by Rana Eros
You and I both know Yoochun is in charge of making sure everybody wears their hats properly. A French kiss written for Eliza, for the boxers.
It's obscenely hot and dry, and sand keeps blowing into Changmin's eyes. He's glad enough when wardrobe gives him the hat, even if the narrow brim means it does no more good than to keep the relentless desert sun off his scalp. He sighs, lets it drop onto his head from a gritty hand, and considers slouching deeper into the shadows under the awning while the next shot is set up.
"Hey." Yoochun steps in front of him, reaches up for the hat. "I taught you better than that."
Yoochun sets it at a jauntier angle, lets his fingers brush down Changmin's cheeks briefly. They're damp and cool. "There's an icebox inside that still works. Don't think it's big enough for you to lay in, though."
"More's the pity," Changmin mutters, and Yoochun laughs, thumbs his throat, before the photographer calls them all into place.
Later, when the cameras are distracted by Junsu and Jaejoong and Yunho, Yoochun shows him the icebox, the old-fashioned bottles of soda Yoochun sweet-talked out of the old couple who own the place. While Changmin's plunging his hands into the ice, then letting them dry enough not to ruin his makeup too much before touching his own face, Yoochun presses one of the bottles to the back of Changmin's neck. He's opened another, and he takes a long pull from it before kissing Changmin, lips and tongue cold, cold and sweet and tingling with the taste of cola.
Changmin bends closer to catch more of that taste, more of that sweet coolness, and his hat tumbles off his head. He doesn't pull away from Yoochun's mouth to see if it landed in the icebox. If it did, he'll just have to wait until it's dry to let Yoochun put it on him right again.