[ @crankbound | #knystarfestival. ]
Despite all his big words and confidence, and all the smooth comments he made -- Minho was not well versed in romance. Who had time to date or love when they were all trying to get everyone out alive? ( Thomas, apparently. ) It wasn’t like he didn’t want a girlfriend or whatever -- it was just that when you were sorta in a life threatening situation, you sorta... uh, tended to focus on the life threatening situation first.
So- Handholding? Dating? Someone teach him how to use Google, Maybe he can at least read up on shitty Yahoo Answers.
But, of course, Minho was not a schoolgirl with a crush ( oh, Harriet would have put a knife to his throat for that comment ), and there was absolutely no need to get nervous over this -- it was with Newt, and maybe with Newt, things would feel a bit more like home than awkward acting, anyway. This was the person he joked about having griever makeouts with; Pretending to date? Should be no problem.
Confidence is both his vice and blessing; he lets a lazy smirk drift across his face, even as he pauses at the entrance of the festival street, looking around at the lights and the colorful clothes. His gaze lands on Newt automatically after he surveys their surroundings -- holding out a hand, palm up, as if asking for a ballroom dance. His other hand rests in his pocket.
“So, slinthead--” he starts, drawling, trademark sarcasm obvious--
“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”
















