Work Text:
1.
The summer Mingyu begins construction on the house is mercilessly hot, even more so than usual. Or maybe the weather just becomes more unbearable when you don’t have anyone to complain about it to.
He tries. Badgers Seokmin, Seungkwan, Jihoon, Wonwoo in turn about how he’s running his water bill through the roof with all the cold showers he’s taking and how all his white t-shirts have gone a sickly yellow from the sweat stains.
The first three cycle through blocking him and unblocking him just to give him varying and unhelpful advice for staying cool before blocking him again. Wonwoo, for his part, just tells him I think you think it’s poetic before leaving all his other messages on read.
For all their differences, Wonwoo’s usually right about these sorts of things. There’s a certain gratification in feeling the physical evidence of his strife trickle down his back as he lays the foundation down himself, brick by brick. It feels like paying his dues. Or release for the things he was never able to say. Catharsis for seven years of feelings.
That summer he rents out a tiny studio in the heart of Busan and wakes up at five every morning to make the hour-long commute out to the seaside. At six in the morning the air is still blessedly cool, fresh sea breeze rolling off the waves and tangling his hair with the smell of salt. He works from sun up to sun down. When the sky slides into a gradient of warm colors, swatches of pink and purple and orange streaking across the horizon, Mingyu sets himself down and just sits there. Watches. Visualizes the sundeck he has yet to build. Imagines two people sitting there, swinging their bare legs, and looking at this view everyday for the rest of their lives.
After the last light drains from the sky he heads back home. The old lady who gets on a few stops after him has taken to shaking him awake before the line gets to the stop near his apartment, because apparently the jostling of his face against the window isn’t enough to do it. Every night he shoots her a grateful smile, no longer caring if it pulls at the edges, and stumbles off the bus. If he’s feeling responsible he’ll go through a proper bedtime routine, shower and wash his face and dig through the fridge for leftovers. Most of the time he just flops into bed and passes out immediately. Then he wakes up and does it all again the next day.
The routine, mind-numbing as it may seem, is nice. Mingyu comes to rely on it for the rock-hard sense of stability he never had in the seven years before this. Somehow it’s just so nice to go to bed knowing exactly what will happen the next day. No surprises.
But it wasn’t so easy in the beginning. The physical work, as much as he complained, wasn’t the problem. It was the thinking that was the hard part. Filing the permit with the city, picking out the plot and sketching the layout. Mingyu agonized over types of foundation for weeks.
Why don’t you ask Jeonghan-hyung for help, Wonwoo had suggested in the beginning, when Mingyu was worried he was running a fool’s errand. And it was enough.
Mingyu has always been a little too prideful for his own good. The house is no exception. It would almost feel wrong to ask for help—this house is his to build, and he’ll build it himself or not at all.
The sun rises and sets every day. The world continues to spin. Seventeen’s Kim Mingyu withdraws from society and spends a year at the seaside, building a house.
2.
Junhui announces he’s returning to South Korea on vacation for his birthday. Mingyu is the only one who can get time off on the actual day, purely because he’s the only one without any schedules.
Mingyu’s lease expires at the end of May. If all goes according to plan, he should be back in Seoul before Junhui’s birthday arrives. He asks Junhui where in Seoul he’s planning to stay.
Actually, says Junhui, I was hoping to see that house of yours.
Junhui lets out a long, appreciative whistle when Mingyu leads him through the front doors. “You really did it,” he says, staring at Mingyu with unconcealed awe.
Mingyu ducks his head, suddenly shy. Saying he was going to do it is one thing, but now the physical proof is standing right in front of their eyes for anyone to see. “I just finished making dinner, so your timing is good.”
Junhui claps his hands. “Ah, perfect! My favorite thing about Korea!”
“Is that all you missed me for, hyung?”
They don’t sit on the sundeck, but the dining room opens out to a side porch with another view of the sea. By now the weather has simmered down to a balmy, middling temperature, the breeze just slight enough to tug playfully at Mingyu’s apron as he plates their dishes and sets them out on the table. Junhui’s claps increase in fervor at every new dish.
It’s good to catch up. Mingyu listens to all of Junhui’s stories about his acting career in China, which, if the articles Seungcheol sends into the group chat are to be trusted, is taking off spectacularly. And he surprises himself when all he feels is content, and happy for Junhui. Maybe a few years ago, there’d be a restless itch under his skin, a broiling desire to make as big of a name for himself in the aftermath, keep going up as far as he could go. But the past year must have squeezed the last dredges of it out of him. Junhui has his acting, which is good. Mingyu has his house, which is also good.
Junhui’s spoon scrapes against the bottom of the bowl around the same time the conversation hits a lull. By now, the sun is all but sunk below the horizon, only a faint halo of light remaining above. Mingyu brings out a few candles and a lighter, spreading them out over the table and lighting them one by one.
Junhui raises both eyebrows. “How romantic. You buy these with someone special in mind?”
Mingyu squints at him, holding an awkward half-squat above his chair as he hovers over the last candle. Junhui would never make fun of him like that, but he… can’t not know.
Two sets of keys sit heavy in his pocket. Mingyu fishes one out and slides it across the table before sitting back into his chair and feeling it creak under his weight. “Will you…” He clears his throat. “Will you pass that along for me?”
“To who—” Junhui starts, before his face freezes. Then it softens into quiet understanding. “So you were serious about that part too.”
Mingyu nods, swallowing. “The house is his. It was always meant to be for him.”
Junhui picks up the keys, watching them slide around on the ring. “Why not give them to him yourself?”
The billion-won question. “I don’t have an address to send them to. And international shipping is expensive and unreliable.”
“And you think I do?” says Junhui, before shaking his head. “I mean, I do, but.”
Mingyu was relying on that. The fact that Junhui will always know Minghao in ways Mingyu doesn’t, will always be able to reach him in ways Mingyu can’t, is an ache that has dulled over time. And, if he’s being honest, it goes both ways.
“Have you talked to him at all since then?”
“He wished me happy birthday over text two months ago.”
Junhui’s gaze is piercing. “You know he’s not too busy to talk more often than that.”
Mingyu wrings his hands under the tablecloth where Junhui can’t see. Somehow he gets the feeling Junhui knows anyways. “I don’t know if he wants to. I don’t want to be the one to hold him back.”
Junhui sighs, weighted. “Minghao,” he enunciates in perfect Chinese that Mingyu will never be able to emulate, before switching back to Korean, “is so grown-up and mature now. He’s always been more mature for me, that’s for sure. He has a good head on his shoulders. But he is also a silly kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and is scared of how frequently his heart wins out over his head.”
Junhui polishes off the rest of his wine, a sparkling red Mingyu had bought from the farmer’s market. “I’ll give him the keys. But I won’t pass a message along. You should do that yourself.”
3.
He'd asked Minghao once, a few years ago, why he didn’t want to go into acting like Junhui. Minghao had stared at him for long enough that Mingyu got the feeling he should’ve already known before shaking his head. “I’m not good at pretending to be someone I’m not.”
“Hey!” Junhui had interrupted, overhearing their conversation and wrapping himself around Minghao’s shoulders from behind. “Are you saying I don’t live authentically?”
“I’m saying you’re good at wearing other people’s clothes,” Minghao had replied, and he could’ve meant it literally because Junhui had just happened to be wearing Minghao’s sweater that day, but the glimmer in his eyes said otherwise. “And I’m not.”
Minghao is just as stubborn as Mingyu is. He sticks to his guns. Mingyu respects it as much as he wonders if it makes it hard for him.
The modeling agency he signs with has him start out small. He gets seasonal collections of low-end business casual, tucked away in spreads past the halfway point of magazines where people waiting at the dentist’s office usually stop reading. He doesn’t mind. He knows how to stand there and look pretty. His fans still buy out every magazine. He works his way up.
It’s more for him to have something to do than any financial compensation, anyways. Mingyu gets antsy without work. Minghao had called him an anxious dog, once. If I leave you stuck inside the house for too long I’ll come back home to see all the furniture torn up.
Minghao texts him once outside of the normal holidays and birthdays. Sends a grainy snapshot of a shoot Mingyu had done for a designer brand, glossy pages spread out across his lap. You don’t need me to tell you how handsome you are, he sends along with a laughing emoji, tongue stuck out. But didn’t you always like being on the other side of the camera?
He brings it up to Wonwoo, who is on the other side. They swap devices. Mingyu gives him his phone to scroll through the messages and accepts Wonwoo’s laptop in turn, flicking through different files opened up in Photoshop and making small adjustments.
Wonwoo turns his phone off before setting it down. “I think you’re capable of doing anything you want to do. But I also think he’s right. And reasonably, there’s nothing stopping you.”
Mingyu hums noncommittally. “Hyung, why is there so much bokeh on all of these?”
“That’s what they wanted,” says Wonwoo, shrugging. “Can barely see the clothes in this lighting anyways, but you know. Customer’s king.”
Mingyu scrunches his nose up. “Customer has bad taste.”
“Tell me about it.”
Mingyu fiddles with the light levels on a few pictures before sliding the laptop back over to Wonwoo. Wonwoo scans them briefly with a critical eye before sighing and clicking the laptop shut. That’s just how Wonwoo is. Even if he disagrees with something, he won’t say anything, he’ll just do it. Mingyu thinks it’s his way of caring about people: doing whatever to make them happy.
But Mingyu isn’t nearly as acquiescent. He likes having things his way and doing it himself is usually easiest. I think you don’t want to trouble other people, Joshua had said once, but you’re also kind of a control freak. Just nicer about it than most.
“I don’t want to shoot clothes,” Mingyu says. “I want to shoot people.”
Wonwoo hums. “Well, isn’t it all the same?”
Mingyu shakes his head. Photography is supposed to be about intention. Telling a story. “The connection’s not there.”
“You would say that.” Wonwoo leans back onto his hands. “Say, how often do you go out to that house of yours?”
“Once every month or two, just to check up on it,” says Mingyu. “It’s kind of far. Why?”
“You should go this weekend,” says Wonwoo. “Bring your camera. See if you can find a connection.”
Mingyu obeys, looping his DSLR around his neck and lugging his suitcase onto the bus like a tourist. Late spring is balmy, the sun warming up his arms through the window, and the next four hours passes quickly. Mingyu spends most of it snapping his camera with reckless abandon, inattentive to the rapidly decreasing space on his memory card. Four more, empty, sit in the slots of his camera bag.
When he sticks his key in the lock it slides open easier than normal, absent of the usual rust from months of disregard. He leaves his belongings in the foyer and pulls open the curtains in the dining room, exposing the dustless wood of the table he’d made himself. On it rests two pieces of paper. Mingyu picks up the first.
Wonwoo-hyung said you’d be coming out this weekend, but I had to leave early for a schedule, it reads in Minghao’s sleek handwriting. Sorry I missed you.
Underneath is a washed-out polaroid. Silhouette of a V sign against a dying sun. Beaded bracelets hang off Minghao’s wrist. Scribbled on the bottom in Sharpie: the view is pretty.
Mingyu returns to Seoul two days later with five memory cards full of pictures.
4.
The agency takes notice of how well his adverts are selling in China, courtesy of Mingyu Bar, grown exponentially larger in the last few years. When the suggestion for him to transfer to their branch in Xiamen is brought up, Mingyu’s only objection is I don’t know Chinese.
“Didn’t you spend some time studying it?” asks Junhui, voice grainy over the phone. “You were the only one who ever bothered trying to say Minghao’s name the Chinese way.”
But that was Minghao, Mingyu wants to say. “It’s been a while. I’ve forgotten everything.”
“You’ll pick it back up,” says Junhui. “It’s like riding a bike. You’ll see. All you really need to know anyways is ni hao, zai jian, wo du zi e, ce suo zai na li, and wo de pi gu hen da.”
“What was that last one?”
“Nothing!”
Rent is much cheaper in Xiamen than in Beijing, which is where Minghao was last time he updated the group chat. Mingyu spends a lot of time watching TV. News, dramas, reality shows. Whatever’s on. He likes to think it helps, except he spends three hours programming Korean subtitles one day after not understanding anything for a month so he has no idea if he’s actually learning anything.
He watches Junhui’s latest drama as it airs. It’s a romance, and Junhui’s playing the second lead and best friend who’s secretly in love with the main character. The acting is good (it would be better if Mingyu didn’t know Junhui). The voiceover, however, sounds awfully sleazy for someone who’s supposed to be the boy next door. Or maybe Mingyu just isn’t used to hearing someone else’s voice come out of Junhui’s month.
Minghao has a permanent spot on Keep Running now, so Mingyu watches that too. The burner account Mingyu made on Weibo sees its use through his incessant checking of Minghao’s place on the celebrity supertopic rankings, which oscillates wildly from week to week. It peaks at number 5 when one of his clips from the show goes viral. In comparison, he middles in the 50s upon releasing his newest EP.
But he looks happy and healthy, as far as Mingyu can tell through the screen—which is to say, not very far at all. The truth is that if Mingyu has no idea what’s going on in his life past what makes it to Korean news, the rest of the members know even less. The only one who can keep up any sort of real communication with him is Junhui. But Junhui was right when he said it wasn’t a matter of Minghao being too busy.
Minghao is stubborn. He doesn’t like making people worry about him, so he only wants to show people his best sides. But the reality is that people will always worry about him, because he has always been ridiculously easy to love.
Maybe that’s why Mingyu doesn’t tell him when he’s flying out to Beijing for a show. Instead he stands at the door of the address Junhui gives him and knocks five times before giving up and pulling out his phone. So much for surprises.
I’m in Beijing. Outside your apartment, actually.
What??? Minghao sends back, followed by three angry emojis, followed by Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?
Well, Mingyu doesn’t really have a good answer for that. Where are you right now?
In response, Minghao sends a picture of the beach.
A laugh startles itself out of his mouth. Missed each other on the way, again. He switches to the Chinese keyboard. Piao liang.
You’re learning, Minghao sends back, and Mingyu can almost hear how pleased he sounds. Jia you.
5.
Alright, Mingyu, Seungcheol sends, interrupting Seungkwan and Chan’s argument over plans for their reunion anniversary dinner. You’ve hid this house from us long enough.
Ultimately it’s impossible to get thirteen people’s schedules to align perfectly. Jihoon’s out of the country on a business trip and Jeonghan’s sister just gave birth. Minghao has a schedule, again. Mingyu’s starting to grow a little tired of all of Minghao’s schedules.
But Minghao is the one who suggests they hold the dinner at the house.
Are you sure? asks Mingyu. It’s your house and you won’t even be there for it.
It’s also your house, says Minghao. It’s our house. If it were just mine, you wouldn’t have built such a fancy kitchen into it.
The implications behind that are a little staggering. He does have a point there, though. Mingyu swipes out of their individual chat and back into the group chat. I’m not cooking for ten people so you losers better bring food.
Is that any way to talk to your hyungs, Kim Mingyu!!!
Mingyu finds a box of expensive wines sitting on the doorstep when he arrives, hours ahead of anyone else. All different kinds, but all similarly old. Liquid time in a bottle. Later, Joshua will pick them up one by one and say, oh man, Myungho always gets the good stuff with an unbearably fond wistfulness in his voice. For now, Mingyu lays the bottles down on their sides in the wine cooler, to be made good use of later.
He leaves the door open for the members to trickle in at their own pace and busies himself with tidying up. Invariably, whoever walks in will stop in the middle of whatever they’re saying and take a minute to stand and stare, before turning to look at him with something like awe and… Mingyu doesn’t want to say pity, so instead he reads it as understanding.
“You did a good job,” says Seungcheol, clapping him hard on the back. Somehow that’s enough to dispel most of Mingyu’s worries about the house they stand in now.
Mingyu grins. “Let’s eat. You look like you’ve lost weight, hyung.”
That sets off a round of complaints about how Seungcheol’s mother constantly chastises him for either being too skinny or too fat in equal turns. Mingyu nods through it all as he steers him towards the dining room where the others are already starting to set up, yes, I know, mothers are just like that, mine is the same. Are you still working out? That’s good. No, the agency wanted me to slim down. Yes, I’m eating well, don’t worry. No, I don’t miss cooking for you.
“Who are we missing?” asks Joshua, one finger lifted in the air. Mingyu takes a headcount himself. Nine.
“I think we’re waiting on Jun-hyung,” says Chan, right as the sound of the front door slamming open travels down the hallway.
“Sorry, sorry!” Junhui chirps, running into the room. Under his arms he’s toting packs of luosifen, still uncooked. “Traffic was bad. But I brought goodies!”
“Oh, nice!” says Joshua, already moving to take one of the packs from him. The rest of them all look at each other before Mingyu makes the executive decision to ban both of them from the kitchen.
Dinner is a mishmash potluck of takeout of various cuisines, meat, somebody’s leftovers, Seungkwan’s recent attempts at getting into baking, more meat, non-luosifen instant noodles, lots of alcohol, and even more meat. Mingyu sets up the barbecue on the little side porch, trying to grill faster than ten hungry men entering their thirties can eat. It’s a lost cause.
The meal is as patchwork as their ensemble is, but somehow it all still comes together. As the night winds down, Mingyu gives them all permission to wander the house to their heart’s content, as long as you don’t break anything, or I’ll make you replace it! with an extra look at their more accident-prone members. Joshua takes a moment to remark on how nice the crown moulding is. Soonyoung takes a moment to remark on how nice the heated toilet seat in the bathroom is.
Ten minutes later finds him alone on the sundeck, leaning back on his hands and craning his neck to look up at the stars. The soft hiss of the sliding doors opening is all the warning he gets before someone pads out quietly and drops down next to him.
Wonwoo folds himself into a seated criss-cross, two empty glasses held between his fingers by the stems in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He doesn’t say anything, just fills up one of the glasses halfway before passing it over to Mingyu. Mingyu waits for him to pour the other glass before raising his in a silent toast. The clink of their glasses echoes in the empty space.
Mingyu downs half of his drink in one go. He pulls off the lip of the glass with an ah and sets it down next to him, careful to balance it properly on the wooden paneling, and looks over to see Wonwoo taking small, measured sips.
“Good stuff.”
Wonwoo smiles wryly. “Myungho always did know how to pick them.”
“Yeah,” says Mingyu. “He has good taste.”
“I can’t tell if this is supposed to be an indirect compliment for yourself or not.”
“It’s not!” Mingyu yelps, shoving Wonwoo’s shoulder, forgetting about the glass in his hand; Wonwoo just rolls back on his tailbone and laughs. “How am I involved in this at all?”
Wonwoo shrugs. “Well, he does stay in this house every now and then. Wouldn’t do it if he didn’t like it.”
Mingyu scrunches his face up before reaching for his glass and polishing the rest of it off, head tipped all the way back. When he rights it again, a spiral of dizziness shoots up his nose. “Do you think it was the right thing to do?” he asks. “Building the house?”
Wonwoo’s gaze is heavy; Mingyu feels it more than he can see it in the low light. “Why do you ask that?”
“I don’t know, there are probably easier ways than building a house to tell someone you—” Mingyu cuts himself off, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another glass. Wonwoo passes it over without reproach. “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve built it in China instead.”
Wonwoo rolls his glass between his fingers, contemplating. “I think you forget this house is also yours,” he says, after a few minutes. “It’s you. And it wouldn’t be you if you built it in China.”
“Sometimes I think that’s the problem,” Mingyu admits.
“You’re the only one who sees it as a ball and chain. To him, it’s a lighthouse,” says Wonwoo, in his cryptic literature nerd way. Mingyu doesn’t really know what he’s getting at and he doesn’t think he can ask. “In any case, I don’t think you were ever really scared of saying it. I think to you, things like that can be expressed in other ways. And this is just how you’d rather show it.”
“That’s a nice way of saying I’m the kind of person who’d rather spend a whole year building a house than do things efficiently,” says Mingyu.
Wonwoo laughs. “Self-deprecation doesn’t look good on you, Kim Mingyu. Stop worrying and start bragging again. You built a house by yourself for someone you love. Isn’t that pretty cool?”
6.
It’s Wonwoo who helps him move all his newly-bought equipment into his new studio the next year, nodding at all of Mingyu’s instructions and arranging things just the way he likes them. If Mingyu’s feeling bad he rationalizes it as Wonwoo being geographically closest to him and also the only one with any free time. If he’s feeling less bad he thinks of it as Wonwoo being the only one he can trust to handle the equipment properly.
“How are you gonna get the word out?” asks Wonwoo, as he and Mingyu connect one of the backdrops to the metal-frame support system.
“Newspaper ads, I guess,” says Mingyu. “It’s not like I’m some bigshot celebrity photographer, I’m just the local guy.” He punctuates this with a little wave of both hands, forgetting he’s holding a backdrop. Wonwoo dives to catch the other end of it.
“So it’s just—whoever finds it finds it?”
“Of course,” says Mingyu, taking the backdrop and clipping it to the stand. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
Mingyu’s not cheesy enough to name his studio something like ‘Serendipity,’ but he does believe in having good luck. Most of the people who book appointments with him are small families who want something to hang up on the wall or enthusiastic pet parents who want their cat or dog memorialized in pictures. Some of them recognize him, but not all.
He thinks there’ll always be a small part of him that still yearns for the spotlight, needs to be showered in adoration, wants to be known and loved by all. But if he fronted this business as Seventeen’s Kim Mingyu and not as just another local photographer, he’d get people booking appointments just for him and not the art. And there’s no connection in that at all.
He gets his pleasure instead from the big smiles his clients give him when he shows them the proofs. The reviews they leave on his site and the recommendations they give to their friends, not because he’s Seventeen’s Kim Mingyu but because he takes good pictures. The stories they tell with his photos, antique frames to be passed down and amateur blogs to be immortalized on the internet. There’s a personal touch to all of it. Intention. Mingyu remembers all of their stories and adds little notes to his own files.
Today he has no appointments booked, so he wasn’t planning to be in the studio at all. But he’s never been patient, so when the delivery notification for his new lights arrives he’s running over to see them as soon as possible. He’s in the middle of slitting open one of the boxes with a pair of scissors when the bell on the front door rings.
“Do you take walk-ins?”
Mingyu drops the scissors, new lights all but forgotten. In front of him stands Xu Minghao in the flesh, hands tucked into the pockets of the thin cardigan he’s wearing. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and scans Mingyu’s set up, and something in Mingyu’s chest bursts with satisfaction when he receives a nod of approval.
“My policy is appointments only,” says Mingyu, standing up, “but for you I can make an exception.”
He tries not to crush Minghao in his arms but it’s hard; this is the first time he’s seen him in years and all he wants to do is stand here and breathe him in. Minghao returns the hug without hesitation, hands fluttering over his waist before settling on the backs of his shoulders. Mingyu tucks his face into Minghao’s neck, suddenly feeling so small. My little puppy, comes a memory of Minghao holding him just like this, gently stroking his hair. So sweet.
After what feels like forever, he pulls back. It’s not enough, but for now it’ll have to do. He holds Minghao at arm’s length so they can talk without breathing into each other’s faces but keeps his arms looped loosely around his waist, unwilling to let him go.
What are you doing here, Mingyu wants to ask. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? “What kind of photos were you looking to get?”
“I’m releasing a digital single,” says Minghao, something unbearably tender in the way he looks at Mingyu. “A thank you for my fans.”
Ah, that’s right. Mingyu’s obsessive tracking of the music charts in China had finally rewarded him with news that Minghao’s solo career was taking off after years of hard work, his music videos trending on all sites and the critic reviews filled with nothing but praise for his artistry. Mingyu wants to ask, it was worth it, right? But he doesn’t have to—he already knows.
“I was hoping I could use one of your pictures for the cover,” he continues, sounding uncharacteristically unsure. “It would mean a lot to me.”
“Of course,” says Mingyu, serious. “I’d be honored to.”
Do you need to call a makeup artist over? No, he took care of it in the morning. Do you need a change of clothes? No, this is the outfit he wants to be photographed in. What’s the song about? Here, why doesn’t Mingyu listen to it himself?
“Wow, an exclusive sneak peek?” Mingyu gasps, playing it up. “Your fans will be so jealous, Minghao.”
“I don’t do this for just anyone,” Minghao jokes back. “You’re special.”
It’s said playfully but Mingyu’s heart jams into his throat anyways. He taps the play button on Minghao’s screen before he can make a fool of himself trying to find words he doesn’t have.
The first notes of a slow acoustic ballad come crackling out of the phone speakers, followed by Minghao’s light, wispy crooning. The music itself is immeasurably gentle. The lyrics Mingyu still doesn’t understand fully, but he gets a lot more of it than he would’ve a few years ago.
“Does it have a name?”
Minghao smiles. “It’s called Jia,” he says, and Mingyu doesn’t need him to translate it.
“Okay,” says Mingyu. “I think I get it. Let’s get you set up, yeah?”
He works on setting up the backdrop and lighting while Minghao gets himself settled on the chair. Tripod up, camera screwed on. Mingyu fiddles with the aperture and shutter speed settings before looking up. “Any look you’re going for specifically? Any emotion I should be trying to convey?”
Minghao’s smile turns bashful. “I want you to make me look like how you see me,” he murmurs.
Mingyu swallows, hands suddenly clammy where they press against the camera. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Okay. Wow. Mingyu blows out a slow breath, hands twitching nervously at the shutter. He takes a few test shots, scrutinizing them on the small screen, before standing up abruptly. “Let’s go outside,” he says. “There’s a nice park close by.”
“Okay,” Minghao agrees immediately. “The weather is nice today.”
He’s right. The park isn’t too busy today, only a few children playing together on the side. Mingyu catches Minghao looking at them for a beat too long before he snaps back to attention and lets Mingyu usher him over to a deserted patch of grass. The sun is directly overhead and thin cirrus clouds streak across the otherwise unbroken blue sky.
Make him look how you see him. Minghao lets Mingyu manhandle him into leaning back on his elbows with one knee up, eyelids fluttering shut as he tilts his head back and exposes the long column of his neck. Mingyu drops into a crouch, looking at him through the viewfinder. His hands are steady.
Click.
The photos barely need any touching up afterwards. Mingyu sends them to Minghao without an invoice and tries not to laugh when he receives a notification for triple the photos’ value transferred directly to his bank account. It’s not like he’s in want of money.
The real surprise is when he finds a fruit basket sitting on his doorstep a few days later. Mingyu picks up the note taped to the top. One side is blank white except for two words. Xie xie.
Mingyu flips it over. By the way — you should stay in the house more often. It’s yours, too.
Bu ke qi, Mingyu texts him later. Don’t be a stranger.
And — I will.
7.
“What are you going to do now?” asks Wonwoo, when he’s helping Mingyu move all the equipment out of the same studio he’d helped Mingyu move everything into before.
“No clue,” says Mingyu, locking up the studio for the last time. He’d chosen not to renew his lease when it expired. Later he’ll dump all his equipment in a storage unit and update his website with a notice of indefinite closure. For now, he slams the trunk door of his car shut and pulls Wonwoo into a hug with little warning. “Thanks, hyung.”
“What for?” Wonwoo asks, clearly caught off guard. It takes a few seconds for him to hug back.
“I don’t know,” says Mingyu. “Everything.” He trusts Wonwoo to understand.
For once he doesn’t let himself worry about what’ll happen in the future. He boards the same bus he always does to Busan, sleeping through the four hour ride there and the extra hour it takes to get himself shuttled out to the beach. It’s only when he’s standing at the base of the path up to the house that he checks his phone and sees the two missed calls from Junhui.
“Do you know where Minghao is?” Junhui asks as soon as he picks up.
Mingyu tucks his phone between his face and shoulder as he starts pulling his suitcases up the path. “Why are you asking me? It’s not like he updates me on precisely where in China he is.”
“That’s the thing,” says Junhui. He sounds mildly annoyed but not angry. “I haven’t seen him in weeks so I ask him if he wants to get lunch, and you know what he says! He says, sorry, I’m out of the country right now. Without telling anyone! And then when I ask him where he is, he just sends me a smiley face! And leaves all my other messages on read! That’s not right, you know, it’s supposed to be me leaving him on read!”
Mingyu laughs. “Who’s the one who’s all grown up now?” he teases.
Junhui grumbles something unintelligible. “Anyways, do you know where he is?”
“I still don’t know why you think I would know,” says Mingyu, walking up to the front of the house. And stops. And looks. “Actually, hold that thought.”
The curtains of the windows have been drawn open. Little potted succulents line the front porch, healthy and green from loving care. Mingyu has a feeling that if he turned the knob of the front door it would open for him without any resistance.
“Holding.”
“You know what, hyung, I’ll call you back later. Gotta go. I’ll let you know when I find him.”
“When? What do you mean, when? Mingyu, wait—”
Mingyu hangs up. He leaves his suitcases on the porch, doesn’t bother trying to get his keys out. The door closes quietly behind him.
The sound of something sizzling comes from the kitchen, accompanied by a wafting, fragrant smell. Mingyu takes a detour first, wandering through the living room, the parlor, the dining room. It all looks thoroughly lived-in, belongings scattered in an organized mess. Like someone’s been here for a good time now.
The hall outside the kitchen has a few frames hanging on the wall, a new addition from the last time he was here. Mingyu gets closer and is faced with old pictures of him and Minghao from years ago, random candids he didn’t even know anyone kept.
Later Minghao will explain it all to him. Show him the other pictures he kept, waiting to be framed. Tell him he’s moved out of his apartment in China, on indefinite leave from schedules to rediscover inspiration. Here to stay in Korea, if not for good, then at least for a good while.
For now, Mingyu crosses the threshold.
“Minghao?”
Minghao clicks the stove off and whirls around. There’s a blue apron tied around his waist and a soft smile on his face. “Ah, Mingyu! I was wondering when you’d get here. You’re just in time for lunch.”
“When did you get here?” asks Mingyu. “What are you making?”
“Zhajiangmian,” Minghao replies, holding up a forkful for Mingyu to try. The flavors burst on his tongue on impact.
“I didn’t even know you were here,” Mingyu says through a mouthful of noodles. They’re the perfect balance between chewy and tender. “Junhui called me trying to figure out where you were. You’re a hard man to find, Xu Minghao.”
Minghao shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You always find me anyways,” he says, setting his fork down. He pulls Mingyu in by the hand. “Welcome home.”