Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kibum sits up, groaning as a sharp pain stabs through his skull. Light pours through a window that he’s certain that didn’t exist in his hotel room before. The blinds are half-open, letting in the ruthless glare of the Vegas sun, and it feels like every ray is targeting his soul.

His temples throb, his tongue tastes like cotton, and his eyes feel glued shut by whatever crimes he committed against sleep.

What the hell happened last night?

He groans, blinking against the light. His mouth is dry, his vision blurry. The hotel ceiling above him isn’t familiar—neither are the patterned walls or the cheap painting of a desert landscape hung slightly crooked.

And this bed. This is definitely not the one he checked into. The sheets smell like… cologne. Not his.

“What the...” he mutters aloud, voice hoarse. He pushes himself upright with effort, glancing around the strange room. Clothes are scattered across the floor like a tornado swept through. Two tuxedos, matching down to the lapels. Pairs of shoes. Socks that don’t match. One white veil. A bouquet of plastic roses.

Kibum's eyes narrow at the chaos. A veil? Plastic roses?

Did someone get married in here?

He pulls at the blanket covering him, but it resists. With a grunt, he yanks harder—and hears a deep, irritated grumble.

Then a voice:

“It’s cold here, Kibum. Can you not take all the blankets?”

His blood runs cold.

That voice.

No. Absolutely not.

Kibum turns around slowly, eyes widening in horror.

Lying in bed beside him, hair tousled and skin bare from the waist up, is none other than Choi Minho—fellow SHINee member, eternal source of playful chaos, occasional annoyance, and current bedmate.

Minho groggily sits up, his hair sticking out in odd directions. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a tie that’s hanging around his neck like a very inappropriate necklace.

Kibum stares. He’s seen Minho shirtless countless times. Photoshoots. Dorm life. Fanservice. But this—this...is different.

There’s something about the morning light glinting off Minho’s collarbone that feels illegal.

Minho squints at Kibum, then smirks. “You look ridiculous.”

Kibum's jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“You have pillow lines on your face and your hair’s doing that weird poofy thing it does when you sleep too hard.”

Kibum blinks. “You’re shirtless and wearing a tie. And I look ridiculous?”

Minho just shrugs and yawns, stretching like a smug jungle cat. “You were the one trying to hog the blankets.”

Kibum scrambles out of the bed—too quickly. His head spins violently, and he tumbles to the floor with a loud thud.

“Ow.”

From above, Minho peers down at him. “Smooth.”

“I swear to god, Minho—if this is some kind of prank—”

“It’s not,” Minho says. “But… uh, Kibum?”

Kibum glares up at him from the floor, still tangled in the bedsheets. “What now?”

Minho holds something up. A folded document, slightly crumpled, with gold foil edging.

Kibum frowns and crawls onto the bed. He takes the paper and stares at it.

A marriage certificate.

Clark County Marriage License Bureau.

Bride: Choi Minho

Groom: Kim Kibum

Their names. Written in bright, glittery cursive.

"Hey- why am I the bride??!!" Minho scoffs at the piece of paper.

Kibum blocks out Minhos endless rant as he sinks into his subconsious. His hands start to tremble.

Sixteen Hours Earlier

SHINee had just wrapped promotions for 1 of 1, and the exhaustion hit like a freight train. After weeks of dancing, flying, filming, and smiling through every camera flash, they were running on fumes.

Their solution?

Las Vegas.

It wasn’t a logical choice, more of a collective, desperate decision. A chance to breathe. A chance to be stupid without a headline attached.

Sin City. Land of glitter, questionable choices, and neon-soaked nights.

Kibum had barely stepped into his hotel room when he collapsed face-first onto the bed. He groaned into the overpriced pillows, savoring the rare silence.

For a few blissful minutes, it felt like he could exist without needing to perform.

Naturally, that peace was shattered by a knock on his door.

He peeled himself off the bed with a sigh and opened it to find Jinki beaming at him.

“You look terrible,” Jinki chirped. “Vacation suits you!”

Kibum narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Let’s go out. This is our first time in Vegas! We should see the Strip. Everyone says it's where the magic happens.”

Kibum stared.

“The Strip?” he echoed.

“Come on,” Jinki pleaded. “Let’s do something fun before we crash.”

Kibum considered slamming the door in his face.

Instead, he sighed. “Give me an hour.”

Fourteen Hours Earlier

The limo glided down Las Vegas Boulevard, sleek and silent under the bright chaos of billboards and flashing signs.

Kibum sat in the middle, gazing out the window, drinking in the ridiculousness of it all. The Eiffel Tower. A pirate ship. A fake volcano. Americans really had no chill.

His eyes drifted sideways to Minho, who was lounging comfortably beside him, laughing at something Taemin said. Kibum looked away quickly, annoyed at himself for noticing how good Minho looked in a blazer.

Focus, Kibum. You’re here to unwind. Not develop a crisis.

The car rolled to a stop outside The Mirage. A flurry of movement followed,doors opening, feet hitting pavement, voices rising with excitement.

Kibum stepped out, blinking at the enormous neon sign overhead.

He felt small. And somehow alive.

Before he could get too poetic about it, Jonghyun nudged him hard.

“Earth to Kibum. You zoning out already?”

Kibum scowled. “I’m appreciating architecture, thank you.”

The casino’s interior hit them like a wall of noise and light. Slot machines chimed. Laughter echoed. The air smelled like sugar and desperation.

Kibum clung to his composure, even as he was dragged into the chaos.

Inside the lounge, Minho handed him a drink—something neon orange with a pineapple slice and a tiny umbrella.

“Mango margarita,” Minho said proudly. “Matches your vibe.”

Kibum raised an eyebrow but took a sip. It was delicious.

“How does it feel to be on hiatus?” Minho asked, leaning against the bar. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to sleep for a week.”

Kibum twirled his straw. “It’s… weird. Good weird. Like we don’t have to be versions of ourselves right now.”

Minho nodded slowly. “Exactly. We can just be… us.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Minho smiled—lopsided, boyish, far too endearing for Kibum’s peace of mind.

“You’re staring again.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Kibum downed the rest of his drink just to avoid responding.

Jinki appeared like a human alarm clock, carrying two cocktails and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Bartender made this one wrong. Who wants it?” he asked, setting the glass between them.

Kibum reached for it.

Minho reached at the same time.

Their fingers brushed.

Neither of them pulled away.

Back to Present

Kibum stares at the certificate.

Married. To Minho.

Legally.

His phone buzzes. A message from Jinki.

Jinki: WHERE ARE YOU GUYS??? We’re meeting for breakfast. Also someone sent a photo of you two kissing in a wedding chapel?? Tell me that was Photoshop. PLEASE tell me it was Photoshop.

Minho leans over. “We should probably tell them.”

Kibum glares at him. “Tell them what, exactly? That we committed to a legally binding union on three margaritas and a Celine Dion ballad?”

Minho grins. “Exactly that.”

Kibum groans, faceplanting into a pillow. “I am never drinking again.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, I’m officially accusing you,” Kibum declares, standing over the tangled heap. “Or maybe Taemin! You two are definitely cooking up some secret prank while I was passed out!” He waves his hands wildly like a mad scientist unveiling a conspiracy. “There’s no way this just... happened.”

Minho struggles, snorting as he peels the blanket off his head like a sloth reluctantly waking up. “Bro, I’m just as clueless as you!" Minho raises his hands up defensively.

Kibum narrows his eyes and leans in with the intensity of a game show host demanding answers. “You do know something. I can tell by the way you’re trying not to laugh like you know a secret. Come on, spill it.”

Just then -knock knock knock- like the universe timed this perfectly.

Key starts to shuffle toward the door with a suspicious, ninja-like grace, but Minho’s quick to intercept, pulling the door open.

There stand Taemin and Jonghyun, but they look like they just fell out of a disco time machine: Taemin’s rocking a sparkly pirate hat with a feather so large it could have its own zip code, and Jonghyun’s got neon leg warmers that clash spectacularly with his otherwise normal outfit. Both are grinning like they’re hiding a ridiculous secret.

Taemin snickers, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders. “Well, you clearly had a wild time.” He’s cut off by Jonghyun smacking his arm, hard.
“Ow! Dude, quit it!” Taemin complains, hopping on one foot like a child denied candy.

Jonghyun rolls his eyes like he’s done this routine a thousand times. “Seriously though, where did you disappear to? We’ve been calling you for hours.”

Key and Minho exchange looks so confused they might as well have question marks floating above their heads.

Minho squints. “I don’t remember much... just a bar? Then I woke up here.”

Jonghyun’s face screws up in a mix of suspicion and disbelief. “What bar?”

Eleven Hours Earlier:

Kibum’s already a walking disaster zone — vision spinning like a kaleidoscope on fast-forward. As he tries to stand, he immediately stumbles like he’s on a bouncy castle. Just before face-planting, Minho catches his shoulder with the steady grip of a lifeguard saving a flailing swimmer.
“Careful there,” Minho murmurs, but Kibum’s brain is doing the Cha-Cha Slide, so the words are more like background noise.
“Huh? What?!” Kibum yells, arms flailing wildly, nearly knocking over a cocktail waitress balancing a mountain of drinks.

Jinki suddenly appears, clutching both Jonghyun and Taemin like they’re the last snacks at a party.
“Okay, please can we go?” Jinki pleads, eyes wide but voice panicked. “Taemin’s about to gamble away SM’s entire budget again.”
Taemin whines like a toddler denied a second cookie. “But the blackjack table needs me...”
Jinki clamps a hand on Taemin’s mouth like a pro wrestling move. “Nope. We’re leaving before they ruin everything.”

Kibum blinks like a confused owl in a disco, the scene around him swirling with neon lights, clinking chips, and the overwhelming scent of cheap perfume mixed with stale smoke.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Minho asks softly, hand still holding him upright like a human walking cane.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Kibum insists, though his legs don’t agree. He tries to flash a confident smile, but it looks more like a nervous grimace.

Minho tugs him gently toward the exit. “Fresh air will help. Trust me.”

Outside, the Vegas Strip blares neon in every color except maybe “subtle.” The sidewalk thrums with people who look like they might be on another planet—or maybe just very intense tourists.

The buzz of bass-heavy music and distant laughter makes the night feel like a surreal dream sequence.

Kibum glances at Minho, the guy who somehow makes this chaotic mess seem a little less scary and maybe even kinda exciting.

“Hey...” Kibum mumbles, head ducked, hands shoved deep in his pockets like they’re trying to escape his nervousness.

Minho raises an eyebrow but waits patiently.

Kibum exhales and mutters, “You’ve been weirdly quiet tonight.”

Minho chuckles, fingers playing with a frayed thread on his sleeve. “Yeah, well, you usually complain nonstop. This is a nice change.”

Kibum scuffs his dusty blue hair. “Nervous? Me? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Minho laughs softly. “Uh huh.”

They walk in a tense silence, the quiet feeling louder than the neon signs screaming “DRINK!” and “GAMBLE!” all around them.

Suddenly, Minho stops, scanning the street. “Where are we?”

Kibum looks around, no flashy casinos, just dingy bars and weird little shops selling things like “glow in the dark socks” and “authentic Elvis impersonator wigs.”

“I dunno,” Kibum admits, eyes wide with a panicky spark.

Minho grins and tugs Kibum’s hand toward a rickety bar with a flickering neon sign that reads “Definitely Not a Front for Anything”.

“At least they have chairs,” Minho says.

Chapter Text

Lee Jinki had experienced a lot of strange mornings in his idol career. Waking up in a Thai jungle with mosquito bites in mysterious places? Sure. Accidentally elbowing BoA in the ribs during an award show and having to give a tearful apology with flowers? Done. But nothing—nothing..compared to waking up in a hotel room in Las Vegas and realizing he had no idea where his members were.

He stood in the middle of the room, pale and frozen, surrounded by takeout containers, an upturned suitcase, and one suspiciously sticky floor tile.

His voice cracked as he whispered into the silence, “This is fine. I’m the leader. This is fine.”

He paced once, then twice. Then collapsed dramatically onto the edge of the hotel bed. “I’m going to die. SM is going to kill me. NCT will be SHINee by noon. They’ll hand out our albums at small discount stores for cents!

His phone buzzed.

Director Kwon: Status?

Jinki’s soul left his body.

With shaking fingers, he replied: Everyone is accounted for. Just, uh, sleeping. Vegas time.

A lie. A bold, full-lunged, godless lie.

He immediately started calling again. First Jonghyun. No answer. Then Kibum. Straight to voicemail. Minho? Still nothing. Taemin? “This number is not available.” Which either meant Taemin blocked him or his phone was dead, which it always was..

Jinki briefly considered crying. Instead, he stood, grabbed his keys, and muttered, “I’ll just retrace their steps. How far could they have gone in one night?”

Then he remembered. This was SHINee. And this was Vegas.

Elsewhere…

“This is a PR disaster!” Kibum screeched. “This is a career-ender! And you—” he whirled on Jonghyun, waving the phone like a weapon, “—why didn’t you stop us?!”

“I was asleep!” Jonghyun defended. “Y’all snuck out after I told you not to go back to the bar! I was a responsible adult!”

Minho collapsed on the couch, face buried in his hands.

Kibum paced again, muttering, “I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick. The company’s going to kill us. Jinki’s going to kill us.”

Just as the words left his mouth, Jonghyun’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

They all looked at it like it might explode.

Kibum leaned over and picked it up, then read the screen aloud.

“FROM: JINKI
‘Why aren’t any of you answering your phones. I told the SM director the wedding photo was a prank. DO NOT POST ANYTHING ELSE. I am dying. I am dying.’”

But the image… oh, the image.

There was Kibum, wearing what appeared to be a rhinestone jacket, sunglasses, and holding Minho’s face like a man who’d just won a prize pig at the fair. Minho, shirt unbuttoned halfway, tie around his head like a bandana, was grinning like a fool, lips firmly pressed to Kibum’s in the middle of what looked unmistakably like a wedding kiss.

And standing between them?

Jackson Wang. In a white rhinestone Elvis jumpsuit, doing finger guns at the camera.

“NO,” Minho said, recoiling. “NOPE. NO. ABSOLUTELY—”

Kibum stared at the screen like it was cursed.

“What. The. Hell,” he whispered.

“Okay. Okay,” Jonghyun said slowly, holding his hands up like he was handling a wild animal. “Let’s not panic…”

“Let’s not panic?!” Kibum snapped. “I married Minho. In Vegas. In front of Jackson freaking Wang!”

“Oh my god,” Minho said suddenly. “Do you think it’s legal?”

“What?”

“The wedding. Like… did we actually…”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Kibum snapped. “We are not legally married. This is Vegas. There are themed drive-thrus and alien chapels. There’s no way this counts.”

“Jackson Wang was the officiant,” Jonghyun said, almost reverently.

“Do you think he’s licensed?” Minho asked, in genuine horror.

“He’s definitely licensed,” Taemin says, far too casually for the situation.

All three of them snapped their heads in his direction.

Taemin blinked at them innocently. “What? Jackson posted a vlog last year where he got ordained as a joke. For content.”

“FOR CONTENT?!” Kibum howled.

“Oh my god,” Minho repeated, going pale. “Oh my god. Im married to Kibum?”

Chapter Text

Kibum stares at the certificate.

Married. To Minho.

Legally.

His phone buzzes again. He ignores it. Everything feels too bright. The air, too loud. His heartbeat thumps against his ribs like a drumline.

“Minho,” Kibum says slowly, “we need to fix this.”

Minho doesn’t respond immediately. He’s still holding the certificate like it might start talking. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“Like, now.”

“Okay, okay!” Minho sets the certificate down carefully on the edge of the hotel desk, as if it’s made of glass and not a cosmic mistake wrapped in glitter paper. “We just—what do people do when this happens?”

Kibum’s already pacing. “They cry. They panic. They write Taylor Swift songs or something I DONT KNOW."

“No, I mean legally.”

Kibum glares at him, whirling like a storm. “You’re asking me about legalities? I can barely function. I just found out I’m married to you!”

Minho raises his hands in defense. “You think I planned this?! You think I wanted to..”

He stops.

The room goes still.

Kibum’s voice drops. “Finish that sentence.”

Minho looks away. “I’m calling the front desk.”

Minho grabs the hotel phone with shaky fingers and hits 0. Kibum listens as Minho clears his throat and somehow manages to sound calm when the concierge answers.

“Hi, uh… yeah. Hi. I had a question. Hypothetically, if two people, um, maybe got married last night... is there a place in Vegas where they can..like... un-marry?”

Taemin, seated cross-legged on the carpet with his phone out, looks up and whispers loudly, “It’s called an annulment.”

“Annulment,” Minho repeats into the phone, nodding. “Right. That. Is there a place for that?”

Kibum resists the urge to strangle him with a pillow.

Minho nods slowly as the person on the other end begins rattling off directions. He scribbles something on a notepad, thanking them like this is an ordinary tourist inquiry and not an existential crisis in progress.

He hangs up and turns to Kibum. “There’s a courthouse. Just off the Strip. They deal with this kind of thing all the time.”

Kibum blinks. “This kind of thing?”

“Yeah,” Minho says, sheepish. “Apparently, annulments are... popular. In Vegas.”

There’s a short silence before Kibum mutters, “Wait. Our luggage. It’s still at the first hotel.”

Minho’s eyes widen. “Shit.”

“I am not,” Kibum starts, already standing, “walking into a courthouse dressed like a groom with glitter on my neck.”

“Technically,” Taemin says from the floor, “you’re both grooms.”

Jonghyun groans. “We didn’t pack extra clothes either. Just our toothbrushes.”

“Why didn’t you guys change?” Kibum snaps as he notices that even they are still in last night’s outfits—Jonghyun in an open black shirt with rhinestones down the sleeves and Taemin in an electric blue suit jacket over a mesh top.

Jonghyun shrugs, brushing a hand through his mess of curls. “We also woke up in this hotel. Just... not in a bed with one another. And not as hungover. Also? Our key cards stopped working after checkout.”

“So, what,” Kibum says flatly. “We all just walk around the Strip like the final scene of a discount Broadway musical?”

“Basically,” Jonghyun mutters, coming out of the bathroom with his sleeves rolled up and his hair still damp from a panicked shower. “We clean up, we go. We fix this. We never speak of it again.”

“Agreed,” everyone mumbles in reluctant unison.

The cab smells like spearmint, burnt vinyl, and whatever fast food the last passenger left behind. It squeaks slightly as it turns onto Las Vegas Boulevard, tires groaning under the weight of four grown men in rumpled formalwear squeezed into the backseat like the aftermath of a failed magic trick.

Kibum sits in the middle, arms crossed, shoulders stiff, trying not to touch Minho but inevitably brushing his thigh every time the car hits a bump. Minho doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice. Or he’s pretending.

Jonghyun is on the far left, pressed up against the window, sunglasses low on his nose, sipping from a bottle of Smartwater like it contains divine answers.

Taemin’s on the right, legs half up on the seat, eating gumdrops from a plastic bag like it’s a perfectly normal morning.

The driver glances in the rearview mirror, taking in the full visual: tuxes. Sunglasses. Wild hair. Sparkles. A tiara on the floor by Taemin’s feet.

“…So,” the cab driver says slowly, “bachelor party?”

“Sort of,” Minho mutters.

“More like accidental honeymoon,” Taemin chirps.

Kibum snaps, “Do you have to answer?”

“Sorry,” Taemin says, popping another gumdrop in his mouth. “I’m just saying. The vibes are confusing.”

The cab driver wisely chooses not to comment further.

They ride in silence for a while. The Strip passes by in smears of neon and sunscreen-slick tourists. None of them has said much since piling into the cab—showered, barely, but still dressed in their crumpled tuxedos and varying levels of shame. The morning sun is too loud. Everything is too loud.

Kibum’s hangover throbs behind his eyes like a nightclub strobe. He resents everything—the way Minho keeps shifting slightly closer, the way Jonghyun smells like fancy shampoo, the way Taemin looks fine. Too fine. He doesn’t even look hungover.

“I think I’m going to throw myself into the Bellagio fountains,” Kibum mutters.

“Make sure someone records it,” Jonghyun mumbles.

Then Jonghyun says quietly, “Okay, I think I remember something.”

Three heads whip toward him.

“After the casino,” he begins, rubbing his temples, “we left because Jinki made us, right? But you—” he points at Kibum and Minho, “—you two disappeared after that. I remember turning around and you were just gone.”

Kibum’s brow furrows. “Wait. We went somewhere. Didn’t we end up in a bar that looked like a bowling alley?”

Minho blinks. “Yes! Yes. It had... glow-in-the-dark drinks and a jukebox that only played 80s power ballads.”

Taemin gasps. “The dive bar with the mechanical shark! You rode it!”

“What?!” Kibum yells, half-horrified. “I would never—”

“You did,” Minho confirms, trying not to smile. “You challenged a group of frat boys to a ‘shark duel.’ You won.”

“Oh my god,” Kibum groans, sinking lower in his seat. “I’m filing for two annulments. One for the marriage, and one for my dignity.”

Jonghyun laughs despite himself. “I do remember someone singing Celine Dion at some point.”

“That was Minho,” Taemin says without hesitation.

Minho looks up, betrayed. “You said I sounded good!”

“You did,” Taemin replies. “Like a drunk angel screaming underwater.”

The cab driver makes a face but doesn’t speak.

The moment softens, like a collective exhale. They’ve remembered enough to paint the edges of the disaster: a neon-soaked blur of shark rides, power ballads, and whatever twisted path led two of them to a wedding chapel with Jackson Wang in a rhinestone jumpsuit.

The cab driver clears his throat. “Okay, I know I said I wasn’t gonna ask more questions, but I have got to ask—”

“Please don’t,” Kibum says without turning.

Minho leans back with a sigh. “We’re all deeply confused, sir.”

The driver chuckles and merges into the next lane. “Man. I thought I’d seen some stuff. This city...”

They ride in silence for a moment, the weight of memory fragments pressing down like an itchy wool blanket.

Kibum’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “Did it feel like a joke?”

The others glance at him, confused.

Minho’s eyes flicker sideways. “What do you mean?”

Kibum’s jaw tightens. “I don’t know. The whole thing. It should’ve felt funny. But now that I remember more... it didn’t feel that funny. It felt...”

He trails off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

Minho doesn’t respond. But his hand shifts on the seat beside Kibum’s, fingers brushing his ever so slightly.

Neither of them pulls away.

Taemin, oblivious or pretending to be, hums quietly under his breath.

“Near... far... wherever you are…”

“Taemin,” Kibum growls.

“Sorry.”

The cab slows to a stop in front of a squat, sun-bleached municipal building nestled between a vape shop and a pawn store that proudly advertises “authentic Civil War sabers” and “gently used engagement rings.”

The sign outside reads:
CLARK COUNTY MARRIAGE LICENSE BUREAU / ANNULMENTS

The letters are faded. The 'G' in "MARRIAGE" is hanging by a screw, dangling like it’s trying to make a run for it.

No one moves.

The four of them sit in the cab, staring blankly at the building like it might bite.

“Well,” Taemin says, crinkling his gumdrop bag and shoving it back into his jacket pocket, “this is definitely where dreams come to die.”

Jonghyun grunts, sliding his sunglasses back onto his face. “Let’s get this over with.”

They climb out one by one. Minho’s tie is still hanging off his neck like a badge of dishonor. Kibum pauses on the sidewalk, staring up at the glass door like it personally offended him.

“I feel like I’m walking into a funeral.”

“Technically,” Taemin chirps, “it is the end of a very short-lived marriage.”

“That you helped cause,” Kibum mutters, stepping inside.

The lobby is aggressively beige, from the walls to the tiled floor to the one sad potted plant in the corner that looks like it gave up sometime in 2003. A flat-screen TV mounted on the wall plays a muted slideshow of local attractions. Onscreen, a newlywed couple smiles joyfully under a neon sign that says “Forever Starts Here!”

Kibum stops dead in his tracks.

Minho, behind him, follows his gaze and winces. “Oh no.”

“Forever,” Kibum repeats flatly. “Perfect.”

There’s a small line at the counter. An elderly couple fills out paperwork nearby, the woman humming cheerfully while her husband double-checks their forms. Behind them, a pair of tourists in flip-flops are taking selfies beside a giant cutout of Elvis in a tuxedo.

Minho tugs Kibum gently forward. “Come on. It’s almost our turn.”

They approach the counter where a bored clerk with rhinestone glasses barely glances up.

“Name?” she asks, nails clicking against the keyboard.

“Uh...Choi Minho,” Minho says.

“Kim Kibum,” Kibum adds quickly.

The woman finally looks at them, scanning the glittery collar of Minho’s tuxedo, Kibum’s disheveled hair, and the faint eyeliner smudge under his eye.

She sighs. “Let me guess. Accidentally married. Very drunk. Elvis impersonator. You woke up and saw a certificate and panicked.”

They both blink.

“Yes,” Kibum says slowly.

“Yep,” Minho echoes.

She gestures to a clipboard. “Fill this out. It’s for an annulment. If you were intoxicated and the ceremony wasn’t consummated or lived out as a marriage, you can nullify it easily.”

Minho nods. “We...uh. Didn’t consummate anything.”

Taemin snorts behind them. Jonghyun punches his arm.

The clerk continues, monotone. “You'll be assigned a case number, then wait to be called in. Judge will sign off if everything looks clean. Twenty bucks for the processing fee.”

Kibum scowls. “I paid more for the plastic bouquet.”

Minho glances at him. “Do you want to go over the paperwork together?”

Kibum pauses, then shrugs. “Might as well end our marriage as civilly as possible.”

As they move to the side to start writing, Taemin leans in toward Jonghyun and whispers, “This is weird, right?”

Jonghyun, still sipping Smartwater like it's holy, nods. “So weird.”

They all settle into plastic chairs in the waiting area, their backs sticking slightly to the beige vinyl in the oppressive Nevada heat. The room buzzes with fluorescent lights and a low hum of whispered regret.

Minho rests his elbow on the armrest between them. “Hey,” he says, glancing sideways.

Kibum raises an eyebrow without looking up from the form.

“If I’d known this was going to happen,” Minho continues, “I probably would've at least made you dinner first.”

Kibum snorts, lips twitching into the first almost-smile of the day. “You did buy me a mango margarita.”

“A romantic gesture.”

“A tragic mistake.”

They sit in silence again for a moment, the weight of the absurdity almost too heavy to comment on anymore.

Then a voice crackles over the intercom: “Choi and Kim. Room Three.”

Minho stands first and offers a hand.

Kibum hesitates... then takes it.

“Let’s get divorced,” he says dryly.

Minho smirks. “Our first joint activity.”

They disappear through the frosted glass door, the echo of their steps muffled by beige carpet.

Taemin leans back and sighs dramatically. “Ugh, I love love.”

Jonghyun throws a pen at him.

The door to Room Three swings shut behind them with a final-sounding click.

Inside: fluorescent lighting, a desk, two chairs, a stack of forms, and a woman who looks like she’s either two minutes away from retirement or two seconds from screaming into a mug of peppermint tea. Her nameplate reads DIANE, and her expression screams I’ve seen it all, and I hated most of it.

She doesn’t look up as she shuffles through paperwork.

“You two the annulment walk-ins?” she asks, voice dry as the desert air outside.

“...Yes,” Minho replies, glancing at Kibum, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “We filed the paperwork.”

“Uh-huh. Sit down.”

They sit. Awkwardly. Kibum crosses his legs too fast and knocks Minho’s shin.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Minho doesn’t flinch. “It’s okay.”

Diane finally looks up, peering over her glasses. She studies them — two young men in tuxes that have lost all their glamour under a layer of sweat, regret, and cheap Vegas perfume. There’s glitter on Minho’s collar and a faint lipstick smudge on Kibum’s temple.

“Let me guess,” she says, deadpan. “Margaritas. Elvis. Neon lights. Possibly some dancing on a roulette table?”

Minho raises a hand sheepishly. “Only one of us danced.”

Kibum glares at him.

Diane sighs and pulls a form from a manila folder. “Okay. You’re both applying for a no-fault annulment on the grounds of intoxication and lack of conscious consent at the time of marriage. That sounds right?”

They both nod quickly.

“Alright,” Diane says, flipping the form around and sliding it across the desk. “This is the statement of mutual agreement. You’ll each sign, stating that the marriage was not consummated, and that there’s no shared property, dependents, or intent to continue the union.”

Kibum stares at the paper. The words blur slightly, legalese in blocky font, with absurd phrases like “party A acknowledges the marriage was entered into in a state of impaired judgment” and “this union shall be rendered null, as if it never occurred.”

He frowns at that last part.

Minho leans forward to sign first. His handwriting is neat. Steady.

Kibum takes the pen next. His grip tightens around it.

For a split second, he hesitates.

As if it never occurred.

He signs anyway.

Diane doesn’t miss it, but says nothing. She gathers the papers, stamps them with a heavy, unsentimental THUMP THUMP, and types something into her terminal.

“You’ll receive digital confirmation by email in forty-eight hours,” she says. “As far as the state of Nevada is concerned, your marriage never existed. Congratulations on your unwedding.”

Neither of them says anything.

Diane looks up once more, her gaze a little softer now. “You’d be surprised how many people end up in here. Some are laughing. Some are crying. Some come in screaming at each other.”

She pauses, studying them for a moment longer.

“But you two… You don’t look like the type of people I usually see.”

Kibum blinks. “What do we look like, then?”

She shrugs, sliding the finalized paperwork into a slim envelope. “Like people who still don’t know what the hell just happened.”

She hands them the envelope.

“Try the diner across the street,” she adds. “You both look like you could use pancakes.”

Minho almost smiles. “Thanks.”

They stand. The chairs squeak as they pull away from the desk.

At the door, Kibum stops.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “What happens if someone files for an annulment... and then later regrets it?”

Diane doesn’t even blink. “Then they come back, do it the right way.”

Kibum swallows. Nods. And leaves the room.

Chapter Text

The second they stepped through the sliding doors of their original hotel, Jinki was already there in the lobby, pacing like a man awaiting news from a hospital surgery ward. The second his eyes landed on them, his expression crumpled from sheer panic into raw relief.

“Oh my god...” He didn’t even finish before pulling both Kibum and Minho into a tight, desperate hug that smelled faintly of hotel coffee and stress sweat.

Kibum made a noise of protest, wriggling against the embrace. “Jinki, you’re suffocating me—”

“You disappeared!” Jinki pulled back just enough to give them both a wild-eyed glare. “No texts, no calls, no location sharing..?! do you know what my morning has been? I’ve already imagined you both in a Vegas ditch at least four different times!”

“Relax, hyung,” Minho said, but the smile tugging at his mouth only made Jinki’s glare deepen.

“Relax?! I had to tell the SM director that the viral wedding photo was a prank! A prank, Minho! Do you know how much lying I’ve done today?!”

Minho winced. “A lot?”

Jinki smacked his arm lightly. “A lot.”

Behind them, Taemin and Jonghyun were pretending not to laugh at the pair

“Don’t think I’m done with you two,” Jinki warned, herding Kibum and Minho toward the lifts like an irate sheepdog. “You’re still my members, which means I’m stuck loving you even when you do incredibly stupid things.”

The hug, though quick, had been tight. Genuine. Kibum tried not to think about how grounding it felt.

When they reached their suite, their manager was pacing near the desk, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in that clipped, polite-but-secretly-panicking tone he reserved for damage control. The only good thing was that all their luggage was still intact, say for a few missing articles of clothing.

“Yes, I understand, sir… I’m trying to get them out tonight, but all the direct flights are full… Yes, I know the press could pick this up any minute..” He shot them a sharp glance that made Kibum instinctively straighten. “I’ll call you back when I have them confirmed.”

The phone snapped shut, and the manager exhaled like a man trying not to yell. “Sit. All of you.”

They obeyed, though Taemin flopped onto the couch like they were in detention rather than crisis management.

The manager rubbed his temples. “No more leaving the hotel unless it’s to the airport. No talking to strangers. No letting anyone take your picture. And for god’s sake, no more impromptu weddings.”

“I think we got that last one covered,” Jonghyun said, smirking.

Kibum barely heard them. He sat on the arm of the sofa, quiet, staring down at the faint glitter still clinging to his shirt sleeve. The chaos in the room blurred into background noise—Jinki pacing, Jonghyun’s teasing, Taemin’s lazy one liners, Minho leaning back in his chair with that infuriatingly calm posture.

He should feel nothing but relief that the annulment was done. That it was erased.
But…

Minho was handsome. Not just in the broad-shoulders, model-smile way everyone else noticed....there was something else. That spark of competitiveness. That stubborn streak. The way he had held onto Kibum’s arm in the street last night like he wasn’t going to let him fall.

Aggravating. Annoying. Too tall. But…

Kibum caught himself staring for a second too long and quickly looked away.

The suite was quiet for the first time all day.
Jinki had finally collapsed into bed after another round of muttering “never again” under his breath, Jonghyun had retreated to his room, and Taemin had fallen asleep on the couch mid-scroll through his phone.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Kibum stepped onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

The Strip lay stretched out below like a fever dream, glittering lights, rolling waves of sound, the occasional cheer from somewhere far down the street. From up here, it looked almost peaceful.

He leaned against the railing, elbows resting on the cool metal, and let the warm desert air press against his skin. For the first time since waking up that morning, there was no one talking at him, no clerk handing him paperwork, no manager barking into a phone. Just the hum of Vegas at night.

His thoughts wandered...back to the mechanical shark, the mango margarita, the faint weight of a hand on his arm in the street. The stupid tie still hanging around Minho’s neck this morning.

The balcony door slid open again, startling him enough to jolt upright.

“God—” Kibum snapped, turning. “Do you have to sneak up on people?”

Minho stepped out with two bottles of water, grinning. “You’re just easy to scare.”

“I should throw you over this railing.”

“I’m heavier than you think,” Minho said, offering a bottle.

Kibum took it with a muttered, “Unfortunately.”

Minho twisted his own open and leaned against the railing beside him, so close Kibum could feel the faint warmth radiating off him. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

Kibum stared out at the skyline. “I said I’m tired.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

There was no bite to Minho’s voice..just something steady, low.

Kibum didn’t answer. He sipped the water and kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, even though he could feel Minho looking at him.

Eventually, Minho broke the silence. “You know… for a mistake, it wasn’t terrible.”

Kibum’s mouth twitched. “You mean our marriage?”

Minho smiled faintly. “Yeah. That.”

“You sang Celine Dion like a drowning walrus.”

“And you rode a mechanical shark.”

And, I won,” Kibum corrected.

“Exactly,” Minho said, turning his head just enough to catch Kibum’s profile in the neon glow. “We make a good team.”

Kibum scoffed, but the sound lacked heat. “…Don’t get used to it.”

The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of Minho’s cologne, subtle, but enough to drag Kibum’s thoughts somewhere he didn’t want them to go. He tightened his grip on the bottle.

Minho tapped his knuckles against the railing once, then twice. “You know, you didn’t seem that unhappy about it.”

Kibum’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

“Being married to me,” Minho said simply, eyes still on the city.

For a second, Kibum forgot how to breathe. He turned, ready with a retort, but Minho wasn’t smirking. He was just… watching the lights below, his expression unreadable.

Kibum looked away first. “…Maybe I was too hungover to process the horror.”

“Mm,” Minho hummed, like he didn’t quite believe him.

Silence stretched again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Below them, the city pulsed with life; up here, the air felt charged, as if the whole balcony was holding its breath.

Finally, Kibum said, softer than he intended, “It’s gone now, though.”

Minho’s voice matched his. “Yeah. On paper.”

Kibum risked a glance. Minho was already looking at him, and for one unsettling heartbeat, neither of them looked away.

Then Minho straightened, pushing off the railing with an easy shrug. “Night, husband.”

Kibum blinked. “Ex-husband.”

Minho’s grin was quick, almost sharp. “Whatever helps you sleep.”

He slipped inside, leaving Kibum alone with the lights and the hum of the Strip, and the faint, irritating warmth of someone who’d gotten under his skin without even trying.

Chapter Text

The Las Vegas airport was chaos disguised as order.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, babies cried in the distance, and the security line moved slower than a snail at a grocery till. Kibum stood in the middle of it all, clutching his carry-on and silently judging the footwear and outfit choices of everyone around him.

Taemin was in front of him, half-asleep and leaning on his suitcase like it was a crutch. Jonghyun was trying, and failing, to argue with a TSA agent about the size of his shampoo bottle. Minho, of course, had breezed through the first checkpoint already, laughing at something the kid behind him said like he hadn’t caused mass panic and a fake marriage 48 hours ago.

Kibum’s gaze flicked toward him before he could stop it. The bastard even looked good in airport lighting.
Which was an insult to everyone else here, really.

“Stop glaring holes in your carry-on,” Jinki murmured beside him. “It didn’t do anything wrong.”

Kibum startled slightly; he hadn’t noticed Jinki sidle up next to him. The leader had dark circles under his eyes and a coffee cup clutched like a lifeline.

“I’m not glaring,” Kibum said quickly.
“You’re definitely glaring,” Jinki replied, voice calm but amused. “Is this about Minho?”

Kibum froze. “What? No. Why would it be?”

Jinki just sipped his coffee, eyes half-lidded with that unnerving leaderly knowingness. “Because every time you say no like that, it means yes but in a very…Kibum way.”

Kibum opened his mouth, then closed it again. “…Maybe. A little.”

Jinki tilted his head, studying Kibum over the rim of his coffee cup. “You want to talk about it, or should I just put my headphones on and ignore your melodrama.

Kibum huffed, shifting his weight. “It’s not even anything. It’s just—he’s being… weird.”
“Weird like how?”
“Like… not his usual competitive, ego the size of venus, overly confident weird. Just…” Kibum made a vague hand gesture. “Kinda weird. Quite weird.”

Jinki nodded solemnly, as though Kibum had just described a medical condition. “Quiet weird sounds serious to me.”

Kibum shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”
“I never said I would,” Jinki said, smiling softly. “But you know, you’ve been staring at him a lot lately, more then you used too...”

“I look at people, Jinki. It’s called having eyes.”
“Uh-huh. You don’t look at me like that.”
“Because you’re not six feet tall and built like an amateur pool noodle. ”

Jinki nearly spit his coffee. “Wow. Okay. I’ll just take that as a compliment and NOT as the insult that it is.”

Kibum flushed, realizing what he’d said. “You’re like- twisting my words! I didn’t mean it like that!”
“I’m just hearing them,” Jinki said gently, the teasing softening. “You like him, Kibum. It’s fine. The world won’t like if you admit it.”

Kibum glanced down at his sneakers. “It’s not that simple.”

“No, it never really is.” Jinki’s voice dropped to something quieter, almost paternal. “You work together. You live half your lives in each other’s space. That kind of closeness, feelings sneak in whether you accept it or deny it.

They inched forward again; the conveyor belt of the human population moved another foot ahead in the long line. Kibum swallowed, staring at the back of Taemin’s hoodie. “I just don’t want things to get awkward between us. If I say something and he doesn’t feel the same as I do… it’ll ruins… everything. And if I don’t say anything, then I’m stuck feeling like…” He stopped, shaking his head and letting out a deep sigh. “Like an idiot.”

Jinki was quiet for a long moment. “Then…Maybe it doesn’t have to be either-or.”

Kibum frowned. “Meaning?”

“You don’t have to confess, and you don’t have to completely ignore it,” Jinki said. “Just… let it be there. Let it exist without deciding what it’s supposed to means yet.”

Kibum made a face. “That sounds impossible.”
“It’s like- annoyingly inconvenient, yeah,” Jinki agreed, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “But sometimes that’s how people’s feelings work. You don’t control the timing, it’s more like you just decide how honest you want to be with yourself.”

They moved toward their gate as a group, a trail of the half-awake idols and overstuffed carry-ons (that Jonghyun SWEARS they can’t go without). Taemin yawned so wide he nearly swallowed the bugs in all surrounding territories, Jonghyun was muttering about how his cologne was technically 100 milliliters, and Jinki looked like he might fold himself into the nearest trash can just so he could rest for five minutes.

Minho, naturally, walked ahead like he owned the terminals, shoulders loose, duffel slung across one arm, the kind of guy who somehow looked good even under fluorescent lighting and airport fatigue. Kibum hated him for it.
Or… something along those lines...

They reached the gate with twenty minutes to spare. The others immediately collapsed into chairs, scrolling through their phones or closing their eyes for some semblance of shut eye . Kibum remained standing near/around the group, eyes flicking toward the giant class window, where planes glided past.

The desert sunlight made everything look bright and unreal. Maybe that was why he felt so off-balance today- well more like recently, like his brain hadn’t caught up with the fact that everything that happened in Vegas was already behind them. The chaos, the jokes, the vows.

And yet… the thought of it ending, of going home and pretending it was all just one ridiculous mistake, sat uneasily in his chest.