Photographs Are Worth More Than A Thousand Words If You Look At Them The Right Way Part 3

It's four months later that Minho finally asks you out, or what you think was asking you out. You're still not really sure if what he said qualifies. 
The thing about Minho is that he's a confident person, often striding across the room like he owns the place. Which he does, if you go off of how all the females in the area follow him like baby ducklings. You're going to pretend that you're not one of them. 
It seems like everyone's drawn to him because he always seems smooth without trying. He wasn't trying and still managed it when he was grinning as if he was ten that time in Food Science you somehow managed to lock the sink sprayer in the on position. He looked smooth with sopping wet hair and clothes that clung to him when he got drenched trying to help get said sprayer under control. He even looked smooth when you threw flour on him for laughing at you and it formed into a gooey mess on his cheek. The teacher did not appreciate you at all, on the other hand. There was no laughter from him. That would be two teachers now.
Minho also doesn't often seem unsure, and he's never been the type to stumble over his words.
So it surprises you, very much so in fact, when that night he does just that.
You go over to his house to work on homework together, studying for the film final you were terrified of. It made you feel better Minho had to take this one too.
He's been quiet all evening, which you attribute to nerves, so you make some hot chocolate to keep the mood up. 
You like yours with exactly 6 squeezes of chocolate sauce. He likes his with the rest of the bottle. That’s not an exaggeration.
When you return to the spot where you've made a crease in the couch with your back (which is now temporarily crippled from the horrible study posture you've adopted), he peers up at you with uncertainty. 
Since it's such a weird experience for you, you simply hand him his mug and ruffle his messy hair. He seems content enough with the gesture that he relaxes.
Somewhere along the way, in between masses of examples of mise en scène and something called verisimilitude, he reaches down into his backpack to extract an item and tosses it gently onto your lap. It's a tiny stuffed penguin, hands velcroed around what appears to be a tube of individually wrapped chocolates. 
You look up at Minho, startled by the sudden action. Perhaps even more so by the implication behind it. Because Minho doesn't give random gifts, and you weren't forgetting any events.
"I-I, uh," he stammers, "I got this thing, that thing, because um..."
You don't interrupt him because you want him to say what he's trying to, although you're not sure you can speak at this point anyway because your heart is in your throat.
He clears his own, trying to regain composure. Honestly, you liked this Minho more than suave Minho. It was cute, earnest, and entirely real.
"I got you this penguin," he says again, more determined, "because... Well, because I like you. There. I said it."
"Oh. Well, thanks for the chocolate. Now I can use it as snack food to study," you say, feeling sly.
He looks crushed for a second and you panic, worried he doesn't understand. But he's seen your coy smile already and now shoves you, almost causing you to lose your new stuffed friend.
"What's wrong with you?" he asks, pretending to sulk.
"Nothing."
"I just confessed to you and you're being sarcastic."
"Is that what that was? That's your idea of confessing?"
Your tone is light and giddy, and he's smiling despite his best efforts.
"You're a terrible human being," he announces.
"I know."
"Like really terrible."
He's using your own words against you.
"But I'm your terrible human being. And you're an idiot for taking so long to tell me."
"But I'm your idiot, right?"
"Yes, Minho, you're my idiot."
The studying gets pushed aside for a few hours while you're both occupied with the taste of chocolate and the tickle of warm breath on your skin.
You both ace the film final, which doesn't make the teacher all that happy. You go out for celebratory noodles.
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You're not quite sure which day it is you go from having feelings for each other to love. Minho would tell you about the event one day, but if you asked him again he'd say something different. You also do this. It's like sometime between pranks and late night phone calls you realized the depth of what you had. You went from being best friends, to crushes, and then to significant others. 
Two times of outings getting soaked with rain, at least eight burnt dinners, and an immeasurable number of snarky conversations later, you and Minho moved into your split level apartment together.
You fell in love with the bay window in the living room. He fell in love with the old fashioned spiral staircase leading to the kitchen. It seemed… Perfect.
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It still is perfect.
What were you even doing? Sitting on the bedroom floor looking back at the past seemed like a waste of time. Reminiscing like you don't have a relationship anymore, when in fact you can hear the door open and Minho shuffle in. Or at least you hope it's Minho, and not someone breaking into the apartment. 
Your stupid fight this morning didn't mean anything anymore. It was so trivial. You just want to let it go and see what he brought home for dinner.
You close the box, running a finger lightly over the lid as you put it back.
When you turn around, Minho is there. He's got his hands jammed in his pockets, one foot scuffing against the floor, trying not to look at you.
"Hi, babe," he greets quietly.
For a moment he looks like he did in detention, and you smile at him.
It seems he’s come to the same conclusion as you.
"Hi, Minho," you greet back, before walking to him and wrapping your arms around his torso, "how was work?"
"It was okay," he replies, his voice filled with surprise and curiosity.
You peer up through your lashes and have to laugh at the look on his face.
"You thought I'd be angry," you say in between giggles. It's not a question.
"Well, I certainly didn't expect a hug."
You bury you face into his scarf, enjoying the feeling of the soft fabric as he returns your hug.
"Listen, babe," he begins, regret lacing his words, "I'm sorry about-"
"It's fine," you interrupt softly, "it doesn't matter anymore. I'm sorry too."
"What were you doing in here while I was gone?" he asks, no doubt confused by your attitude lacking either hostility or despondency. 
"Nothing. I just don't like to fight with you," you murmur back, holding him tighter.
He does the same thing to you.
"Nobody likes to fight, I think," he breathes into your hair.
"I think our mothers would disagree."
He laughs quietly at the statement.
Your mom adored Minho. Minho's mom adored you. It was just each other they had problems liking. He wasn't kidding when he said they were like clones. Too similar to get along, you guess.
"What were they arguing about again, last week at the barbecue?" he asks, appearing to think back.
"Whether toaster strudels or pop tarts were the superior morning meal."
"That's right," he says, smiling, "they got into an actual heated 30 minute argument about breakfast foods."
"I'm pretty sure if we don't keep an eye on them they'll put laxatives in each other's punch."
"I'm pretty sure you're absolutely right."
You share a smile at their crazy antics.
"So," you say, "what's your opinion on which is better?"
"What about yours?"
"I asked you first."
"I was born first."
"By four months."
"Four months is a long time."
You punch him in the arm.
"Okay," he says, "how about we say our favorite of the two on three?"
"Wait. On three as in once you say three or right after you say three?"
"Really, babe?"
"It matters."
"Say it when I count on three."
"Okay."
"1, 2, 3!"
"Toaster strudels," you say simultaneously. You look at each other warmly.
"I was so worried you were going to say pop tarts," he confesses.
"Oh. No way."
"Good," he says, grinning, "Because I'm not sure I can date someone who thinks otherwise."
"So you can't date my mother?" you ask slyly, "she'll be so disappointed."
He throws his head back and laughs a hearty chuckle.
"I'm totally serious," you continue, "the amount of times I've heard her say if she was 20 years younger that she'd date you herself might have aged me 20 years."
He's trying to bring his breathing back to a regulated state. He's still laughing though, making it a bit difficult.
"Well," he chokes out in between gasps, "my father says the same thing about you. I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to have to fight him for you."
He's got the giggles now and he's infecting you with them. You both struggle to make it to the couch before you fall over. Your ribs hurt. Except what's great is that you don't care.
You know it's dumb, you’re sure he does too. You’re aware that's it's not really that funny. But there are days when it doesn't matter what anyone else says because you are just enjoying each other's company.
When you can breathe again you ask, "So what's for dinner?"
He's quiet for a moment.
"I forgot."
Oh. You don't know what to say. It's not like you want to be mad at him but you two just... Wait. The look on his face.
He laughs through his nose, making a slight snorting noise.
"You should see your face," he says, "you look so lost. I stopped by the store on the way home and got some of those chicken strips you like."
"Good," you sigh, relieved, "because I was about to beat you."
"I'm sure you were. I have no doubt in your ability to do physical harm."
"Keep that in mind," you coo back, grinning.
A while later when Minho's occupied trying to capture a spider (you were right about him letting them out), you slip back into the bedroom. You grope for the memory box in the dark, finding it when you jam your finger against it. This thing wants to cause you pain. You rifle through it until you find the small, plushie penguin Minho had given you. You hold it close to your chest, deciding you don't want to put it back. You want to see what’s part of your past every day of your future.
Peering around, you decide to tuck it into the space between two picture frames on the bedside table.
Minho notices when you both go to bed that night, and you don't comment as he studies it.
You feel a strange sense of satisfaction when recognition flashes in the wide brown eyes, the same quirky little discovery smile creeping onto his face.
You think he's not going to say anything because he turns off the light and just curls up next to you silently.
Then you feel an arm loop around your waist as he speaks.
"I'm still your idiot, right?" he asks earnestly.
"Yes, Minho, you're still my idiot."