, just hurry up."

He can feel the guitarist's smile against his skin as he hums. "That does sound very tempting. Maybe I'll do it if you ask nicely."

Thomas doesn't feel like wasting time. "Will you please fuck me? Please?"

In lieu of a response, Minho pulls him back by his tie until their lips can meet again, and it's messy and wet and Thomas never wants him to stop. He gasps into his mouth the second he feels the other man's cock inside him, and Minho fucks him deep, he fucks him so deeply and so slowly that he's gripping the cold sink until his knuckles turn white, and he has to bite his tongue, too, because it's driving him crazy and yet it still doesn't feel like enough, somehow.

"Harder," he asks, three times, stuttering out his please at the end each time, and by the third time Minho tilts his chin and looks at him silently, his eyes curious and yet, so concerned. Too concerned. And he's slowing down, which is a fucking tragedy.

"You sure?"

Thomas nods a little too fast, making the entire room spin. "Please. I won't break."

The other man still doesn't look completely sure about it. Thomas takes two of Minho's fingers in his mouth and sucks on them slowly, earning him a particularly pleasing groan that the other man clearly struggles to keep down, so he's quick to catch it with his own mouth.

"Please," he says it again against his lips, "You feel so fucking good inside me. Want more."

Minho chuckles again, that brief uncertainty thankfully disappearing as quickly as it came, and then he's pulling at Thomas' bottom lip with his teeth, and he goes deep again, thrusts into him so hard that stars start dancing in front of Thomas' eyes, and it's even more euphoric than he imagined it to be.

"You drive a hard bargain," the other man breathes out, "Anyone ever told you that?"

Thomas shakes his head. "Not what people tell me."

Minho sinks his teeth into his skin again, and he's ridiculously lucky again, that the guitarist has much faster reflexes than he does himself, because the man's free hand manages to clasp over Thomas' mouth before he can get the guttural moan stuck on his tongue out of his mouth. It's Minho's fault, he really can't help it.

"What do they tell you, then?" he asks lowly, picking up the speed that Thomas needs as soon as they're both satisfied that the commotion they heard outside the door was a false alarm.

"Everyone says I'm too quiet," Thomas responds, slightly muffled by Minho's palm.

The guitarist snorts. This is, admittedly, a rare exception to his normal. "I find that hard to believe."

It must be by sheer luck that they avoid any turbulence while they're in there, much less anyone else in first class having to relieve themselves. Thomas still isn't sure just how long they spend in there, not that he really gives a klunk, but there's no one knocking on the door when he gives in to what is undoubtedly the greatest orgasm he's ever had, so hard his vision starts to blur, and he knows this is a privilege, one he feels terribly undeserving of.

Minho comes soon after, gasping into Thomas' mouth, and it's unusually quiet as they clean themselves, and, uh, everything else up, a good quiet, and he feels like he's floating.

He manages to hide the red marks on his neck pretty easily, and he can feel the other man watching him all the while, and he tries to think of something smooth or smart or normal to say after he just got his brains fucked out, but Minho makes his mind go blank again, as he comes closer again and reaches out to adjust his tie.

"You were right," the man hums, "You look way better without this."

Thomas is pretty sure he's blushing, and with how little space there is between them, he supposes there's no point in trying to pretend not to. "Was it… was this okay?"

"Okay?"

"Yeah, I mean…" he coughs awkwardly again, "Was I okay?"

Minho looks at him like that again, his eyes raking over him. The man reaches a hand up until his thumb brushes over Thomas' bottom lip, so he has to fight hard against that burning in his gut, he cannot be getting a boner again this fast, he needs to calm down.

"It was a little more than okay, I would say," the guitarist tells him, his low voice making Thomas shiver, "Just okay would be insulting. You're amazing."

Thomas almost laughs in disbelief, and he doesn't dare move an inch, leaning into Minho's hand, fearing he'll leave and it'll all disappear again. "I don't know about that."

The other man tilts his head. That serene smile returns to his face again, one that feels so intimate and yet, he's floating away again. His nail barely grazes Thomas' teeth before he takes his hand back, and then his space is his own again, and he kind of hates it.

"Well, I know it," Minho shrugs, warm eyes taking in Thomas' uniform one last time, it seems, "It was worth the wait."

Whatever power this man has over him, it's making him feel lightheaded again, and he's totally fine with that, honestly. He doesn't care how he does it, he just doesn't want him to stop.

"Good, that. That's good," he manages to stutter out, and he stands there, feeling a little stupid, not wanting to turn his gaze away, but he does, eventually, "I should probably get back to work."

Minho nods. Thomas selfishly wishes that he would stop him and drag him back, but the man lets him leave the stall, and he tries his best to look normal as he takes the long walk back to the front, where Rachel's started preparing the trolleys for dinner. He joins her silently, praying she doesn't mention it, but his prayers never really work out.

"Where the hell have you been?" the woman asks him with one eyebrow raised.

"Uhm," he says, feeling very stupid, "Bathroom."

"You were in the bathroom for-" Rachel is about to ask, but she stops herself, wrinkling her nose, "God, I don't even want to know."

So, yeah. It truly must be his lucky day.

Thomas is pretty sure you only have to repeat something three times before it can be called a pattern, and Thomas, who has only ever attracted bad luck, suddenly finds himself to be the luckiest fucking person on the earth.

He can't help but wonder if this is part of some extremely elaborate daydream, or if he fell into a coma years ago and this is actually his drugged up fantasy, but he'd rather not leave it, even if that's the case. Thomas leaves that plane the first time Minho fucked him in the first class bathroom on the biggest high in his life, but he spends a night and weeks with the fear that he'll never see the guitarist again, and it's awful, because he's only had him once, and already he knows that he's about to become an addict for life.

So it must be luck, it has to be, that Minho boards the flight to Budapest a couple of months later. They don't make an escape to the bathroom, because two hours is barely enough for that, even though Thomas wants to have that again, but it's impossible for him to say what he wants, as always.

Besides, he doesn't want to assume anything. He doesn't want to assume that Minho wants this again, that he wants this as much as himself, and why would he, it's pretty blatantly obvious that Minho is entirely out of his league. Thomas isn't even sure if he's got a league in the first place.

A hot guitarist in a band that's already selling out their first tour, practically already superstars and still rising even further than that because they're just that fucking good, a perfect man with perfect arms and perfect cheekbones and perfect dimples, sleeping with a flight attendant. Right, that's realistic. The hottest guy currently walking the earth should not be giving some loser who lives out of his suitcase the time of day, the thought of that is simply hysterical.

But luck is on Thomas' side, somehow, for some reason, thankfully, when said guitarist pulls him to the side in the airport after they land, and then Thomas is on his knees in a toilet stall, with Minho's hand in his hair and Minho's dick in his mouth, as soon as he's told him that his next flight isn't until five hours later.

It happens again after two agonizing months with no Minho, and suddenly Minho is all he sees on his next flight to Bangkok, lucky fucking day, because Thomas was starting to get desperate again. He somehow manages to ride him in an even smaller space than before, but he doesn't care that it's not in first class, all he cares about is the other man filling him up and filling all his sense. And, yeah, maybe he touches himself thinking about it in an ice cold shower the minute he gets into his hotel room that morning, but he's only human.

At some point, it becomes a pattern, it becomes a thing that soon isn't only confined to bathroom stalls, and Thomas genuinely can't believe his luck every single time Minho fucks him into those sorry excuses for mattresses in the hotel rooms of every single city they happen to be in at the same time.

He's not sure he'll be able to kick this habit again. He got one taste and wanted more, and now every taste of it leaves him craving it even harder than before, leaves him like a man dying of thirst in the desert, biting his time until Minho swoops in to save him again.

Thomas kind of lives and breathes for it. It's not a relationship, and it's not a secret, not really, it's really just two people having the most mind-blowing, frankly life-changing sex he's ever experienced, and he's lucky, so fucking lucky, that their paths keep crossing as naturally as this.

He suddenly thinks he might have picked the best career possible after all. He could certainly find the passion for being a flight attendant deep inside him, a passion he's never felt for five years, if it means he'll get to feel the heat of Minho's skin against his anytime he wants.

It must be by the fourth or fifth time they do it, in a bed instead of in a space the size of a broom closet, that is, that the man next to him lifts himself up just enough to reach over and grab Thomas' phone on the nightstand, and then he watches Minho type his number into his contacts while he's still trying to catch his breath.

It's so much easier after that. Thomas is lucky that he didn't have to ask, because they haven't talked about what this is in the first place, they've never made an agreement or ever talked about places or times, it just happens. He wouldn't even know how to ask about it in the first place, like, hey, can I keep being your fuck buddy and also can I have your number, solely for fuck buddy purposes, of course.

They don't talk about a lot of things. Well, they don't do much talking in general, actually, outside of all the sweet talk Minho's whispering into his skin, and all the filthy sounds the other man is getting out of him.

The greatest extent they go to talking about this thing of theirs is during another layover and in another bathroom stall, where Thomas only pulls away long enough to make sure they're both on the same page about this.

"This isn't a date, right?"

The other man laughs with a certain tone of disbelief. "What?"

"I mean, we're not dating, this isn't dating," he tries to elaborate, "Like, we're not a couple, we're just having fun, right? Because I don't want that. A relationship, I mean."

Minho presses his knee against Thomas' erection, making him gasp, which is exactly the kind of response he'd wanted. "No, Thomas," he says with an amused smile, "Fucking in an airport bathroom isn't a date."

"Good, good," he breathes out, "Just making sure."

They might've already racked up two noise complaints, also, but Thomas is doing a lot of not caring lately, he can't be bothered to, when the guitarist keeps pinning him down like that, keeps dragging his teeth over every inch of Thomas' skin until he's flushed red and can barely string two words together anymore.

No time to waste with talking. Every minute with Minho feels precious, and it's the same day he's arrived in Copenhagen that a text asking him u free in 30 minutes? pops up in his notifications. He's really proud of himself for being normal and not responding with YES PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, by the way.

He's just finished eating lunch in bed by the time Minho knocks on the door to his hotel room, and luckily the other man isn't in the mood to waste any time, either, so he fucks him up against the closed door until Thomas' legs feel like jelly.

It's only then Minho makes it to the bed, and Thomas' ass is dripping with the other man's cum, but he's distracted by said man's thighs and those ivy tattoos making their way from his arm down his chest down to his knees, and he distinctly remembers a daydream he had about tracing all those lines of ink with his tongue, so he decides to make that fantasy into a reality.

The guitarist's hands find their home again on Thomas' lower back as he perks himself on his lap, and he just has to hope that Minho doesn't have any other plans today. A very selfish hope, but it's true, and he knows the other man has commitments, he has a much busier schedule than him with the tour taking up so much of his time, but maybe he'll be lucky this time.

"You got any plans tonight?" he asks, pretending he's not anxious about it, even though he definitely is.

Minho shakes his head, and Thomas could cheer. "Nothing but free time until the concert on Friday."

And he can't help himself, so he bends down so he can latch onto that soft skin of the man's neck with his mouth, smiling as Minho squeezes his ass in approval. Almost three days of free time. That sounds pretty sweet, and like plenty of time to get fucked by a hot guitarist until his entire body's aching, but maybe that's a little bit too selfish.

Thomas and Minho don't spend multiple days in a row together, after all. They don't even spend a whole day together, but he's feeling a certain kind of needy right now, because every meeting of theirs has been pressed for time lately as the band's schedule has become tighter. He understands, of course he does, Minho has every right to be busy and he certainly doesn't owe Thomas his time or anything else, but there's something that's been creeping up on him as of late, something called loneliness.

That isn't… abnormal, is it? Minho isn't his boyfriend, and it's not like he can't live or function without him. Thomas is doing the same things he'd been doing with or without having sex with Minho, the same things he's always been doing, working and eating and sleeping.

And talking to Brenda. He hasn't told her about this significant change in his life, not because it's a secret, or anything, he just hasn't really found the right time to say it, that's all. And he hasn't found the words yet, either, because he doesn't know what to call this thing that doesn't have a name.

Maybe that's why he locked his phone again when his best friend sat down next to him on the way here yesterday, and she looked at him with a raised brow long enough that he figured he should probably speak up.

"Is something wrong?"

"You're being different lately," she commented, "Smiling to yourself, being all secretive."

Thomas was dumbfounded, but Brenda has always had that fine tuned ability to see right through him, so he doesn't know why he was that surprised. "I'm not being secretive. What would I have to be secretive about?"

"I don't know," the woman shrugged, "You just look different. You don't have to tell me, even though I'm basically dying to know, by the way. If you don't wanna tell me, I won't pry."

He swallowed over some emotion stuck in his throat he can't really define, so he said the only thing that came to mind. "Is that bad?"

"What?"

"Different. Is different bad?"

A smile grew on his friend's face then, a soft, real one, unlike all the feigned ones the two of them had been handing out to passengers all day. "No, dummy. Different isn't bad. You look happy."

Happy, huh. What a strange word. It seemed to fit him all wrong.

"Keep all the secrets you want," the woman mused, "If they make you this happy then it must be a good thing, and that's all that matters to me."

Thomas weighs the word happy on his tongue, until he decides there's other things he'd rather be doing with his mouth. So, he leaves a trail of hickeys down Minho's body, relishing in how the other man's sounds are growing louder and more desperate the further down he goes.

"God, Minho, you're incredible," he mumbles into Minho's thigh, and the guitarist grants his wish and wraps a leg around his back, pulling him as close as possible, "Wanna make you feel good."

The other man's laugh is wobbly and his moans are sweet music in his ears as Thomas takes him in his mouth, and Minho pulls him off just in time to come on his face, and it gets even better, with the guitarist pulling on his lip with his teeth and working Thomas' straining erection with his free hand.

"Did you feel good?" he pants, and Minho grabs his chin as they lock eyes again.

"So good. You're always so good to me, baby," he breathes out, "Open your mouth."

Thomas complies, so Minho can spit and he can swallow, and he can taste him on his tongue, still, while he listens to the water as the other man showers.

The guitarist leaves shortly to pick up food, and they eat in silence, a good kind of silence, Thomas digging up his lighter from his discarded cargo pants once they've gotten rid of the pizza boxes.

"You mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all," Minho answers, so they lie next to each other, the man's fingers tracing patterns on Thomas' stomach, the only sound being their tangled breathing and the bustling noise of the late afternoon streets coming in through the open window, "So, how many times have you been here?"

He takes another drag as he tries his best to conjure all the trips blending into each other in his mind. "Seven, I think."

The other man whistles lowly. "You're kind of living the dream. I bet loads of people would kill for this kind of job."

Thomas can't do anything else but shrug. He knows this is true. He also doesn't understand why, but that's a Thomas problem. "I guess."

Minho tilts his head as he locks eyes with him. "You don't like it?"

He shrugs again. "I don't hate it."

The guitarist hums, his eyes searching his face for something, it seems, something Thomas can't decode. "But you don't love it, either."

Well, love is a strong word, he thinks. Too much commitment, that one. Hate is even worse. He'd rather not have to think about either of them for too long at a time.

"It's fine," is all he says, "It's a job."

All of a sudden, his luck has run out, and he gets faced with this without much warning, because the man asks him exactly the kind of question he's been trying his best to avoid. "What did you do before?"

Thomas really should've known this would come up, sooner or later. He feels like an idiot for not having considered that this day might arrive, and he's too comfortable in Minho's warmth and with his brain well fucked to get up and panic about it, but he also can't find a single good thing to say, truth or lie.

"Nothing, really," is what he lands on, "Nothing important."

The other man's gaze doesn't leave him for a second, and it's pretty obvious from the intensity of it that Minho doesn't believe him for a second.

"Well, that's vague."

"Why do you ask?" Thomas stammers out, and Minho frowns.

"Because I want to know."

"Why?"

"Jesus, Thomas, I'm just talking to you," the guitarist breathes out, clearly frustrated with him and his stubbornness, and that sated, serene feeling he had been swimming in suddenly sinks in his stomach, as Minho turns away from him and reaches for the television remote, "Sorry for trying to get to know you, shank."

That feels wrong. Minho not looking at him. Minho trying to get to know him. Both things that Thomas can't make fit into something that makes sense, something normal, and he doesn't understand, because he's just about the least interesting person he can think of.

And he hasn't exactly said any of this out loud, those things the other man just asked about him about. He hasn't told a living soul about it, actually, not even Brenda, and he's kept that way to protect himself, but Thomas is a piece of klunk who just pushed away the one person he hasn't felt the need to hide anything from, a person that's suddenly become a consistent part of his life. And a bigger part, too.

He hadn't actually thought about that before until now, for some reason. That might be too big. He doesn't want to think about what this means. He does know that the thought of Minho going away and this feeling going away sounds horrifying.

So, he puts out his smoke and tries to speak. "I dropped out of college."

Thank the powers above that Minho looks at him again, frown gone, face a little confused, a little curious. "What was your major?" he asks, but he shakes his head again, "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked, it's really none of my business, I-"

"It's okay," Thomas says, and he means it, "Political science."

"Huh," a smile sneaks onto the guitarist's features, and Thomas is so grateful, "I think you might be the coolest person I know. No pressure."

He snorts in response. "I seriously doubt that. I'm just…"

When he falters, Minho picks him right back up. "Just what?"

Thomas chews on his lip, because it's the same conclusion he's always come to. "I'm just Thomas."

The other man turns the volume of When Harry Met Sally down to barely a whisper, and then he inches closer to him again, tangling their legs together. "Are you saying that like it's a bad thing?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe it is."

"I don't think it is," Minho says, he sounds confident about it, in fact, "But I have a feeling that you don't believe me."

He doesn't, that's very true. He feels bad even admitting it in his head. So, he decides to say something different, something new, something kind of scary.

"I applied for this job the year after I dropped out," he explains, "It was supposed to be a sabbatical at first, actually, just six months. My little brother was in the hospital, and he told me not to, but I just… I couldn't do it. I had to. And you know what's funny? He died a week before I was supposed to go back to classes. One week."

Thomas hasn't ever gotten these words past his lips before, and he laughs nervously, a particularly disgusting sound, and the words are too big and too heavy and they make him feel sick. He doesn't realize how hard he's breathing until Minho turns off the television altogether, and then he's even closer than before, with a warm, steady hand gently placed on his chest.

Thomas can focus on that, something solid, and on him, that he feels real and looks real and sounds real. He focuses on Minho.

"Sorry," he says quickly, "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"There's nothing to apologize for," the other man answers in a whisper, and he looks at him, and Thomas is shocked, because he doesn't feel any shame or guilt under Minho's eyes. Minho looks at him, and the sadness in his eyes reflect something like recognition. Something too close to home.

"I'm sorry," Minho tells him, and he can tell he means it.

"I just needed to get away, and this job, well," he carries on, "Never in one place too long. I live out of my suitcase. Literally. Hotel rooms and food provided and all. I should probably be better at actually experiencing this, do tourist stuff."

The man nods. "Do you talk to your parents?"

"I can't remember the last time I did," he admits, "I'm kind of good at avoiding that. I think it's the only thing I've ever been good at, honestly. The house just doesn't feel right anymore. Doesn't fit the same without him. And I can't help but feel like they'll just look at me and see him, and… they just don't understand. They didn't know him like I do- did. They don't know me like he did. Better I just stay away."

Minho stays right next to him. The confession hangs in the air, uncomfortable and unknown, but the man stays. The silence that follows doesn't feel bad, per say, but the guitarist turns around on his back, as well, and Thomas wonders if this was too far of a misstep to walk back on.

"It's all I've ever done," he carries on, "Run away from things. Problems. Everything. It's pathetic."

The man next to him doesn't hesitate to shake his head. "I don't see it that way."

Thomas is surprised. Totally and utterly surprised. "Huh."

"Do you wanna know how I got these?" Minho asks, and Thomas' eyes wander to the man's hands, his fingers running lightly over the scars that travel down his arms and legs, his neck and his ribs.

He's spent a lot of time memorizing those, just like he's done every single other thing about Minho. Like everything else that makes up who Minho is, they're beautiful, some partially covered by tattoos, some not. He gets this ugly feeling clouding over him again, feeling like he's intruding on something, seeing something that was never meant for him.

He wants to know. He supposes it doesn't matter how they got there, and yet it does, because thinking about how much pain he might've gone through is a devastating feeling to know, and it's none of his business at all, but he can't deny it, how much he thinks about it. He's wondered and wondered and prayed again, that this is a pain that has passed.

"You don't have to tell me," he says, "It's none of my business. Just because I told you all my shit, I mean… I didn't mean to do this. Pressure you."

Minho's smile is small, timid, but it's there, all the same. "You're not pressuring me to do anything. I want you to know."

"Okay."

"I got struck by lightning," the man tells him, "If you can believe it."

"Shit," Thomas mumbles.

Minho hums. "Apparently most people survive that, and I refused, I just couldn't fucking believe it. They told me, ninety percent of victims survive. And it doesn't matter to me, anyways. My boyfriend was with me, and his heart stopped instantly. And I survived, for some reason."

The guitarist's laugh comes out bitter, all his features strained, his eyes drifting away, like he just went somewhere far away from here. There it was, Thomas thinks. The recognition. The familiarity of it all.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice barely above a whisper, and Minho sniffs, and Thomas' stomach sinks even further.

"I was holding his hand, you know," the man mutters, "So I just don't understand why it had to be him. I've been trying to, but I just can't. It should've been me. If we hadn't gone out to the fucking- It wasn't me. I'm the reason that he's not here, and everyone just expects me to live with that."

Thomas hurries as he inches closer to Minho, then. Telling him about Chuck already felt like carrying a boulder up a mountain, so he's the last person to talk about grief, to know how to do it, to offer comfort. He tries, anyways. He tries when he carefully takes Minho's hand in his and laces their fingers together, and when he leans into his touch, Thomas circles his wrist with his other hand.

"It wasn't your fault," he says, and he's never meant anything more in his entire fucking life, he knows this. Minho just shrugs.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Thomas has to ask, and the other man's silence tells him everything he needs to know.

"I don't know anymore. I know that I'm never doing…" his words falter just for a second, "Relationships again. It's too complicated, it's- When I get too close, I just ruin it. I just ruin people. So, if I don't let anyone get too close, then it's just safer, you know?"

Thomas knows it isn't true, and he just let Minho closer than he's ever done anyone before, and he wants to tell him it isn't true every day until he believes it. He can't imagine Minho ever ruining anything. All he's ever done is make Thomas' life better.

"You haven't ruined me," he tells him earnestly. Minho's smile is tiny, but it's still there.

"I like doing this with you," the man says, "The tour bus gets too much, sometimes. Sometimes I just need to be away from all of it, hence the flying by myself. Newt probably sees through all the excuses I tell him, though."

Thomas smiles, too. "You guys are close, right?"

Minho hums. "He's my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without him, to be honest."

"I haven't talked to my parents, either, in… I don't know. So long. I think they might hate me for pursuing music and not using my bioengineering degree for anything," the man continues eventually, "And I don't think they know me at all, honestly. It's like they just see right through me, and just want me to move on, it's so... I just don't know if I can ever go home again."

He's rubbing circles into Minho's skin with his thumb, hoping and praying it signals what he means, encouragement, comfort, something he doesn't know how to say.

"Do they hurt?" Thomas asks, fearing the worst, "The scars. If you want to tell me."

"It's less than it used to be," the man shrugs again, "It comes in waves. Had memory loss after it, too. The insomnia is the worst part, though. Doesn't seem to be going away."

The silence that falls over them is poignant, one Thomas doesn't know how to break. He wishes there was something he could do or say to make everything better and good and right, and he feels useless, that he doesn't have that ability, that everything is unfair and the world sucks and he's stuck with no way to change anything.

"I wish I could take your pain away," he whispers, and Minho gives him another sad smile, keeping a hold of his hand. So, all Thomas does is put his ear on the other man's chest and listen to his breathing for a while.

"Jesus, I totally killed the mood, huh," the guitarist eventually chuckles, cracking on a syllable or two, "Sorry about that."

"We contributed equally," Thomas replies, "It's more of a group effort."

Minho snorts. "Anyone ever told you how funny you are?"

"Yeah, right," he responds, and because the other man's hand has moved to stroking Thomas' hair again, because it feels good and he feels safe in a way that's almost overwhelming, he decides to plant a kiss on Minho's wrist, right on the pulse point, and another on his palm, and another on his shoulder, and yet another on his jaw.

Minho catches Thomas' mouth again with his own, and it's more than a welcome distraction. "Now, where were we?"

"I didn't take a shower before we ate, so…"

"Good idea," the other man commends him, "I haven't fucked you in the shower yet."

Thomas smiles innocently, like that isn't exactly where he wanted this to go. "I'm full of good ideas."

"You really are."

Thomas has kind of been having the best weeks and months of his life, because after years of waking up every morning and feeling like he has to learn how to breathe all over again, learn how to live and talk and be, this thing with Minho, this is something that just comes so easy to him.

They don't talk about it, and it's not complicated, and it's casual. He's sure it can still be casual even though he's constantly chasing his next fix, because the sex is just seriously that good. He'd shout it from the rooftops and tell anyone who'd argue otherwise, except for the fact that they don't talk about it, of course.

This is why they don't talk about feelings, they don't need to, because it's not like Thomas is in love with him, or anything. They've been doing this for so long by now that it's a routine, that it's something that feels more like home like any of his hotel rooms or his parents' house, and he doesn't bother to examine that any deeper, because he's not in love with him, he's just, well, getting used to being intimate with another person like this again.

He just needs more time, that's all, for the intimacy to become normal. Just a little more time.

He's still getting used to it, which is why the sight of Minho exiting the bathroom and suddenly being fully clothed slaps him in the face with something that he distinctly recognizes as grave disappointment.

It's a late afternoon in a hotel room in Toronto, and they just spent the entire morning fucking on every surface they could possibly find, and the band's show isn't until tomorrow, so Thomas is just a little confused, but he doesn't really know why. It's not like he expected the other man to spend the whole day with him. There'd be no reason to, because that's not part of their relationship, that's not what they do.

They don't have a relationship in the first place, he reminds himself of that crucial fact.

"Where are you going?" he asks before he can stop himself, hoping he sounds casual enough about it, because he definitely is that, casual.

"We got cleared to check out the venue ahead of time," Minho tells him with a shrug while he adjusts his belt, "Just wanna get another rehearsal in, maybe grab a couple of drinks after."

Thomas swallows over nothing, having no idea what to say to that. Makes perfect sense, he's here for work. So is he, clearly, obviously, and they're not a couple. He frowns as soon as the thought crosses his mind, because he's being an idiot, he'd never wanted for them to be a couple, that wasn't part of their unspoken deal, and he's fine with it.

He just really, really, really hates it when Minho's wearing all those clothes. And when he's not in bed. And when he doesn't have his dick inside him. It takes Thomas way too long to notice that the man standing at the edge of the bed is giving him a confused look of his own, so he decides to stop thinking and do what he wants again, which he's had a lot of success with so far.

He knows he's got a limited time frame to do that in, this time around, so he crawls across the bed and wraps his arms around Minho's waist. The guitarist doesn't move away, but he's still looking down on him with a curious look in his eyes, his attention only half on him as he replies to someone on his phone.

"I hate it when you wear clothes," Thomas tells him honestly, "You're too beautiful to wear clothes. Too beautiful to cover all this up."

The other man's eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, clearly amused, and it only makes him even more beautiful, if that was even possible.

"I don't reckon walking around naked would slide in…" he starts, "Well, just about anywhere. I'm pretty sure there's laws against that. Public decency, and all."

Thomas groans. "I hate public decency."

And just to nail down his point, he makes quick work of undoing Minho's belt again and pulling up his shirt and pulling down that damned zipper on his jeans, too, giving him access to trace his happy trail with his tongue. The guitarist lets out a gasp while Thomas is busy sucking a bruise into his skin, right over his hip bone, and judging by how Minho's hand soon finds a home in his hair, he's definitely doing something right.

"You're going to be the death of me," the man chuckles, his breath clearly staggering, so Thomas looks up at him with the best puppy dog eyes he can muster, batting his eyelashes for good measure. The grip on his hair tightens.

"Come back to bed and fuck me," he says simply, "Please."

There's stars in Minho's eyes when he abandons his phone on the bed and looks back at him, but he seems unsure again, which is just horrible, he decides. "Again?" the man asks him with slight disbelief in his tone, "I made you come four times today already."

"Make me come again," Thomas responds, "Please. Need your cock inside me."

Minho licks his lips, barely giving his phone a glance as it buzzes on the mattress. He makes no move to leave. "You're gonna make me late."

"They can wait," he decides, which he knows is extremely selfish, but he stopped caring about that a long time, and he's got too many things on his mind to feel about that, too much Minho clouding his brain, just as he likes it, "If I don't get your cock inside me again I might die."

"Well, we can't have that," the man above him laughs again, all light and happy, "You're very convincing, you know that?"

Thomas gives him an innocent smile as he pulls him down on top of him. "I try my best."

Minho always keeps his promises, he knows this, because soon enough, he's inside him again, and Thomas feels like his ass is on fire and everything is sticky and sloppy, and it feels just as good as every other time, his heart pounding so fast inside his chest that he thinks, klunk, maybe he might actually die here. It'd be the happiest death he could think of.

"Faster, Minho, please," he hears himself whine, loud and without shame, gripping onto the bed sheets so he doesn't feel like he's going to crash down through the floor, "You're always so good to me, you make me feel so good, don't ever wanna stop-"

"Has anyone ever fucked you like I do, baby?" the man asks him lowly, nails dragging over his scalp, "Anyone else fuck you as good as I do?"

"Never," Thomas answers in a particularly urgent moan, "No one fucks me like you, nobody, nobody-"

He's quite rudely interrupted by a series of pointed knocks on the wall that must be coming from the hotel room next to theirs, clearly directed towards them and their current activities. Minho laughs again under his breath, but he makes no indication of slowing down, which is a blessing Thomas will be grateful for forever.

"You gotta be a little more quiet, baby," he mumbles, "Probably not a good idea to get anymore complaints-"

"Give me your hand," Thomas pleads, and confusion flashes over Minho's face just for a second, but he does what he asks, so he takes the guitarist's hand in both of his, easily guiding it until he can wrap Minho's fingers around his throat.

He can see the man's eyes fill with hunger, and his hand is a warm weight, a welcome new sensation which only makes Thomas moan even louder than before.

"Try this," he says.

Minho swallows hard, and he gives him a nod, not making any interjections, and Thomas is pretty sure he's the luckiest guy alive, with the way the man's nimble fingers squeeze his throat, then, applying just the right amount of pressure to send him right over the edge, his vision going fuzzy as he comes in a white hot stream all over Minho's stomach.

The guitarist gives in to his own orgasm mere seconds later, Thomas catching his lips with his own as he gasps a string of every curse word on the planet and Thomas, over and over again. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of Minho saying his name. He doesn't think his name has ever sounded better.

The insistent vibrating of his phone, which somehow has ended up on the floor, does, unfortunately, end up stealing Minho's attention, but not before he swipes up some of the cum spattered on his abdomen and licks it off his index finger, and he plants one last chaste kiss on Thomas' mouth, too, not seeming to be in any hurry.

He's dangerously close to begging him to ditch the rehearsal altogether, but Thomas bites it down, because he's being too selfish, really, and too clingy, and they're supposed to just be sleeping together with no strings attached, that's all they've been doing, so he's got no right to just hold the other man back from being a normal person.

And it comes naturally to Minho. Thomas doesn't think he's ever met someone like Minho, someone that lights up a room the way he does, like he was born to do it. But he's also good at doing all those normal human things that Thomas can only try and fake and fail at doing, you know, talking to people, going outside, having a life.

A life that doesn't start and end in a hotel room, in a suitcase, in a bed, with the heartbeat of someone he can't get out of his head. Minho has friends, people that depend on him, people that like him.

Thomas has Brenda. Thomas doesn't even know if she likes him all that much, since he certainly hasn't been giving her much in return, because he's Thomas, and she could do better than him. And Minho could do better than him, too.

He's stuck mulling this over once he's alone in the hotel room again, but once it starts getting dark outside he decides he can't really do any of that right now, so he turns on the television for some background noise and orders room service and doesn't think about it. It works for quite a good amount of hours where he's definitely not checking his phone for anything in particular, until the number he was definitely not thinking of lights up his screen.

The text consists of a selfie of Minho taking a sip from a beer bottle, snapped from under his chin, followed by the words venue had no beer 0/10.

Thomas bites his lip as he chuckles, and maybe he stares at the picture a bit longer than necessary while he's trying to think of a reply that doesn't suck. They rarely ever text about anything that isn't sex-related, or leading to sex, or planning sex, so he feels entirely out of his depth, all of a sudden. Minho is one step ahead of him, though.

He could respond to enjoying having the room all to yourself so far? with something normal, but the sheets smell like Minho's cologne and he hasn't bothered cleaning up the dried up cum on his skin, and he should probably feel gross about that detail, but he doesn't. It just feels good. He doesn't think he's ever felt this good, and he'd like to keep it that way.

This is what brings him to type out it's fine but the bed is just so big and lonely without you, followed by just been here all alone thinking about your tongue and miss your cock so much, because Thomas has never been good at being subtle.

He's already done the deed and sent it before it hits him that the other man is probably hanging out with his friends right now, that they're in a bar surrounded by people, so this is just about the least appropriate moment to send a desperately horny message. He's cringing as he watches the bubble of Minho typing appear and disappear, so maybe he took it too far, and he holds his breath until his reply finally saves him again.

All the message says is jesus, and he's not sure if that's good or bad, but he doesn't have much more time to think about before the other man is calling him.

"Hey," he breathes out when he picks up, and it's quieter on Minho's end that he expected it to be, some muffled sounds before the man speaks up.

"You drive me crazy, you know that, right?" the guitarist tells him with a strained voice, and Thomas grins, wrapping a hand around his already half-hard dick before he replies.

"You alone?"

"Bathroom," Minho mumbles, "Are you touching yourself?"

"Yes."

"Fuck," the man on the other end whispers, "Tell me what you're doing."

"Just wishing you were here," he hums, "Imagining you were here to fuck me right, fuck me until I can't remember where I am or who I am. Could come just from thinking about you."

"Thomas, you-"

"Are you touching yourself?"

"Yes," Minho says it back immediately, "Fuck, I can't be too long, I don't know what they'll think-"

"Gonna fuck myself with your pillow," Thomas decides, "Smells like you."

The guitarist's moan comes out low and most likely muffled by his hand, and they don't need a lot of dirty talk at all before Thomas comes again, and he's exhausted, but he didn't know it was even possible to feel this much at bliss, he feels drunk and high and so many other things at the same time, and it's crazy.

"Come see us tomorrow," Minho suddenly says when he's caught his breath. Thomas freezes.

"Sorry?"

"Come to the concert tomorrow," the man repeats, a request without a question, "I think you'll like it. Come and meet the guys."

"Oh," he says, wholeheartedly lost for words, because he never considered this to be a possibility that could actually, realistically happen, "You want me to meet the band? Uh, your friends?"

"Yeah," Minho confirms in a sigh, a sigh that exudes a sense of calm Thomas almost envies, "They're my friends, you're my friend."

"Right," Thomas agrees. That's true, obviously, it is. They're friends. Minho is his friend. Thomas has been sleeping with the hot guitarist he met in first class for… for over a year now, and they're friends. That's what normal people do, after all, they have friends.

"They'll love you, don't worry," the other man assures him, his voice sounding strangely hopeful, "I have a hunch about these things."

He doubts it. Not Minho's hunch or how he knows his friends, but rather, well, that Thomas is capable of getting along with other people. That other people won't immediately see right through his bad acting and realize he's just on the other side of the window looking in, that there isn't a single thing that's interesting or worthwhile or extraordinary about him.

Thomas doesn't say any of this out loud, no way, especially not over the phone to the guy he's been fucking kind of in secret for a year right after they kind of just had sex for the… sixth time today. Maybe. He's kind of lost count at this point, to be honest.

So, he says the only thing he can think of. "I haven't bough a ticket, though."

"Don't worry about that," the man tells him easily, "We get free tickets for family and such. You don't have to pay for anything."

"Oh."

"I just think it'd be cool," Minho continues, "I want you to be there."

"Oh," Thomas says again, like an idiot, praying that the guitarist somehow doesn't hear his voice shaking at what was just revealed to him, "Sure. I'll be there."

"Cool," the man on the other end whispers again, a single word spoken like something vulnerable, as meaningful and secretive as whispers between bedsheets, a sound that's almost happy, "It's gonna be so cool, I promise."

Thomas laughs awkwardly, but what's happening right now, this change, it's just so unusual that he feels like maybe he should break the tension with something. Anything.

"It's not like I have anything better to do," he tries to joke, but the silence that follows makes him immediately regret that decision. There's some more shuffling on the other end, but he can't begin to figure out what that means, because Minho says nothing at all, he can only hear his breathing halt, and Thomas starts to think he maybe took a wrong turn here somewhere.

"Minho?" he hears himself ask, he hears himself and how obviously nervous he sounds, "You still there?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah," the other man finally mutters, "That's… yeah, cool. I should, uh, probably get back."

Thomas nods pointlessly. "I'll see you tomorrow night, then? I mean, see you today, also. See you soon."

"Of course."

Thomas hangs up, and then he thinks maybe he should take a shower. And he should figure out what to wear tomorrow, since he's apparently going to a concert now. He doesn't know how to feel about any of it.

Minho doesn't bring up Thomas' bad attempt at a joke again, and whatever that means or doesn't mean, well, he's just trying to do what he always does, pushing it away until he hopefully forgets thinking about it. That's what he's doing tonight, while watching Death Cure's show from backstage and pretending like he belongs here in the first place.

He's probably not doing a very good job, but Minho cleared it with their manager, so now the woman only looks mildly annoyed by his presence.

And he can't blame her, because he feels like he might be reeking of anxiety, he's certainly feeling it, barely touching any of the food he was otherwise told he was free to enjoy, because he just feels like that might be an inconvenience, somehow. It's not very logical, he knows, but he prefers sitting on the couch and wait, so he doesn't accidentally walk somewhere he isn't supposed to or set something on fire. He wouldn't even put it past himself.

He gets taken again, though, by how passionate they all, how the entire building seems to flare up with energy, how the wave of screams and cheers and singing just makes him forget the world outside entirely. It feels a little magical.

And he can see them on the big screen, dancing like they could dance forever and for all time, like it's the last night of their lives. He doesn't exactly long to be on a stage where thousands of people can pick him apart, but he does sort of wish he was stood in the crowd instead, again, moving like they were all one being, letting everything else fade away.

And, fuck, Minho looks so good. Minho looks so alive.

He's shining brighter than any of the lights in here and any of the stars in the sky, Thomas is sure of it. Every one of Minho's movements are infused with confidence, and his chin is held up high and his eyes are practically sparkling, and he's seen him do this before, seen him put his heart and his everything into so many performances before, and yet it still takes his breath away all the same.

Despite watching it on a screen, this is still a lot more of an intimate experience than when he first saw them in Lisbon. There's barely any barriers between him and the noise, and he's been sneaking up to watch them a couple of times from the side of the stage, too, where no one can see him, really hitting him with how much bigger the venue looks from up here.

And maybe he's hiding a smile in his hands, because all the fun they're having is infatuating, and Thomas is kind of in awe of how perfectly in sync they are with each other, still taking time to interact with the audience whenever they can.

And maybe he turns away when Sonya wraps a hand around Harriet's hip and they start dancing close together, only because Minho walks up and does the same thing with Newt. Which is fine, and not a big deal at all. He needed some water, anyways.

It all ends scarily fast, with Minho throwing a wink back at him before the encore, and then the backstage is suddenly bursting with life again as everyone wraps up, so Thomas stays on the couch and tries his best not to be in the way. He's only a little surprised when he's suddenly being spoken to by someone who's not Minho.

"So, you're the Thomas we've been hearing so much about," Harriet says as she plops down on the couch opposite of him, a water bottle in her hands and a grin on her face, "Did you enjoy the show?"

He nods earnestly. "It was amazing, I mean, you guys are amazing."

"Oh, there you are!" Teresa joins in, "We finally get to meet Minho's boytoy!"

Thomas almost chokes on his own water, and Harriet gives her friend an unimpressed look. The drummer seems entirely unfazed by either of them.

"Teresa."

"What? It's not like it's not true."

The bassist rolls her eyes before turning her attention back to him, and Thomas speaks up entirely out of his own control, because that little revelation caught him entirely off guard.

"Uh, he talks about me?"

Harriet hums. "You were known just as cute flight attendant for quite some time."

"Oh," he replies dumbly, but it's another rabbit hole of thoughts that's soon put on hold, as Minho comes up from behind and wraps his arms around his shoulders, resting his chin on the top of his head. Thomas instantly relaxes in his hold.

"I hope you're being nice to him," the man comments.

"We're always nice," the bassist says.

"Oh, I know, babe," the guitarist replies, "It's Teresa I'm worried about."

"Fuck you."

Minho ignores the drummer's response to squeeze Thomas tighter. "You have fun?" he asks, which he nods to again, earnestly so, which earns him another perfect smile from the other man, so he considers that a win, "You're coming with us for drinks after, right?"

He's even more taken aback by that invitation, and Minho's bandmates don't make any protests, but he can't help his hesitation, regardless.

"Uh, sure," he tries, "I mean, I can just go back to the hotel, you don't have to-"

"No one's forcing me at gunpoint, Thomas," the guitarist chuckles, "I'm inviting you because I want you to come. If you want to."

He can't really argue with that. They end up at a bar in walking distance from the venue, and, honestly, the more times passes, the more his laughs get easier and more genuine, the more he forgets about all the nerves that inhabit his body pretty much every second of every day. Well, mostly.

He still feels a bit weird about tagging along with them, as much as all five of them keep insisting he isn't being an asshole and isn't barging in somewhere he doesn't belong. He doesn't belong, so he's just been listening to their conversation most of the night, and it's nice. He'll admit it, it's nice, being allowed to watch them from the outside, and he wishes he could feel normal about it, but he hasn't exactly been refining his social skills in the past five years, so hopefully he isn't doing too bad.

And he's watching Minho, most of all, naturally. There's gold in the brown of his eyes when the light hits them just right, and he's with his people and his laugh is rich, and he just looks so fucking happy. Thomas didn't know happiness existed quite like this, with this glow that lights up the entire world with him, like he was created to be the center of the entire universe.

Thomas hasn't been doing much else besides this, lately, watching Minho. He kind of thinks he just wants to do that for the rest of his life.

Whatever the meaning of that is, he doesn't have time to unpack the thought, because he has to blink in surprise when Sonya suddenly directs a question at him.

"Sorry, what?" he asks sheepishly, because he hadn't been following along with what their current topic was for more than a minute now. The man next to him just has a really distracting face. A distracting everything.

"You've been to Paris, right?" the woman's voice is laced with excitement, "You must've been to Paris. It must be magical, right?"

Thomas frowns. "I don't know. It's not really anything special."

"What?!" Sonya gasps, and Minho snorts next to him, and he has to try his best to stay focused on talking and not on the guitarist's arm making its way around him, his fingers settling on rubbing circles into Thomas' lower back.

"I've been to Paris, like, a million times," he explains, giving her an apologetic smile, "It's just not everything people make it out to be, to be honest. It's fine, I guess."

"Thomas," the singer says gravely, "Paris is not just fine."

"I mean, you haven't been yet, my love," Harriet points out with nothing but fondness in her eyes, "He might be right."

"Obviously not," Sonya replies easily, "But that's why I'm so glad we'll have a whole week there! In the city of magic, the city of romance! I've got the whole thing planned for us."

She giggles happily, and it's pretty obvious from how her focus is entirely taken by Harriet, and the way Harriet takes her girlfriend's hand in hers and brings it to her lips, that neither of them are talking about the band when they're talking about the us in question.

They're met with mixed reactions. Newt rolls his eyes. Minho gags. Teresa gives them a loud boo and a thumbs down for good measure. All three of them earn two raised middle fingers in response to their prosperity, and Thomas is struggling not to laugh, because laughing feels so natural with these people around him, it feels unreal and yet real unlike anything he's known before.

"It's not our fault you all don't believe in love," Harriet teases them with a smile.

"Love is so stupid," Teresa proclaims.

"I love you, I really do," Newt assures them, taking his sister's free hand, "But love is overrated."

"Love is too complicated," Minho decides and takes another sip of his beer, and, well, Thomas once again figures it's probably just best to not contribute with his opinion on the subject. Not because he disagrees with the man next to him, but more so because hearing the guitarist saying that makes his mouth dry again.

It makes him feel… something. Thomas isn't sure he knows how to describe it. It might make him feel even more out of place than he already does, right now, in present company, and it hits him now more than ever before, thinking about how Minho called him his friend.

He didn't even know if they could be defined as friends in the first place. Sometimes, he doesn't even know what he is to Minho, what Minho is to him, because practically strangers who regularly fuck around sounds wrong and stupid and superficial, because Thomas depends on this. Thomas almost budges in with happiness is overrated, but the only times he can remember being truly happy in a long time, that's every single time Minho's voice is in his ears and Minho is on top of him and Minho's name flashes on his phone screen.

That's dangerous. This is getting dangerous. Thomas says nothing, and he needs to figure out why he depends so much on this and shove it away again, because that's what this agreement is about. The agreement they never made. This is complicated.

"You guys just need to open your hearts," Sonya sing-songs, and she ignores her brother rolling his eyes again in favor of pulling Thomas into the conversation once more, "I need another glass of wine, but you're gonna give me all your recommendations when I'm back. Right? Please?"

"Uh, right, sure."

"I need a refill, too, I'll go with you," Minho says as he gets up, "You want one?"

Thomas gives him a grateful nod, and the two of them are off, and soon enough it's just him and Newt left behind at the table, as Harriet and Teresa leave for the bathroom at the same time. It's not awkward, by any means, and Thomas has quickly started to like his company and listening to him and Minho bicker between them, making him feel even worse about that sting of jealousy he can't seem to stop from invading his mind.

It's glaringly obvious that they know each other like the backs of their hands, a different way than the others. That shouldn't hurt Thomas' feelings.

Something changes in Newt's face now, though, because once they're alone, his attention is fully on Thomas, boring into his skull with a particularly stern look in his eyes.

"Tommy," he breaks the silence, "You care about Minho, right?"

He doesn't know what he expected him to say, but he's a little confused. "Yeah, of course."

That's the truth and nothing but the truth, straight from his heart, so he hopes that the other man can tell that he means it. He hasn't cared about anyone or anything this much in a long time, not so much that he feels it weigh in his chest, feels like it's going to crush him.

"We're not, like, a couple, by the way," he adds hastily, for some reason, not liking the way any of those words feel on his tongue.

Newt's face remains unchanged. "I didn't ask if you were a couple."

"Right."

"Right," the man in front of him echoes, tone revealing nothing but dead seriousness, "I'm going to need you to promise me something."

Thomas has no idea where this is going, but he nods nonetheless.

"Minho and I have been through everything together. I don't know how much he told you, but…" Newt sighs, "But it's a lot. He's my best friend. We stick with each other, high and low, we pick each other up and we keep going. He's really fucking important to me. You understand that, right?"

"I do."

"Good," the man answers, "So, I need you to look me in the eyes and promise me that you'll take care of him."

Thomas wouldn't call that calm expression on Newt's face a glare, exactly, but he's still feeling the urgency as he looks at him, and he lets a silence fall upon them exactly where a promise of his own would neatly fit in, a promise that he'll probably rip Thomas' vocal chords out with his bare hands if he fails to do so. The other man doesn't say that, obviously, but it's implied.

And Thomas wants to agree, and he wants to make that promise and keep it, agree a thousand times over. He should actually tell Newt that he's got no fucking idea how to take care of anyone, not even himself, that he's not sure he's able to keep a promise like that without totally screwing it up, but he doesn't.

He knows he probably shouldn't promise that, but there's nothing he wants to do more than this. It hits him like the first rays of sun breaking though a gray sky.

"Of course," he responds, and he's never meant anything more in his entire life than that, cross his heart, hope to die the minute he gets it wrong. He hasn't got the first clue how to begin living up to that, but he wants to know how, because the thought of seeing that heartbreak flash across Minho's face again is nothing short of devastating, "I promise."

The man in front of him keeps that hard look on his face, most likely still deciding if he believes him or not. Thomas finds himself unable to move, and he swallows that ugly jealousy again, that envy of how Newt knows Minho in a way he won't ever do, when the other man eventually nods.

"Thank you."

He's sure the smile he gives him in return looks awkward, and the man in question soon sits down with them again, sliding a beer over in Thomas' direction before glancing between the two with a raised brow.

"What'd I miss?" Minho asks, smile turning smug in an instant, "You two talking about me?"

Newt huffs. "You wish."

"You love me," he shoots back. Thomas lets himself become one with the walls again, hoping his feelings will sort themselves out before he can think too hard about it.

It's not the first time Thomas has set himself up for disappointment, but it's clearly something that other people seem to notice, that his feelings didn't conveniently sort themselves out like he wanted them to. He hates that he doesn't understand it, because his night with the band in Toronto was a good night, and yet he waited until Minho fell asleep that night, so he could stare at the ceiling and try to figure out exactly what's changed.

He thinks about it when he leaves for Mexico City, too, and he tries to act like he isn't, but Aris and Rachel won't stop staring at him and he won't stop dropping things and tripping over routines he's done a million times before, so maybe he isn't that good of an actor.

He narrowly dodges Brenda's attempts to talk to him, and it makes him feel even worse than usual, because she's worried about him, and honestly, he's worried, too, but he's running away from it again, like he always does. Maybe that's the problem.

Thomas doesn't know anymore. He knows that every day that passes makes him miss Minho even more than before, and he keeps running that day in Toronto through in his head, every smile and touch he was granted, Minho and the mention of that little tricky word called love, the promise Thomas made to Newt that he's probably already breaking.

He knows that all he wants to do is stop thinking about it and switch his brain off when he receives a text from the guitarist the day after he arrives in Seoul, but he feels it again, his heart clenching like it's about to turn itself inside out, when he meets Minho at the station closest to his hotel and the man has that distant look in his eyes again.

"Hey," he greets him, "I thought your next show wasn't until next week."

Minho hums, and he turns to him with a half-hearted smile, and the grip on Thomas' heart tightens. "You're right. I got here early because I was going to… Jesus, this is so fucking stupid. I was going to visit my parents."

Thomas' heart stops. This could be good or it could be bad or it could be both at the very same time, and he's not sure what he expects it to be. He finds that he's reaching for Minho's hand, either way, per instinct, and that might be too much, too close, but the man locks his fingers with his.

"It's not stupid," he tells him, and the guitarist shrugs.

"Just got me thinking, you know, back in Copenhagen," Minho continues with a sigh, "I didn't tell the guys why, but Newt's been calling me all day. Told myself I'd tell him later. Well, I got there, and I stood there staring at our house for fucking… I don't even know how many hours. And then I turned right back around and texted you."

He squeezes his hand, hoping it could somehow transfer all that heartbreak that's painted all over Minho's features to Thomas, so the other man won't have to feel it anymore. He wishes it could actually work like that.

"I probably sound like a loser, don't I?"

"That's the last thing I'd call you," he replies immediately, "And if anyone does, they have no fucking idea what they're talking about."

Minho's smile grows.

"Do you want me to go?" Thomas asks, "Or can I do anything? For you?"

"Don't go," the guitarist says, "Unless you're busy-"

"I'm not."

"Have dinner with me?" Minho suggests, and Thomas wishes he was better with words, because if he was better, he would be able to help, he would be able to provide comfort, anything more than just standing here. Minho wants him to stay, though, and there's nothing he wants more than do just that.

"I'm all yours," he replies easily, and it's probably here, tonight, in a hotel room in Seoul as he listens to his breathing evening out and watches his eyelids flutter, that it dawns on Thomas exactly what this thing with Minho is. Or what it isn't, and more so, what he wants it to be.

Maybe it's here in the darkness, with his hand in his hair and his arm wrapped around his waist, in the low, muttered words falling from the man's lips as he's dreaming, that he comes to know that this feeling has a name. Maybe it's in the way Minho bought him extra cigarettes without even asking, and in the way Thomas has memorized the guitarist's orders at at least ten or twenty restaurants they've been to and more coffee shops than he can be bothered to count.

And it's in that navy blue t-shirt, first edition of the band's merchandise that isn't manufactured anymore, by the way, the one that Minho left in his hotel room in Stockholm and that Thomas just never give him back. It's in that, too, it's in all of it, that he gets a feeling that this is so far beyond a crush than what is humanly possible.

This isn't a relationship. They're not a couple. Thomas knows all of this, and he lies in the bed and then he sits in the plane and another and another after that, and he sits in the shower in yet another city he's been to five hundred times, and he thinks about how he's pretty sure there's nothing that sounds better than being a part of a couple, if that couple includes Minho, obviously, naturally.

He thinks about it with his morning coffee, about all the little things he knows about Minho, and how he doesn't know anywhere near enough about him. And that doesn't feel right. And he's making an absolute fool out of himself and no one else, because this is the opposite of what he wanted, or what he thought he wanted, this is breaking his own rules and him falling in the metaphorical banana peel of his own stupid feelings.

This is why he isn't going to say anything about it. This is why he should shove this thing down, too, the one that the other man very much did not agree on, until he immediately fails to do exactly that, as he's sitting cross-legged on the bed in Barcelona, keeping his eyes on Minho's guitar instead of Minho putting on his clothes while humming an unfamiliar tune under his breath.

"What are we?" he asks, extremely stupidly so, and the man on the other side of the room looks at him strangely, but doesn't stop what he's doing.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what is this?" Thomas tries again, "You and me."

Minho freezes, a confused expression on his face. "It's whatever we want it to be," he shrugs, "What's the matter?"

"I don't want that."

"You-" the guitarist stops in his tracks entirely, "What are you talking about?"

"I mean- fuck," he mutters, "I want more than that."

There's a lot more time now, that passes, before Minho gives that a response. Thomas dares to lift his eyes and meet his gaze fully, the other man staring back at him, wide-eyed and entirely unprepared for the topic he just clumsily threw across the room.

"Thomas," he says slowly, "I don't know where this is coming from, but-"

"I barely even know you," Thomas interjects, before he can stop himself, "We never… We don't know each other. The sex is amazing- oh my God, it's fucking mind-blowing, but I don't know what happened, it's just somewhere along the way, it… it isn't enough for me, and I just-"

Minho huffs. "That's really fucking rich coming from you."

"What?"

"You're the one who barely talks to me," the man sighs, edging into frustration, "Every time I try to talk to you. Every time, or watch a movie, or ask about your, fucking, I don't know, your favorite color- anything, you're the one talking about sex, sex, sex, all the time, remember? You're the one on your knees every time I even suggest we go out to eat."

Thomas has been chewing on the inside of his cheek for so long that he now tastes metal on his tongue. Everything Minho's saying is true. Every single thing.

"I don't really have a favorite," he mumbles as he crosses his arms, "I don't see how that's so important."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," the man groans, rubbing his temples like Thomas just gave him a headache, "We agreed on this. You were the one who asked for it, in case you forgot."

"I know," Thomas confirms, "I know, but I just can't stop thinking about… thinking about you. All the time. Things have changed. It's changed for me, because… I like you."

Well, that doesn't exactly sound very smart, very normal, very good, anything. He watches Minho's mouth twitch as he looks back at him, watches the unimpressed look on his face turn to irritated to sad to devastated, and Thomas feels like throwing up again.

"You like me."

"Yeah, yes, I-" he tries again and fails again, he wants to scream into his pillow and beg Minho to come back to bed, too, but neither are very liable options, right now, "I want more than sex. I want-"

"This isn't really fair, Thomas," the guitarist interrupts him, "You can't just do this. And I can't do this. Fuck, and I'm late, I have to-"

"I don't know how to describe it, Minho, please," he finds himself pleading, "I don't know what to call it. I just know it's different, and… I don't know."

The other man's avoiding looking him in the eyes now. He runs a hand over his face, and he's distant again, and he's moving further and further away, and Thomas isn't sure he'll be able to reach him anymore, soon, if this keeps happening. Minho's eyes are glazed over by the time he looks back at him again, pronouncing each word like it's poisonous.

"Well," he sighs, swinging his guitar over his shoulder, "I can't help you with that. Get back to me when you do."

And no, no, this can't be happening. Minho's turning around and heading towards the door, and Thomas doesn't want this to happen, he never wanted to break the man's heart all over again, so he hurries and falls over the edge of the bed trying to reach him, and he almost does. Almost.

"Sorry, please stay," he urges, "Stay with me, let's just forget all about it, I'm a fucking slinthead, I'm sorry, so, so sorry. Stay, you can fuck me in-"

"Thomas," Minho stops him, wrist in his grasp before he can move any closer, "Please just move out of the way."

Minho doesn't want to stay, so Thomas does swallows over that empty feeling in his mouth and in his chest and he does what he's asked, and soon enough, he's alone again, more alone than he can ever remember being. The guitarist is running out the door, and it's Thomas' fault he's late, so he does everything he can to force the water in his eyes to stay inside, while he grabs his things and runs back to his own hotel room like the biggest coward in the world.

He also texts Brenda on the way. He knows come drink with me isn't exactly the best greeting, and his best friend replies to him scarily fast with a who are you?, followed by what have you done to Thomas you imposter.

Thomas laughs, but everything feels sad and horrible. He asks her again, and she agrees, and he drinks until he can't stand up straight and Brenda has to physically hold him back from taking another sip, and then she practically carries him to his bed, like the big, useless fucking loser he is.

She doesn't ask about it in the morning, even though he can tell from her staring that she wants to. She doesn't ask on their next flight to Milan, either. And when he checks his phone, there's no new messages from hot guitarist, which suits him just fine. He tells himself that, anyways.

Thomas would like to say that he could get over what happened with Minho two months ago, but that would be a lie, and, well, we all know he isn't a good actor nor a good liar by now. He wishes he could say he's in control of his emotions, that he's mature, that he's normal about all of this, but he really, really isn't.

He keeps working, of course, just like he always does, but going back to working and eating and sleeping without having those lucky days where he gets to see Minho smile and gets Minho to touch him, that's exactly as hard as he feared it would be, harder than that.

There's only so many times a day he can check his phone and confirm that there's still zero messages on there, and only so many times a day he can go through every one of the band's social media accounts and find nothing out of the ordinary, either, without just wishing the next plane he's on will malfunction and plummet straight into the Pacific Ocean, or something. Any ocean, really, he's not picky.

He wishes he could say he isn't distracted, and that his big, stupid feelings don't hurt, but they do. It only gets worse as soon as he realizes that everyone else has started to notice his whole pathetic situation, too.

The crew is kind to him, kinder than he deserves, because he's starting to fuck up the simplest tasks, to the point where Winston has to step in when he freezes up, and that Jorge walks up to him once they've landed and suggests that maybe he should take a break. He refuses, though, because if Thomas doesn't keep working, then he'll just be rotting away in another hotel room again, his heart sinking to his gut and the smell of Minho's cologne long gone.

He knows he's being stupid about it. God, does he know. He knows he's being stubborn about it, too, and he looks at the other man's contact name for so long and almost taps on it and then chickens out again, and he looks at every new picture in his feed and feels like banging his head into a wall, because he really did just fuck up a good thing, a thing he never really did much to deserve in the first place, which only makes all of it even more impossible to move on from.

He isn't trying to move on, though, obviously. Not really. He looks at every post and every tour date, and he remembers the hurt in Minho's voice and his back as he walked away from him, and he remembers that promise he broke as soon as he made it in the first place.

Thomas is not good at this. If this is how badly break-ups hurt, then he doesn't know how other, normal people do it, and this isn't even a break-up, it never was.

Nevertheless, he continues and never speaks a word of it. He figures if he sucks it up long enough, he'll forget about it, eventually. It hasn't worked so far, especially not since he knows for a fact that Death Cure performed in Sydney again last night, and he's still thinking about it while he and Brenda are going through security, even though he shouldn't be.

"Okay, so, let's talk about it," the woman abruptly turns to him, just seconds after returning from the bathroom, "Something's going on with you."

Thomas blinks at her. He wonders if she'll be able to tell if he lies straight to her face. "Nothing's going on."

"You really expect me to believe that?" she huffs. Well, klunk. It was worth a shot.

"I'm just tired, Bren, I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologize, Thomas, please," his best friend goes on, sounding exasperated, "Listen, I understand if you don't want to tell me. I understand if it's private, but seriously, I'm worried about you. I've been worried about you since Seoul, and I didn't want to ask, because I figured you would tell me if you needed me, and I don't even know if I can help, but…"

Brenda sighs. Thomas thinks his heart just broke all over again.

"You don't have to do this alone," she eventually tells him, "Whatever it is. I just need you to know that I'm here if you need me. If you just want to get drunk again, that's fine, I'll do that with you, too. I'm not gonna push it. I just care about you too much to not try to talk to you."

And now, he thinks he can't breathe. Brenda gives him an assuring smile, as concern is written all over her face, and she squeezes his shoulder when he stands there gaping in silence, and she's about to go get another coffee, but, fuck, he doesn't know what to do.

"You know Death Cure, right?" he blurts out before he can stop himself, "The guitarist, Minho, he was in first class, uh, on my anniversary. And other times- but you remember, right?"

His best friend's brows furrow as she stares at him, but she nods, thank heavens, otherwise he might've spiraled even further. "I kind of started hooking up with him," he tells her in a whisper, trying to be subtle, he supposes, but Brenda gasps and nearly drops her latte in the process, so he should definitely be working on that skill, too.

"What the hell?!" she exclaims, "How long has this been going on?"

"Uh, I've kind of…" Thomas trails off, "It's been over a year, maybe. I think. It's been a long time."

"A year," Brenda says gravely, "You've been hooking up with a celebrity for a year and I had no idea! Were you ever planning to tell me about this?!"

He gives her a sheepish smile. Might as well be honest, for once. "Not really, no."

"Sorry, I'm-" the woman shakes her head, "I'm just shocked, is all. I really had no fucking idea. I assume this is what you were smiling about every time you were on your phone, then?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Holy shit," she mutters, and he can't really think of how to explain any further, so they walk in silence to their gate for a while, until she picks up the conversation again, "Okay, so, I'm right, then, something's happened?"

Thomas nods, regrettably so. "I screwed it up."

And it surprises him here, most of all, how she studies his face for a while, seemingly the one time she's not able to read his mind. "Somehow I feel like there's more to this than you're telling me."

He wishes there was. "That's what it is," he has to admit, "Back when we started doing this, I even asked him- I told him, this isn't a date, we're not a couple. I told him I didn't want that, and he agreed. And it was what I wanted, it was, I swear, until…"

Lucky for him, Brenda finishes his sentence for him with ease. "Until you wanted more."

"Yeah," he says, "Stupid."

The way his best friend hums, now, it doesn't exactly sounds like agreement. She's squeezing his shoulder again in comfort, but she purses her lips as she thinks, and then she hits him with the question that's really about to throw him for a loop.

"Well, what did he want?"

"What?" he hears himself squeak, embarrassingly so, but she doesn't mention it.

"Did you ask him if he wanted the same thing?" Brenda asks him patiently, "Do you know if he wants more, too? If he feels the same way?"

Thomas is rather, let's say, flabbergasted. He'll have to admit that, no, he didn't ask, he didn't think to, but he thought it was implied. "We argued about it and then he left. I'm pretty sure that means he doesn't feel the same. And he didn't sign up for me changing my feelings, so-"

"But did he say that?" she asks again, "Have you talked to him since Seoul?"

He gulps. "No."

"So, how do you know?" Brenda says, and he's taken aback, by just how much hope there's laced into her tone, "I obviously don't know what happened, exactly, but he makes you happy, doesn't he? You really like this guy. Am I right?"

That pretty much sums it up. He still hates that word, like, it's not enough to even begin to describe his feelings for Minho, but it's a substitute, for now.

"I do, Bren. He does. I think… I really, really like him," he admits it, and he laughs at himself, at just how ridiculous and idiotic and not normal he is, "It's scaring me how much I like him. I don't do this, I don't like people, I don't… I run away. When things get hard, I run away."

There's zero judgment in her eyes when she speaks again. "Feelings are scary, I know. Feelings are so fucking hard. But feelings are also just so good, Thomas. If he made you feel that happy, I don't see how it could be anything else but a good thing."

She's right about that, too. Screw her for being right about everything all the time.

"Yeah, well," he mutters, "It's too late to fix it now. Even if he wanted the same thing, it couldn't- I've been, like, ghosting him for two months. I'm an asshole. There's no way he'll ever want to speak to me again."

He can see it in Brenda's face that she doesn't believe him, that she wants to disagree, but she apparently decides not to. "Okay," is what she says instead, "You know where I am, if you want to talk about it more. Or cry on my shoulder, or drink to forget it. Any hour of the day."

Thomas smiles, because he really, truly is grateful. "Thank you, Bren."

"Anytime," she returns it, "And for what it's worth, I don't think it's ever too late."

"Huh?"

"I'm just saying, you won't know if he feels the same or not if you don't ask him," Brenda carries on, rolling her carry-on again with Thomas in her heels, just barely keeping up, "I think if you really, truly want something, it's worth taking a risk for. And then maybe you'll learn he doesn't feel the same, and it'll hurt like hell, but then you'll know, and you can start moving on. But maybe he'll want the same thing, too, and then I'll be here to say I told you so."

She grins as she finishes her sentence, and he chuckles, already getting choked up. But the words spin around in his brain, they do, and he's hearing them, but they're also distracting him, with the screen overview of all the departures of the day and the clear memory of how their next gig is in Orlando, and how he saw the group of them in the security queue and subtly ducked his head as they passed.

Thomas isn't sure he believes all those things Brenda's saying. And yet, something tells him to stop worrying about what he believes in.

So, he stops, and he stops his best friend in her tracks, too, pulling her in for a tight hug, trying to breathe again. She's clearly surprised and almost drops her coffee again, but she returns it nonetheless.

"I love you," Thomas tells her, "Have I ever told you that?"

"You don't tell me nearly enough," she jokes, but he agrees.

"I'll do better," he assures her, "I love you."

Brenda's smile is confused when they finally pull apart. "I know, dummy."

Thomas nods. "I have to go. I need to go."

He's about to explain further, he should say something less vague, something better, but she just nods in response, seeming just as determined as he is. "Give me your suitcase."

"What? Why?"

"So you don't have to run with a fucking suitcase, you idiot, now hand it over," she rolls her eyes at him, and he does what she asks, and she grins at him, then, almost gleaming with pride, "Oh, I can't wait to hear about this. Don't you dare miss boarding."

"I won't," Thomas rushes, not even know if that's a promise he can actually keep, but he says it, "I love you!"

And then, Thomas runs. He runs for his fucking life, in fact, faster than he's ever done it, even when he's been late for work and just barely missed the gate before it closed, and he's probably looking like a headless chicken running around in circles every time he has to check the departure screen again, but he doesn't care anymore.

Of course, the gate for the Orlando flight has to be, fucking, on the opposite side of the airport, basically, and he's arguing with the security staff and fumbling to show his ID before they finally let him through, and then he curses himself again, as the screens now announce to him that the flight he's running to has just begun boarding.

He is so fucking screwed. He almost thinks it, that he should turn back around like the coward he's always been, but his lungs are burning and his feet are sore and he can suddenly make out a familiar form in the distance, the form of a man he wants nothing more than to just run to, jump right into his arms, if he would allow it. He doesn't jump, per say, but he does cross the distance faster than he thought he was capable of, finally using his voice for actual words.

"Minho!" he yells out, and he sounds terribly desperate, because he is, but it doesn't matter than everyone at the gate turns to look at him, because Minho looks at him, too, in a state of utter shock. That's all that matters.

The rest of the band is also staring at him, facial expressions varying from unimpressed to surprised to mildly suspicious to pissed off. Thomas coughs, fighting to breathe and clutch his knees before he falls over from exhaustion.

"Thomas," Minho's voice blesses him again, he almost wants to cry with how much he's missed it, "What are you doing here?"

Honestly, Thomas is fucking terrified, right about now. He's not sure how to read Minho's face or the tone of his voice, an abundance of conflicted emotions flashing over his features, and Thomas' heart is pounding, only now realizing that he got himself this far without actually considering what he was going to say.

Brenda's words are echoing in the back of his mind, but it's so much harder to conjure them in his mouth. Feelings are hard. Love is so fucking hard. Thomas is terrified that this is going to be the worst day of his life, and that Minho will walk away from him for good, because he thinks, no, he's pretty sure that he's in love with him.

And, no, he has no idea what he's going to do if the other man doesn't feel the same. Probably take up his best friend's offer and drink until he's unconscious. Cry for another two months, probably more. But he's here, now, and this beautiful man is waiting for him to do something, so he should probably do just that.

And then everything will change, or it won't. Thomas doesn't know how to feel about it just yet. He's been walking around with these feelings on the inside for too long, though, maybe Brenda was right about that.

"It's green," he hears himself blurt out, and he might actually be useless, because Minho's brows are furrowing as he looks back at him.

"What?"

"My favorite color," Thomas clears his throat, "It's green."

If looks could kill, he'd be dead already, with how Newt is glaring at him. He deserves that. Harriet and Sonya are looking more than a little curious, and Teresa, he has no idea, honestly, her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses and a magazine, seeming thoroughly uninterested in what's going on around her.

Minho snorts out a short laugh. "Okay."

"Sorry," Thomas says instinctively, "I need to tell you something. You're always the one doing all the talking, so now I'm going to talk."

He wouldn't blame the other man for cutting him off and walking away right then and there, but he doesn't. "Okay," Minho repeats with a nod, and so Thomas keeps going, holding his breath all the while.

"I still don't know if I can describe how I feel, because I'm not good at… feeling anything, really, but I'm gonna try, anyways," he starts, "And I'm probably going to sound like a total slinthead, but someone told me that if you want something, it's worth taking a risk for. And I'm not good at taking risks, either. I never do. But you're worth taking a million risks for, so…"

A hesitant smile sneaks onto Minho's lips, just barely there, but it's enough for Thomas to keep going. He wouldn't call it bravery, nor stupidity. He knows that his feelings finally have somewhere to go, and he lets them.

"I'm sorry," he continues, "I know I asked for no strings attached, because that's what I thought I wanted, and you didn't sign up for anything more than that, so what I'm doing is unfair. And I understand if you don't want this, and I'll get over it… maybe, I don't know, but whatever, but I need you to know that I don't just like you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sonya clasping a hand over her mouth, Harriet grabbing her hand with both of hers, eyeing the two of them back and forth in anticipation. Newt isn't glaring at him anymore, but he's still got a frown on his face, crossing his arms as he waits. Teresa remains entirely unfazed.

Minho, though, fuck, he doesn't even know. His eyes haven't left him, and he's so beautiful that Thomas could just drop dead on the spot, and he doesn't dare to fool himself into thinking that the other man actually looks hopeful. He looks more than a little surprised, and Thomas is surprised at himself, too, unable to stop.

"Sure, I didn't want a relationship at first, I'm barely even good at maintaining the one friendship I have, and I don't know you as well as… fuck, anyone else, but I want to know you," he confesses, "I want to know every single thing there is to know about you, because the things I do know, I love every one of them. I know how you look when you wake up in the mornings, that you sleep with three pillows and that you always bring your own shampoo to hotels, that even just one splash of milk in coffee disgusts you, so you probably hate that all I drink is iced latte."

Minho huffs a laugh again, although the sound is slightly more wet, this time around. "I don't hate it."

Thomas smiles back, because there isn't anything he'd rather do. "And I know that you're passionate about everything you do. I know that you're so annoyingly talented and that you're kind of the only person that can make me laugh."

Albeit the guitarist looks like he wants to protest, Thomas is still racing to catch up with his brain. "I know that you're kinder than this stupid world deserves, honestly. I know that you spend time with every fan you meet and that you tip every waiter and make small talk, and that you like it, that you like hearing what other people think, that you like hearing what I think, I have no idea why, but…" he falters, "And I know it for sure, now. And I'm so scared, because I've never done this before. But I know that I'm in love with you, and I just want you to know that."

A soft gasp falls over Minho's lips, then, and Thomas' stomach drops. He's really fucking done it now, and he has no idea what'll happen.

"If you don't feel the same way, I get it, I do. I didn't want anyone to know me before, but I want you to know me now. I don't just want to see you in bed, I want to see you everywhere, I want-" he hears his own voice crack, but he's always been stubborn, "I don't think I've ever wanted anything as much I've wanted this. Wanted you. Wanted to experience things with you and exist with you. And even if this is the last thing I'm ever going to say to you, well- I just hope you know that's how I see you. Like, you're everything."

He feels like this is a good of a place as any to stomp the breaks and shut his stupid mouth, so he does, even though every nerve of his is screaming in anxiety, waiting for Minho to say something.

The other man doesn't look away, he doesn't turn away. He does bite his lip, though. He does open and close and open his mouth again, numerous times, voice trembling when he finally breaks the silence.

"It's been a long, long time since I've felt like this, Thomas. Since I've felt what I feel for you. Somewhere along the way, I just…" Minho starts, "I was counting the days and the hours and minutes and the fucking seconds until I'd see you again. I'd find any excuse to see you again, no matter how short. And I'm just so, so scared."

He laughs sadly, and Thomas can relate a little too much.

"I didn't think I'd ever fall in love again. I didn't plan on falling in love with you, but I did, so I guess we're in the same boat," the man carries on, "I wanted to learn everything about you and hear everything you had to say and do stupid, mundane klunk with you, because you make me feel so shucking happy, you know? Because you're entirely too good. And that's why I can't do this."

It hits Thomas like a sucker punch. "What?"

"I told you," Minho says quietly, "I ruin things. I ruin people. And I want this, I want this so much it just… hurts, but I can't let you come this close, because then I'll just ruin you, too, and I can't let that happen. You mean too much to me."

There's four noises of protest behind them, and Thomas joins them, before they can get another word in.

"I don't believe that's true. I know that's not true, and I wish you could see yourself like I do, see how good you make me and everyone else," he insists, "And I know I'm terrible at this, but I want to try. That's all I want. Every day I spend with you feels like I just won the shucking lottery."

Minho's brown eyes are conflicted and watery, still, and he sniffs, but his smile has grown bigger, and that's a blessing, as well. Thomas would like to keep making him smile every day.

"What if it doesn't work out?" the guitarist hesitates. Thomas hates even thinking about that possibility, he refuses it. Nevertheless, he doesn't care.

"I'd rather have it crash and burn than feel nothing at all," he tells him, never more certain about anything before, "I've spent so long feeling nothing, and you make me feel everything. That's worth risking it for, I think."

The silence is almost suffocating now. He can feel more than four pairs of eyes on them, but he doesn't care about any nosy spectators, he just cares about Minho, who nods.

"You'd make a good lawyer," he muses, "Or a motivational speaker."

Thomas huffs. "Someone did once tell me that I drive a hard bargain."

Minho hums at the memory. "A relationship would change things. We'd have to do couple things. Are you gonna take me to Paris?"

"I'll take you to Paris five hundred times," he responds with zero hesitation, "Scratch that, a thousand times, if you want. And I won't even complain, not even once."

The other man tilts his head, moving just two steps closer. "That sounds pretty boring."

Thomas is quick to correct his fatal mistake, shaking his head with determination. "I'll complain all the way there. I won't stop complaining, not even for second, you'll have to listen to that every single day."

Minho grins, and Thomas feels like he could fly, all by himself. "I like the sound of that."

"You guys are adorable and all," Teresa joins in, finally standing up, voice filled with sarcasm, "But you better wrap this up before we miss this plane, or I'm going to curse the both of you for all time."

"Teresa!" Sonya and Harriet exclaim at the same time.

"What now?"

"Just give them a minute," Harriet reasons, "We're not in a hurry."

"You're ruining their big rom-com moment!" Sonya scolds the drummer.

"Ugh, whatever, I don't even care anymore," Teresa groans, "You're all making my hangover worse, I'm going in. And you can bet your asses I'm leaving without you if you don't hurry up."

With those words the woman is off, and all the attention is still on Thomas and Minho, but again, he doesn't care. Definitely not when Minho laughs and decides to finally close the gap between them, bringing Thomas' heart back to life again with the touch of his lips and the touch of his hands.

He sighs happily and pulls the man closer with a grip on his belt, urgently so, and he's rewarded with Minho laughing against his mouth, and everything is just kind of beautiful and perfect, he thinks.

He can make out some scattered applause, and he's terribly disappointed when the other man ends the kiss, but God, he hopes Minho won't ever stop smiling at him like that. He promises that to himself, to do everything in his power to keep that smile on his face.

"Alright, loverboy, I hate to intrude," Newt speaks up, clearly amused, "I'm happy for you, truly. But Teresa did have a point, I really want to get going, if you don't mind."

Minho nods, like he just remembered where they were, and Thomas gives Newt an apologetic smile, hoping that will suffice. In fact, boarding is about to close, so they are actually in a hurry. Oops. And he really is a piece of klunk, because the overview screen just confirmed his worst nightmare.

"I'm gonna miss boarding," he says, "Sorry, sorry, I should go, fuck."

"Go," the guitarist tells him, warm, steady hands on his chest again, "Where are you going?"

"Doesn't matter," Thomas says, "I'll come to your next show. I'll meet you there."

It's a plan he makes up on the spot, and it's dramatic as hell, he knows, because he can and will just text him the moment he's back in another hotel room, but whatever. It makes Minho smile wide, so whatever.

"Deal."

They seal it with another kiss, and he doesn't have time to watch Minho as he goes, but he does, and then he's running right back and just manages to get on the plane at the last minute, by some goddamn miracle. The crew is staring at him like he's a mad man, and he probably looks the part, too, but he can't wipe the grin off his face, he feels giddy, and Brenda's smile is smug as he finally sits down.

"So," she says slowly, "How'd it go?"

"You can say it, I know you want to."

His best friend's eyes light up immediately. "I told you so."

"You did," Thomas agrees in a sigh, "You're right about everything and I'm never going to doubt you ever again. I owe you my life. Tell me what I can do to repay you."

Brenda couldn't sound more excited. "How about getting me that cute drummer's number?"

Thomas doesn't think he's ever laughed harder in his entire life. "Consider it done."

He keeps that promise as soon as they land, and hot guitarist lights up his phone screen in a matter of minutes, and he's never felt better. And he knows everything's about to change again, but he's definitely not mad about it.