Chapter 1: the rise
Chapter Text
Yunho sees him immediately.
It doesn’t matter that he’s wearing a beanie that obscures most of his forehead, or that the half-drawn sleeves of his hoodie reveal a plethora of tattoos Yunho far from recognises. Even the new broadness of his shoulders or the inch he’s gained in height does nothing to sway him. Yunho knows those eyes, sees them in his dreams.
That’s Song Mingi. His Mingi.
⤥ February 2015 ⤦
Song Mingi is introduced to Jeong Yunho the way he’s introduced to dance – with an immediate, fiery attachment, and an unerring conviction that it’ll consume him.
He’s sixteen when it happens, gangly limbs but controlled movement, an unclear future but determined hope. His dance teacher pulls him aside after the class is over, the smiley boy that matches his height stood at her side as they wait for the rest of the students to leave. Once they do, she beams at them both and nudges the boy towards Mingi. He’s a little shy at the onset, genuine smile still withstanding.
“This is Yunho,” she says, and Mingi’s hand is automatic in meeting Yunho’s already outstretched one, “and Yunho-ssi, this is Mingi.”
There’s probably more his teacher says past their names, but all Mingi really notices is that Yunho’s hand is warm and steady, a kind glint to his eyes that are more than honest. He was the only one who kept up with the choreography as easily as Mingi had this class, and where Mingi’s distrust is quick to usually form, it’s disarmed in the welcome way Yunho repeats after their teacher, the syllables of Mingi’s name soft and settled on his tongue.
“It’s nice to meet you Mingi-ssi,” Yunho prattles immediately, “you were incredible with that second chorus— couldn’t believe how well you transitioned into those turns, and you did it all in one go!”
As much as Mingi wants to maintain the edge he’s so far rallied when dealing with everyone else in his dance classes, competitors and friends alike, Yunho’s captivating in both his honesty and enthusiasm. Unexpectedly, all Mingi’s able to do is return a modest grin, a shallow bow in respect.
“You’re one to talk,” he ushers, “you barely needed to look at the choreography before you were dancing it.”
That earns Mingi the sight of Yunho’s dimples for the very first time in his life. He’s still sweaty from class, hair matted to his forehead and curling at the edges of his ears, but Yunho’s eyes somehow brighten even more. Here, Mingi is as sure as the laugh he gets from Yunho that this will all be a core memory someday, years from now.
“Would you want to go to the gaming café with me?” Yunho asks then, “It’s not too far from here and we can pick up snacks on the way.”
Mingi nods, eager in a way he doesn’t expect, and that’s that.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Yunho feels flighty, once the realisation of Mingi in the flesh settles.
His day starts like any other, getting lost in the rhythm of his job as the momentum of it kicks in. They have a fansign scheduled before their exclusive listening party, and he readies himself like he always does. They drink their coffees and fuck around in the greenroom until it’s go time.
He loses sight of the cameras and resounding white noise soon enough, focused on the fan in front of him and the page he’s been asked to sign. He follows the cues to banter from one person and asks the safe questions to ease another into speaking with him. It’s an ebb and flow he’s used to six years in now, trained to be open enough to attract and converse but sheltered to the line that protects his off-stage persona.
Once they’re done, they’re shuttled off to their wardrobe changes. The fans who had won their places to get an exclusive screening of the entire album would fill the same auditorium in a few hours, and he doesn’t expect it to go much differently. They'd gotten their instructions a few days ago, assigned themselves to different songs they wanted to talk about and behind-the-scenes snippets that were interesting and appropriate enough for them all to discuss. It’s a more hands-off thing anyways, they have a moderator guiding them through most of it and Yunho gets to enjoy getting a small audience to watch the reactions of.
It's one of his most favourite parts of the job, to see how the art he gets a part in making impacts the lives of those who allow him to continue doing so. It’s a quiet adoration that Yunho’s grown to love and learned how to manage, his lines better and more clearly drawn the longer he’s been in the shoes he fills as an idol.
The make-up noonas are gentle in touching him up, letting him doze off while they work. He leaves his meal barely eaten, body too stressed and fatigued from the pre-recordings to stomach much else than the banana milk that comes with the set meal. He promises himself he’ll grab some takeout when he gets back to the dorm to fill his trainer-mandated protein quota. He opts for the much-needed rest instead, comeback preparations having taken the little sleep he gets and dwindled it down to near nothing. They’d be going on tour again soon, and Yunho hesitates to think about how much that’ll inevitably fuck him up more. It’s a problem for another day, he assures himself.
Before he knows it, he’s being ushered into changing into something more formal than the comeback outfit he’d worn for both the music show and fansign. The make-up is more natural, harsh colours smoothed into neutral blushes and lip stains that are truer to the colour of Yunho’s lips. His suit is tapered to accentuate his waist and highlight his long legs, black and fit, elevated by the elegance of a few silver chains that dangle across his collarbones. He’d been fitted with a clip-on helix earring too, the stylist noonas respecting his wishes of not having any bracelets or rings given for him to wear. It’s been a longstanding request since their debut. He wears the watch he’s been handed instead. His hair’s been gelled back and his forehead’s on show today.
“You look good, hyung,” Jongho smiles, looking at him through the vanity.
“Thank you, Jongie,” he returns, “you don’t look so bad yourself.”
Jongho smirks, “Bad doesn’t really fall into my catalogue, hyung.”
“If you keep complimenting him like that his ego will grow so big his head will explode,” Wooyoung butts in, shoving Jongho to get to Yunho.
“It’s fitting that you don’t understand what beauty looks like,” Jongho says, all bark and no bite.
“I know beauty just fine Hojongie,” Wooyoung reprimands, “you just happen to look like a very endearing troll under a particularly useless bridge.”
Jongho scoffs, even if there’s a smile threatening to overtake his mouth, “You’re an asshole.”
“Love you too, aegi.”
Wooyoung makes kissy faces at their maknae while hugging Yunho’s waist. Jongho takes his leave, going to annoy an unassuming San and Yeosang. Yunho settles his hands around Wooyoung’s shoulders, holding him tight. He finds himself letting go of a deep sigh.
Wooyoung hums, “You okay?”
Yunho nods, his chin rested on Wooyoung’s head, “You smell good.”
“Sannie got me a new perfume,” he smiles into Yunho’s chest, “I like it.”
Yunho grins, “I can tell.”
“Shut up.”
Yunho’s an idol that’s relented to the monotony of his job and not much else. He’s let it become his entire personality since debut, the rare quiet evening he gets spent gaming and all of his holidays spent with family. He has a bank account that’s stocked up to support him enough for a considerable few years, and visits his grandparents whenever he has the chance. He’s doing well, all things considered.
“Yun?”
Yunho comes back to their greenroom, “Hmm?”
Wooyoung smirks, “Are you daydreaming about being in Japan again?”
Yunho scoffs at Wooyoung, digging his chin onto the top of his head, “Only as much as you’re gloating over your anniversary gift.”
That seems to shut him up. Wooyoung pinches the skin of his back in retaliation, running off before Yunho can get his revenge. Seonghwa yells at Wooyoung to watch out for the coffee in his hand while Hongjoong gets handed Yeosang’s phone to take another turn on a game they’re playing. San and Jongho laugh at Wooyoung’s subsequent attempt to swipe said coffee from Seonghwa’s hand only to fail at it. Yunho takes a deep breath.
Saori has been an unexpected addition to his life, still tentative and new, even if they had just about settled on the labels for what they are in much the same words Wooyoung and San shared for each other. Somehow, it doesn’t feel the same, and Yunho supposes that that’s for many reasons. Chiefly, it’s probably that he isn’t dating a man, and even more that he doesn’t live in the same country, let alone same city, as the person he’s dating.
Still, he’s happy with what he’s come to have. He’d met Saori on a coincidental whim, a stylist noona’s younger sister who’d come to shadow her during spring break from university. The chemistry had been easy and their banter even easier, and their texting had become practically non-stop by the time she left back home for Japan. It’s been a few months now, and they made it official when they all had flown to Japan for their first ever shows about two weeks ago now. It had been an entirely new feeling to know that he was being watched out for in the crowd, something a little different in the adoration she gives him compared to everyone else. He’d been high on adrenaline when she’d greeted him the first night, ushering her into a bear hug that everyone was witness to. He’d kissed her for the first time on the second night, when they were the last ones left in the greenroom. Her lips had been tacky with lip-gloss and perfectly smooth, sweet and chaste in the way she’d responded shyly in kind. She’s a head shorter than him and has the roundest eyes he's ever seen, smells like elderberries and something citrus. Yunho supposes it’s the right time to have found something easy and good to add to his life.
She’d sent her best wishes for his music show recording by the time he’d woken up for it. He’d been too bleary to respond to it with much more than a love heart. He has to call her soon, once the comeback rush has died down, maybe even send her some flowers in thanks for being so patient.
Soon enough, they’re ushered to line up backstage. It’s nice, to be able to hear the way the auditorium fills up, excited chatter that presents good ambience as the final sound checks are being ensured. They’re welcomed to their chairs not even five minutes later, and they all have their hands up in wordless team greeting as they do.
“Dul, set,” Hongjoong prompts. Yunho chimes into the well-versed chorus, “Seven makes one dream— hello everyone, we are ATEEZ.”
Yunho’s charisma is mirrored back to him in two-fold, the rush of cheers ever so soothing to his ears. He’s refreshed, manages his introduction chippier than he had thought he could. They settle in, running through their script and prompting the first song to be played in turn.
PROPOGANDA startles the speakers into a powerful beginning. It’s quick and dramatic, layers of vocals and heavy, metallic guitar riffs that are prompted by Maddox hyung’s call to action. It’s beautiful and incredibly dynamic, and Yunho thinks it’s a great introduction to what they transition their album into.
There are cheers as the track finishes. Hongjoong talks a bit about the production that went into creating something so different from anything they’ve ever attempted.
SECTOR 1 is next. It’s a song that they plan to perform their second week of music shows, so Yunho’s gotten incredibly familiar with it, body attuned to the choreography. It’s then that he finally gets a chance to observe the audience, watch for their reactions even if they’ve heard the music already. His eyes scan the first few rows and he’s glad to see the enthusiasm they’re expressing for getting more of Yeosang’s voice and Yunho’s versatility. It’s nerve-wracking in all the same leagues it’s rewarding, and his body does the choreography on instinct. Seonghwa is immediate to swat at his shoulder when it happens, and he can’t help the laugh it bubbles out of him, having completely forgotten that they have yet to perform it.
“Yah,” Wooyoung says through the mic, eyes shining, “we’ve got a spoiler fairy today it seems.”
Yunho postures himself, still grinning. “What are you even talking about Young-ah? I didn’t do anything.”
The music’s still playing but the fans are buzzed. He’s sure there’ll be a slowed down clip of it uploaded to Twitter before the hour’s up. It’s the beauty of the trade and Yunho has long since embraced it. Plus, this kind of thing is fun— it’s far better to spoil a four count in your choreography than be caught fucking the person you like in the privacy of your own relationship. Ups and downs, as it goes.
They eventually get to CYBERPUNK and they’re all relatively tight lipped about it. They focus on discussing the vocals, veering away from anything to do with choreography. The song is a centre piece in their upcoming set list for the tour, and the less everybody knew, the better it would be for the fans when they showcased it.
It’s during GUERILLA that he completely zones out. It’s been familiar and practiced to perfection for practically a month now, and Yunho’s eyes wander further up the rows.
There is a singular moment that hones him onto Mingi’s familiar face.
He thinks he’s seeing things at first— a phantom of his past silhouetted in a similar but non-exact frame, something vague and unintelligible. Yunho’s half-way to convincing himself that he’s panicking purely on the premise of the possibility, that it can’t be him. Then, reality sets in stone like falling grains of sand— the way Mingi blinks slow and unfocused like he always has, the shape of his fingers peering out from his hoodie, his prominent nose and too full lips— the little things that fall into place. They become pliable and move Yunho into the truth until it’s a dune he can stand on.
It’s undeniably Song Mingi in the flesh.
He’s in the middle of slipping his sunglasses back on, seated at the far end of the auditorium. Then he re-adjusts his hood, continues flitting through the screen of his camera, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip the way he used to when he was learning a new piece of choreography.
He’s focused.
It’s impossible for Yunho to shake his gaze from the man. He watches Mingi banter with some of the other fans he’s sat with, the ease with which he does so. It’s carefree enough that Yunho realises Mingi knows them.
Still, Yunho’s slow to put the pieces together. He mindlessly stares at the unfocused and chipped black of Mingi’s nails before he finally realises that the camera those fingers are fiddling with is a professional one – that the fans he’s sat next to shared more of the same equipment. Mingi looks comfortable eased into the background, so different in temperament from the fans that were in the front rows vying for Yunho’s attention. Yunho keeps up with what he needs to be doing, nods where he needs to, laughs when Jongho says something he knows should register as funny. Regardless, his focus is siloed on how comfortable Mingi looks amidst people Yunho doesn’t know. They always had a mutual friend group when they’d hung out together all those years ago. Among so many different things, it's tilting to reckon with the image of his ex-best friend within his workplace, especially when Yunho’s not seen him for well over half a decade.
He realises it a beat or two later than that too, that Mingi’s a fansite. That he’s probably been approved alongside the rest of the group sat that high up. When he looks a bit closer, he realises that he’s partially wrong in his assessment, because some of the faces are familiar. They’re other fan photographers he’s gotten used to seeing over comebacks and faithfully littered amidst the first few rows of music festivals. That’s when Yunho feels like he’s stuffed back into his own body, that Mingi’s really here and for a purpose no less.
A part of Yunho wonders how he’s missed Mingi in the first place. Most days, he looked for Mingi on instinct, and he’s sure that he would’ve seen him if he was at any of the events they’ve held over the years. There’s so much he suddenly doesn’t understand. It all buffers at the back of his mind as he keeps up appearances, practiced and perfect.
He’s waving to another fan when he hears the distinct, faint shutter of a camera go off, now that he’s hearing for it. Mingi’s got his eyes on the lens, and there’s almost a moment where Yunho naively believes he’s the subject of Mingi’s attention.
Somehow worse is when they both realise they’re looking at each other through the intermediary of a camera. Mingi’s abrupt in moving it away from his face, almost as unsure as Yunho. And really, Yunho’s got 20/20 vision, had lasik a few years ago to make sure he only had to wear glasses for style and not function. He knows what he sees.
Mingi freezes for a second longer than he probably intends. Everything settles in slow motion. Yunho watches him whisper something to the girl next to him, gets out of his seat before she’s even nodding yes. He packs his gear up rather quickly.
Mingi’s long gone by the time they get to the end of the album.
⤥ April 2015 ⤦
It’s barely a few months into their friendship when Mingi understands that Yunho’s like no friend he’s ever had.
As it happens, they’re done with class and too exhausted to consider the gaming café after this particular one, limbs heavy and worn. It’s a good kind of distress, a dull ache then assures Mingi that he’s working his hardest, that he’s still keeping himself sharp and attentive. Still, his legs feel like lead when Yunho nudges him to pack his bag to leave.
The two of them are some of the last students in the studio, the entire space sparser now that the final class of the night has wrapped up. Even if Mingi’s given his best, he’s slower to recover than Yunho, seemingly endless in energy or stubbornness, a mystery Mingi hasn’t yet figured out. Still, Yunho’s grown to be an unerring part of Mingi’s routine now, even before their classes start. They’ve gotten into the habit of reaching the studio within half an hour from practice, enough time that they can stretch and get a few rounds of choreography in for dances they’ve seen trending on YouTube. Mingi loves it, dancing for dancing’s sake, where it’s just Yunho, him and the rhythm, dead to the rest of the world. It’s endless laughter and not enough precision, but it’s slowly become one of Mingi’s favourite parts of the week.
“My eomma made japchae and I wasn’t hungry at lunch, do you want to share? We can just stay here for a bit longer.”
Mingi finds himself nodding, too tired to move from where he’s sat. Yunho doesn’t seem to mind, takes a seat opposite Mingi and unzips his bag. He’s careful when he doles out the noodles, half left in the lunchbox and the other half manoeuvred on to the lid. He picks up a stray shred of carrot where it drops on his joggers, smiles when he eats it without much thought. Mingi doesn’t know how Yunho makes everything look so pretty and effortless.
“You’re making a mess,” Mingi says anyways.
“I just cleaned up my mess,” Yunho quips, genuine as ever. He offers Mingi both the chopsticks and the lunchbox without a second thought. “Eat, I’ve got a fork in my bag.”
Mingi doesn’t really know how to deal with Yunho’s generosity other than to accept it. He’s entirely one of a kind, and Mingi doesn’t really know what he’s done to earn being his friend. It’s been more than a few weeks in his company, but it’s not hard for Mingi to firmly believe that Yunho’s one of the kindest and most outgoing people Mingi will probably ever meet. He’s seen it in the way everybody in their classes clamours for both Yunho’s attention and time, how earnestly Yunho gives it in all the ways he can, how genuine he is with everything he does, dance included. He’s sort of a constant marvel to Mingi, so vastly different from the way he operates, so undoubtedly contrasted to how he approaches most things. Mingi’s instinct is to preserve where Yunho’s is to lend, his tendency is to shut down where Yunho’s is to open up. Their differences are strange and rewarding in the most unexpected ways.
The japchae is good. The noodles are perfectly savoury even if they’re a little cold, and Mingi manages about three spoons before Yunho’s done with his share. It’s almost automatic, the instinct he has to speed up how fast he chews. Yunho makes a face at him, tilting his head so that he looks unreasonably puppy-like.
“Mingi-yah, the food’s not going anywhere,” he says, unscrewing the lid of his water bottle, “you can eat at your pace. I’ve got nowhere to be.”
The embarrassment rushes into Mingi, heat pooling at his cheeks. His chest trips over itself somehow, too, and Mingi doesn’t know why. Yunho’s eyes are concerned even if there’s a playful glint to them.
“Sorry— sorry,” Mingi replies, eating his mouthful, “I— uh, I’m a pretty slow eater, my friends at school get annoyed with it sometimes, I don’t like eating much at lunch ‘cause I can never keep up.”
It’s a face that Mingi’s never seen on Yunho that his features transform into. For a second Mingi thinks he’s said something to upset Yunho, or even that he’s realised something deeply sad from his day.
“Who the fuck isn’t letting you eat at lunch?” Yunho hastens, “That’s what the hour is for.”
Mingi’s never heard Yunho swear. It startles him enough that he almost chokes on his bite. “Sorry?”
“Mingi-yah you have to be eating if you’re practicing like twice a week,” Yunho continues, “aren’t you starting evening classes soon? You need proper nutrition to get through your days.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Mingi murmurs, suddenly feeling like a child, “I can’t really blame them, it’s been a problem since I was a kid. Plus, I eat when I’m home.”
Yunho’s mouth draws into a thin line, conviction overtaking him, “It’s not a problem.”
Mingi hums, “Agree to disagree.”
And disagree Yunho does.
It’s three days later when Mingi gets a text around lunchtime. He’s a bit confused at first, since the only saved contacts on his flip phone are his mom and Yunho, and they both had the tendency to call rather than text.
from: yun <3
ring me when you’re done with class :p
Mingi’s already got a smile on his face when he dials Yunho’s number, the weight of his gruelling block of classes already mostly forgotten. Yunho picks up on the second ring.
“Afternoon dickhead.”
“Hello yourself,” Mingi chuckles, “what do you need?”
He can tell that Yunho’s grinning around his words, “What makes you think I need something?”
“You’re ringing me in the middle of the school day,” he counters, “are you dying?”
“Technically, you rung me.”
“Yeah, cause you texted,” Mingi steadies, “what’s this about?”
Yunho just clicks his tongue, “Walk to reception, would you?”
He does as he’s told, perplexed until he isn’t. Mingi’s greeted with Yunho leant up against the entrance of his school gates, tie loosened and shirt untucked. He looks cool even in his uniform, and Mingi would be mad about it if his day didn't feel immediately made better. Yunho’s hair is getting longer now, almost a mullet of waves that makes him look a lot more boyish than he’s probably going for. Mingi’s incredibly fond of it.
“What’re you doing here?”
Yunho makes a show of snapping his phone shut, waiting for Mingi to walk to him. He’s smiling Mingi’s favourite smile. (Mingi’s learning that he likes all of Yunho’s smiles, and that he’s at his happiest when he’s beside them too).
“We’re eating together from now on,” Yunho says simply, “we both have an hour for lunch and I have more free periods than you, today’s on me.”
It’s then that it dawns on Mingi that Yunho’s school is at least forty minutes away. Mingi knows he doesn’t have a car yet and he sees that Yunho’s beat up bicycle is locked near the crossing.
Yunho’s ridiculous.
Mingi’s stuck in his place like a fish out of water. His brain barely allows him to process the gesture, too taken with the idea that anybody would go to these lengths for him, least of all Yunho. But then again, Yunho’s probably the best person he knows. Maybe this is exactly something that would be predictable for Yunho to do.
“You’re so—”
Yunho shakes his head. “I’m not anything,’ he interrupts, “we both need to eat and I’m craving meat today, you’re just tagging along.”
Ridiculous.
Yunho keeps walking until he realises that Mingi’s not following him. He turns around in barely a few seconds, jogs up to Mingi and flicks him on the forehead. It doesn’t hurt at all, has the intended effect. Mingi jumpstarts into a sprint to catch up to Yunho, he'd started to run as soon as his fingers left Mingi’s face. They race each other all the way to the closest subway station, and Mingi might be shorter, but he’s sure as hell more determined. Yunho ends up with a harsh slap to his back and a fit of giggles neither of them can get rid of until they’re about two stops in on a moving train. Then, Mingi makes Yunho listen to the latest song he’s hyper fixated on, and Yunho, ever the dutiful, asks Mingi about the production and the artist, all the things he’d spent learning about after he’d first heard it himself.
The meat they eat is more expensive than a sixteen-year-old should be able to afford. Still, Yunho orders too much banchan and gets an extra serving of kimchi jjigae just because he knows how much Mingi likes it. They eat until their stomachs are close to spontaneous combustion and Yunho gets a coca cola they share. Mingi spends the entire time savouring his food while Yunho practically inhales it. Yunho says nothing about how close they're going to cut it for the time they leave to get back to school or how long it takes Mingi to finish each plate he serves himself. He’s content watching Mingi as he eats, piles on more cuts of fried meat as he grills them so that Mingi’s bowl is never empty.
He even buys them both a pair of melona and banana milk for the road. Mingi can’t help but be taken by it all, how it then becomes as much a habit as Yunho had said it would. Mingi starts packing actual lunches to school. Yunho waits for him, and they share their meals every day.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Yunho can’t believe his chances.
Mingi’s hood is down now. His hair is almost a buzzcut, blazing pink. The beanie he’d been wearing during the listening party is cast aside on the table a little carelessly.
Yunho sees him through the window and he’s sixteen again. It’s something liminal, considering the day he’s had. He doesn’t even realise he’s walked to their samgyetang place until he’s standing in front of it, door barely tall enough for his frame and a pane of fogged over glass the only thing that separates him from a man he hasn’t spoken to in five years.
His hands tremble but his eyes never waver. Yunho hasn’t yet been seen. He only feels the cold metal of the handle as he pulls the door open, gaze still locked on the distorted mirage of the only person who’s ever meant the world to him. He looks so different now. Still, he’s all the same too. And maybe that applied to Yunho, too.
The momentum of wind jingles the bell hung by the entryway, still as janky and high-pitched as it was when they were children. Yunho watches Mingi’s eyes snap to the door from where he’s seated, caught half-way on another spoon of broth as he registers who’s at the door.
There’s a smile before it’s somewhat aborted. There’s confusion until that gets stuck part of the way too. There’s a deep breath, then another.
“Hi hyung.”
⤥ June 2015 ⤦
Mingi giggles as he runs to the end of the street. Yunho’s not far behind, but Mingi knows what to expect with how sore a loser he is. He turns around at their decided, imaginary finish line to watch Yunho sprint at him, moving out of the way at the last second.
They’ve barely broken a sweat, but the simple euphoria of their stupid little post-practice tradition is everything to Mingi. He’s smirking at a breathless Yunho when he stops himself, “Ice cream’s on you today hyung.”
Yunho groans, gives Mingi a split second before he jumps him into a loose headlock. They’re both exhausted and sweaty but their laughter is probably loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear.
“You punk, you cheated!” Yunho shouts into his ears, “and I told you not to call me that.”
Mingi might’ve obstructed Yunho’s running start ten seconds in, but there’s nobody here to call foul play. Free ice cream requires warfare, and the game’s the game. He shoves at Yunho until he’s let go with a frankly unhinged bite to the top of his head.
“What hyung? What shouldn’t I call you?” Mingi’s still grin adorned and snarky, ups the drama with a bat of his eyelashes Yunho’s way, “My sweet hyung who’s about to buy me the most expensive double chocolate dipped Oreo ice cream sandwich in all of Korea’s 7/11’s. My beloved—"
Yunho lunges for him again, “You little shit—"
He misses. Mingi only makes fun of him for it the distance it takes them to get to the closest storefront. As promised, Mingi’s up one bougie ice cream sandwich in the same five minutes Yunho’s down a couple thousand won.
They make it back to their practice room to pick up their bags just in time for lights off. Sneaking off to the rooftop of the building is relatively easy, all it takes is two flights of steep stairs and twin pairs of puppy eyes that convince their favourite janitor not to tell on them.
The late spring breeze is nice and immediate, colder now that they’re three floors up from the streets. They sit on the floor and enjoy their snacks, recap their weeks at school and what the newest trends are. They talk about the choreography they learnt and the studio showcase coming up, exams that went well and subjects they’re coping terribly with. Conversation with Yunho is easy, easy, easy like it always is.
Mingi only circles back to the sore loss to annoy Yunho. “Can’t believe you lost to your dongsaeng, hyung.”
It does what he expects, the crinkle of Yunho’s eyebrows and flush at the tips of his ears almost immediate. Mingi can’t help the giggle that escapes him, delirious on the sugar high and exhaustion. The cicadas start to sing around them and the streetlights turn on. It’s so fucking nice.
Yunho shoves at his shoulder, “I told you to stop that.”
Mingi shakes his head, defiant, “You can’t go on a rant to half the kids younger than you by weeks asking them to call you hyung when you don’t hold me to the same standard. What are they going to say about you treating your friends with partiality, hmm? I’m pretty sure there’s something in the bible against that.”
Was Mingi absolutely thrilled that he’s the only one who’d managed to break through to Yunho’s inner circle in their dance classes the last few months? Abso-fucking-lutely. Was he still going to take the piss out of the very special treatment that he adored from Yunho oh so much? Like bee to pollen, he was.
“Do not bring Jesus into this you menace, you did call me hyung when you had to,” Yunho reminds him, “but it’s different now Mingi-yah, and it’s different with you, we’re best friends.”
Something warm and safe rushes through Mingi from the top of his head right down to the tips of his toes. Maybe he shares a bit in the flush Yunho’s sporting.
“I’m still your dongsaeng.”
“You’re my equal,” Yunho corrects, “in everything.”
Mingi scoffs, even if he can’t keep the smile off his face, “You’re impossible.”
“I’m right, is what I am.”
They bicker until their moms’ frantic messages asking them home for dinner rush them to the train station. They listen to Mingi’s iPod touch playlist of English punk rock that Yunho can’t understand the lyrics of and play snakes on their shitty Nokias until they have to part ways.
(Mingi doesn’t stop calling him hyung.)
⤥ ★ ⤦
Yunho doesn’t know what to expect. Still, he accepts Mingi’s offer to sit with him.
There’s a stilted silence while Mingi stares at his bowl and Yunho tries not to suffer whiplash. He doesn’t know what changes from between him standing at the entrance of the restaurant and taking a place on the chair opposite Mingi, only that the air is sucked out from the table as soon as he does.
Mingi asks him if he’d like a serving. Yunho tells him that he’s already eaten.
He can’t help but read Mingi as easily as he did all those years ago. Mingi’s shoulders are tensed, and his posture is ram rod straight. He can tell Mingi’s trying not to furrow his eyebrows but failing at it, even as he’s struggling to look back up at Yunho. He’s nervous, that much Yunho can infer, but he’s left with the realisation that all he can gather from Mingi is what’s staring him in the face. The whys? The whys leave Yunho stuttering in his own mind, no longer privy to what any of the body language means. It unsteadies him more than he expects it to, that he no longer knows what’s going on inside Mingi’s head.
More, while Mingi finds it hard to look at Yunho, Yunho finds it impossible to look away. He has a plethora of piercings now, ones Yunho can see now that he’s close enough. There are a few on each lobe and more across his helix, even an industrial. Hongjoong’s spent years considering one, and Yunho’s surprised that his hyung’s tired indecision had taught him a thing or two. They’re a mix of metals, all of the little charms and pendants equally as eccentric and unique as they are willowy. They’re just like Mingi.
Even his form’s filled out since they were seventeen. It’s hard for it to escape Yunho’s notice, the way Mingi has lost all the childlike softness around his jaw and cheeks, the way his muscles are toned and fitted beneath the hoodie he’s sporting. His sleeves are half drawn now, and Yunho gets a closer look at the tattoos he realises Mingi now has. They’re just like his piercings, a mix of flora and fauna that meld into intricate patterns running as far up Mingi’s arms as he could see. Messy. Graceful.
Even Mingi’s acne had mellowed out to bare scars, pretty texture alongside his moles. Those were still where he last saw them to be, below his eye and on his cheek. He could even see the one on his ear, amidst the jewellery, if he looked hard enough. His nose is sharper though, the slope of it trained on Yunho while he eats another spoonful of his rice.
He looks good. Really good.
Yunho clears his throat. Mingi blinks particularly harsh.
“Your hair is pink.”
That does snap Mingi’s eyes to meet his. There’s something almost guarded about them, as if he perceives Yunho as passing judgment and not notice like he intended.
Yunho follows up a little too quickly, “It’s nice I— uh I’ve never seen it this short.”
It warms Mingi enough just barely, the frown he was closed to sporting drawn back to a cool neutral. Yunho doesn’t think it should be this hard.
“Thank you,” he says, almost timid, “I like changing it up every now and then.”
Yunho had forgotten how deep Mingi’s voice was. There’d been nothing to keep that by, once he was gone. Yunho still had the pictures that memorialised their youthful grins and shabby taste in fashion, keepsakes that reminded him of game café dinners or late night practices, but Mingi’s voice fresh to Yunho’s ears had been lost for the better part of a decade. It’s nice to hear again, grounded and gravelly, something unerringly earnest.
It's strange too, that Yunho’s the one that’s somehow burdened with maintaining the momentum of their conversation. It’d always been so easy with them both, before, and on most days Mingi had carried them through while Yunho had been careful to listen, take note and learn. So much had changed.
“I saw you today,” Yunho says, “at the listening party.”
Mingi makes that face of confusion again. His hair is so short that the sharp lilts of his eyes are almost harrowingly transparent when they process Yunho’s words. It’s as if he doesn’t recall the two of them being in the same place not even a few hours ago.
“I was told it would be a bigger event than it was.”
Yunho doesn’t understand. He starts where he thinks it’s safe. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
It’s probably the understatement of the century. Yunho feels the apprehension claw at his chest even if there’s nothing to be anxious over.
Mingi’s still reserved as he entertains Yunho. Yunho tries not to feel his stomach turn over at the distance he feels.
“I didn’t expect for you to see me.”
“You’re a fansite?”
Mingi sighs. He sets down his utensils with some finality and meets Yunho’s curiosity with some certainty.
“I ended up majoring in photography for university. Didn’t really feel like I had many options once I’d left,” Mingi explains, “I was dogshit at it until I wasn’t.”
Yunho has so many questions. He doesn’t know if he can ask any of them.
Mingi seems to read them off his face. “I saw one of your comebacks while I was doing my social care service in the military,” he expands, “was assigned to the middle of fuck all nowhere and I had a lot of time on my hands.”
Mingi worries at his lip again, as if he’s deciding how much he wants to share. “It felt good,” he says carefully, “to see you all do what we loved, to see you. I missed it.”
You’re the one who left.
Yunho’s brain almost immediately reverts to seventeen, a knee jerk response. He takes a breath, reminds himself of everything else that had happened. It’s still somewhat a lost cause, because his mouth says something arguably stupider.
“You did your basic training?”
Sometimes Yunho did want to crawl into a hole and die.
Mingi chuckles. It’s an empty sound. “Close to some of the worst weeks of my life,” he hums, “I couldn’t be exempted from service because everything was long enough ago from enlisting that I didn’t fit the criteria anymore. I was sore for months after.”
He’d been in pain for months after. Yunho unsteadies a bit more. Mingi still talked about it to him the same, as if it hadn’t happened at all.
“Well, I’m glad you’re done with it.”
Mingi nods, “Me too.”
Yunho decides he can only stomach as much as Mingi gives him. Perhaps he’s just as unprepared for their confrontation as Mingi felt. He veers in another direction.
“Which member have you assigned yourself to?”
Yunho wants to know. He’s been thinking about Mingi since he’d seen him earlier, more so once he’d left. He figures Mingi had chosen all eight of them, or even Hongjoong, who he’d always been close to. Seonghwa maybe, since he’s so photogenic.
Mingi looks at him a little like he’s grown a second head. Yunho doesn’t really know what he’s missing.
‘Uh— I— you,’ he says, unsure for the first time, ‘I’ve been photographing you.’
The surprise must show on his face. Mingi tenses. Yunho just doesn’t understand.
“That’s— what was your first gig?”
Nice, Yunho. Really nice.
“I started with Gayo Daejeon last year, I guess?” Mingi says, maybe just as glad for the redirection, “I got tickets last minute from a cousin and saw that you all were performing— ended up getting a couple nice pictures of you all on my phone. The hanboks were really pretty, the dance break more so.”
Yunho feels almost dizzy, that Mingi has been in the peripheries of his life for more than six months and he’s had absolutely no clue.
“I was seated pretty far off but the girl next to me said I got really good shots of the set, told me to watermark it and post it on twitter.” Mingi recalls it as the unbelievable twist of fate it seemed to be, “I had nothing better to do so I put them up. Figured it would be good for my portfolio if nothing else. Got more attention than I was expecting so I stuck to it, and your shots became the most popular.”
Oh, Yunho was the choice by byproduct. Okay.
“I ended up coming to your Seoul shows too, and the momentum picked up from there, and then I got into the listening party— so I came today, since I was free.”
It seems so obvious when Mingi lays it out for him like this. He’s disarmed from every single follow up question with how straight forward Mingi recollects everything. But then it comes back to him, like it always does.
“You didn’t want me to see you.”
Mingi stuns a bit, guard back up. Yunho’s unmoored enough not to care.
“I thought it would be easier this way,” Mingi corrects, “we haven’t spoken in so long.”
Again, Yunho wants to bite back. A part of him wants to berate Mingi on who’s fault that is. He reels it in.
“We’re speaking now, though.”
Mingi assesses him, “We are.”
Yunho doesn’t know how to entertain them both for longer, so he settles for checking the time. He’s been out for the better part of an hour when he’d only intended to go on a short stroll to clear his head. He’s sure some manager somewhere was beginning to worry about him. He sighs.
It’s more a fit of fear than bravery when Yunho holds his hand out, “Give me your phone.”
Mingi’s eyebrows furrow adorably, “What?”
Yunho wouldn’t lose Mingi a second time.
“Hand over your phone,” he asks, doubling down, “give it.”
Oddly enough, Mingi listens. The phone that’s handed to him is cracked at the edges. There are a plethora of undiscernible stickers at the back worn out from use. Yunho doesn’t think the camera works. It’s equally as ironic as it is endearing, and it’s so Mingi that Yunho’s heart aches with it. He punches in his number on the dial pad and gives himself a phone call. He unlocks his own phone and saves the missed call to Mingi’s contact.
“We can get coffee sometime, maybe next week? I have a few rest days, I’ll text you.”
Mingi seems stunned enough that he nods his head before he probably registers what he’s agreed to. Yunho smiles. He gets a small one from Mingi in return.
There’s nothing more that keeps him grounded to dinner with his estranged best friend. He bids his leave like his parents would if they’d visited the house of an old friend that they haven’t seen in ages. He lingers until he can’t.
“It was really good seeing you Mingi.”
Mingi affirms him, “You too, hyung.”
Something strikes itself in Yunho’s heart at the honorific, feels the room drop a degree or two. He shakes it off.
“It’s Yun to you,” he corrects, “see you soon.”
//
Yunho knows he’s good at taking initiative with the things he cares about.
If anything, it’s what he’s always grounded himself to, when things have gotten hard in their careers. It’s how he became the dance guide for their team so early on, where the commitment he’d made to learn the choreography beforehand had seemed obvious and necessary. The duty of putting in the extra hours with his dancer hyungs so that he could embody the movements and improve on them before they took it to the group had been a natural transition, one that worked enough well for all of them it'd become habit. Mingi fell under the same umbrella, it seemed.
Their texts had been brief, so far. The first one had been daunting somehow, no version of hi or hey an appropriate way for Yunho to reintegrate back into the life of somebody he had so much shared history with. He’d done it anyways, inquiring the days Mingi’s free to grab a coffee, identifying himself when he realised he’d only saved Mingi’s contact on his phone, not the other way around.
It’d taken him a couple of hours to respond to Yunho, as if contemplating the offer itself. Mingi had ultimately agreed, sent over a place that he thought had good coffee, perhaps as penance for taking so long to respond. Yunho agreed without looking at his schedule, determined to make it even if he was sleep deprived from a pre-recording or whatever else they had going on.
And so, for the second time in as many weeks, he’s opposite Mingi once again.
Yunho had bought their coffees even when Mingi protested. He only agrees when Yunho frames it as thanks for picking out the place, that he can get them their drinks the next time. It seems to surprise them both, that Yunho wants it to be a recurring fixture.
Mingi’s quiet now, letting the steam condense over his face as he sips on his espresso. He isn’t wearing a hoodie today, just a light shirt and jeans to cope with the muggy summer heat. Yunho’s eyes drift everywhere, the dip in between Mingi’s collarbones, the chunky necklaces that adorn the space— the beaded bracelets that encase one of his wrists, ones so similar to the stack he refused to take off when they were teenagers. He’s wearing rings too, clunky silver in varying thicknesses and textures that make his hands look bigger than they are. He’s wearing some make-up today too, his eyebrows filled into the pink that matches his hair, smudged eyeliner that makes him look fierce. His entire image is artfully tousled, intentionally cluttered. Here, it’s so easy to envision him as the idol he would’ve been, how easily Mingi still has the edge to make him special— beautiful, without a stylist tampering or a team contributing to make him what he so naturally just is. Yunho sips on his caramel macchiato, compelled by the silence.
Surprisingly, it’s Mingi who breaks it. “I still can’t believe your drink order hasn’t changed.”
Mingi remembering startles Yunho into a smile, “I can’t believe you drink that, who killed your sense of fun and whimsy?”
“Well, I’ll have you know that college kids consider this stuff the nectar of the gods,” he replies, “I happen to be a meek and humble follower.”
“You’re out of uni.”
Mingi gives Yunho a full chuckle, nimble and free, “I guess old habits die hard.”
Yunho realises, with startling clarity, how easy it is to talk to Mingi. It’s as if the time they’ve spent apart is malleable like taffy— mouldable into unintelligible lengths in which they had never dropped out of each other’s lives. Yunho supposes they’re both comfortable enough for him to ask the question they both know is coming.
“I didn’t know you were in Seoul.”
Yunho tries to be as casual as he can about it. Even if Mingi had been back in the city for years, he wouldn’t have had any way to know.
He watches the way Mingi flinches— the way he hesitates before he forces himself to relax. Yunho’s reminded that perhaps it isn’t as easy for Mingi as it is for Yunho. He pretends as if it doesn’t sting.
“I wasn’t,” Mingi says, two fingers caving into the handle of his cup, “not until recently at least. I moved back maybe a year ago? Got a job as a tattoo apprentice at a small studio here, and I’ve managed to work my way up somehow.’
It’s the last thing he expects Mingi to be doing. He’d been afraid of needles for as long as Yunho’s known him— well, as far as he used to know him. The memory of Mingi’s hand clamped tight over Yunho barrels into him. Mingi had stubbornly signed up to a blood drive just because Yunho had, and then he’d spent the entire proceeding half-hour cutting off all the feeling in Yunho’s arm so that he didn’t pass out. It’s clearly no longer an issue.
Yunho steadies, “Is it going well?”
Mingi nods, rewarding Yunho with a sliver of a smile that’s genuine, “Yeah— yeah, I think so. I love doing it— I even do the photos for our studio’s social media, it’s nice, stable.”
“I’m glad.”
Even if it hurts more than Yunho expects it too, he finds that he’s being honest. It’s daunting, how abruptly the chasm of time that’s separated them fills the space in between them just as quickly as he forgot it.
Yunho knows Mingi doesn’t have to ask about his side of things. It’s been plastered over most of the variety content he’s done over the years even if Mingi’s not kept up with it. His upcoming is like any other idol’s— he’d worked and worked until they got the chance for the work to pay off.
Yunho finds that he’s being assessed much the same way he’d taken the time to observe Mingi. There’s something indecipherable in his gaze, perhaps curious.
Mingi is gentle as he asks, guard lowering, “Are you happy?”
The question threatens to knock the wind out of him. Yunho’s never been the introspective type, he does as he’s asked, works hard to be good at what he commits to, shows up because it’s the right thing to do. It’s been years of it now, so much so that he rarely ever sits down to think about how he feels, barely has the time to. It’s been a lot of sleepless nights and never-ending dread. There’s always more to do and even more to strive for. He knows he’s being worn out, knows that he has to keep going.
He doesn’t exactly know how to answer the question. Still, his response is honest either way.
“I am right now.”
Mingi looks at Yunho with too much and too little. He doesn’t know what to think, can’t gauge Mingi’s reaction. The silence settles once more. Maybe Yunho’s wrong. Maybe there is too much time and space between them now and the Mingi he once knew.
Mingi breathes. “You look different,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself, “still you but so different— I see you on my screen and even now, I— you’ve grown up.”
It’s an incomplete thought, a few words half-way stuck in Mingi’s head. Yunho hopes it’s a good thing, takes the win of a continued conversation for what it is.
“You have too,” Yunho responds, because it’s true.
Mingi hums, “I’m surprised you recognised me to be honest, I figured I had changed dramatically enough that it wouldn’t matter being in the same room as you again.”
Yunho just doesn’t understand why Mingi’s been so adamant to fly under his radar. He huffs, the reply instinctual, “There isn’t a world where I wouldn’t notice you, Mingi.”
And there it is again. The stutter— the hesitation. Yunho can’t help but want to fold in on himself as soon as the words leave his mouth.
It’s clearly not the right thing to say. Mingi looks at his empty cup instead of Yunho, visibly retreating. Yunho doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.
Mingi breathes, “I should go—”
Yunho hurries, “I got you a press pass—”
Mingi looks at him, confused. “You did what?”
“A press pass,” Yunho repeats uselessly, “I— uh, I figured it might be useful in case you wanted to do more for your fansite, and you’re my friend, so—”
Yunho flounders. Mingi does too. It’s terribly fucking awkward. He unearths the pass from his pocket anyways, puts it closer to Mingi’s side of the table than his.
Mingi looks at it as if it’s extra-terrestrial. Yunho doesn’t know if he’s making this train wreck of a conversation better or worse.
“Uh, thanks.”
It’s not a rejection.
The words settle into Yunho slowly. He’s almost in disbelief as he watches Mingi reach for it, watches him take it into his hands and observe the little care with his name and a barcode on it.
When he feels like he can get his mouth to open again, Yunho gathers his thoughts. “If you ever want to get a few behind the scenes shots for us or even get yourself to barricade at the shows, that should help you,” he flushes, “or even just text me or whatever.”
Mingi looks at him just like he did before. Yunho feels so small under his gaze, doesn’t know if he’s done something right or something detrimental.
“You’d let me take pictures of you for your team to post?”
“I don’t doubt that you’re good at what you do,” Yunho almost heaves, “it’s an option if you want it.”
Mingi’s eyebrows furrow, caught in between emotions Yunho can parse out as confusion and apprehension, maybe even disbelief. He pulls out his phone, and in a few seconds, Yunho’s phone pings with a linked profile. He realises that it’s Mingi’s fansite page on Twitter.
“Look at them first,” Mingi says, “ask me again, if you mean it.”
Yunho bites his tongue on telling Mingi that he already means it. The terrifying realisation that Mingi thinks this is a transactional meeting flits into Yunho’s convictions, unbearable and unsettling.
“I think it’d just be cool for you to come by again,” Yunho’s quick to say, “closer to the stages and the performances, if that’s what you’d like. The pictures are your choice.”
He’s the one who looks at his half-finished drink this time. He doesn’t understand why this conversation’s making him feel so wrung out. They’ve barely spoken, a strange middle between small talk and weighted exchanges.
Yunho finds that it just shouldn’t be this hard.
Mingi’s exhale is wind hum soft. “Maybe we could just do more of this for now,” he concedes, still unsure, “I like coffee.”
It’s like coming up for water, when Yunho’s been sinking for what has felt like the entire afternoon. It feels a slight bit recovered, the small ways in which Mingi acknowledges Yunho’s effort, the way he agrees to try.
More than that, it’s a beacon of hope, that Mingi might want this too, that he isn’t ready to lose Yunho in the ways he once had him. It’s a win Yunho practically jumps into.
He can’t help the small smile that escapes him, one of his legs jostling under the table, “Yeah— yes, of course, we could definitely do more of this.”
“Okay,” Mingi agrees, eyes close to sparkling.
It feels like a weight lifted, for the rest of their conversation. They don’t talk about much else, Mingi touching on what he’s listening to currently and Yunho promising to check out his recommendations. Some things never changed, he supposes.
Only when they’re readying to leave does Yunho’s breath get zapped from his lungs once more. Just as they’re clearing out their mugs, Mingi’s t-shirt catches on the chair as he tucks it into the table. Yunho half-believes it’s a trick of light, his eyes fixing onto the tiny but intricate, unmissable lettering of a dark red “M” tattooed on Mingi’s exposed hip. It reminds him so certainly of something long past, a remnant that strikes Yunho’s memory only once he sees it.
Yunho shakes it off, forces himself to believe that he’s seeing things.
⤥ August 2015 ⤦
Mingi hasn’t ever really been big on birthdays. He was used to moving around, had done so for most of his childhood, and with that impermanence came this weird need to pass the day like it’s any other. And really, being a summer break baby didn’t help at all either.
So, he doesn’t really have plans for his 16th birthday. His mom makes him her signature seafood miyeok-guk and his dad and brother call him right after breakfast. Yunho had texted him at midnight so he doesn’t really expect much else. He gets a new pair of trainers for school and a wad of cash, his mom apologising for what seems like the hundredth time for having to leave him for the day.
“I know they scheduled you in last minute eomma,” Mingi pleads, “stop apologising.”
His mom makes a little pitiful sound at the back of her throat, “I know, but this is the first time I’m not with my baby for his birthday.”
Mingi feels smothered in the best way, the kind you would be acquainted with only if you had a mom as good as his. “I’m fine, go clock in before you’re late because of your freshly minted sixteen-year-old.”
She pinches his cheeks and kisses his forehead in both gratitude and goodbye, “Sixteen! God, where’d the time go?”
In the same paces his mom picks up her keys to leave, there’s an oddly well-timed knock on the door.
Mingi’s confused, “Eomma who’s coming by?”
His mom swivels on her exit to give him only a mischievous smile. She says nothing as she moves to open the door to their apartment.
“Eomma? Wha—"
Mingi’s greeted by an egregiously large head of balloons and a grinning Yunho. His hands are absolutely too full, but Mingi can’t help but already brighten at the prospect of being thought of.
He rushes to the door to help Yunho while his mom hugs his friend good morning.
“I made waffles too, hmm? There are plenty of leftovers Yunho-yah,” his mom says, “help Minnie finish them, okay?”
Yunho affirms her like the ideal son should and she’s off after kisses to both their cheeks. Mingi takes one of the bags so that Yunho can mind the obstruction of the balloons through the door.
By some feat of Yunho being Yunho, he manages to get to the coffee table and set everything down without tripping over his two feet. He’s sporting a full blush when he looks over at Mingi, and somehow it makes Mingi feel shy. He chalks the flush up to managing the couple flights of stairs Yunho had to come up to get to their apartment.
In any case, Mingi can’t help his disbelief, “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re sixteen!” Yunho beams, “Happy birthday Mingi-yah.”
Mingi bumps his shoulder to Yunho’s, “You already wished me.”
“You thought that counted? Jesus Mingi-yah, I take my best friend birthday duties so much more seriously than you think.”
Mingi doesn’t know what to do with himself, a dumb smile that’s starting to hurt his cheeks already. “You’re an idiot, shut up.”
Yunho just grins, “No can do Min, I come bearing party hats and birthday cheer, let’s get this shit started.”
They plant themselves on the couch with all the bags on the floor. Yunho’s quick to unpack a few streamers in pink, red and blue, puts them around the walls and their coffee table with near perfect accuracy.
“You’re good at this.” Mingi says, searching for something to watch for the both of them. He’s sure some of his favourite microwavable popcorn packets are lying around in his pantry somewhere.
Yunho hums, wrangling some blue tac onto the wall, “I’ve been doing it for Gunho for the last couple years, always puts a smile on his face.”
“You’re a good brother.”
“Makes me happy to make his day a bit,” Yunho replies, “doesn’t cost me much and it puts a smile on his face.”
“Good brother.”
“Shut up.”
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” Mingi says. The joy he feels is foreign, stable, as if Yunho in his life was a cementing constant that he could be confident holding onto. “Being here is enough.”
Yunho finishes with the decorations and comes to sit with him on the couch. “Are you happy?”
Mingi thinks it’s a stupid question. “Of course I’m happy, this is so lovely Yun.”
“Then I had to do it,” Yunho says simply, “makes it worth doing too.”
Mingi feels so seen and content it almost hurts. He’s still reeling from the adrenaline of the entire gesture, doesn’t think the gratitude he feels will ever be good enough for as great a friend as Yunho is. He’s lost in how definitively his life has changed in the last year, all because he’s made a friend who’s seen him in thick and thin so far.
He’s distracted enough that he doesn’t realise Yunho’s pulled out another bag until it rustles, ushering him back to the moment. “The store only had a tiara, but the birthday boy must be celebrated so we are putting it on.”
Mingi has no reason to oppose as Yunho excitedly searches for said party tiara. When it’s unearthed, Mingi sees it in all its pink and glittery glory and is mostly unfazed. It’s honestly pretty far from the worst thing he’s seen his niece wear, and she’s two.
Yunho laughs the entirety of the time he ventures putting it on him, seemingly too endeared by Mingi’s bedhead and Minecraft pyjama bottoms. Mingi stays still like he’s been asked, huffs a breath to move his bangs out of his eyes and lets Yunho do as he pleases.
Once Yunho makes a show of adjusting it on his head and ta-das, Mingi’s grinning from ear to ear. He decides to indulge his best friend if nothing else. He does a little wave here and there, makes himself look as regal as he can for ten in the morning. Yunho’s ardour is almost unmissable.
It’s silly and entirely becoming of them. “Well, how do I look?”
Yunho gives him a once over, clearly proud of his choice in tiara.
“You look pretty Mingi-yah,” he says, “so pretty, like a princess!”
Mingi doesn’t really understand why it makes his stomach swoop all weird, but he takes the compliment in his stride.
“That’s royal highness to you.”
Yunho’s fond, unbelievably so, “Whatever you say, princess.”
Mingi does end up finding one of those popcorn packets. He decides to put on Spiderman just because he knows how excited Yunho gets when they watch it, and he’s come to love the movie two-fold because of it too.
They lounge around and binge Toby McGuire’s trilogy, debate the rumours about yet another reboot, even if Andrew Garfield’s take is just as good as the original. Eventually they decide on some cartoons as background noise as they clean up for lunch.
Still, Yunho’s sentimentality resides in Mingi’s chest like an ever-expanding balloon, making him feel so happy he could explode with it. They laze around the apartment for the next few hours without much fanfare. They play video games and Mingi uses a good amount of his gifted cash on getting them takeout. They have the waffles for dessert.
When they’re stuffed full and their conversation slows down, Yunho’s thoughtful in asking Mingi what he wanted to do with their dance teacher’s latest suggestion.
“She thinks we’re ready,” Yunho says, legs wedged between Mingi’s on the middle of his couch, “I think we are too.”
Yunho’s already worked hard to convince his parents that he deserved to pursue the arts. Mingi’s still figuring out the path. He loves dance, he does, but he doesn’t know if he’s willing to hinge the rest of his life on it even if he can’t really see himself doing anything else. He’s seen his mom, knows how important it is to have a job that’s consistent, safe.
“I know you’re ready,” Mingi says, “but I still don’t know whether it’s the right call with me. Everything with my mom and me moving around, it’s still so fresh.”
Yunho makes a sound of understanding, even if he’s not the happiest with it. “But you’re here now and you’re settling into the routine of it right? And we start a new semester next month anyways. You’re closer to me now, closer to training.”
Mingi knows all of this. A part of him even agrees, this is what they’ve both been working so hard for. The timing had worked out, their training had too. Nothing’s really in Mingi’s way anymore. It makes everything that much more terrifying though, that there’s nothing to stop him from auditioning for the career he wants, nothing that stopped him from failing.
“You’re not going to fail,” Yunho says readily. It’s so weird how easily he could be read when he’s with Yunho.
Mingi sighs, “You don’t know that.”
“I do know that,” Yunho counters, “you’re the best dancer in any room you’re in and you know it too. You’ve worked hard to get there.”
Mingi hums. “Even better than you?”
Yunho scoffs. “I plead the fifth.”
“We’re Korean.”
Yunho only smiles. “You know how good you are. We’ll be together through it all too, and I think we’re ready Mingi-yah. We’ll be okay.”
Mingi can’t really disagree with him.
It’s a quiet confession when it comes, “I think we are too.”
There’s not much more to it. When it gets late enough and his mom’s due to be back home, Yunho goes a mile even further with his little birthday surprise. Mingi realises he had somehow sneaked in a cupcake from his favourite bakery into the fridge.
Yunho brings it over and embellishes it with a single candle. Mingi blushes through the entirety of the little dance Yunho does while shimmying the cupcake around him to an acapella Happy Birthday.
Mingi never wants anything to change. He blows out the candle.
They split the cupcake in half and Yunho gets a good amount of the frosting onto Mingi’s cheek. He’s shoved for the offence but promises to tidy up their mess from lunch to escape Mingi’s retaliation, does so while Mingi washes off the offending frosting from his face.
“Also, before I forget,” Yunho calls from the living room, “I did actually get you a gift.”
Mingi doesn’t know what to do with that. “What’re you talking about Yun? This was the gift.”
Yunho does his best little pout and insists in a way Mingi knows he’ll not be able to say no to. “Well to you maybe, I actually have a proper one for you.”
Yunho’s ridiculous. Ridiculous.
He pulls out a little box. Mingi recognises it as way too expensive for his sixteen-year-old self immediately.
“There are no returns on this, don’t even think about it,” Yunho says, reading his mind again, “and you don’t owe me, okay? It’s a gift. That’s the point of those.”
Mingi’s wordless as he opens it. It’s a wallet. A very expensive, very branded wallet. There’s a little M engraved on the bottom right corner of it and it’s beautiful.
Ridiculous.
“You keep losing yours,” Yunho explains, “I thought maybe one that’s a little more meaningful will help you keep track of it.”
There’s a nervous lilt to his voice and Mingi still doesn’t know what to say, fingers tracing over the edges of the leather as carefully as he can.
Yunho seems set on speaking for the both of them, “I did save a chunk of my money from Chuseok last year and my grandparents have been giving me pocket money for whenever I help out with the chores when I’m back home, so I thought it would be good to do something nice with the money y’know? I hope you—”
The rest of Yunho’s words are abruptly muffled into Mingi’s shoulder when he’s ushered into an almost bone crushing hug. God, he never has the right words. He hopes Yunho understands how much it means to him that he’s being thought of, considered, especially in this way.
Yunho’s stunned into a whisper, maybe realising how well a job he’s done. “So, you like it?”
“I love it hyung,” Mingi replies, hugging him a bit tighter, “Thank you Yun. Really.”
It’s by far in definition, the perfect day.
⤥ ★ ⤦
They meet up every other week. Yunho doesn’t tell anybody about it.
He doesn’t know he’d even start to be honest. It’s still terribly stilted most of the time, Yunho trying to carry a conversation until he says something that makes Mingi higher his walls, and Mingi trying to make sure that they don’t discuss anything meaningful. Still, they both show up. Still, Mingi responds to Yunho’s texts, now without hours at a time between responses.
For the first time in years, Yunho even gets to wish Mingi a happy birthday. He doesn’t overdo it, a simple text that takes him ages to formulate, but he does get a thank you in return. He soars for the rest of the day, even if it’s the most insignificant of exchanges. It means so much for Mingi to hear him.
He thinks they’re getting somewhere but he can’t be sure. Every caramel macchiato he’s had so far gets better with each café Mingi picks out, increasingly obscure neighbourhoods and the places even more so.
“It’s what I like to do in my free time,” Mingi says, sipping on a lavender latte today, “eomma comes by sometimes and she loves to walk around Seoul, and she’s always had a knack for finding homey décor or trinket places aside from the markets.”
Mingi’s mom had always been a place that Yunho could rest in, abundant in the care she’d given him once Mingi had introduced them. It was always in the little things— the extra coca cola can in the fridge when he’d visit, the hugs when leaving their apartment after she’d fed him, long days after practice gently concluded in her laugh over the dinner table. She had always been warmth to him, just like Mingi. In another life, he thinks that he would be side by side with them while they walked through Seoul, a part of their family, finding more of the city to love. It was once like that, back then. Yunho’s wistful. “How is she?”
Mingi eyes meet his, and maybe he understands how much she’d once meant to Yunho. “She’s okay Yunho— good, she goes to hyung on the weekends, helps him with the little ones. She likes being busy.”
“You’ve always been so much like her.”
Mingi assesses him. There’s too much of that, whenever they’re sat opposite to each other. “I am,” he replies, “I don’t think I’m ever doing enough for everything she’s done to raise me.”
It’s getting very close to a can of worms Yunho doesn’t know if they can close if they get to opening it. Mingi realises it too, a beat too late. It’s the first little gist of something real he’s said since they started doing this.
They’re sitting outside, a breeze that’s easing into winter moving through to their table like a playmate. It cuts through some of the lingering weight, Mingi drawing his jacket closer in on himself while Yunho readjusts his scarf.
Yunho breathes. The air is crisp. “You’ve always given everything to what you do, Mingi. I know she’s just grateful to have you as a son, like she always has been.”
Mingi just looks at him, stone-faced and evaluating. “I lied to you.”
Yunho doesn’t know where this is going. “Hmm?”
Mingi bites at his lip, unsure then. “The espressos? I uh— it wasn’t because of college. They do taste like ass, I get it. But uh— it was the only thing they served at the hospital cafeteria that didn’t make me want to throw up after physio. I got used to it enough that I began craving it.”
It stuns Yunho, the revelation— the honesty. It’s an electrifying realisation, that they’re getting somewhere, that it’s not all in Yunho’s head. “Thus, the caffeine addiction.”
Mingi’s eyes widen, shocked into a laugh, “Yeah, thus the caffeine addiction.”
It’s the first real one he’s heard in ages. Yunho had forgotten how high Mingi’s cheeks went up when he truly relaxed into his joy. His eyes are half-crescents as he takes another sip from his mug, head shaking. His rings are distracting in the same intensities they’re pretty.
It’s the precipice that turns the afternoon into evening, and the sun is lowering behind them. Yunho can’t help but join in, a smile that widens his cheeks too big as he finishes off his own drink. There are streaks of blue that are settling into the sky, underscores of pink and orange that start to find their way through the clouds. Yunho wants to hold these moments as if they aren’t as intangible as the sky he’s observing.
Yunho hopes he can offer a vulnerability where one’s been shared. “You didn’t have to tell me.”
Mingi clicks his tongue, almost nonchalant. “You want to know,” he says, “and I wanted to tell you.”
Yunho’s hands feel like they’re too big for his body. It’s an entirely exceptional thing to re-remember how well Mingi had known him— knows him. “Right.”
Mingi smiles, as if he’s satisfied with giving some of the push that Yunho’s been monopolizing on in their conversations. It’s cheeky and bright. “Right.”
Things change after that day. It doesn’t exactly get easier, but some of the weight does ease. Yunho settles into the shift like rediscovering an old swing set you used to play on as a child— unsure that it’ll hold your weight until you’re sat on it again. The metal creaks and maybe the rubber has worn out at the edges, but the thrill of setting off into the air feels the same as it did all those years ago, and the railing holds steady, accommodating for your weight. Yunho runs with it.
It's a couple days later that they’re driving to a schedule and Yunho spots the PC café they used to go to when they were kids. They’re barely stopped at a traffic light, but Yunho snaps a mostly shaky picture and sends it to Mingi without thinking about it too hard. They still have pacman here, he captions.
Mingi’s response comes minutes later. Yunho’s heart runs all the way up to his throat. I didn’t even think this place was still open, comes the response.
it very much is !! we should go
His phone doesn’t even chime when the reply comes in, barely seconds from Yunho’s text.
we should, for old time’s sake :)) i’d kick your ass
“Stop texting Saori and focus, Yun,” Seonghwa says, startling Yunho enough to almost falter the grip he has on his phone, “we’re here.”
Yunho’s cheeks feel hot. He registers that he’s been biting his lip to suppress a smile only after the fact.
//
It’s about a fortnight later that they start practicing for their next comeback. It’s a track that they went back and forth on making it a separate title track, but all of them had a gut feeling that HALAZIA deserved its own moment.
Yunho gets the guide of their choreography a week before everybody else, and he’s sure they’ve made the right call. It’s in the same intensity as GUERILLA, so many clean lines that pair with sharp turns and well synchronised group moments. It’s enchanting to watch but it’s clear how much work they have cut out for them, especially considering all the end of year shows they’re also scheduled to do.
They just finished their concerts in Seoul and Yunho had chosen not to push more of Mingi’s lines, only a brief text asking him whether he was coming to them. He’d gotten a screenshot of Mingi’s tickets in response, promising to get Yunho’s good side.
Yunho had spent hours on Mingi’s twitter the morning after the concerts, refreshing the page as Mingi had posted more of the concert pictures he’d managed. There was something utterly special about the way Mingi shot them, saturated colour portraits and blurry actions shots that breathed life into the photos, as if they had movement itself. Yunho tries not to feel like he’s being too creepy when he saves a couple of them.
Winter had begun to inhabit the city, days shortening and temperature dropping. Yunho submits to the terrible tendency he has to overwork himself. It’s hours of consolidating the general movements of the song and his placement. His process is now long-standing and practiced. It ebbs and flows like it always does— and Yunho’s become a bit more patient with himself when he can’t get an eight-count down the first couple of times. Still, he moves through the choreography with an unrelenting stubbornness, determination willing him more than his body is probably capable, in such a short amount of time.
Hongjoong finds him on the floor of their practice room like he tends to do. He’s kind about it, comes up right next to Yunho and lays on the floor beside him.
“How’s it going?”
“I’m not as fast on the uptake as I’d like to be,” Yunho murmurs, “but the choreography is fucking great hyung. We’re going to outdo ourselves again I think.”
Hongjoong hums. If there’s anybody else who understands Yunho’s plight to be perfect, it’s one Kim Hongjoong. Still—
“You’re working too hard.”
Yunho sighs, “Only as much as we need.”
“I beg to differ.”
Yunho scoffs, “I’ll stop practicing the moment you stop fiddling with the final version of the song. The layers are fine.”
Hongjoong groans. “They’re not though— fuck, there’s something missing on it and I just can’t figure it out.”
Yunho’s always been better with his body than his voice. Sure, he’s given a lot of due time and energy into ensuring he can sing well and he’s got a halfway decent range even, but he’s never had a knack for the production. He’s been a follower through and through, adlibs being as far as he goes on contributing to the synthesis of what becomes a full song.
Him and Hongjoong are, simply put, pot and kettle. It’s in how they always found themselves at their building as the asscrack of dawn trying to solve problems that required a lot more patience and perhaps a bit more sleep. They weren’t particularly good at either.
“I’m sure you’ll find it,” Yunho says, because his hyung always does, “just give it some time.”
They both know they don’t have much of that, too. But still, as far as the last four years have gone, Yunho knows there’s eureka on the horizon, both for him and for his Hongjoong hyung.
And that too, Hongjoong knows. “Have you taken a look at our schedules for the next couple of weeks? It’s going to be a fucking bloodbath.”
Yunho sighs. He’s trying not to think too hard about it. It still stuns him how he’s never gotten used to the demands of the job he’d practically sold his soul to get— the hours are always gruelling, and the expectations are even more so. Perhaps it was getting easier to deal with the weight of it, but mental fortitude only kept up for so long when impeded by sleep deprivation.
“We’ll get through it hyung,” he says, staring up at the ceiling lights, “we always do.”
They’re silent for a good while. It’s restful, and Yunho hopes that his muscle memory is acclimating to everything he’s tried to teach it the last few hours. Hongjoong seems to be in his own world too, off daydreaming about some track or another.
“Are you cheating on Saori?”
Yunho thinks he gets whiplash from how fast his neck snaps to look at Hongjoong, “What?”
Hongjoong sighs, still looking at the ceiling, “Seriously Yunho-yah, we like— we don’t have time for a fucking mess. Be honest with me, yeah? You’re on your phone more than normal and you’re cagey about it, you’re like, being so weird about your free time and then sneaking off to places without a manager so I have no idea what else to think, Yun. Aki noona is so nice and she’s been working with us forever so if you plan on breaking her sister’s—”
“Mingi’s a fansite.”
It’s Hongjoong’s turn to snap his gaze to Yunho, eyes wide, “What?”
Yunho makes a pained noise, sitting up and staring at his crossed legs. “Mingi— he— well, our Mingi— he’s a fansite for us now— for me. I saw him at the listening party and then I ran into him again after so—”
“Wait, like Song Mingi— like our Song Mingi?”
“He was just there hyung,” Yunho mutters, hands running down his face as he speaks to the floor below him, “I thought I was hallucinating before he up and left when he clocked that I saw him that day.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” Yunho breathes, “I’ve been going out to coffee with him, and I don’t even really know why— it just sort of happened, and then it’s kept happening. I don’t think I want it to stop.”
“Fuck,” Hongjoong grumbles, sitting up next to Yunho, “you’re serious.”
“He’s been out here in Seoul for months now,” Yunho hurries, now that it’s all being offloaded from his chest, “he’s even come to our shows hyung, what the fuck?”
Hongjoong just looks stunned.
“The photos he takes are fucking beautiful, too,” he continues, “I’ve spent so much time staring at them I could practically dream them to life.”
“That’s a lot— Yunho-yah— that’s…” Hongjoong pauses, trying to find the right words, “a lot.”
It’s a relieving thing for it to be Hongjoong who knows. He’s always had a knack for understanding Yunho without as many words. “Yeah.”
Hongjoong worries at his lip, “Is he okay?”
“He’s different,” Yunho says, because he’s still figuring it all out too, “he’s got the same voice, and he still smiles the same— but there’s half a decade between us. I don’t know if either of us are really okay.”
“But he’s on his feet? Talking to you?”
Yunho nods, slowly, “Yeah— yeah. He’s a tattoo artist now, went to school for photography. His hair is pink.”
“Fuck, that’s— I’m so sorry Yun,” Hongjoong sighs, “I shouldn’t have assumed the worst.”
Yunho can only laugh, even if it is a bit hollow. “I’m not cheating, obviously. I just, it’s been a lot, trying to keep myself at bay with him. You’d think there would be a rule book for rediscovering the best friend who left you high and dry.”
Hongjoong looks at him, weighted, “That’s not what happened, and you know it.”
Yunho could be selfish. With Hongjoong, he could be the petulant eighteen-year-old that still lives inside him and not be judged for it. He doesn’t realise how sort of angry he’s been, until now. Not at Mingi, never at Mingi.
It’s all just a bit much.
Yunho takes a deep breath through his nose, exhales with his mouth. He does it again so that he’s ready to be a proper person. “I know hyung, I just— it’s all so unfair.”
“When is it ever fair for us, Yun? We just have to keep going. It’s what we do.”
Yunho knows his hyung is right. There’s so much, if he allowed himself to ruminate. But this is where Yunho is at his best, managing the lines where he just had to keep pushing through until he’s where he’s been working to be.
“But it’s a good thing, right? Mingi’s always been a good thing.”
Yunho knows what they’re both not saying. Mingi had been the best thing in his life until he had left him. The absence of that one wholly good thing is what Yunho’s been trying to come to terms with for all of the five years he’s had to endure having lost it. And the absence claws, still does, because Mingi is a whole different person now, and Yunho maybe is too.
“He is a good thing,” Yunho says finally, “it’s just been weird— having him back but only part of the way.”
Hongjoong hums a nod. “Well, you have time,” he says, “neither of you are going anywhere, and you’re talking to him now. There’s no need to rush.”
Sometimes Yunho missed all of the little, obvious things that stare at him in the face. It’s like being far sighted, he thinks, where all he can see is the big, distant picture and he has no concept of everything that’s right in front of him. Hongjoong’s always been a good pair of glasses.
Yunho feels the relief find him, warm and stilling. He smiles, knocks his shoulder into Hongjoong’s. “Thank you hyung, you’re right. I really needed to hear that.”
Hongjoong looks pleased with himself. “What you need is a good night’s rest.”
Yunho knew Hongjoong’s limits as much as he knew his own. “I’ll go home if you come with me, we could both use the sleep.”
They’ve bartered with this exchange for years. They’ve fought it out and they’ve let their stubbornness win out. They’re older now, know each other better. His hyung just heaves a sigh, agreeing with a grunt.
“I want gimbap from the 7/11,” Hongjoong says easily, “you’re buying.”
It’s a small price to pay.
//
Their texts get more prolific as time passes. Yunho spends a month away from home for the US leg of their tour, and that’s when it starts. It serves as some kind of reparation that he’s unable to make it to his café outings with Mingi, somewhat strange how naturally they flit to texting each other instead.
It’s something unique that he sees in every city that he begins sending Mingi— a lone waffle house or a weird hat store. Yunho puts his brain on the back burner and just shares these inconsequential things because he can now, whatever the implications might be. Mingi starts off with a quippy comment or acknowledgement in response and not much else. Yunho doesn’t mind it, all the reassurance he needs when Mingi’s response comes through, even if it’s a couple of hours later. It’s when they’re in Atlanta that Mingi returns the sentiment for the first time. He sends Yunho a pretty sunset from the opposite side of the Han River he tends to frequent, and Yunho has to fight off the temptation to set it as the screensaver on his phone. It’s so quintessentially beautiful, bright pinks and oranges that cascade the early winter evening with so much soft character, the water sparkling with freshly turned on night lights. There’s a lot that pulls at Yunho’s heart, most of which is a loud thrum of how wonderful it is to see the world through Mingi’s eyes again.
you’re making my pictures feel stupid :(( this is so gorgeous
Mingi’s response comes after he’s fallen asleep, time zones hampering them. Yunho wakes up to the texts, and he lies there reading and re-reading them over for longer than he’d like to admit.
what are you even talking about lmfao, it’s just a picture of the river
i hope you’re sleeping well, i just checked the time where you are
in any case, i like seeing what you see, the US seems cool !!
hopefully this helped the homesickness a bit, i saw it on my way home and the sky was so pretty
Then, there’s so much of it, little parts of their day they ease into sharing with one another. As snow entrenches Seoul and more of the unrelenting cold rushes over the city, Yunho comes back home and gets even more busy with comeback prep. It’s a wonderful reprieve from Yunho on his feet for hours at a time, where he uses it as a well-deserved moment to take a second and breathe. In the intermissions of being carted from practice to recordings to more practice and the odd variety show, Mingi rewards him with a pretty flower he’s seen or the little toy dinosaur at his tattoo studio that finds a new place to perch on every other day or so.
It all becomes a routine of sorts. Yunho checks in with Saori every morning and then finds something to send to Mingi. They both come back to him some time in the day, and the voice at the back of his mind urging him to tell Saori about Mingi is only as encumbering as a pinprick. He doesn’t know why it should matter, it’s not as if he’s told anybody other than Hongjoong, and that too had been out of sheer necessity. He’s taking it so slow with Mingi, and there’s a large enough part of him that wants to protect what they have from everyone else. Another voice eerily like Seonghwa’s seems to insist his introspection on the discomfort he feels sharing anything about Mingi with Saori, but Yunho decides it’s not the time to think about it. He’s toeing a fine line reconfiguring the relationship he has with his best friend. That’s all it is.
In any case, Yunho and Mingi had begun actually talking. Mingi sometimes checks in on Yunho’s day, and Yunho now knew Mingi’s schedule well enough that he tried not to text him on Wednesdays and Fridays, when he’s busiest with the clients who’ve booked in with him. Mingi even sends him pictures of tattoos he’s particularly enjoyed doing, and Yunho finds that Mingi’s great at that too. His art is cybersigilistic and minimal, fluid lines that blend into one another and in the same ways, into skin. Yunho considers it entirely beautiful, tells Mingi as much.
The daily monotony that Yunho’s adjusted to in the last few years is swiftly undercut by Mingi’s resurgence into his life. He finds that it makes everything more enjoyable, because Mingi’s always made everything a little bit brighter, for Yunho. And more, Yunho’s always been a man of progress, and their friendship finding a footing in their lives once again is a success Yunho considers precious. It makes him eager, happy.
The odd fifteen minutes of free time for lunch amidst practice is when Mingi calls him for the first time in years. Yunho genuinely thinks he’s seeing things at first, but it’s clear as day, Mingi’s name plastered to the top of his call screen. He picks up so fast he almost drops his phone. Wooyoung looks at him weird and he takes that as his cue to go to another room in the building.
“Hi,” Mingi chirps from the other end of the line. Yunho can tell that he’s unsure about the call immediately, a slight tremor to his greeting.
Yunho’s finds an empty meeting room and closes the door. “Hi Mingi,” he says, trying to hide how heavy his heart’s beating against his ribcage.
“I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” comes Mingi’s response, “I figured you’d be grabbing something to eat by now.”
Yunho smiles, “You’d be right, we just had our chicken come in.” He checks his non-existent watch, “We have about eight more minutes to finish it before we have to run through the dance break again.”
“Oh— you should eat,” Mingi says, “I don’t want to get in your way.”
Yunho shakes his head, “No— please, I’m fine, they’ll wait for me, what’s up?”
He hears Mingi click his tongue. “I’ll be quick I promise,” he says, “I was walking by the park near the studio and there’s always a dog or two running around. There’s a noona with her golden retriever that catches me every week or so, the little guy’s name is Cottonball. I remembered how much you loved playing with the puppies when we used to cut through that garden place after practice, so I wanted to— wait, here, can you switch on your camera for a sec?”
Yunho’s mindless as he listens to Mingi. He comes into frame almost immediately, the half of his face that has glasses on and a beanie obscuring his forehead. Yunho hasn’t seen Mingi with glasses on in years. He looks a little bit like a baby chick, thick frames around his eyes and not much else. The camera adjusts to a beaming Mingi, full face now, and he moves his phone to show Yunho the bundle that’s enclosed in his winter coat. It’s the cutest puppy that Yunho’s probably ever seen, and Mingi giggles when he reaches up to lick at Mingi’s cheek.
“Everybody has those little white dogs these days,” he mutters, “this little guy is so special— yes you are— look at you, hi baby.”
Yunho thinks he’s likely to go into cardiac arrest. Happiness is so enamouring when Mingi wears it.
“Oh my god,” Yunho murmurs, smile so big his entire face draws taut, “look at him.”
“He wouldn’t sit still for the life of me to take a picture, so I thought it would be easier to call you,” Mingi replies.
Yunho kind of wants to cry. He settles on laughing at the way Cottonball tries to nip at the zipper of Mingi’s jacket.
“Min— that’s so nice, really, thank you, you just made my entire week.” The nickname finds a home on Yunho’s lips once more, nothing stopping him.
“Go eat, Yunho,” Mingi says, eyes sparkling, “you’ve got a long day ahead of you still.”
Mingi’s not wrong at all. Even so, Yunho feels as though the hours left aren’t as long anymore, re-energised.
Yunho nods, “Thank you for calling Mingi.”
Mingi just grins, perfect snaggle tooth on full show, “Thank you for picking up.”
Yunho eats with only Mingi and Cottonball on his mind. He nails every subsequent run-through of the dance break they do that day.
//
Yunho doesn’t think much of it when he sends Mingi the song.They’ve been talking more about work lately, and Mingi’s been asking more questions. The first time it happens is about dance practice. It had been an honest mistake really, the comfort they’ve regrown lulling Yunho into an ease enough that he doesn’t consider the time they’ve spent apart. Mingi had gone quiet on their call as Yunho had droned on and on about how they were still refining the placements of the choreography, how they had to clean up on the dance breaks for the end of year festivals.
He stops mid-way like a fish out of water when he realises. For a few painful seconds, it’s just been the sound of both their breathing.
“I’m so sor—”
“None of that Yun,” Mingi interrupts him, “I would have stopped you if I didn’t want to know.”
Yunho feels like an idiot. “It just— sorry. I’m still getting used to this.”
Mingi hums, quiet. “Me too. I like hearing you talk about it though, how much love you have for it. It’s what we always dreamt of.”
What they dreamt of had been entirely different. If it was what they dreamt, Mingi would be next to him right now, he’d be worrying about the same things and trying to push himself to the same lengths. He would be dancing, singing, next to Yunho. This is nothing close to that.
“I don’t want to burden you,” Yunho says gently, “all of this must be so hard.”
It’s the part of this entire reconnection that Yunho’s not said a word about. It’s underneath every phone call and text, every interaction Mingi indulges him with, but they haven’t ever talked about it.
“Some of it is,” Mingi replies, tone a bit uneven, “but I’m glad I have you again. I— I missed you.”
Yunho thinks he feels pieces of his heart crack into his stomach. It’s an admission Yunho realises he’s needed to hear so much more once it’s said. The resounding weight that he feels is validated then, like it finally has a reason to be loud and present, a reason to be valid. Mingi feels the same. It’s the same.
Yunho can only sigh, “I missed you too— Mingi, of course I did, fuck— how could I not.”
“I want to hear about your day Yunho,” Mingi breathes, “I like you talking about dance, it makes me feel like I’m still a part of it. It feels good.”
If Yunho’s eyes gloss over with unspilled tears, there’s only the four lone walls of his dorm room that witness it. Then it’s just an ask, testing the waters.
“Would you— would you want me to send you our practice video for KBS? Maybe some new perspective would do us some good.”
Mingi goes deathly still on the line. Yunho counts his breaths. He’s halfway to his third when Mingi breaks through. “You’d want my opinion?”
Yunho can’t shake his sincerity, the video already being processed to message. “I always want your opinion— your eye is good for these things, always has been. We’re doing Guerilla but I’ll send you the practice choreo for the new song too.”
It’s not necessarily painful to think about, how sharp Mingi had been when they were trainees, even before then. They were always the fastest to pick up choreography, the fastest to regurgitate it, the fastest to sync it to their individual styles. It’s one of the things he misses most about not having Mingi by his side, impossible to ignore the place he should be taking beside him. His brain doesn’t know how to work around it some days, and he can so clearly map out where Mingi would fit into the choreography, as if he’s part of the team like he was meant to be. This feels like some small reparation from the universe, for him to be able to share this with Mingi.
“Let me have a look at it,” Mingi says once the video gets texted to him, “I’ll call you back.”
Yunho shouldn’t be able to pick up the excitement as subtly as it’s threaded into Mingi’s voice, but he does. And in the same lengths, Yunho’s rung again about ten minutes later. He picks up on first ring.
“Yunho, this is fucking amazing.”
Mingi sounds like he’s run a quick mile. Yunho’s hands shake, smile unbreakable.
“The song— this live? Oh my God, Yunho— you guys are going to fucking nail it.”
It’s high praise coming from Mingi. He’s always been a harsher critic than most, and Yunho can’t help but let the pride of a job well done inflate his ego a little.
Still, Yunho’s a perfectionist at heart, “I’m looking for your critique on the KBS run, Mingi.”
Mingi laughs, like really laughs. “You’re fucking crazy y’know that? This is already going to blow everybody’s socks off, I think it’s making me consider religion.”
Yunho can’t help but grin at the ceiling, “Mingi-yah.”
It’s the first time he’s said it in half a decade. The line goes static quiet. Yunho’s heart feels like it stops too. It’s too fond, too reminiscent. He hears Mingi clear his throat.
“I think the flow is a bit awkward because there’s nothing after you and Seonghwa hyung in the beginning. He’s clearly running the show thematically and you all come in as the team after, but I think the music shifts too quickly. Maybe you could add another sixteen counts? Give somebody else a solo in between and mellow out the transition a bit?” Mingi suggests, and he’s thinking too, Yunho can hear it. Mingi clicks his tongue in consideration, “Sannie could do it, he’d be good to put in the role of the strategist— that way you’re moving down the hierarchy in the storytelling too.”
This is painful. This is what it should be. Mingi should be doing what they’re doing, Mingi should be here, next to Yunho. He’s right on all accounts. It clicks into Yunho as Mingi suggests it, and Yunho sort of feels like a raw wound.
“You’re right,” Yunho says, “thank you, I’ll pass it on.”
He can hear Mingi’s phone rustle as he shakes his head, “It’s nothing, Yun.”
It’s something special, to be accepted in return. Mingi is a fixture in his life that he’d lost and now found. Every piece of Yunho that he’d been grappling to put back together in the fallout is being so gently sown back together in moments where Mingi offers himself over to Yunho just a little, like this.
“Oh— has Hongjoong hyung finalised the master on the track yet?”
It’s an entirely bittersweet thing for Mingi’s instinct to be as sharp as it was back then.
“He’s been fiddling with it for weeks now, says it isn’t what he wants it to be yet. Maddox hyung is trying to get him to sleep but we both know how that’s going.”
Mingi huffs a laugh, “I think he’s missing an organ. It’s not meant to be loud or anything, just hidden in the pre-chorus. I think he’s looking for something to fill the space and he’s right. It needs to be grand, but the addition just needs to cover the backend of the track so— I don’t know, just field it to him.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
Yunho realises his mistake a beat too late. He feels like he’s been caught out, for what, he doesn’t yet know.
Mingi sounds a little unsure. “He knows you’re speaking to me?”
Yunho heaves a sigh, “It came up, yeah— he’s the only one though.”
Mingi’s silent again. A beat. Another.
“Well, tell him I said hi in that case, and also that he should sleep more.”
Yunho nods, sure and warm, “I’ll tell him.”
He brings up the suggestions as soon as he sees his hyung the next morning. Yunho doesn’t really get to see Hongjoong’s eureka moments too often, but the excited squeal of joy is arguably one of the most un-Hongjoong like sounds Yunho’s heard in recent days.
His hyung practically trembles with relief, “Oh, he’s fucking brilliant— God, Mingi-yah, God.”
Then he wrangles Mingi’s number from Yunho to send him a personal thanks. Yunho’s almost sure Mingi won’t mind it, all things considered, but in any case, Yunho knows Hongjoong will send him snippets of the finished version anyway, and that should be enough recompense.
Hongjoong has the sixteen-count mix done within the hour. San and their dancer hyungs choreograph it right after. They still have lengths to go, but the track finally feels complete and so do the transitions. It ends up being a pretty good day.
//
December is as crazy as Yunho expects it to be. They prep for KBS Song Festival, Gayo Daejon and Gayo Daejejeon at the same time, and at the same pace they also finalise comeback preparations in time for the new year. Yunho goes through the motions, sacrifices the thought of sleep for an extra helping of precision here and additional vocal practice there. There’s so much to do and not enough time in the day, even if everything’s been scheduled for them.
There’s a rush to it too, where Yunho’s doing instead of thinking, and it’s comforting in all the same ways it’s exhausting. The one permanence that remains, new and old, is Mingi. He promises to be there at all three shows and makes a point to tell Yunho that he won’t need the press pass to do so. It turns out that he’d already acquired tickets long before Yunho had even asked whether he would come. Mingi had faux scoffed on the phone, telling Yunho that he takes his fansite duties rather seriously.
There’s a lot of that now, random phone calls or texts as they both move through their day. To Yunho, it’s entirely surreal that Mingi picks up the phone when he rings him. It’s a lot like what it used to be, and so much of what was dead and buried is being rewatered and nurtured once again. It’s not the same as it was, but Yunho is liking the difference for what it is, the growth there’s been since they last had each other like this.
Mingi texts him when he’s reached the venue and Yunho updates him on what it’s like backstage. The energy seems to be good on both ends. If Yunho’s to think about it all a little more, he’d admit to being a tad nervous, because he knows Mingi’s watching now. It’s been a while since he’s felt like that, the slight swoop of his stomach when he sees the sea of the audience on the screens in their greenroom.
It's all a blur when it comes down to it. They’re shuffled off to perform once wardrobe and makeup do final checks. Yunho lets his body come first, muscle memory taking care of practically everything. He focuses on ensuring that he’s conserving his energy in the places he needs to, and then the dance break is just as gruelling as he expects it to be. He’s prepared, and if anything, he pushes himself because they’ve only got the one song to perform.
The cheers of the audience are deafening, the chant in the final thirty seconds even more so. It’s fucking electrifying, and it’s entirely thrilling to know that it looks as good as it feels. It goes by so quickly that the only thing that serves as proof that they’ve performed is the ache in his muscles. Climbing down the stage steps are a relief, and there are resounding claps from their team and shoves from the other members on a job well done.
Yunho’s practically buzzing by the time he gets back to the greenroom. There’s a text waiting for him when he finds his phone.
you were incredible !! im glad the solo worked, you guys are fucking awesome
It’s from about ten minutes ago, right after they’d finished their performance. Yunho does something arguably stupid and texts him to come to the artist hallway with his pinned location if he can. Mingi responds that he’s on his way seconds after Yunho sends the message, picture of his press pass attached. Yunho can’t fight the smile off his face as he slips off with a flimsy excuse that he needs some air. He finds himself at the entrance of the sealed off doors a few seconds before Mingi sees him. It’s an entirely overwhelming thing, to clock the focus with which Mingi navigates his space turn into the full grin his face lights up into the moment he sees Yunho.
Mingi’s wearing dark jeans and a cropped sweater that matches, camera bag tucked to his side. His done up his faded pink hair so that it spikes up a bit, even if his roots are growing out. His make-up ties it all together, accents of a light blush contrasted against more of the dark eyeshadow he seems to love having on. The fierceness that his look is meant to pull off melts into nothing when his gaze finds Yunho, his smile rounding out his cheeks and his eyes falling into the same curve as his grin. Yunho doesn’t run to him, but there’s a bit of a pace up, six steps made into three as he falls into Mingi’s waiting arms.
The hug is as instinctual as it is long awaited. It’s one thing to not have seen Mingi for weeks now, and it’s entirely another thing to have him this close. Yunho can’t remember what this felt like, before, even if he knows there was a lot of it. The only thing he recalls is the steady warmth that he’s always associated with Mingi, and this remains true, with so much more that Yunho’s mostly unable to process. It’s the new and the old, where Mingi is so much broader when he’s chest to chest with Yunho like this even if he still smells like wood and the sea. Nostalgia weaves into novelty, and Yunho can only cling to Mingi the way he’s always done, a lone anchor to all of Yunho’s sea. Outlandishly enough, Mingi does the same. Yunho can feel the way Mingi’s hands settle at Yunho’s back, secure and firm, the indent of his rings against the line of his spine. He doesn’t hesitate to tuck his face into Yunho’s shoulder, and it’s as if he’s needed this as much as Yunho has.
It's entirely enthralling, and Yunho has no reason to want to let go, so he just tightens his grip. The incredulity of it all eventually catches up to him, and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him, straight from the chest, how it’s muffled into Mingi’s sweater. Mingi’s here, his brain conceptualises. He’s here. They stay like that, in the middle of an empty hallway, until Mingi does what Yunho can’t and lets go. He’s still beaming at Yunho when he pulls away just barely, arms catching on Yunho’s waist. It’s there that they’re a little too close, something weighty and swooping that takes quick-fire heft in Yunho’s stomach. Mingi’s eyes stay on his just barely, indecipherable and heady, before he clears his throat. Still, the relent of Mingi’s hands off of him is casual and slow, as if planned. Yunho doesn’t have enough introspection in him to figure out why it all makes him feel suddenly dizzy.
“The security didn’t even double check my badge,” Mingi murmurs, bumping shoulders with Yunho, “you’d think they’d care a little more.”
Yunho can only giggle. “Between the two of us, I think you’re the one who looks like you should be in this hallway, not me.”
He clocks the way Mingi registers the comment, hopes he takes it for the compliment that Yunho doesn’t know how to properly impart. Mingi’s eyes shine with acknowledgement, even if his smile’s smaller than it was.
“That’s a bit of an overstatement.”
Yunho feels bold, “Not from where I’m standing.”
Mingi snorts, changing the subject. “Y’all were fucking amazing, highlight of the show— seriously. The energy in that crowd was insane.”
Yunho can’t help his excitement. “It felt like it Mingi-yah, I’m so glad it turned out good. Thank you for your help.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did more than enough,” Yunho counters, “we wouldn’t have had this performance without you. I’m serious.”
Mingi hums, perhaps a little timid. It’s new. It’s nice. Yunho hasn’t seen this side to him in years.
They both hover. “We’re leaving for Japan in a couple of hours, but I’ll keep an eye out for your photos when I get there, yeah?”
“Oh shit, yeah, I totally forgot about that,” Mingi says, “are you look—”
The shrill of Yunho’s ringtone interrupts him. Yunho doesn’t look at the screen before he picks up the call, sure it’s a manager searching for him. He gives Mingi an apologetic smile as he puts his phone to his ear.
There’s a soft hi at the other end of the line in greeting, and Yunho’s heart drops.
“Saori,” Yunho stuns, switching to Japanese, “hi.”
Mingi’s face does a weird thing then. Yunho’s almost sure he sees all the colour drain from it, much like his own.
Saori’s none the wiser, voice sweet and excited. It’s getting late now, Yunho should be thankful she’s checking in. “I assume you’re done with the festival? I didn’t want to call immediately but you’re only a couple of hours off from flying so I thought it’d be a safe bet.”
Yunho has no choice but to respond. “We finished up a bit ago, yeah.”
It sounds awkward as soon as it leaves Yunho’s mouth, frigid and not nearly as indulgent as he usually addresses her. She picks up on it too, a tinge of worry in her voice, “Is everything okay dārin?”
Yunho prays that Mingi hasn’t kept up on the Japanese he’d started learning in middle school.
“No— no, everything’s fine sweetheart. I just— can I call you back? We’re moving stuff around and packing up here, I can touch base when I get back to the dorm. Is that okay?”
He’s proven wrong, recognition clear as day on Mingi’s face.
“Yeah, of course you can,” Saori says, even if Yunho can’t really focus on what she’s saying.
“Thank you, Sao,” he murmurs, “talk soon.”
She ends the call with a warm hum.
Yunho pockets his phone. All of his limbs feel out of place, stubborn and heavy. He tries to breathe through his nose, everything shaky and weird. Mingi’s face is a hard neutral.
There are a few unbearable seconds of immobile quiet.
“I— I did know— about—” Mingi says bizarrely enough, pointing at Yunho’s phone.
Yunho feels betrayed, peculiarly. “Oh.”
“The rumour mill— it’s— news gets around Yunho,” he says, as if that explains anything at all, “you don’t have to worry, is what I mean. I won’t tell anybody.”
Yunho considers that the least of his fucking worries. They both just stand there. He still barely knows what to say.
Mingi’s always been terrible at hiding his disappointment. “I’m gonna go.”
Yunho doesn’t know how to stop him. Still, Mingi looks at him a little longer than Yunho’s comfortable with.
“I’ll text you when I reach,” Yunho says uselessly, stilted, as a last-ditch effort to save the utter crash collision the last five minutes have been.
Mingi only nods, unsteady as he turns around. Yunho has to resist the urge to bash his head against a wall once Mingi’s out of his line of sight.
⤥ April 2016 ⤦
They decide against telling each other where they’re auditioning to. Mingi and Yunho had been warned about the process more times than they could count by now, how grueling it is, how unforgiving.
The competition is as cutthroat as it is, and they choose to compartmentalise where they can help each other, rather than hurt. They get in all the extra practices they can, come early and leave late, monitor their own precision and then each other. They do everything in preparation except the actual applications to audition.
Mingi receives an e-mail about a slot he’s secured a few weeks after Yunho’s seventeenth birthday. They’d decided that they’ll tell each other about auditions a day before, so he sits on it until he’s practically vibrating out of his skin. In the year or so they’ve been friends, Mingi’s not really kept anything from Yunho, and so this has been a new exertion, where he can’t really share an aspect of his life with him until it’s staring at him right in the face. He knows it’s for the best but there’s nothing that helps the helpless feeling of needing his best friend’s support. Yunho’s had one or two auditions more than him but Mingi’s held his ground too, feels proud of the progress he’s been making. Marathon, not a sprint, his mom’s been saying. He’s booked out his school’s studio so that he can get a final few hours before he goes in tomorrow, but he’s been stuck on the same thirty-two count sequence for the better part of the last hour. He bites the bullet and just calls Yunho, nothing to lose now.
Yunho being Yunho, picks up after the first ring.
“Hey Yun,” he breathes, “what’s up?”
“Hi Mingi-yah, was just about to call you actually.”
Mingi worries at his lip, “Yeah?”
He knows he doesn’t have to say much, that Yunho had this weird ability to gauge how he’s feeling. Even better is that just the sound of Yunho’s voice relieves some of the tension at his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he replies, “just practicing for an audition I’ve got tomorrow actually.”
“Oh, same here,” Mingi says, “I’ve got one tomorrow too.”
It’s not really too out of the ordinary, even if it does seem like an insane coincidence. They had both scheduled two auditions last month a day apart. Tis the season, apparently.
“For real?” Yunho asks, “how’re you feeling about it?”
Mingi hums. That is the question of the night, isn’t it. “Well, I’ve been at my class studio for hours at this point— and y’know I’m always trying my best to better my accuracy so—”
“Why do you sound so unsure?” Yunho’s voice is gentle, uncompromising of his faith in Mingi, “You’ve put in the work, princess, trust yourself.”
Mingi doesn’t really respond. There’s sweat and grime that’s clinging to him from having been in school hours later than he should be, his hair is wet and matted from the effort and he’s tired. Everything feels so far away from him.
“I can practically hear you overthinking, don’t worry so much,” Yunho reassures, “just think about it, right? Imagine us taking the stage together, someday. It’s the dream, isn’t it?”
Mingi could scoff at how unrealistic it seems. Getting an audition was already a tough shot, debuting together seems practically impossible. But there’s something almost sacred about it, that Yunho thought of them both succeeding despite all the odds against him, that he thought they could dance together someday, in front of an audience who loved it as much as they did.
“It really is,” he sighs, voice small but evident. He picks the lint off of his school trousers, “are you ready for yours?”
Mingi can hear Yunho’s smile through the phone.
“I’m just trying to do my best,” he laughs. It helps that Mingi knows just how nervous Yunho feels too, is comforted that they’re always in it together, “anyways, you’ve got this.”
Mingi takes another deep breath, lets some of the exhaustion fall to floor and take in Yunho’s words in its place. They’d be okay. Whatever happened, they would deal with it all together.
Yunho says as much, “Let’s stick together and get through this, yeah? Like we always do Mingi-yah.”
Mingi just feels grateful to have somebody who always understood. He takes one more deep breath, “No— yeah, you’re right.”
“Talk to you after?”
“Yeah, we can hang out,” Mingi says, “good luck Yun.”
Neither of them really need the luck for as huge a twist of fate the day ends up being. They realise that they’re auditioning for the same company when Yunho walks out the same time Mingi walks in. Yunho makes fun of it later, when they’re sitting at their favourite PC café, that they’d re-invented that pointing Spiderman meme in real life. He sticks around and waits for Mingi’s group to finish so that they can both make their way there, more than glad that each other’s auditions went well. It’s a proof of everything they’d been saying to another, throughout the entire process, that it’s them together, always.
They get the call one after the other, too. They’re sitting opposite each other when it happens, incredibly hopped up on sugar to process what’s happening. Yunho’s phone goes off first, then Mingi’s. The look of disbelief on Yunho’s face is one that Mingi will never forget, the two of them processing that something he’d said on the off chance as encouragement was coming true so righteously in real life. It’s surreal when Mingi’s line clicks dead, how he nods to Yunho in confirmation. It’s an endearing thing after, that he looks almost happier that Mingi got in more than he did for himself, how it doesn’t matter that this isn’t a company anybody’s heard of or how much longer their days are going to get. None of it really matters, in those few seconds, because it’s just Yunho and Mingi. Like it always is, like it always has been.
It all feels like the beginning of something incredibly special.
⤥ ★ ⤦
It’s a bit obvious that they don’t talk much while he’s in Japan, and Yunho can’t help but feel an odd sort of dissonance with it all. The easiest part of it all is doing the two shows, but the limited time he spends with Saori feels tilted somehow. She gets them abura soba and spends time with him after the first concert at his hotel room, but it feels different than the last time they’d done so. The whip of excitement and anticipation is dimmed in its place, and Yunho can’t bring himself to initiate more than a casual kiss, even if he can see that Saori wants more. He can’t stomach much of the food either, noodles too thick in his mouth and sauce too oily as he chews. The worst part of it is that she’s more than understanding about it, even if she’d come all the way from Tokyo to Chiba just for him. She tells him to get some much-needed rest and for him to text her if he needs anything. Yunho feels entirely guilty about the entire ordeal, but he can’t help feeling strangely relieved once she leaves, like he can breathe again.
His text to Mingi had been a single line, letting him know that Yunho had landed and gotten to his hotel room safely. Mingi had only responded with a good luck leading up to their show in response, hours later, the flourish Yunho’s grown used to nowhere to be found.
The forty-eight hours fly by and then they’re back in Seoul, the entire weekend over as fast as it had come. They delve into practices for their MBC and SBS shows immediately after, and Yunho tries not to feel upset that Mingi doesn’t reach out.
“You’re pouting,” Seonghwa says.
They’re in the middle of rehearsals. Yunho’s taken a corner to practice his dance break so that he can be alone. It clearly doesn’t work.
“You are pouting,” Seonghwa says, before Yunho attempts lying through his teeth.
Yunho makes a sound at the back of his throat, annoyed. His hyung looks at him weird, a tinge of apprehension, “Did something happen with Saori?”
He feels a bit bad, makes his best effort to reel it in.
“No hyung,” Yunho says, biting at the dry skin of his lips, “everything’s okay.”
“Everything is not okay,” San nips from afar, “you’ve looked like a kicked puppy since before we flew to Japan. What happened?”
Yunho doesn’t know what to say. He just— he wants to call Mingi, wants a do-over on their last conversation, wants to get rid of how weird everything has been feeling.
“I’ve just been having a few off days,” Yunho tries, “nothing crazy, y’know how it is.”
Seonghwa looks arguably more worried, “Are you getting sick?”
The exhaustion catches up to Yunho. Everything feels dense, unease threaded through each thought he’s had to entertain over the last three days.
“No, no— I’m fine hyung, I just— my head’s a bit heavy.”
Seonghwa looks at him for a few seconds too long. Eventually, he just gets into Yunho’s space and hugs him. There’s no need for words, not when he’s with Seonghwa. He just relents to it, wraps his arms around his hyung and takes the comfort for what it is.
Seonghwa’s voice is utterly gentle in Yunho’s ears, “Just call him, okay? Don’t let any of it sit.”
Yunho’s confused until he isn’t. Seonghwa is to Hongjoong what Hongjoong is to Yunho. Of course, his hyung knows about Mingi. Of course, he’d kept it to himself until the moment called for it. Yunho’s been a part of this family too long for him to be mad about it. He catches Hongjoong’s eyes from across the room, and his hyung has the decency to look apologetic, clear that he’s been caught out.
“Joongie didn’t have to tell me much,” Seonghwa whispers when he notices Yunho stiffening in his hold, “I know your Mingi eyes.”
Seonghwa had held him while he cried, back then. It’s not a time that Yunho allows himself to think about often, too much threaded in the memories of when they were balancing the scales of losing a member while also preparing for debut. It had been its own sort of hell, especially to Yunho, but Seonghwa had been gracious about it, had been Yunho’s rock when he needed a break, his extra limb when he didn’t think he could get back up.
Still, his hyung doesn’t push, only comforts. Yunho completely relaxes, takes the embrace for what he needs it to be.
“Thank you hyung.”
Seonghwa runs a comforting hand up and down his back, “Talk to me when you’re ready, okay? We’re all here.”
Yunho nods readily, letting go.
Even so, he’s surprised Mingi picks up when he finds the courage to dial his contact that night. He’s been keyed up the entire day, running over different apologies and questions until he defaulted to nothing feeling right. It’s almost midnight and Yunho’s never called this late. He half hopes that Mingi is asleep, that he’ll have to make the effort of redialling Yunho in the morning. He takes a stuttered breath when the line connects.
“Hi, Yunho.”
Mingi sounds tired. His voice is muffled and sluggish, as if he’d been toeing the line between sleep and wakefulness before he picked up the phone.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
There’s a bit of rustling and Yunho knows that he has gotten in the way of Mingi’s sleep. Mingi just mutters a hold on before there’s more noise of sheets being re-accommodated. He imagines that Mingi’s just sat up on his bed, trying to give Yunho his full attention.
“It’s okay Yun,” Mingi says, voice low, “I picked up.”
Yunho gets right down to it, “I— I don’t like how we left things, before I went to Japan— it felt awkward, right? I just— I hate that with us.”
Mingi grunts, “I didn’t really mean for my question to get in the middle of your girlfriend calling you.”
It’s not snippy, per say, but Yunho knows an annoyed Mingi when it’s staring at him right in the face.
Yunho tries again, measures his breathing. “That’s not what I said Mingi-yah, and you know it. I just— I don’t know how to do this with you. We never had this issue when we were younger.”
Yunho had a few passing crushes back in the day. Mingi had a classmate confess to him in the early days of being a trainee. Yunho remembers it so clearly, how Mingi had recounted the gentlest way of letting anybody down Yunho had ever heard. They didn’t really discuss relationships, back then. Everything was about dancing, each other, and debut. Their lives were focused on what they were aspiring to be, not the puppy love they didn’t have time for.
It's different now, when Yunho’s life is also about thinking of his personal life, his future, and what he wants it to look like. Saori is a large part of that. It’s so odd, how that all feels incredibly out of place when Mingi’s brought into the picture alongside it.
It should be easy to navigate it all, he thinks. Saori is his girlfriend and Mingi was finally making his way to taking the place as Yunho’s best friend again, everything else long past. It shouldn’t be weird. It shouldn’t even be a problem. Yet—
“It feels weird,” Mingi admits quietly, pausing, “I think she just reminds me of how much I don’t know about you now.” There’s a beat, the splutter of a heartbeat. “Your Japanese is very good.”
“I— uh, thank you,” Yunho fumbles. He breathes. “You know everything you need to know Mingi-yah, and you’re relearning so much. We’re doing so much. I don’t want to lose that for anything.”
He hears Mingi sigh, static carrying it back to Yunho. “Yeah, Yun,” he mutters, “you’re right. I don’t either, I’m sorry.”
“I should be the one apologising,” Yunho smiles, “I couldn’t be normal for shit.”
Mingi snorts a laugh. Yunho feels his chest lighten without the weight of the rocks that’s been holding him down.
“It wasn’t your best moment,” Mingi breathes, “you looked like you got told your pet died.”
Yunho groans.
They talk. It’s an entirely unexpected thing for him to notice that entire hours have passed by when Mingi tells him that it’s almost four in the morning. It’s still pitch-black outside, and Yunho realises that the winter night had given him the illusion that it’d been a couple of minutes, where Yunho’s tired enough not to feel the time stretch past him. Mingi tells him to go to bed because he has practice in the morning. Yunho doesn’t even get a chance to ask Mingi whether he has an early start before he’s dozing off.
//
Comeback day is busy and entirely worth it. The end of year festivals are more of the same.
Mingi sends Yunho a voice note of him reacting to the HALAZIA music video and it’s some of the best minutes of Yunho’s life. There’s a lot of unintelligible screaming and hype over the dance break even if he’s heard the song before, but Yunho can’t get enough of it, Mingi’s joy is so utterly infectious. It’s one of the last things he gets to do before he goes to sleep that day, and he treasures it for what it is.
There’s not a lot of sleep involved as they cart themselves from one festival show to the next the entire two days after. They all have additional stages they’ve prepped for and are scheduled for wardrobe and makeup changes more times than they’d probably prefer to. Still, it’s nice, to be able to feel the adrenaline of sound checks and group interactions with seniors and juniors alike, experiences that they wouldn’t get the chance to enjoy if they weren’t in the crazy echo chamber of stress, rehearsals and collab stages the way they’ve been scheduled to complete. It’s a privilege they’ve worked for, after all.
Yunho knows that Mingi’s there and watching. It’s assurance enough, that even if he doesn’t have the time to speak to him, that they’re sharing in the same space. Yunho gets an almost blurry picture of him in a cowboy hat as soon as he’s taken it off in their greenroom. Mingi’s text is short and simple, getting a laugh from him.
there’s going to be so many memes about saving horses on twitter, you menace
Yunho’s not exactly the best at English, but he’s put in the work to understand some of the fan culture. He’s sure enough of the implications for him to text Mingi with a quick ;)) before he has to change into his performance outfit.
It always goes by quicker than he anticipates. Being on stage is as intuitive as walking now, the rush and drop of it all motions Yunho’s used to moving through. Getting to perform HALAZIA live for the first time is entirely special though, the music moving through him with the thrill of having an audience for it for the first time. The bass is heavy, and the screams are loud. Yunho leans into it, leaves everything he has in the resounding precision of his movement and the stability he maintains in his voice. His teammates are much the same, and the energy is invincible. They get to the dance break and the chants are loud in his ears, ensured to invigorate. He leaves everything he has to the dance break, leaving the year they’ve had with the best he’s always aimed to do. It feels entirely gratifying when their set ends.
The group hug after is filled with tired giggles and high fives. They do the team chant and thank the staff for all their hard work. Yunho’s buzzing as he gets backstage and even when they all go back on stage a bit later for the end of the show. They wish each other a happy new year when the clock strikes with more hugs in tow.
Yunho can’t help it then, when his eyes stray to the audience searching for Mingi. It should be difficult, he thinks, to find him when there’s so many people here. But he looks at the side that the picture Mingi had sent would be from and hopes he hasn’t flipped it. It only takes a few seconds before he finds a head of faded pink hair near the end of the barricade, even if the stage lights plunge most of the audience into complete darkness. Mingi’s already looking at him.
Yunho doesn’t care if fancams catch it, not even if the cameras do. Yunho sees Mingi and Mingi sees Yunho.
Happy new year, he mouths.
Mingi’s smile is electrifying. The sentiment is returned, happy new year, Yun.
Yunho’s the most hopeful he’s been in a long, long while.
⤥ ★ ⤦
The work doesn’t stop, and neither does time.
Even so, Yunho settles into every task he does better than he ever has. Everything feels lighter, the little things easier to appreciate and the harder things easier to overcome. There’s the unerring sense of stability, where everything he’s wanted feels within his reach and an active part of his life, as if this is what he’d been waiting for all this time.
He decides against attributing it all to Mingi. He has a second or two when he catches it, right before he’s falling asleep or when his mind is idle as he runs through a sequence of choreography, that there’s a definitive point to what’s changed. Yunho supposes it’s fair enough, that Mingi not being a part of their team like he should have did have this immense impact on all the moments he had leading up to debut and even a bit after. He's mature enough to admit that he’s been struggling with the hole it left in his life for years, and that he’d never really gotten closer to closing it even as time had passed. It was this pulsing, immediate thing— one that Yunho had learned to live with, even if it took everything from him some days.
There’s something alive where the hole had been, now. Yunho thinks of the abandoned buildings that nature’s reclaimed, where there’s nothing to see until spring comes, the sprawling lush greenery that makes something worn and broken beautiful again. Yunho is amidst the onslaught of spring now— Mingi’s presence a comfort that brightly pads his life, rediscovered. He takes it for what it is.
They hang out a lot more these days. It’s about a week after new year’s that Mingi shyly discloses that his studio isn’t that far away from KQ. It’s surreal that he’s been working twenty minutes from Yunho all this time, months where he was in Yunho’s orbit and he had no clue. Yunho decides that they should be making up for lost time, even if he’s in the middle of them preparing for the Europe leg of their tour.
They decide to do lunches or dinners when Yunho’s finishing up an early morning or late-night practice. They schedule it in advance so that he balances out the time he spends with the guys, because there’s not a lot Yunho can ever do in the face of Wooyoung’s pout.
Yunho learns that even though Mingi’s a morning person, he’s not one to sleep early either. It’s something that’s stayed true to him since they were in high school— how they’d spend all night gaming and Mingi would be fresh faced in the morning where Yunho looked like he’d been kicked out of bed, disoriented and tired. Not much has changed.
Yunho especially looks forward to their dinners. There’s nothing fancy about it, usually some convenience store ramen or gimbap, but it feels so much like the evenings they spent as kids. It had been the most favourite parts of Yunho’s days, back then, to be able to dance in the afternoons and be rewarded with a meal at Mingi’s side. He remembers all the sweltering summer nights where the cicadas would sing and the only saving grace to his exhausted body and mind would be Mingi handing him a banana milk and laughing so loudly Yunho’s heart would vibrate with it.
Now, too—
“Here,” Mingi says, handing Yunho his banana milk while he rifles through the plastic bag for their straws. They decided on ramen tonight, embellished with shredded plastic cheese and a hot dog they both settled on sharing.
It’s so fucking cold out, Seoul’s winter wind stinging their cheeks. They decide to sit outside anyways, bundled up under one too many jackets and the steam of the ramen giving them solace from the crisp iciness of the air. Mingi finds them, glove addled fingers that rip into the straw’s plastic film. Mingi holds Yunho’s hand steady so that he can poke the straw into his drink, eyebrows furrowing terribly too cute as he does so.
This too, has been a re-adjustment. It hasn’t escaped Yunho’s notice how instinctually the need they had for physical closeness has returned to them. There are stray touches here and there now, bumps to shoulders and caresses to arms. It feels so good and normal, and Yunho has to struggle against his disposition to hooray every time it happens, a sure-fire reciprocation from Mingi that he feels comfortable and safe with Yunho. It’s entirely too difficult for him not to cherish these moments when he’s missed them so much.
“Eat,” Mingi says, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile, “you’re being weird.”
Yunho’s thankful that the scarf he has wrapped around his neck is big enough to obscure his ears. His ears feel too hot, embarrassment clinging to him. There’s been a lot of Yunho zoning out too.
“You’re being weird.” Yunho bites back.
Mingi’s half-way through a slurp of his noodles when he devolves into his giggle, shaking his head. Yunho’s obedient in taking a bite out of his food too, a grin that cannot be helped taking its place on his face. He’s just happy.
“How’s practice been? Europe is a long stretch, isn’t it?”
Yunho hums, “About a month, yeah. I’m not excited to be living out of a suitcase again, but we’re playing at a couple of new venues. It should be really fun.”
Mingi’s thoughtful, “Are you happy though, with the setlist and everything?”
They had a lot more freedom with the creative aspect of their performances now. It’s been a long time coming, and while they were still on schedules tighter than they’d like abroad, they’ve been able to make the transitions a little bit easier, their visions and solos a little bit more individual.
“It’s not much different to what we did with the American leg, so practice has been relatively smooth sailing so far. I think we’re changing some stuff up for the encore shows so we’ll account for that when we get to it,” Yunho says, “and yeah, I think we’re showcasing the best we’ve got right now. The fans are happy.”
Mingi nods, “Is touring something you like doing?”
The question is astounding. In all the instances in which Yunho settles back into having Mingi in his life again, the retrograde amnesia that he’d once lost him enamours him whole. Questions like these bring him back to real life again, where he’s reminded that having Mingi is new, this is all new.
Yunho doesn’t struggle with honesty when it comes to Mingi.
“It’s been hard,” he says, “I don’t do well on planes and the jet lag fucks me up, it’s— it’s difficult to get a grip on real life when you don’t know the time and you don’t know the roads, y’know? It strangely becomes a bit liminal— like the time in between shows is just when the next sound check is or when we’re doing the next fan sign. Nothing feels very real.”
Mingi takes a bite out of the hot dog, chews slowly, like he’s always done, and passes it back to Yunho.
“That sounds rough, Yun,” Mingi says, “but the stage makes it worth it, right?”
Mingi’s made him feel comfortable enough to talk about all of this. He’s so kind, so understanding in all the ways he allows Yunho to share this part of his life as if it’s not some raw wound. Yunho sees it in the way it takes Mingi a spare second longer to respond sometimes, how his smile gets smaller, or he gets a little quieter after the fact. He thinks Yunho doesn’t see it, but he does, assertive familiarity that doesn’t allow anything to escape Yunho’s notice. Still, there’s a part of Yunho that’s afraid to call it out, part of him that’s too selfish to rock the boat and mess with the precarious balance they’ve found. He doesn’t want to be disingenuous either, being true to himself with Mingi has always been the reason why they work. So he lets it sit, this unsaid thing that’s buried but not dead.
Yunho feels so much older than he is then, “Some days it does, yeah.”
There it is then, again, that flicker of hesitation he sees on Mingi’s face. Yunho wishes it felt more fulfilling than it did, most days, and especially because of Mingi. The weight of his job sits lodged carefully in between the bones of his ribs, because he knows he’s the one who gets to do what they had both dreamed of doing. He’s the one who had made it out. Still, nothing about that made being the idol he is any easier, not really in any of the ways that counted. Mingi wants to know, so Yunho tells him. It hurts though, his hesitation does hurt.
The rest of their meal goes by in silence. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, just weighted. Yunho cherishes that too. He would rather have Mingi in the quiet than not at all. It doesn’t have to be perfect, Yunho acknowledges. They’re staying true to each other, committed to learning the people they are five years later.
They finish off their food and Yunho goes to clean everything up. There’s an ice cream shop they’ve been wanting to try a couple of streets down, and Yunho thinks it’s a sound ending to their night.
He stands up, shaking off the cold, “Do you want dessert?”
Mingi seems like he’s deep in thought, a few seconds until he snaps out of it. “Hmm?”
“Ice cream,” Yunho reminds him, “we talked about going?”
“Oh— oh— uh,” Mingi fiddles with his phone, switches it on to check the time. He huffs a little groan, “it’s actually getting pretty late Yun, I need to catch my bus soonish, and it takes me forever to get home if I catch a delay, maybe next time?”
Yunho might be okay with a stilted meal here and there, but he isn’t one to leave the entire night like it. He thinks it’ll settle with time like most things so far have, and all he has to do is keep trying. He does so.
“I could drive you home y’know? It’s no trouble at all, the night’s still young.”
Mingi’s already shaking his head no, “I don’t want to inconvenience you, Yun. I live so far out— it’s fine, really.”
“C’mon,” Yunho sighs, “nothing about you could be an inconvenience to me, Mingi-yah. If anything, you’re helping me get actual good use of my car.”
“Yunho.”
“Mingi.”
They end up sharing a peanut butter and chocolate chip sundae. It’s probably too indulgent with all the stamina Yunho has to maintain the upcoming weeks, but there’s a sheer joy in getting to see Mingi with the corner of his lips smeared in a vanilla-chocolate swirl. He’s carefree enough to enjoy the ice cream first and then mind his mess after. Yunho’s glad for it.
They walk back to KQ with their bellies full enough to insulate the stuttering cold just a little bit. It’s only then that Yunho realises he needs to go up to get his stuff from the practice room.
“Fuck—,” Yunho mutters, turning to face Mingi, “would you mind coming in with me? I left my shit upstairs and I don’t want you waiting out here in the cold when we have to go into the basement anyways.”
It’s a sensitive matter, he knows. Yunho’s already pushed a few lines today, even if Mingi’s been gracious not to acknowledge them. It’s a mistake he can’t help. Mingi looks as unsure as Yunho expects him to, worrying at his lip.
“It’ll take two minutes Mingi-yah, I promise, we’re in and out, yeah?”
“Okay— okay fine.”
He doesn’t really mean to hold Mingi’s hand, it just sort of happens. He only thinks about it on the elevator when his palm is still in Mingi’s, that anybody could have seen them outside like this, that anybody could have snapped a picture and used it as a basis to jeopardize everything he’s worked for. It’s a dangerous thing to realise he wouldn’t necessarily care. It’s more important to him that Mingi’s comfortable, that he feels safe while Yunho keeps to his promises. Mingi makes no effort to let go, so he knows he’s at least doing something right. And if anything, they’re not more than friends to each other, and that’s truly explainable enough to dethrone any accusation that might come his way.
The bell dings and Yunho pulls Mingi along with him. He hurries them through the dimly lit hallways and swerves into their practice room, hand on the handle of the door. He’s in such a rush to get his bag and get out that he doesn’t realise that the lights are still on.
Yunho stumbles into the room with the sheer momentum of it all, Mingi’s hand still in his. Mingi gets hauled in too, knocking shoulders with Yunho so definitively that they’re pushed inside entirely. There are a few seconds before the music gets switched off.
San, Wooyoung, Yeosang and Jongho look at Yunho in confusion. Mingi slips his hand out of Yunho’s, subtle but rather abrupt.
“Hyung what are you—”
“Mingi-yah?”
Jongho’s attention whips from Yunho to the man on his left as soon as Yeosang’s voice registers. San and Wooyoung too, a sudden shift in their gazes.
Mingi goes stiff as a board next to him. Yunho thinks he stops breathing.
It’s almost as soft as a whisper, when Mingi speaks. “Hi.”
San looks like he’s seeing something he can’t comprehend. Jongho and Yeosang are much the same, mouths half-open in a barely formed gasp. Wooyoung’s eyes are as wide as Yunho’s ever seen them. “Oh my god—”
There’s only a split second then. Yunho has no say as the four of them overwhelm Mingi into a hug. Yeosang gets to him first, hands around his neck as he practically melts into Mingi’s body. San and Wooyoung are the same before Jongho joins in too. Yunho’s sort of pushed to the side, not that he minds, but Mingi’s eyes find him, frantic.
He can only smile back at him, nothing said. Yunho watches Mingi go through a spectrum of emotions before his eyes sheer into something glassy and weighted. Mingi’s hands work too, eventually, awkwardly limp until he settles into their embrace fully, and then he’s hugging them all back in some sort of way.
They’re not quick to let go of him. It’s when they do, that everything devolves into chaos. Their eyes are still on Mingi, as if he’ll disappear if they don’t keep looking at him. It’s harder still, to realise they look just as teary as Mingi is.
“I don’t understand—”
“How are you even—”
“We haven’t seen you in—”
“Hyung, where have you—”
Wooyoung practically stomps to Yunho then, “What the hell?”
Yunho doesn’t know what to say. Wooyoung is tiny but Yunho’s been at the end of too many pinches from the man, and he’s in no way looking to entertain any tonight.
“I—”
“Yun saw me at the listening party for Guerilla,” Mingi says slowly, as if he’s coming down to earth himself, “we— we met coincidentally, he came to a restaurant we used to go to when we were kids that evening. I happened to be there.”
Jongho stills, “Guerilla—”
Yeosang picks up Jongho’s question, looking at Yunho, “You’ve both been speaking again since July?”
San’s eyebrows are furrowed enough to leave a permanent crease, “Why were you at our listening party?”
Yunho hears the audible breath Mingi takes. “I— I’m a fansite now, for Yunho. I— uh, I didn’t mean for us to meet again, but it sort of just happened, and really I was the one who asked him to keep it to himself, I just— I didn’t know how anybody would react so I—”
Yunho feels fucking terrible. Mingi’s lying for him, lying for them. If he could just get a fucking word in—
“How anybody would react?” Wooyoung stammers, “Mingi-yah what?”
Jongho interrupts everyone then, eyes on Mingi. “Are you okay?”
It’s a loaded fucking question. He doesn’t know how he can help Mingi, what he could possibly say.
There’s nothing more devastating then, as he tracks the first tear that falls down Mingi’s cheek. Then he’s crying, quiet tears that Yunho doesn’t know how to stop.
Mingi manages a shuddering breath. There’s a soft smile, small but genuine. “I hadn’t felt okay in a long time, not until I started speaking with Yun again— it’s— I’m better now, I’m okay.”
Yunho can’t process the words in the order they come. They feel incredulous, as if he’s hearing Mingi underwater. It’s something he didn’t know. There’s so much there, too much that Yunho can’t even begin to card through.
San’s the one who goes to Mingi then, the one who wipes away his tears. Mingi holds it in until he can’t, his cheek falling into San’s palm.
“You fucking asshole,” San breathes, hugging Mingi again, “I missed you.”
This time Mingi dwarfs him. He trembles in San’s hold, but he makes no effort to let go. Yeosang goes to them both, leans into Mingi’s bicep with a soft kiss and rubs at his back with gentle hands.
“Please get dinner with all of us, Min,” Wooyoung says, sobering up, “I just— we’d really like to have a meal with you, if you’d let us. I think it could be really good.”
Yunho hasn’t seen Mingi relent to anything so easily as the way he nods at the offer Wooyoung gives him. Jongho hovers, leaning into Wooyoung’s space as if he can barely hold himself up.
“Yeah— yeah,” Mingi agrees, part of it muffled into San’s shoulder, “we can do it after you guys get back from Europe, whatever works then.”
“I’m stealing your number from Yunho,” Yeosang breathes into Mingi’s jacket, “we’re texting. I’m becoming a texter for you.”
Mingi laughs finally. It’s quiet and weak, but Yunho knows it’s entirely genuine. He nods at Yeosang, agreeing.
“Whatever you want Yeosangie.”
“Okay,” Yunho says, voice finally working again, “I— uh, I actually came here to pick up my stuff so that I can drive Mingi-yah home since it’s so late. Would that be okay?”
He knows he has a lot of explaining to do. The four of them look at him, varying levels of annoyed. They’d get over it, he knows. He’d answer all of their burning questions, they know. Still, it’s not all easy to process, Yunho acknowledges that.
Mingi catches his eye and smiles at him. Yunho supposes the situation isn’t completely unsalvageable. Eventually, San lets go of Mingi rather reluctantly, Yeosang too. Jongho still looks at him as if he isn’t very real. Yunho gets it.
“Don’t be a stranger, hyung.” He says, something heavy in his tone. Yunho knows it as the five years of space and time that’s separated them from Mingi.
Mingi hums, “I don’t plan on it, I promise.”
Yunho hopes with everything he has that that’s true.
⤥ November 2016 ⤦
Trainee life catches up to them both hard and fast, and it’s a difficult adjustment overall. Mingi’s quick to keep up only with the rapping and dancing, but socially, Yunho thrives where Mingi shrivels. It’s too many things at once, where they finally think that they have a permanent circle of friends before another trainee is axed or leaves, where Mingi has to keep reintroducing himself, keep lending himself to the company of competitors he feels like he has to be civil with. Yunho doesn’t count and neither does Hongjoong, accounted to the default of best friend and first trainee respectively, but everyone else becomes a distraction.
He doesn’t know when he realises that Yeosang, San and Seonghwa are there for real, that they’re also here to stay. They’re all a few weeks in but Mingi remains hesitant to warm up to them, even if Hongjoong and Yunho have integrated themselves with them far better than him. The boys don’t seem to take it too personally, and Mingi suspects that Yunho’s playing intermediary even if Mingi’s not talking about it to Yunho either.
And that’s the other thing. As much as he knows better, Mingi’s not very used to sharing. In all the spaces he’d so far been friends with Yunho in, he’s been Yunho’s priority. He knows it’s irrational, knows that he should just suck it up and get on with it, but he can only be exhausted for so long in so many ways before he feels like his entire body will give out. Yunho’s his best friend, sue a guy for wanting to spend time with him.
It's a lot to get used to. Yunho takes to having San laying onto his back when he’s on the floor after a gruelling round of choreography so quickly, talks about gaming with Yeosang while sitting in a corner thigh to thigh during their breaks, lets Seonghwa thumb away sweat matted hair away from his face as barely an afterthought. He even follows Hongjoong around like a puppy, taken with their de facto leader’s resilience and talent. It all just makes Mingi more resentful of them, and not Yunho.
Never Yunho.
Because Yunho, infuriatingly, carries on as if nothing’s wrong. He checks in with Mingi after every practice, asks to get lunch together, trusts Mingi to monitor him when he needs input on where to improve. He never pushes Mingi to speak to anyone if he doesn’t want to, is content with Mingi sitting next to him at the corner of the table so that he doesn’t really have to interact with anybody else when they’re all getting dinner. Still, Yunho’s cordial, laughs with everyone and everything. It almost makes Mingi feel small, as if he matters only as much as the kids Yunho’s known for a couple of months, no less and no different from any of them. Still, still, he’s so thoughtful with Mingi, gentle in all the ways Yunho just is. Even if Mingi can’t be.
“You need to switch your weight onto your right foot on that last count,” Yunho says, “you’re moving crazy good Mingi-yah, the lift will help you transition smoother.”
Mingi knows he’s just trying to help, but Yunho’s spent the entirety of their practice joking around with San and Yeosang, barely giving Mingi the time of day. He doesn’t mean to snap.
“I know,” Mingi nips, “just monitor the people you actually want to hang out with.”
Yunho’s expression flits through several moods until it settles on confusion. Mingi watches him in real time through the mirror that stares back at them.
“Uh— I feel like I’m missing something.”
Mingi groans. He just— he doesn’t understand how Yunho doesn’t just get it. He does that thing he’s been doing forever, tilts his head like a puppy as if he doesn’t quite understand the picture he’s looking at.
“Forget it,” Mingi sighs, his palms rubbing at his eyes, “I think I’m just tired.”
“You just yelled at me.”
“I didn’t yell.”
Yunho tsks, disagreeing, “Well, you raised your voice at least.”
“Don’t you ever just get tired of being perfect and happy and brilliant all the time?” Mingi bleeds, “Some of us are normal people Yun, we can’t all be you.”
The crease between Yunho’s eyebrows deepen, “Why would you want to be me?”
“Oh my god— forget it.”
“Mingi-yah you’re literally the most hard-working person I know,” Yunho continues, “I see it, the guys see it. Everybody knows it, I don’t understand why you would want to change that for anything?”
Mingi feels a bit insulted. “The guys hate me.”
“You act like you hate the guys!” Yunho defends, “You can’t really blame them from keeping your distance, can you?”
The insecurity that’s been chewing away at bits of Mingi’s self-esteem begins to rave like a piranha. “I’m not very likeable Yunho,” he mumbles, “I’m not you.”
Yunho’s stern when he looks at Mingi, refocusing the conversation they’re having through the mirror, “You don’t need to be me.”
Mingi’s fucking tired, “That’s so easy for you to say.”
“Mingi-yah you’re my best friend, you,” Yunho says, “there’s nobody else, not in school and not between the trainees. Why do you think that is?”
Suddenly there’s a heron circling the skies, ready to clip the piranha where it eats. It’s warm and immediate, how Yunho knows where to anchor Mingi when he’s in freefall.
“Uh—”
“It’s because I will never find anyone else I look up to the way I do you,” he breathes, trudging on without any regard for Mingi, “you’re resilient in all the ways you give everything to whatever you do. You push yourself and you motivate everyone around you to push themselves in return. You’re headstrong and insufferable where you need to be, and it’s infuriating even when you’re right. Especially when you’re right. It’s why the guys can’t say anything about how pissy you can get. You’re good Mingi-yah, unbelievably so sometimes, and being anybody but you would be doing all of us a disservice.”
There it is, the heron swooping down to the river’s surface. It claims the piranha of Mingi’s insecurity with laser-like focus, hunts it with no chance of failing.
Mingi doesn’t know how to deal with any of the words Yunho’s given him as a tether that begins to ground him. He doesn’t know how he can ever express his gratitude to the fates that had landed him Yunho. He pouts instead, petulant, “I’m not pissy.”
Yunho’s face shifts just a bit, from hardened conviction to something righteous and playful. “You’re so fucking pissy,” he bites, “I play nice because I’m a peacekeeper, not because I’m blind.”
Oh. Maybe Mingi wasn’t giving Yunho the credit he deserved.
Yunho doubles down, now that he’s won some of Mingi’s patience over. “What’s this really about Min?”
“I— I don’t know,” Mingi says, even though he very well knows.
Yunho looks at him like he does when Mingi needs that little bit of assurance. Waits until Mingi’s ready.
Mingi groans. “You with the guys makes me feel like I’m losing you. I get it— I could be better with them, put in more effort, but they’re all over you. It makes me feel a little forgotten.”
“Princess—”
Mingi’s entirely embarrassed about the honesty.
“I know it’s childish, okay? I know that, but I’ve been pissy enough for you to notice, so it’s clearly something I’m not really good with.”
Maybe it’s not fair to throw Yunho’s words back at him, but Mingi feels small, feels like he’s being engulfed by the maw of humiliation.
“I don’t think it’s childish,” Yunho steadies, “I don’t. I just wish you would’ve told me Mingi-yah, I didn’t know.”
Mingi thinks his lip is starting to bleed from how hard he’s been biting down on it. “Well now you do.”
“You know what I think?”
Mingi takes a deep breath, “You’re going to tell me anyway.”
Yunho just rolls his eyes, “I think you’re missing the conversations where the guys ask me how I’m the only one who knows how to get through to you when we’re not dancing. I think you’re being stubborn about not giving them a chance, and I think it’s a shame that you’re not letting them see how cute and funny and adorable—"
“Yunho.”
Yunho just carries on, “I just think you’d realise how highly they think of you if you gave them the time of day. That way maybe you wouldn’t feel like it’s me and them versus me and you. We could just be an us, y’know? Sooner or later, we’ll have to be anyways.”
Yunho’s right. Mingi knows Yunho’s right. Fuck.
“And plus, I don’t think anybody has any confusion about who I’m closest to Mingi-yah,” Yunho says, almost an afterthought, “I only promised one person I’d do this with him or not at all. They know it just as much as I do.”
He stares at Mingi meaningfully. Mingi doesn’t know what to do with his chest splitting open to accommodate Yunho’s unyielding loyalty.
“You’re so annoying.”
Yunho just laughs, loud and free. “We’re going to the galbi place tonight, come with me? Just try and talk to the rest of the guys— I think you’d be surprised how fast you’ll make friends.”
And again, Yunho’s right. Because of course he is.
He doesn’t push Mingi to do anything when they get to the restaurant, but there’s a kind grab of his bicep to reassure him before they both walk in. Mingi takes his baby steps as they come, sits on the inside seat next to Yunho for the first time and allows him to take the corner. He ends up being opposite Yeosang, who greets him with a careful smile.
Mingi’s muscles feel weird when he smiles back, tentatively, like his brain isn’t used to the action. It feels new and unfamiliar. Mingi remains mostly quiet, just takes in the way Yunho’s warmth bleeds into his side where their thighs touch, the comforting timbre of his laugh while he talks to San opposite him. The drinks come and Mingi’s instinctual in grabbing one of the Coca Cola cans, splits it between his and Yunho’s glasses. Yunho and Seonghwa take to grilling the meat.
He doesn’t realise why Yeosang’s shifting around the banchan until he’s done. They’d ordered before Yunho and him had arrived, but Yeosang makes sure the kkakdugi, gyeran-mari and buchu kimchi are closer to Mingi’s side of the table than his. It’s almost instinct when he does so, not even looking up from the conversation he’s having with Seonghwa and Hongjoong. Then it’s Hongjoong sat next to him who removes the cheese buldak from their end and replaces it with the one without. There’s a good minute where Mingi thinks the actions can’t be in respect to accommodating him, that they’re just moving the food around to ensure everybody has their fill, but then Hongjoong piles some chicken onto his plate as Yeosang catches his eyes, both of them egging him onto eat.
It's then that it dawns on him that perhaps they would give him a mile, if only he could express his willingness for an inch.
Eventually he laughs, like, really laughs.
San and Yeosang are undoubtedly a charismatic pair, a small-town farm boy so intensely rivalled by an inner-city school kid. They have stars in each other’s eyes when they speak to one another and Mingi’s entranced. It’s in the same way that he can’t take away from how eloquent his hyungs are, the way they’re quick to refill empty glasses of water or discuss deadlines as gentle reminders. None of them point out how slow Mingi’s eating or his sudden openness, they just embrace it like it’s been a part of every dinner they’ve shared so far. Yunho’s mostly quiet throughout the meal, piles the beef onto Mingi’s plate before his own. If anybody notices, they don’t bother pointing it out.
It surprises him then, to be addressed for the first time.
Seonghwa turns to him with confidence he’s not had before, “What about you then, Mingi-yah? What was supposed to be your back-up plan?”
“Oh— uh,” Mingi splutters, “Yunho didn’t really let me have one. He thought we’d make it into a company, had enough faith for the both of us.”
It’d been a constant thread of hope for Mingi to pull on, when he felt like he should give up even if everybody told him he’s good enough. Yunho had been by his side, through every success and stumble.
Seonghwa looks between the two of them meaningfully. Mingi feels oddly read. “It must be crazy for you both to be in this together, huh?”
Yunho’s the one who speaks up. “He’s my best friend,” he smiles, “this is obviously the best-case scenario.”
Yeosang looks a little pained. Mingi wonders what that’s about. “It’s nice to have somebody to go through it all with,” Yeosang says, “it’s really cool you both have that.”
Mingi takes a risk then, gives more than an inch. “I think we all have that,” he stunts awkwardly, “now, at least. We make a good team.”
It’s a change of the tide, they all know it is. Mingi can tell Yunho’s beaming from his side. He hopes he can keep all his promises.
Hongjoong softens too, ruffling at Mingi’s hair, “Yeah, we do Mingi-yah, we’ve all got each other now.”
When Jongho, the youngest of them all, joins less than a fortnight later, Mingi gets the chance to prove it.
⤥ ★ ⤦
They talk the entire time Yunho’s in Europe, and this time Yunho makes no effort to be quiet about it.
It’s hard getting around the time zones, but he tells Mingi not to worry about when he’s calling when it’s not a show day, that he’ll pick up if he can. He’s usually with one of the guys when it happens.
They’re in Amsterdam the first time. Yunho’s about three beers in, pleasantly mellowed out by the warm slosh of alcohol in his belly. San is on another plane of consciousness, leant against Yunho so heavy he’s pretty sure he’s the one carrying San’s weight. Yeosang’s snapping a picture of it when Mingi calls.
Yeosang doesn’t even second guess picking up, just clicks onto the dial tone and waits for Mingi to connect.
“Hi Mingi-yah,” Yeosang greets, flush high on his cheeks and giggly, “wait, look.”
Yunho has enough cognitive function to know that he’s turned the camera around again. “I think Sannie’s dead,” he laughs, pointing at the two of them.
“Hi Min,” Yunho says, waving to the camera.
“Hi you guys,” Yunho hears, “where are you?”
“We came to the oldest brewery in Amsterdam— wait, no— the oldest Heineken brewery apparently—,” Yeosang giggles, “we’re a little out of it.”
“It’s three in the afternoon,” Mingi says. Yunho can hear the smile in his voice.
“It’s happy hour somewhere,” Yunho yells.
A few people more sober than the three of them turn to look at Yunho’s volume. Yeosang shushes him, rushing to his side of the bench they’re sitting on so that they’re all in frame. Yunho feels San’s breath even out on his shoulder, fast asleep.
Yunho’s inebriated brain is not prepared for the image of Mingi on his bed, fresh from the shower. There are too many things about it that thud Yunho’s heart against the useless cage of his ribs. Mingi’s cheeks are soft-worn and coral from the hot water, hair wet and stick straight at the bangs, now grown out enough to fall over his eyes. The starkest difference is that Mingi’s dyed his hair since Yunho left. It was a faded blonde the last time he saw it.
“Your hair is dark again,” Yunho says uselessly.
“I was going to say Mingi-yah,” Yeosang continues, “you look the same. Pretty.”
Yunho can feel every single tooth he has in his mouth, tongue too big and dry. His mind is all hazy and weird. Mingi looks like Mingi again, his Mingi. Yunho is sixteen and tongue-tied once more, like the first time he’d ever seen Mingi dance.
Mingi’s hair is tousled against his pillow in a way that makes Yunho feel a bit stupid. Maybe it’s the light, but Yunho thinks his cheeks darken at Yeosang’s words just a little bit, a shy smile on Mingi lips. “The pink was getting old, thought I could try something low maintenance.”
“Well, it looks fucking good,” Yeosang hums, “right, Yun?”
“What— hmm— yeah, yeah, so pretty.”
Mingi giggles at that. Yunho feels like he’s being exposed to the sun, bright and blinding. He clears his throat and starts willing his brain to function a bit more. “Anything you need, Min?”
Mingi shakes his head no, lips forming into a pout as he readjusts himself so that one side of his face is smushed against the pillow. “Just wanted to check in,” he says softly, “wondered what you would be up to.”
Yunho thinks he could die.
He nods instead, “Well, I’m glad you called.”
“I’m glad you picked up.”
He doesn’t miss the look Yeosang eyes him with through the camera view of them on his facetime. Yunho decidedly ignores it.
“We’re planning to head to the maritime museum later, once we’ve sobered up a bit more and eaten,” Yeosang says, “but I think we’ll have to make sure Sannie’s alive first.”
Yunho laughs, “He’s fine.”
It’s as if San knows he’s being talked about. He groans as he tries to open his eyes, heavy lidded and slow. Yeosang goes off to get him some water and Yunho rubs at San’s back in soothing circles.
San is whiny and tired, “’m— think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Shit.”
Mingi laughs, “Go take care of him,” he ushers, “just wanted to see you and I got a three for one deal, this was nice.”
“I’ll text you, yeah? I’m so sorry Mingi-yah, I’ll talk to you soon,” Yunho hurries, getting San somewhat ready to stand up, “rest up well.”
Mingi hums, “Be safe Yun.”
It happens in almost all the cities, where Yunho gets to see Mingi sleep-addled and day-worn through his phone screen. He’s always in some oversized band t-shirt snuggled into his blankets when the call comes. Yunho gets used to it just barely, Mingi when he’s tired and more unreserved, where he’s soft eyes and pouty lips, talking about his day, all the good things and all the grievances alike. Yunho wants this forever.
He once calls during one of their last soundchecks too. Yunho picks up because the producers are setting their marks on stage, all of them on a five-minute break. Yunho puts him on loudspeaker and all the guys rush to him when they hear Mingi’s voice. He puts them on video not long after.
Seonghwa and Hongjoong hog most of the call since they’ve seen him the least. Wooyoung and Jongho make the silliest interruptions, like they’ve always done, and it feels so much like old times Yunho’s chest aches with it. It’s like Mingi’s on hiatus, not present for that one show or one tour, not that he’d not been there at all. They work so perfectly, and none of the sentiment is yet to be lost on him.
“Did you eat today?” Seonghwa asks.
Mingi nods, “Yeah hyung, made some jjigae and had some of my mom’s left over mandu, she came by last week.”
“I still fucking dream about that mandu,” Jongho sighs.
Mingi giggles, “I could make some y’know, if we’re doing dinner when y’all get back, she’s taught me how and I worked with my dad during my summer breaks at uni. I could cook for you.”
“Of course we’re doing dinner,” Yunho says, “but it isn’t really fair for you to cook for all of us when we just want to hang out with you.”
“I could cook as well,” Wooyoung says then, “maybe Seonghwa hyung, too? That way we could just meet up at one of ours and kick it for the night— saves us from having to find a restaurant to go to.”
“Our dorm has the most space,” Yeosang says, “we could do it there?”
“Your dorm also has no place for eight people to sit,” San murmurs.
Yunho pinches his side. He thinks he hears San yelp. “We’re going shopping soon.”
Jongho huffs, as if to say yeah, right. God, forgive a guy being a bit too busy to buy a couch these days.
“We can just do it at ours,” Seonghwa says, “it has everything we need and our kitchen’s the biggest out of everyone.”
“We have two weeks off when we’re back,” Hongjoong recalls, “I’m only going home after the first weekend. Can we do the Friday or Saturday night we get back?”
“Sannie and I do date nights on Friday’s,” Wooyoung reminds them, “I’m free Saturday.”
There’s a chorus of affirmation. Yunho smiles at a Mingi who’s eyes are a bit heavy and sparkling. “Can you do Saturday, Mingi-yah?”
Mingi’s already nodding yes, “Yeah, yeah— I can come by earlier then, get started with hyung and Young-ah.”
Wooyoung squeals right in Yunho’s ear, chin resting on his shoulder. Mingi laughs. It’s the one that makes his eyes disappear and lets Yunho see the perfectly mismatched alignment of all his teeth. Yunho’s knees feel a little weak on days like this.
“Yunho-yah will send you the address,” Seonghwa says. “We can’t wait.”
The PD signals for them then. The guys say their goodbyes to Mingi, air kisses (from Wooyoung) in tow.
“See you soon Yun,” Mingi says, genuine and true.
Yunho can’t really control the way his heart splits in two, radiant and still. “So soon.”
//
It’s Saturday before he knows it. Yunho’s not as jet lagged as he thought he would be, and it’s probably thanks to the overnight flight they took on Thursday. Still, he’s entirely disoriented when he wakes up.
The first thing he realises is that he’s not at his own dorm. It comes to him in pieces, slowly, how he had come to Seonghwa’s dorm the night before in search of food. Okay, so maybe Yeosang and Yunho did have a sufficiency issue (but that’s what the other dorms were for). Takeout had sounded too taxing and heavy, so he hadn’t spared a second thought on it. San had already said he’s not coming to the dorm, so he’d opted to eat his hyung’s cooking and stay over. Seonghwa had made japchae and they’d watched a rerun of the Avengers for nostalgia’s sake.
His hyung had managed his patience till about halfway through the run time.
“So, about Mingi-yah.”
Yunho mutes the movie and sets his empty plate down, breathing deep and steady. If it were anyone else, Yunho would be less nervous. Seonghwa has always been too intuitive for his own good.
“Yeah hyung, what about Mingi-yah?”
Seonghwa extends the blanket from over his knees onto Yunho’s on the couch. It’s an olive branch, he knows.
“You’re still with Saori.”
Yunho only feels mildly sick. “I am.”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
Yunho’s avoided thinking about it. He’ll continue to avoid thinking about it— in that there’s really nothing to think about. There’s no judgement in Seonghwa’s tone, just quiet inquisition.
“Why would it be, hyung? She’s my girlfriend and he’s only halfway back to being my best friend again,” Yunho murmurs, “there’s nothing else to it.”
The lights are dimmed in the dorm. Only the moving figures on the living room’s TV cascade varying silhouettes onto his hyung’s face. This time, he does look at Yunho a little pointedly.
“Do you want there to be something else to it?”
Yunho has spent a long time managing. He manages showing up to work, manages pushing through doubt he harbours, manages getting up and working through the day ahead of him instead of anything that could hold him down to his doubt. He’s always been a pragmatic guy, and part of it involves not letting his feelings get too close or too personal. This question threatens to uproot all of that— all the effort that’s gone into putting one foot ahead of the other for the last five years, everything he’s done to keep himself on the path without derailment, without letting the body of want and unhealed bruises vie for his attention and then overwhelm his motivation. He coped with Mingi’s loss and is re-accommodating for Mingi’s presence. There’s nothing more to it, nothing less. Yunho manages, it’s all he's ever done.
“C’mon hyung,” Yunho says, “I know how to take care of myself.”
Seonghwa looks at him a little bit sad. “That’s exactly why I’m asking, Yunho-yah.”
Yunho, most days, also feels like he can’t breathe right. This conversation is no different. He can’t spare himself honesty, let alone Seonghwa.
“I’m glad he’s back in my life hyung,” Yunho tries, “I don’t need anything else. I just can’t lose him again, not for anything.”
Seonghwa hums. He seems to know Yunho’s limits as well as Yunho does. “You’re doing well Yun,” Seonghwa assures him, “he is too. You’ll both be okay.”
He chalks up the baseless feeling in his stomach to all the travelling he’s done. He’s thankful, nods at his hyung.
Seonghwa catches Yunho when he’s falling, like he’s always done. “I’m glad Yunho-yah, you both seem so happy.”
The conversation recollects itself to Yunho while he tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He mostly fails, eyes still heavy and fatigue clinging to every part of him. Perhaps he’s wrong about how much the jetlag’s affecting him.
He manages to get out of San’s bed, albeit with more difficulty than he expects. It’s only when he’s about halfway down the hallway that he realises that the house is entirely more awake than he is.
Yunho catches onto Wooyoung’s laugh first and foremost. Seonghwa, though, is the one who sees him first.
“Good morning,” he smiles.
“It’s almost four PM,” Wooyoung corrects.
“His body clearly needed the rest Young-ah,” Seonghwa chastises, pulling out some vegetables from one of a couple of grocery bags on the counter. Yunho’s still half-asleep, a yawn taking over his entire face.
“You could go back to bed for longer, Yun,” a new voice says, “you look tired.”
Yunho’s eyes snap to the corner of the kitchen, more alert than he’s probably been in days.
“Mingi-yah.”
The smile that finds Mingi is immediate. Yunho hasn’t seen him in more than a month. Yunho’s brain is slow to process him, and somehow it fixates Yunho onto him that much more. It’s the first time he’s seeing the dark hair in the flesh, and it’s grown out so much since he’d dyed it. He’s curled it slightly, even if he has no makeup on and he’s only in a t-shirt and joggers.
“Hi, Yun,” Mingi replies.
Yunho’s feet move on their own accord. His hands are around Mingi’s shoulders in barely a step and a half, and it’s instinctual. Mingi catches him, laugh already in his throat. Yunho hears it reverberate from his chest into his own. Mingi smells like fresh cotton and the woody sea salt that’s so entirely him. He can’t help but rest his nose on the bare sliver of skin in between the collar of Mingi’s shirt and the base of his throat. Mingi is so strong and steady, holding him just as eagerly.
“It’s really good to see you,” Yunho murmurs quietly, “missed you.”
He doesn’t give a fuck about how his cheeks feel warm to touch, the tips of his ears heating over. He thinks Mingi’s grip gets a little bit tighter. He revels in being held.
“Missed you too,” Mingi sighs, just for him to hear.
“Okay. Yunho let’s let Mingi-yah go,” Wooyoung interrupts, “he’s here to get some actual cooking done— y’know, because he’s that much better than some people who come to our dorms only to leech off the food we make.”
Mingi giggles. Yunho lets him go with a groan. “I’m sure the leeches appreciate your kind hands.”
Wooyoung huffs, “The leeches are so lucky I love them.”
Mingi grips Yunho’s bicep in reassurance as he passes him by. He settles next to Seonghwa hyung, sorting through the last of the groceries so that everything is divvied up by the dishes they’re making.
“I really could have covered some of the groceries, hyung,” Mingi says.
Seonghwa shakes his head, “You already bought the mandu, that’s more than enough, let’s just get started on prepping everything, yeah?”
Mingi hums. He puts on a kettle too. “Yun, I could fry up some mandu for you with your tea if you’d like? That way you’ve had something to eat before dinner.”
He’s already fishing out the chamomile tea from the counter. It’s the little things— all the inconsequential facts Mingi still remembers despite the time.
“Yeah,” Yunho agrees, “that would be great.”
Time goes by like that. Yunho enjoys his meal and watches the three of them move around the kitchen, preparing for dinner. He gets to know that Seonghwa had gotten Mingi’s number from Hongjoong, scheduled for them all to meet earlier so that they could all cook together.
Yunho enjoys the soft hum of sizzling pans and bubbling jjigae from the couch, Seonghwa and Mingi’s quiet conversation only undercut by Wooyoung’s laughing. He doesn’t know he’s fallen asleep until he’s woken up, a soft tap to his forehead. Mingi’s stood behind the corner of the sofa above him. Yunho realises he’s changed out of his joggers and t-shirt into something nicer— jeans and a nice woolly sweater that makes Mingi look a lot broader than he is, which is to say, very broad.
“The guys are going to be here soon,” Mingi says, “you should freshen up.”
“Mhmm,” Yunho replies, unintelligible. He’s so sleepy.
The next time he opens his eyes, Mingi’s right in front of his face. Yunho realises he’s been shaken awake.
“I’m your first line of defence before Seonghwa hyungie throws you off this couch,” he says, “you’re gonna have to wake up Yun. He said he’s left some clothes for you on Sannie’s bed.”
Yunho thanks the entire universe that he’s not at all awake when the exchange happens. He only recapitulates it well enough when he’s rinsed his face in the bathroom, when he realises that Mingi had only been a couple of inches from his face, kneeled onto the rug-worn floor of the dorm living room. He stops himself from thinking about it any more than that.
The shower does him some good and he feels so much more like a person by the end of it. By the time he’s dressed and back in the living room, everybody’s already there.
“I was getting worried you tripped and fell in the shower,” Wooyoung says.
Yunho ruffles his hair, “Only as likely as you growing another inch.”
Wooyoung bites at his shoulder when he passes through, and Yunho pinches his hip in retaliation. San hands him a drink when he goes to sit down on the loveseat. Hongjoong, Yeosang and Jongho are in deep conversation on the couch, something about an update about one of the only video games he doesn’t play.
San’s helping Wooyoung with the snacks. And by helping, he means that San’s got his arms around Wooyoung’s waist in a back hug while Wooyoung organises their crackers and banchan into plates. Seonghwa’s pouring himself and Mingi some wine. Yunho has a second to just sit and enjoy most of the people important to him all in one room again. It doesn’t last long, only minutes before Wooyoung’s bringing all the plates to the coffee table. San sets more soju bottles down, and then they’re all being wrangled into drinking games. Still, it means so much to Yunho, to have all this again.
Mingi’s quiet when he sits on the floor in front of Yunho. His back is leant against Yunho’s knees. Yunho doesn’t think twice about it, quick to switch places with Mingi. It’s not loud or even a request. Yunho just taps at his shoulder and ushers him up in the same pace he takes Mingi’s place. It takes Mingi a bit to even realise what’s happening. There’s a few still seconds before Mingi’s hand is in Yunho’s hair then, fingers carding through the strands in a thanks only Yunho’s privy to. He looks over his shoulder to find that Mingi’s already smiling down at him.
There’s laughter, after that. So much of it. San is challenged to drink more shots than he can handle. Hongjoong and Yunho compete in a battle of rock-paper-scissors until Hongjoong’s downing half a bottle of soju. Seonghwa and Mingi excuse themselves to heat the food while Wooyoung makes sure San has a thigh to sleep on. Yeosang and Jongho hum to the music that’s on, limbs easy and relaxed.
They eat once San sobers up enough. His hyung, Mingi and Wooyoung clearly outdid themselves with the food— multiple meat dishes with both rice and ramen prepared. Yunho eats probably more than his stomach can handle, and it’s been so long since food has settled this comfortably. Mingi never strays too far from Yunho. At some point, they’re both on the couch. Mingi’s side is comfortably leant into Yunho’s, thigh to hip to shoulder. It’s the closest Yunho has felt to relief in years.
Mingi’s laughing at something Jongho and Wooyoung are fighting about on the floor. It’s resonant and loud and fits into the space just like everything and everybody else. The buzz of the alcohol has been subdued by the food, and all that’s left in Yunho is his chest aching for more of this, even as it’s happening right in front of him.
Hongjoong’s close by, eyes careful on Yunho. There’s a meaningful glance that Yunho doesn’t want to inspect too closely. He just hopes his hyung can see how happy he is.
The night goes on. Seonghwa hyung and Mingi, the most sober out of them all, settle on cleaning up as everybody winds down. Somebody’s put a cartoon on, and it drones in the background. Yeosang’s got his head on Yunho’s thighs, and his legs are on Jongho’s at the other end of the couch.
“I missed him,” Yeosang says sleepily. His face is trained to the TV.
“I did too, Sangie.”
Yeosang hums. “Do you— has he talked about what happened?”
It’s a conversation they stayed away from tonight. It was unspoken but clear that this dinner had been about celebrating Mingi back in their lives instead of rehashing the past. Still, Yunho understands where Yeosang is coming from.
“No,” Yunho admits, “I— I haven’t asked, he hasn’t said anything real.”
It’s a few minutes before Yeosang turns his head up to Yunho’s, something weighted and heavy. “None of us got a goodbye,” he states, “not one that really mattered.” Yunho’s well aware of that. Too much, sometimes. “I forgot that meant that he didn’t get one either.”
The realisation stills everything inside Yunho.
“All these years,” Yeosang murmurs, “he’s been through so much.”
Yunho knows it too. He can see it when Mingi’s slow to reciprocate touch that used to be natural to him, the way he second guesses his thoughts before expressing them. The limp in his step, sometimes, the meds Yunho’s seen by his bedside table on call. These are things Yunho compartmentalises— the things he manages. Mingi’s not willing to bare it all to Yunho, even if Yunho’s willing to give him the world.
Some things are slow to change it seems.
“You’re staying over,” Yunho hears Seonghwa say, “it’s too late now. You can leave in the morning. Sannie will just go with Wooyoung, there’s no problem at all.”
“Hyung—”
“Nope,” Seonghwa says, doubling down, “you can have breakfast and then leave. I’ll give you some PJs to change into.”
Mingi looks at them sat on the couch, helpless. Jongho’s the one to tell him what they’re all thinking.
“You’re not going anywhere hyung,” he affirms, “just get some rest and leave in the morning, okay?”
“I could get you some of my clothes from the dorm,” Yunho says, relocating a now sleeping Yeosang onto some couch cushions, “I’ll be back in like ten.”
“Yunho—”
“Would you like to come with me?” Yunho asks, “We could just go grab it.”
“You’d have to make like three trips—” Mingi protests, “it’s really no issue—”
“Either you come with me or I go get it myself, either way it’s the same amount of walking,” Yunho interrupts.
Mingi huffs at him, stubborn, “You’re impossible.”
Either way, he walks to the coat rack with Yunho, plucking his off from the pile. Yunho smiles at him even if Mingi’s pouting. The door clicks behind them when they’re all bundled up. Yunho guides them through the parking lot that connects the residential buildings, and by the time Yunho’s fingers are pressing his floor, his hands feel frozen over. Mingi’s cheeks are ruddy from the cold.
“You should have just stayed at hyung’s,” Yunho says, “it’s cold out.”
Mingi makes a non-committal sound. “You didn’t have to do this at all.”
“Mingi-yah I want to, we wanted to— this entire night, we just— we’re so happy,” he admits, “I’m so happy.”
Yunho can’t look at him when he says it, too much to the words. It’s the truth, that much Yunho knows, but he’s unwilling to inspect it too closely.
“I’m happy too Yun,” comes the whisper of Mingi’s admission, “like so— ridiculously happy.”
Yunho grabs Mingi his warmest hoodie and his comfiest pants once they’re in his room. They’ve not exchanged clothes in so long. He remembers when it used to be commonplace, the two of them swapping houses for sleepovers on the weekend so that they could get some time off of practice and school to game, pyjamas the least of what they used to share. Yunho remembers it feeling a lot like this— comfortable, safe, warm.
He hears Mingi breathe a bit heavy from behind him. “You kept it?”
Yunho knows what Mingi’s talking about before he even turns around. There’s a picture of the two of them from his high school graduation framed on his vanity. He’s taken it everywhere with him, from his home to the dorm he lived and lost Mingi in, and this dorm, too. What Mingi’s talking about, though, is the beaded bracelet he used to wear almost religiously in high school. He’d given it to Yunho on a whim, when he’d kept taking it off of Mingi’s wrist to wear it himself. It’s a circle of pretty sea blue and shell white beads that alternate in pattern. Mingi had always worn a couple more with it, just like he does now.
“I don’t really wear any jewellery on my hands, besides it,” Yunho finds himself saying. Then— “Of course I kept it.”
Mingi looks at him, indecipherable. It’s an expression Yunho used to know. He manages— he compartmentalises— he chooses not to introspect.
“You’re ridiculous,” Mingi sighs.
“Please trust me enough to tell me what happened,” Yunho blurts.
He hadn’t bothered to switch on the main lights of his room when they’d walked in. The only thing that illuminates the confusion and then understanding on Mingi’s face is the low hue of Yunho’s lamp.
“I— I want to know everything,” he admits, careful, “with how you left— and after, and— you don’t have to tell me now. It’s just— when you’re ready, I’d like you to trust me with it. I— I want to know Mingi-yah. I’ve always wanted to know.”
Yunho knows he’ll have to be patient. He knows they’ve got time. He just wants to know that Mingi’s willing, if anything, to let him in. Mingi looks at him weighted and unsure. Yunho’s voice gets stuck in his throat, mouth dry. It relents, eventually.
“I’ll try Yun,” Mingi says finally, “just— it’ll take me a bit.”
“As long as you need,” Yunho assures.
Yunho finds that the multiple trips to and from his apartment are worth it. Seonghwa sends him a picture of Mingi fast asleep not twenty minutes from when he dropped Mingi off. Yunho sleeps more restfully than he has in months.
⤥ February 2017 ⤦
It starts with a twinge.
Mingi doesn’t even really notice it at first. He thinks he’s moved too harshly on a turn and chalks it up to the momentum. They’re in the middle of practicing a new song and he doesn’t even bother giving it a second’s thought, carries through on finishing the section they’ve learnt and making good on the tracking performance.
It’s not a sharp or noticeable pain, but as soon as he stops moving and tries to regulate his breathing back to normal, he feels a slight pull at his back. It feels almost like any other muscle pull he’s had in the years he’d spent dancing, and he’s sure it’s mostly because they’ve all been pushed to over-exert themselves.
There’s too much to do on every front— the curriculum of the last semester had been grueling, and his burden of responsibility as a trainee was only growing. From what their managers were telling them, they were getting close to the final decisions on the company’s debut group, and that had only ramped up the stakes with all of them. He’s barely getting any sleep these days, going to exam prep classes in the morning so that he can make training later in the day, even if he’s close to spring break. Everything feels hard at this point, and he takes what he assumes as the tiredness of his body all in the same stride.
This is all routine now. The pain is more an inconvenience than anything else and he treats it as any other sore he’d experienced especially in the last few months. His ice pack is at the ready when he gets home. He’s diligent about his stretches and tries to ensure his range of movement to combat the pull. He showers and ices his lower back for twenty minutes. He rinses and repeats. It’s all in a day’s work.
He shows up to practice the next day and everyone’s buzzing with excitement. It’d been a weird day to start— Mingi had overslept and gotten to his prep classes in a rush. He’d then been forced to spend an extra half-hour finishing up the assigned exercises before he was let go, and it’s only then that he realises he’d forgotten his dance bag at home. Worse, he doesn’t even have the time to consider going back because he’s running late for training. But like any bad day, there’s light if he only knew where to look for it.
“You’re so lucky I store an extra change of clothes in my locker,” Yunho says over the phone. He’s playful about it and Mingi knows he’s happy to help, but something about the way his morning turned out leaves him awfully off-kilter.
“You’re a lifesaver, seriously,” he breathes, “I promise it won’t happen again.”
He hears a startled laugh from the other end of the line, “Just get here safe you idiot, we’ll call it even.”
Mingi can’t help the relieved sigh that escapes him, “Thank you Yun.”
Yunho hums in acknowledgement, “I’m serious, don’t be late, okay? They’re saying today might be D-day.”
Mingi stills then, “What?”
“I think they’re going to tell us the final picks,” Yunho repeats, and he can hear the slight apprehension in his voice, now that Mingi’s looking for it, “just get here soon.”
“On my way.”
So, when he gets to the company building sweaty and slightly worse for wear, he’s quick to change into Yunho’s spare jogger and t-shirt. He beelines to where Yunho and their friends are when he gets to the practice space and is glad that he’s clued in at least a bit.
It does in fact turn out to be D-day. They’re called to speak to the CEO in batches and it’s absolutely nerve-wracking. There’s about twenty of them and they get spoken to in groups of three and four, and none of the trainees who go in come back, another exit or plan set aside for them. Him, Yunho and Yeosang are called in fairly early on in the line-up.
Mingi doesn’t even realise his hands are trembling until Yunho waits for him as they walk through the hallway. He’s quiet about his hand slipping into Mingi’s, an assured grip to say what Mingi had been quick to realise the moment both their names had been called out. Whatever happened, they’d both be going through it together.
He spares a glance to Yunho. Yunho’s already looking back at him. He gets a quick smile before they catch up to Yeosang, their fate at the foot of the door.
It starts off excruciatingly slow, the CEO and their lead dancer hyung kindly going over their strengths and weaknesses, starting with Mingi and ending with Yeosang. He can’t tell which way it’s going until the words are said. It’s like static then, once the news that he’s finally achieved what he’d set out to do processes.
There’s nothing he can do but look to Yunho for some sort of confirmation. He’s just as dazed as Mingi. There’s the second before it hits and then there’s the after. The three of them are quick to their feet, a shuddering hug that encompasses so much more than the hard work they’d put in all these years. It’s hope reborn, now that they were actually going to be idols. They’d pushed through. They’d done it.
Yunho’s cheeks come away wet. Mingi wipes the tears away readily. Yeosang’s a mess in Mingi’s chest all the same. Their CEO and hyung watch them fondly, glad to give them the moment to truly enjoy it.
“You’ve done so well boys,” their hyung says, “wait in the dance studio and we’ll send the rest of the team your way, okay?”
The three of them are quick to listen and make their way as they’ve been told. Yunho collapses to the worn floor as soon as they’re inside, hopeless giggles that bubble from his chest and into the entire room. Yeosang stares into space with a smile he can’t get rid of, texts his best friend to let him know.
And Mingi? Mingi looks at the mirror, watches the three boys he’s looking at look back at him. He studies the dip of his own brow and the shagginess of his hair, the way his clothes came up a bit worn out, meant more for Yunho’s body than his. In everything that made Mingi good, and in all the things he couldn’t do as well yet, he’d made it. Mingi had made it.
Song Mingi would debut as an idol.
There’s another twenty minutes before the door opens again. When it does, there’s a second between the rest of their team walking into the room and Mingi processing who the rest of the team actually are. Jongho, Hongjoong, Seonghwa and San stare back at them. There’s a beat, maybe half of another. Then there’s screaming. Loud screaming. There’s lots of hugging. There’s celebratory milly rocking. There are tears. (There are many, many tears).
There’s pizza ordered and meetings scheduled for them to sign official contracts with their parents present. They eat till they can’t anymore and talk too fast about what their lives could look like. They discuss what the biggest stage they’d perform on would be, what music they’d want to work up to doing, where they would be five years down the line, ten years down the line. They imagine the bests and the worsts, the highs and the lows, all for a life they haven’t yet lived. Still, it’s something special and sacred, that they finally have the bandwidth to do so, a well of hope. Yunho’s sat next to Mingi through all of it, laughing with him and eating with him. Mingi wants nothing more than what he has right here in this room for the rest of his life.
When the adrenaline high crash inevitably comes and Mingi feels like he’s walking on earth as if he’s tethered to the moon’s gravitational pull, Yunho’s right next to him then too. It’s later than it normally would be and still, Yunho suggests breaking away when the festivities die down. He brings up going to their dance studio for old time’s sake and the pull of nostalgia wills Mingi into agreeing.
They sneak onto the roof like they used to, a bag of snacks shared between them. Yunho takes out the banana milk, two for the each of them, and they share a packet of shrimp chips in near silence. It’s reminiscent of every single afternoon they’d spent here once a week after dance practice, balancing the line of enjoying the moment while they worked for what they’d always dreamed of becoming. Here, they’re that much closer.
“We did it,” Yunho says. The city is lit up under the starry sky as far and wide as Mingi can see from the rooftop. The grasshoppers chirp louder than Yunho speaks from the plants that are littered across the space. Mingi is in as much disbelief as he is at peace.
“We did it,” Mingi repeats.
It’s been a long road to get here. Mingi has had far from easy the last two years, from relocating cities with just his mom to having so much more responsibility as both a final year student and trainee. There’s been so much effort and that much more change, and still, he’d powered through. He wonders if he’ll write a song about it, someday.
He’d started journals in the last few months. He’d spent some time in music classes at his old school, gotten to learning the foundations of producing while messing around in AV club after their meetings. It’s almost unbelievable how quickly Mingi had grown to like it, crave it even. There’s a constant rhythm now, under his skin, where he’s reminding himself to look closer at his life, at the little things that pass him by on the train, his favourite parts of the day and of his bedroom, where the light travels on pavements and crosswalks. It all feeds into the little notebooks he keeps in his pockets, strings of barely there ideas which have since turned into terrible lyrics and then lyrics that aren’t so terrible. He’s starting to pride himself in them, even if he’s not shown anyone. He’s kept it a secret from Hongjoong too, but he’s proud that he understands what he’s working on when he’s in the studio on the off chance, now has the opportunity to come clean and bring up collaborating, especially as their designations get decided within the group.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Yunho smiles.
Mingi returns to the moment. “All good things.”
“Are you excited?”
Mingi brings his knees to his chest, nodding. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I started writing.”
Yunho’s eyes shine, “Your own music?”
“If you can even call it that,” Mingi shies, “it’s mostly just some mediocre phrases strung together, melodies here and there. I’ve been learning loads from Hongjoong hyung though, started paying closer attention.”
“Last time I checked, a melody and some phrases are what makes a song,” Yunho steadies, “do you plan to make a demo? Like hyung?”
Mingi hasn’t thought that far yet. “You don’t even know whether it’s good.”
Yunho laughs, “It’s something you’ve made, of course it’ll be good.”
“Doesn’t your optimism exhaust you?”
Yunho sticks his tongue out, dimples on show, “Not when it comes to you.”
Ridiculous.
It’s nice here, where he’s reminded that Yunho would always cherish Mingi’s thoughts, down to the most idealistic and naïve.
“I want to write us a song someday,” he breathes, cautious, “something we’re all proud of, something that’ll be part of our legacy.”
Yunho gentles, looks at Mingi as if he’s found something he’s been searching for. “It’ll be more than one Mingi-yah, just you wait.”
Mingi doesn’t know what to say to this Yunho. He never does. Instead, he just goes back to where it all began, the only thing he can cling onto, because it’s something Yunho’s always offered him.
“Promise me we’ll do this together,” he asks, probably shakier than he intends, “that it’s you and me in this. Like we said.”
Yunho’s bright and beautiful, like he always has been. He stands up, lends his hand to Mingi’s for him to do the same. Mingi takes it, because Yunho’s already assured him a thousand times over.
“You and me, princess,” Yunho promises, locking his pinky finger with Mingi’s, “we’re in this together.”
The glowing ember of joy follows him until he has to depart from Yunho, routine in switching to a different train line. He’s too distracted to notice much else, too excited on how he’ll break it to his mom, how he’ll tell his hyung and his dad. Even so, Mingi finds that the train doesn’t have a free seat on his way home.
He realises that it’s never mattered to him before, that he’s always stood by the doors in the interest of getting off as fast as he could at his stop. It’s then that he feels that pull again, the one that urges him to sit down. There’s a small voice telling him that he hasn’t exerted himself today, that it doesn’t really make sense for him to have a muscle sore feel worse on a day he hasn’t stressed it. The voice goes ignored.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Winter eases into spring and their friendship thrives like the flowers that begin to grow outside, a barely there seedling that’s cultivated to bloom.
Yunho’s in the small lull they get once or twice a year, when they’ve finished a tour and before they have comeback madness upon them again. He’s been enjoying the space to find a bit more time to just be, these days.
His birthday marks the first day of spring rain in Seoul. He’d planned something small, dinner with his family and the guys. He’d see Saori once he was in Japan for their encore, and again in September for the trip they’d planned during his next bit of time off. She calls him right at midnight anyways, and Yunho’s with her when the texts from Mingi comes.
thought you’d be speaking with your parents or something and i see you tomorrow anyway so i didn’t wanna call !!
happy birthday yun <33 you’ve made the last few months that much brighter, thank you for being by my side :p
Yunho smiles so dumb Saori asks him about it. He brushes it off, tells her that an old friend had reached out to wish him. He misses the way her expression drops, doubt clear, too busy reading through Mingi’s words.
Mingi agrees to come to dinner, too. It’s another one of his happiest days, where everything feels complete and perfect. His parents are entirely too invested in Mingi when they see him again, asking him about what he’s been up to and where he’s been. Mingi is entirely good-natured about it, graceful with every one of his responses even when his mom can’t help but make a comment or two on how heavily tattooed he is.
They call and they text, and there’s no more reservations on Yunho’s end to do so. He feels like they’re finally settling back into the old rhythm they had, easy and infallible. It’s why Yunho has a gut feeling that something is wrong when Mingi doesn’t pick up his phone and responds to none of his texts.
At first, he’s sure Mingi’s up to something, perhaps a late start to his day or that he’d forgotten to charge his phone. But an entire day goes by without a sound from him, and then Yunho knows it’s too late for Mingi to be working or be immersed in a task long enough to forget about his phone. He tries Mingi’s cell again, one final time, before he decides on following through with his most drastic option. Even the guys tell him that they’ve not heard from him in two days or so.
Yunho tries not to worry when he drives to Mingi’s apartment. Worst case scenario, Mingi’s grown tired of the friendship and decided on ghosting him, again. Best case scenario, he’d dropped his phone into the Han River, and he’s had no way of contacting Yunho for more than a day. He talks himself out of thinking in circles as much as he possibly can until an hour has gone by and he’s in front of Mingi’s apartment building.
This is where he gets stuck. Yunho’s only ever dropped Mingi off here, and the entrance door to the stairs are key bound. It’s only then that he forces himself to take a second and think— he finds the intercom by the door when he looks for it. Mingi’s name is scribbled beside a worn ‘22’. Yunho hopes on everything holy that Mingi’s home. He presses the doorbell once to no response. He tries again, finger planted on the buzzer so that the sound of it hopefully drones off enough to get somebody’s attention.
Just as Yunho’s losing hope, the intercom clicks into static.
“What the hell?” Mingi says, “I didn’t order anything, please go away.”
Yunho’s proven right in his worry. Mingi sounds winded and slow, behind the aggravation, like he can’t catch a breath even if he’s trying to.
“Mingi-yah— hey, hey— it’s me.”
There’s a second or two where Mingi seems to pause, almost confused. His voice is almost fragile when he speaks next.
“Yun— this is really not a good time—”
There’s an edge of disbelief to his voice, like he’s a bit delirious and afraid Yunho’s not really there. It’s marred by the muffle of the shitty apartment building microphone, but Yunho can hear it, he can always hear it.
Yunho can’t help but plead, worry taking over. “Mingi-yah, would you please let me up?”
“Yun—”
“You can explain once you let me inside, yeah? Please.”
He hears Mingi’s breathing again, something heavy and mismanaged. “My apartment’s a fucking mess right now Yunho— seriously, I’m—”
Yunho shakes his head, “I don’t care Mingi-yah— please, just let me up, yeah? We can talk then, I could even help you clean.”
Yunho thinks he hears a muffled groan before the door clicks open. Yunho practically rushes up the steps, keeping count of the door numbers until he gets to 22. He knocks on the door, a stutter of knuckles against worn wood.
There’s a pause. Yunho imagines a harsh breath. “It’s open.” Mingi’s voice utters from the other side.
Yunho hurries in.
It’s bad. Yunho can see that it’s bad. Mingi’s sat on the couch, head against the top of his sofa with his eyes scrunched closed. His breathing is coming out in short bursts and he’s in complete disarray. The entire apartment smells like weed and Yunho can’t ignore the dirty dishes in the sink or the way things are cluttered on parts of the floor, as if Mingi didn’t have the capacity to pick it up. There’s half-eaten bowls of ramen and too many things littered on the kitchen counters. The space is small— a studio, and there’s a thin glass pane that separates Mingi’s unmade bed from the rest of the glorified living space.
Yunho realises Mingi probably let him in because he couldn’t stand at the door long enough to argue, not because he wants Yunho here.
Mingi’s voice is trembling when it comes. “The pain’s bad today.”
It sounds as if every word costs Mingi some gargantuan amount of effort, like it hurts to breathe. “I— it usually evens out in a few days— but I haven’t been able to stand too long, Yun— it’s, everything’s been piling up— I can’t move, ‘t hurts too bad.”
Yunho has to physically shake the need he has to throw up, steadying himself against how fast it sneaks up on him and clogs his throat. Mingi’s pain sounds fucking unbearable, now that he’s not hiding it.
Yunho’s quick to find Mingi’s side then, winded. “Tell me how I can help Mingi-yah. I— tell me how I can make it better.”
Mingi shakes his head, “Hurts— fuck—”
He bites at his lip so hard Yunho’s scared he’ll draw blood. “Mingi-yah, I— we should go to the ER if you can’t—”
He tries to readjust himself on the couch only to groan in pain. “Yun— fuck— this is normal. Everything seizes up from time to time, especially when I’ve been out and about a lot more than usual.”
“Min—”
“You can help me with the hot compress, yeah? I just— I haven’t been able to stand long enough to put the kettle on. It’s all there though, the heating pad to fill up should be on the counter.”
“Mingi-yah— I really think—”
“Yun— they’ve done everything that they can,” Mingi interrupts, “the surgery had gone as good as it could have, the physio too. I just— this isn’t new. My body doesn’t understand that it’s past the trauma of it all, it— it doesn’t go away Yunho. It never has.”
Yunho’s struck into silence with Mingi’s words. He can’t— fuck.
“I’m going to get you your heat pack and then I’m going to clean this apartment, okay?”
Mingi’s still close to hyperventilating. “Yunho, really— you don’t have to.”
Yunho just needs to do.
“Have you showered?”
“Yunho—”
“Okay then I can help you shower,” Yunho bulldozes. He’s still too scared to stand though, too scared to lose Mingi in his line of vision.
Mingi groans in pain again. Yunho can’t help but move closer to him. Mingi’s hands are trembling when they move to his lower back. Yunho watches them disappear under his t-shirt, still weak and shaking as he tries to apply pressure on the muscle. It’s damn near intolerable to watch.
“Can I help Mingi-yah— please, can I—”
Mingi’s already nodding and Yunho wastes no time. His hand finds Mingi’s first, and then Mingi gives in, lets Yunho’s hand rest at the base of his spine. He’s so fucking warm to touch, and there’s something unerringly inane about getting to be allowed this. Yunho lays his hand palm flat against Mingi’s lower spine, fingers spindled across skin. He presses in as gently as he can, maintaining pressure. Mingi sighs into the touch, as if Yunho’s helping.
Yunho’s breathless. “Is that okay?”
Mingi affirms him with a soft noise of reassurance. Yunho just keeps doing what he’s doing, soothing the pressure of his fingers and palms against Mingi’s skin. They stay like that, Mingi making little hums of acknowledgement to assure Yunho that it’s helping, sometimes even covering Yunho’s hand with his so he can manoeuvre him a bit more where Mingi needs him, pressing his fingers in where Mingi can’t really reach.
Yunho watches Mingi’s breathing soothe over bit by bit, a heave eased into quiet breaths. His body too, seems to relax around Yunho’s hand.
“Do you have meds that you can take?”
Mingi shakes his head, still resting on the top of his couch. “I— I’m not prescribed painkillers so— getting high helps on days like this, but it got too bad today.”
Yunho doesn’t know how he feels about self-medicating. Even more though, Yunho just wants Mingi to not be in pain.
“Okay,” Yunho breathes, “what do you do usually?”
Mingi steadies his entire body as he braces to speak. “Eomma buys me some medicinal balm— helps calm down the pain most days, I can usually put it on good enough, but I can’t really move right now.”
“That’s okay— do you want to shower first? I can help you.”
“Fuck— Yun, you don’t have to—"
Yunho stops him, “How many days has it been?”
If there’s one thing Yunho knows Mingi hated, it’s the grime that got to him when they had the long practices right after school. He’d complain about the sweat and the humidity and how gross it all felt. Yunho has no reason to make him live in the feeling.
Mingi just sighs, tired, “Three. I can’t— it hit me full force yesterday, but I don’t even have a tub.”
Yunho huffs a laugh, “You say that like it’s a problem.”
The side of Mingi’s lips quirk into a smile, “You’re impossible.”
It feels like sunshine breaking through the dark clouds on a rainy day— a double rainbow even. Yunho feels something settle.
“Okay— okay, I’m gonna put on the kettle and then I’m walking you to the shower. You can freshen up and I’ll make the bed, okay? Fresh sheets and everything.”
“They’re at the bottom of the wardrobe,” Mingi relents.
Yunho watches Mingi bite down on his lip again, readying himself for the lack of pressure Yunho’s hand will leave him with when he pulls away. Yunho tries to be as quick as he can.
He does as he says, and soon enough, he’s helping Mingi onto his feet. He doesn’t even think too hard about it, how he moves Mingi’s body to his so that Mingi’s pretty much hugging him. It’s easier to manoeuvre his weight this way, where he's got his hand back on Mingi’s lower back again, and he’s practically letting Mingi lean into Yunho. Mingi goes so easy, relieved at the loss of pressure. His hands halo around Yunho’s shoulders, face tucked into Yunho’s neck. Yunho can feel every puff of air he exhales, the steady rise and fall of his chest. It helps Yunho think quicker, be calmer.
There’s a small wooden stool on the side of the shower when he gets them inside. These little things are the things that threaten the strength that keeps Yunho’s knees working to give out. He just has to take a deep breath.
He moves the stool under the shower head so that it’s easier to move Mingi into. He fiddles with the tap until the stream of water turns on too, ensuring that it’s not too warm. Yunho’s careful when he leans Mingi into the adjacent wall so that he can help Mingi take off his clothes. Yunho scratches at Mingi’s scalp to stir him to alertness, the dull pads of his fingers over his hair. Mingi makes a deep sound of contentment before he lifts his head from Yunho’s shoulder.
“Up,” Yunho says softly, hands on the hem of Mingi’s shirt, “the hot water will help Mingi-yah.”
Mingi makes a noise of protest. Yunho’s confused until—
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before Min,” he assures, “c’mon, up for me.”
It seems to do the trick, Mingi’s limbs stretching above his head. Yunho’s both right and wrong. He has to very heavily avoid focusing too hard on the expanse of skin in front of him, toned and ink littered. Mingi’s so much fucking broader than he used to be, arms big and muscles toned. Yunho will be tormented by proven right here on out, where the little red M lettering sits right over Mingi’s right hip.
Fuck.
Yunho tries for another steadying breath. He taps at Mingi’s hip again once he feels a little more under control, beckons him to lean into Yunho once more. Yunho makes it as quick and as clinical as he can, stripping Mingi’s joggers and underwear all in one go. He holds his breath the entire time he leans Mingi into himself and onto the chair. He’s careful not to get his hair wet and hands him the showerhead. Mingi sighs into the reprieve the warm water brings to his worn muscle.
“Don’t die,” Yunho tries, muffled by the spray of water on Mingi’s skin, “I’ll be back as soon as I’m done with the sheets.”
Mingi’s response is more earnest than Yunho can handle, “Thank you Yun— for everything.”
He strips Mingi’s bed and relegates the old covers onto the other side of the room. He’d clean it all up after he’s tended to Mingi. Yunho sifts through his wardrobe once the fresh sheets are on, picks out a t-shirt and shorts that look easy to put on. He finds Mingi’s towel resting over his desk chair.
Mingi’s got his eyes closed when Yunho walks in again. Yunho doesn’t want to startle him, only knocks at the door softly. Mingi comes back slowly, eyelashes fluttering against the sight of Yunho as if he’s confused.
“You okay?” Yunho says, walking in. He has Mingi’s towel over his shoulder, goes to take the showerhead from him and switch off the stream.
Mingi nods, careful. Yunho is as gentle as he can be when he helps Mingi wipe himself down, even gentler when he helps Mingi into his pyjamas. It’s surreal that Mingi lets him.
Yunho helps Mingi onto his bed the way he’s instructed to. Mingi can’t help the pained noises, but there’s nothing either of them can do. He tells Yunho where the salve is as he settles stomach down onto the sheets.
Yunho’s just as featherlight as he was with his touch earlier, when he starts rubbing the balm onto Mingi’s skin. He gets to see it, for the first time. Mingi’s got a plethora of flora tattooed over his surgery scars, a thin, discoloured line that runs from the bottom of his spine till just before midway. It’s only partly covered, and Yunho has to face the enormity of how much he’s not been a part of. It hurts. It all fucking hurts.
His ministrations are intentioned but as gentle as they can be. He continues until Mingi tells him that he feels a bit better. He can see it in the way Mingi’s face relaxes into the pillow. His eyes are barely open, but he smiles up at Yunho.
“Lie down with me?”
Yunho listens. He takes off his hoodie that’s wet at the sleeves and grabs for the blanket that he’d seen in Mingi’s wardrobe on the way back from getting the heating pad from the kitchen. He rests the weight on Mingi’s back. Mingi affirms him, low and contented in his throat. Yunho settles over the duvet with Mingi so that he doesn’t have to move anymore.
Mingi hums, relieved. Yunho has the chance to observe him here, unreserved. So much is the same in all the ways it’s different. Mingi’s moles, which have always been one of Yunho’s most favourite parts of Mingi, remain steady and true. He has the urge to do something insane like caress Mingi’s jaw so that he can thumb at them. Mingi’s hair is getting so long now, and he looks the same as when Yunho had first met him. Everything of his is marshmallow soft in the dim lights of the apartment, nothing to memorialise this other than the moon that looks down at them both from Mingi’s un-curtained window. Yunho takes him in, commits every line of Mingi’s face to memory so that he has it forever.
Just as Yunho’s sure Mingi’s eased into sleep, he shifts closer to Yunho, almost as if on instinct.
“Some days, when it’s bad like this— I, I don’t know if I’ll wake up the next morning,” Mingi murmurs, eyes closed. “It’s— I’ve never minded the idea of it, sad as it is— because it just— it’s always unbearable, even if making eomma go through a loss like that feels just as unbearable.”
Yunho can’t breathe.
Mingi’s none the wiser, a sort of delirious, pain riddled tangent he continues on. “I feel like I’m dreaming you, y’know? It’s like, maybe my mind is playing tricks on me because I’m high and the pain is making me feel like I’m a thousand miles away and— when I heard you on the intercom, I was sure I was dreaming— I—” Mingi sighs, trying to even out the pace of his words, trying to make them make sense. “There’s been so many days just like this where you were all I wished for— over all these years I wanted— there’s always this stupid part of me waiting for you to be on the opposite side of the door. It’s—”
A tear, then two, trail down Mingi’s cheeks, even if his eyes are screwed shut. “You’re an answered prayer Yunho— and I— I know it’s unfair,” he says, voice shaking, “but I always want it to be you.”
Yunho has to shut down so that he doesn’t collapse in on himself. There’s too much for him to fucking bear, and the clamouring realisation that Mingi has to go through leagues more of it is devastating in ways Yunho doesn’t allow himself to comprehend. Hindsight is a fucking bitch, and Yunho sort of understands why Mingi had chosen to never show this side to him back then, that maybe he was trying to keep Yunho from it for a reason.
Yunho reaches over to Mingi’s cheeks, wipes at them with the gentlest touch he can manage. Yunho hears Mingi’s breath hitch. He can’t breathe.
He can’t trust his own voice. Still, Yunho tries, “Mingi-yah—"
“Thank you— I don’t even know how to—,” Mingi stops Yunho. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the stutter in how heavily intoned his words are, trying to hold back more of his tears, “I won’t have to buy new plates.”
Yunho doesn’t understand, pulse thundering at his temples. Mingi takes a deep breath, evens out his voice. “Every time it hits this badly, I can’t wash the dishes— I always have to throw them out because it’s easier than trying to fight the mold once I can get everything clean again. I— I don’t have to do that, this time,” he explains in a whisper, as if the admission is being taken from the deepest recesses of his mind and heart. “Thank you.”
“Tell me sooner next time, okay?” Yunho’s begging now. “Just let me know and I’ll help.”
The silence is still. Mingi’s eyebrows aren’t furrowing as much, his body minutely less tense. It’s in the same little paces that air finds Yunho’s lungs again, a bit easier than before.
Mingi moves his pinky just barely, entwines it with Yunho’s over his pillow. He sighs sleepily, thankfully close to his breath evening out. “Promise.”
“I’m here Mingi-yah,” he repeats, “I’ve always been here.”
It’s almost as if that promise is all Mingi needs, finally relenting to sleep. Getting to be there for Mingi in this way materialises his perspective like the flip of a switch. He wants to be by Mingi’s side like this in whatever way Mingi would accept him, and he no longer wants anything to get in the way of how he feels— how he’s always felt. Mingi means so much more to him than words have ever been able to describe. It should be a terrifying realisation, perhaps, but all Yunho allows it to be is a heartening commitment.
Yunho stays with Mingi in the sheets that smell just like him, breathes the same air as him in a proximity that’s been years gone. In a few minutes, he’ll go and make up Mingi’s apartment so that he wakes up to a clean and tidied space. Yunho will spend the next few hours decluttering and doing the laundry, whatever needs to be done so that Mingi doesn't have to worry. Yunho will do it all and do it dutifully, and he’ll revel in being allowed to help in the way he never had been.
For now though, Yunho lies across from Mingi, only centimetres apart from him. For now, Yunho relaxes into the feeling of knowing he’s well and truly home.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Mingi recovers as he promised he would. Yunho stays the entire night anyway. He watches dawn emerge from Mingi’s window, too keyed up to sleep. He hears the soft snoring of Mingi on the bed from where he’s sat on the floor, watches dark blue dusk lighten into morning twilight, rays of orange and yellow that eventually relieve everything into another mid-spring day.
Like the day breaking, there’s more that evolves in their friendship after that night.
Mingi starts spending time actually around Yunho instead of being relegated mostly to facetimes and phone calls— they get lunch whenever they can manage it, and Mingi even starts coming over to Yunho’s dorm to cook them dinner from time to time. It’s a sort of routine they settle into a couple of times a week. Yunho quietly reschedules calls with Saori to accommodate for it.
It’s another thing that he has to come to terms with, aside from the new comeback creative meetings that start cluttering his schedule amidst the encore show practices. Where Mingi and him grow, Saori and him falter.
Yunho initially chucks it up to the lack of time he has in general. There’s so much that constantly calls for his attention, and Mingi’s closer than Saori is. He thinks it makes sense for his attention to stray from one to the other. More that Mingi’s this part of his life that he’s so carefully rediscovered, and there’s been so much work put into the last almost year of their lives to build all of it back up again, that they’ve put everything back together brick by brick. Saori is easier than that, more conventional, so she resides as needing less in Yunho’s brain.
It strikes him square in the jaw when San calls him out on it. They’re at dinner, just the two of them when San catches Yunho distracted by a notification on his phone.
“Y’know Yun,” San starts, “these days I don’t know your Saori smiles from your Mingi ones.”
Yunho almost chokes on the sip of his drink. “What?”
San looks at him a little pointedly. “Don’t act dumb. You know what I’m saying.”
Yunho grasps for a napkin so that he can cough into it, an itch stuck in his throat from his gulp gone wrong. “No— no, I don’t think I do, actually.”
San still stares at him, assessing. “You and Mingi-yah— it’s— we’ve always known y’know, that it’s a bit different.”
The comment makes the spit catch in his throat. His coughing fit finds a second wind, nearing him to tears.
Yunho stammers. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
San hands him another napkin and Yunho can see, through bleary eyes, that he’s pouting.
“Yunho,” San says, matter of fact, “you can’t juggle pieces of your heart over multiple places. If it’s been with one person, let it rest there— running is harder.”
Yunho only realises how right San is, over and over again. The longer it goes on, the harder it gets to ignore. Yunho’s always been a pragmatic person, but he’d also like to think that he’s not a stupid one.
It’s in every time Yunho gets stuck on the indent of Mingi’s smile at something he’s said, or how carefully Mingi prepares meals for them both, that he finds himself comparing Saori to his best friend. Yunho knows how terrible it is when he catches himself unable to pay as much attention to his Japanese lessons or their scheduled phone calls, how Saori discussing her day doesn’t engage Yunho the way it’s supposed to— the way it used to. The worst part of it is that Saori notices too. What starts off as a snide side comment or two progresses into brief stints of passive aggression that gets eerily close to an argument. Saori tells him that he’s changed entirely in the last few months, that he’s not as alert or as interested as he used to be. Yunho doesn’t know how to explain even if he were to do so, can’t even choose a place to start. (He doesn’t want to though, not really). It’s a trivial thing then, how a friendship as long as his and Mingi’s pales the company his relationship is supposed to give him, nothing helped by the fact that it’s long distance.
There’s a reemergence of everything that Yunho’s so carefully packed away to a corner of his heart. Mingi’s his best friend, and there’s nothing that would change that. Still, the quiet beast he’s managed to keep dormant in his chest starts blinking away its sleep, eyes fluttering into consciousness after years and years of slumber. Yunho knows its not fully awake yet, just a few seconds here and there where it’s roused into the throes of his reality— when Mingi laughs at a dumb joke he’s said, or when he's focused on something he’s reading on his tablet, brows furrowed and hair askew in sprouts— the moments where Yunho just wants to be by Mingi’s side all the time. They come in vignettes, here and there and then gone. Yunho knows it’s a warning too, the inevitability of it close to sneaking up on him if he doesn’t tackle it fast enough.
Yunho was helpless, the last time. He doesn’t know how differently he would fare now.
The entire conundrum makes him feel sick. In whatever way he turns it, Yunho is being disingenuous irrespective of whether it’s Saori or Mingi. San’s words resonate— of making a worthwhile decision, of choosing a place to rest. If Yunho is to truly introspect, he knows that there’s only ever been one right decision, one call.
Yunho’s been making it since he was sixteen. If he’s being entirely honest with himself, Yunho has no plans to stop, not if he can help it.
By the time the encore shows are due to come around, Yunho decides to do right by his heart. He can’t really recall the last time he’s done so, only that he would do so now, when it counted.
This too, Mingi is responsible for.
⤥ May 2017 ⤦
Mingi decides blurting it out makes the most sense.
“I kissed Seonghwa hyung.”
Yunho doesn’t even pause his game.
“You did what?”
Mingi knows there’s no going back, doubles down on what the last half hour of his life had amounted to. “Well, I asked him to kiss me.”
This time Yunho does look at him, game forgotten. “You did what?”
“I don’t know, okay? I freaked out and I’ve been thinking about if I liked boys for ages and we’ve all talked about it here and there and I read somewhere that none of us should be afraid of trying out new things and I just thought it would make sense if I—"
“Mingi-yah you’re going to have an aneurysm, breathe.”
Mingi feels almost frantic, “You’re the one who asked!”
Yunho meets him where he’s at, “You’re the one who just told me you kissed one of our closest friends, who is our hyung by the way! We’re supposed to be destressing.”
“I know— it’s just I had to talk about it with someone and you’re my someone and I’m freaking out a bit!”
Yuno takes a deep breath just deeply enough that Mingi mirrors him. He does it again so that Mingi can calm down a bit more.
Then, Yunho’s careful as he asks, “Freaking out good or freaking out bad?”
Mingi doesn’t lie. “Well— good— it was good, nice— he’s a good kisser.”
Yunho takes a little pause, thoughtful. There’s a bit of an edge to his voice when he questions Mingi next, “Do you like him?”
“What? No,” Mingi’s quick to say, “he’s pretty and all but not like that I don’t. I just needed some help figuring it out and he seemed like the safest option. Plus, I think he might have a thing for Joongie hyung, I’m not sure.”
Even if Mingi did like Seonghwa that way, he wouldn’t have ever jeopardized their group because of some teen hormones, and he thinks Yunho should know him better than that. They all have something very good going now that they have the security of debut. Mingi feels too good about it to let anything get in the way, and is partly offended Yunho could think he’s immature enough to. (Also, his hyung definitely has a thing for Hongjoong).
Yunho assesses him once over, “So, you did? Figure it out?”
“Yeah,” Mingi says slowly, “I think I like boys the same as I like girls.”
Yunho swallows it easier than Mingi expects him to, “Okay.”
Mingi’s relieved, “Yeah, okay.”
Yunho gives him a little smile, gentle and reassured, “Okay.”
Mingi thinks the conversation is over. Their night continues as normal for a good while— they recap the choreography, play on their Switches and lounge around on Mingi’s bed freely since Jongho has extra vocal training. They move onto watching some English show Yunho’s hooked on in his attempt to learn the language faster, something about immersion readying the mind for fluency. Mingi starts getting relatively absorbed too, a story about a bunch of spies who are working on a bunch of missions or something, when Yunho startles him.
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
The question definitely seems impulsive, Yunho’s eyes still trained on the screen in front of them. Still, the question lives out in the air in between them. Mingi doesn’t think he’s heard it correctly.
“What?”
“You said Seonghwa hyung was the safest option, why didn’t you ask me?”
Mingi doesn’t know where this is going.
“Yun—” Mingi tries, “It isn’t that you’re not not a safe option, I just didn’t know—”
“You could’ve kissed me.”
Mingi really doesn’t know where this is going. “Wha— Would you have wanted me to?”
Yunho takes a silent beat, hovers over the space bar of the laptop before pausing the show.
“I just— It’s more about being—”
Yunho groans as if he doesn’t know how to explain himself.
"I just thought—" he stops again, “Okay, it really— never mind this is stupid. I—”
He shuts his laptop in a fit that stuns Mingi, moves to get up off the bed and leave.
Mingi grabs at his wrist gently to stop him. "Yun— wait, c’mon."
Yunho stares back down at him, clocks Mingi’s honesty for what it is. He would never judge Yunho, not for anything.
Yunho groans again. Eventually, he does ease back on to the bed, plops down on the pillow next to Mingi’s with a thud. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
They both take a second. They look at Mingi’s glow in the dark stars on the ceiling together, and Mingi kind of gets it. These things are so much harder to talk through than they are to get in your own head about.
“Have you been thinking about it too?” Mingi questions carefully, “Since Joongie hyung came out?”
Yunho makes a little sound of confused frustration, “I don’t know.”
Mingi’s known Yunho for a good while now. He knows what made him tick and all the ways Yunho liked to be comforted, knows the games he wanted to play when he’s angry and all the choreography he wanted to run through when he’s sad. Mingi also knows how much Yunho’s faith means to him, how important it is that he went to Sunday service with his grandma when he got to go home to Gwangju, the prayers he recited with his rosary when he was stressed, the comfort that being chosen as an altar boy had brought him. This was a lot for Mingi without believing in a higher power. He makes an educated guess.
“This doesn’t make you any less Catholic y’know, Jesus still has you in whatever way you need him.”
Yunho huffs a little pathetically, “You don’t even believe in God.”
“But you do,” Mingi counters, “I’m serious, it doesn’t make you any more or less than everybody else who believes in him.”
Yunho gives him an upset hum, readjusts so that he’s properly laying on his back and rubs at his eyes so hard it distresses Mingi. He reaches for Yunho’s wrists once more, peels them away from his face and interlocks his fingers with the hand on his side. It’s unerringly warm, just like Yunho always is.
Mingi decides to get right down to it, “Yun, do you want me to kiss you?”
Yunho stays a little more difficult, “Do you want to kiss me?”
“Yun.”
“Mingi-yah.”
Mingi looks at him a little pointedly.
“Fine— fine,” Yunho caves, the flush overcoming his ears a red that shouldn’t be normal, “yes— I do, I’d like to try.”
Mingi takes it out of him just because he can, “Try what exactly?”
That earns him a smile. Yunho shoves his shoulder into Mingi’s anyways, hands still interlinked, “You’re an asshole.”
Mingi nods sympathetically, “That I am.”
He taps Yunho’s cheek so that he turns Mingi’s way. Yunho’s quick to oblige him, even if Mingi can tell how nervous he is. There haven't been a lot of instances where they aren’t stuck to each other’s sides, either an arm or a leg of one in contact with some of the same of the other. It’d become habit when they’re together, in practice or just hanging out, and Mingi can’t even recall when it’d become so. But here, an inch away from Yunho’s face, there’s a whole new level of closeness Mingi doesn’t know what to do with.
Mingi can’t help but notice Yunho has long eyelashes.
“What?”
Mingi realises Yunho’s whispering.
“Your eyelashes are really long,” Mingi whispers back, “they’re pretty.”
Yunho smiles and Mingi wishes he could poke the dip of his dimples. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t think he can, why the moment feels so fragile a pin drop could break it.
“Your mole has a hair growing out of it.”
Mingi guffaws, “You’re the worst.”
Yunho giggles until they’re both almost touching foreheads. Mingi’s able to smell Yunho’s toothpaste from this close. Suddenly, Mingi’s all too aware that he’s about to kiss his best friend. His pulse rushes to his temples and nothing seems funny anymore.
“Your moles are pretty too,” Yunho says softly, staring so intently at Mingi it burns, “they match your face.”
It’s a stupid observation, Mingi knows it is. It barely even makes much sense at all. But somehow, with the way Yunho’s looking at him, it feels like he’s being called Yunho’s muse and starlight, something so sacred and ardent in the way Yunho continues to indulge Mingi over and over again. He’s utterly winded by it.
Mingi’s quiet when he says it, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
Yunho holds Mingi’s gaze for a second more. Then he nods just barely, eyes already trained to Mingi’s lips. Mingi takes it as the greenlight it is.
It’s a peck at first. Mingi doesn’t even push— just a soft press of his lips against Yunho’s to gauge his reaction. He can’t really feel much, only that Yunho’s lips are as soft as they are chapped, and that he’s so incredibly warm. The hand he’s got in Mingi’s tightens in grip just barely, and Mingi pulls away a breadth on instinct.
He doesn’t even have the time for his eyes to flutter back open to check in on Yunho. His lips are overwhelmed with Yunho’s within barely a second’s notice, his body drawing closer to Mingi’s.
This time, he feels it all. Their lips slot together so perfectly, and all the warmth that had bled from Yunho’s side all these years becomes Mingi’s to share in. They’re still holding hands and Mingi doesn’t let go for the life of him, only draws his other to rest gently onto Yunho’s jaw. He doesn’t usher him anywhere, just cradles his thumb on Yunho’s cheek to busy himself with mindless circles. Yunho’s just as eager, playing with the overgrown stands of Mingi’s hair right above his ear. The touch is tender and comforting in all the same ways kissing Yunho is. He tastes the mint of the toothpaste he’d smelled and something so undeniably Yunho, all too intoxicating in the same intensities the kiss remains tame. Yunho gasps into his mouth only when he adjusts the angle a bit, and Mingi comes to the glaring realisation that he’s never had a better kiss than the one he’s sharing with his best friend. There’s no urgency to it, just a press of lips again and again because it feels good and comfortable, because it feels right. Mingi can’t help but draw Yunho in a little closer by the nape, spoil them both with more contact the longer Yunho’s lips remain on his. Yunho moves to grip Mingi’s waist just as keenly, lithe fingers and a firm grip that sends a shot of electricity right up Mingi’s spine and neck. It’s the good kind, this time around.
They keep moving into each other until they remember what started all this, where they are. It’s for Yunho’s exploration, nothing else, and Mingi quickly comprehends that this qualified for more than a few paces above and beyond that. Yunho seems to come to the same realisation at just about the same time. They break apart heaving for air, and it’s nothing short of surreal.
It should be awkward, when they open their eyes and they’re still looking at each other, still there with the other, but it isn’t. They both find it a bit ridiculous instead, laughter filling the empty room and accompanying the rustle of the wind from their open dorm window.
Yunho smooths out Mingi’s mussed up hair and Mingi wipes the spit off of Yunho’s bottom lip. It feels more normal than it should, more practiced than it should. They don’t question it.
Yunho takes a big, shaky breath, “That was just like kissing a girl.”
Mingi just smiles, “Exactly, you big oaf.”
Yunho’s eyes widen just a bit, realisation dawning, “Oh.”
It’s said a little breathless and whimsical, as if a whole new, slightly terrifying world has just opened up for him. Perhaps it has. Regardless, Mingi would be with him every step of the way.
He’s proud of Yunho. “Yeah,” he says, “oh.”
Chapter 2: the truth
Chapter Text
It’s easy to relearn Yunho.
Mingi finds that it really is like riding a bike. While all the superficial details are different from what he remembers, every foundation is the same. And really, the thing about riding a bike is that you’re geared for success once you’ve learnt it for the first time. It’s instinct, the way your body finds the paddles, the way your legs find their rhythm— the way your hands find the ridges of the handle breaks. It doesn’t matter that you’re afraid or that you haven’t been on a bike in years, the memory sees you through, makes the journey inexorable.
Yunho is inexorable to him. There’s no a way to escape it, once it starts.
It’s the entire reason he had wanted to keep his distance in the first place. Yunho had been this bright, wonderful part of Mingi’s life for so long. He’d been the person that Mingi had no reservations about, the person he could always rely on. Life had moved them through that stage of their lives, and then Ming had been forced to spend so much time grappling with the fallout. He’s not sure he understands how the last few months have even happened.
Somehow, it’s just like it was. Yunho’s still the person that Mingi gravitates towards, and it comes so easy to him, no matter the effort he initially put into trying to protect himself and Yunho from what they once were to each other.
The encore shows come and go. Mingi manages to get barricade tickets through his ticket guy, stubborn to a fault that he does it the right way. Getting to watch ATEEZ perform is electric. There’s enough nostalgia in their style for Mingi to feel close to it, but not enough familiarity to attack this version of the group to the one he was once a part of. They’re completely insular to their identities as performers when they’re up on that stage, and in that runtime, Mingi is just a fan. The adoration he has for them stretches only to how talented he knows they are, to the performances and the lighting and how incredible they are as idols. Mingi wants the pictures to encapsulate that, and he tries his best for them to.
Yunho, like he had been and is to Mingi personally, is bright and beautiful up on that stage. He’s Mingi’s north star, the instinct to find him among the seven of them as natural as blinking. Capturing him too, comes so easily. He’s just like he used to be, only leagues better— clean lines and precision, synchronicity and compensation wherever and whenever he’s needed. He’s just as mesmerising to watch as he was when Mingi was sixteen, rhythm Yunho’s playing field whenever he needs it to be. It’s worse during his ments, where Mingi has to ground himself to the knowledge that he actually knows Yunho, has learnt to re-know him. He’s charismatic and pretty and just as genuine as he is to Mingi, just as he is off-stage. The kindness radiates from the stage all the way out into the audience, and Mingi is just as helpless as anybody else.
It's when the lights go down and the curtains close that the illusion recedes. There’s already a manager hyung waiting for him at the corner of the barricade when everybody else has almost shuffled out of the venue. Mingi follows him back to the greenroom, and his friends are waiting for him opposite the greenroom door.
Jongho’s the first one to spot him, and he asks Mingi how the show was. Mingi is more reserved about how in awe he is of the seven of them as to save at least some of his dignity. Hongjoong hugs him in greeting and asks him more technical questions, like whether the production was up to par from where Mingi’s stood as somebody from the audience, whether the performances are dynamic enough— visible enough. These are things they often text about, and it’s still entirely crazy to Mingi that Hongjoong even wants to consider his opinions. Seonghwa’s off to the side playing with Yeosang on his phone and neither San nor Wooyoung are in the room. He doesn’t really want to wager a guess as to what they’re up to, only that Yunho’s also not here.
“He’s on a phone call I think,” Hongjoong says. Mingi’s reminded that he’s not as subtle as he often thinks he is. “He should be back soon Mingi-yah, grab a snack or something while you wait, yeah? I’m gonna go change.”
Mingi only nods to his hyung, taking a seat next to Jongho.
“Are you okay?”
Mingi smiles, “You’re the one who performed for two hours, why are you asking me?”
Jongho looks at him a little too meaningfully, “You had to stand for the entirety of those two hours.”
“I’m okay Jongie,” Mingi says, knocking his shoulder into Jongho’s, “don’t worry so much.”
This is also something he’s adjusting to. He’s spent a lot of time alone, since he left them all. For a while, all his life was the time he spent before and after a constant rotation of doctor’s visits and hospitals, where he was out of surgery and then in physio, where his regimen was about which of his meds he took and when. He became a sort of recluse, and only his family truly had any access to the person he was, even if he'd been dimmed to the fall and recovery of it all.
Most of his life, up until recently, had followed much the same passion. He had his noonas at the tattoo studio who knew him for his talent and accommodated for the needs he had when his injury decided to flare up here and there. His uni days had just been about getting by, assignment after assignment and then year after year.
Mingi’s aware of how reserved it’s made him, how closed off and unreceptive he’s become. Reconnecting with the closest thing he had to a family bound outside of blood does nothing to taper the harsh edges he’d refined himself into for survival and from resentment. Comments when they’re checking up on him still don’t settle easy, harsh and rumbling at his gut, undigested. So much of his life revolves around what he can’t do, what he’s had to give up. They still treat him like glass, sometimes. It’s been especially prevalent since his episode last month, the one Yunho had helped him through. He doesn’t like thinking about it much at all, when he’d been reduced to nothing other than a pained and weak mess, barely human at all. It’s hard for him to stomach it, even more now, since there are more people vigilant of and for him. He knows they mean well, everybody always does, but he doesn’t like being seen as the broken thing he is.
“I worry because I care, hyung,” Jongho says, “we just got you back.”
Mingi wishes there wasn’t so much of him to take care of. He swallows the sentiment with a swig of water he takes from the water bottle Jongho’s handed him.
Yunho walks in then, jaw tight and eyebrows furrowed. His lips are pursed into a straight line, moving into the room with a rush before the stylists ask him to change into his lounge wear. It’s then that he catches Mingi’s eye. He wishes his treacherous heart didn’t trip over itself when the entirety of Yunho’s demeanour changes into something softer. He walks over then, shoulders sagging and body slumped, as if seeing Mingi is enough reason for him to relent his frustration.
He falls into Mingi’s waiting arms as easily as when they were kids.
He thinks that whatever wood-powdery incense Yunho’s acquired as his perfume should be illegal to wear out. Mingi’s so incapacitated by it every time Yunho’s near him, and he can’t help but relax into his touch when he’s so close like this. Yunho’s so sure about the way he holds Mingi, like Yunho hadn’t lost him for half a decade and discovered Mingi as half the person he used to be. Still, he wants to make sure Yunho’s okay. “What happened?”
“Don’t wanna talk about it right now, Mingi-yah,” he says, muffled into Mingi’s neck, “I’m okay.”
Mingi takes Yunho at his word. He’s always been good at doing so, because Yunho’s always been the surer one of the two of them, the one who feels with more permanence, with more stability. Where Mingi’s an ocean of too many things he can’t pick out, Yunho’s a forest— individual parts that he can differentiate and properly name. Mingi trusts that Yunho will come to him like he’s always done.
Even so, Yunho’s spacey the entire time they’re in Japan for the encore shows. He calls Mingi when he’s back at the hotel both days, freshly showered and exhausted. He looks a lot more worn out than he usually is, eyes tired and too sunken. Yunho doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about it, so Mingi doesn’t ask. He’s not stupid— the frequency with which Yunho’s mentioned Saori has been decreasing the more time he's spent with Yunho. It’s not a part of Yunho’s life he wants to know very much about, and most days, he chooses to keep it as far away from him as he can. It’s hard here though, when Yunho looks so much worse for wear, where he should have Saori to comfort him or cheer him up.
“Have you eaten?” Mingi asks.
Yunho sighs, “No— I haven’t had much of an appetite since I got here. Had lunch though, since we had to perform.”
Mingi knows that the industry changes you. It should be expected when everything about a person becomes so heavily managed and entirely down to scheduling and bureaucracy, aesthetics and body image included. Still, Yunho’s enthusiasm for a shared meal is something he dearly misses from when they were trainees. Mingi chalks it up to having a regimen that the company trainers and physicians look over, but Yunho’s not as big on venturing out with his food anymore, and it makes Mingi only a little sad. Mingi had kept the curiosity up, one of his only comforts finding new places, dishes and cuisines— finding food he loves when he didn’t have much else to look forward to. It’s one of the tiny places in their friendship where the cavern of time and divergence sits surely and heavily, where Mingi doesn’t know if he would be the same as Yunho because he never got the opportunity to find out. It’s relegated to the pile of things about idol-hood that Mingi has no access to, only understanding little bits here and there, Yunho and the rest of his friends as proxy.
“You need your strength, Yun,” Mingi murmurs, “take care of yourself.”
Yunho looks at him, weighty and drained. “I just can’t wait to come home.”
Mingi hates that he doesn’t know whether Yunho’s referring to Seoul or him. There’s too much there, feelings Mingi has long since laid to rest.
“How about I cook for us when you get back?” Mingi asks, “You land before dinner time, right? I can just go to yours and prep.”
He’s come by the apartment enough now that he knows their apartment code. None of the guys even bat an eye anymore, as if Mingi’s just as commonplace as they are to each other, as if that’s how they want it to be.
Yunho makes a sound of contentment, nodding, “Yeah, that would be really nice Mingi-yah.”
So that’s what Mingi does. He comes over about an hour before they’re due to land and sticks to a simple meal. He makes some japchae and dakgaejang, brings over some of the kimchi his mom made him as another little piece of home Yunho can enjoy. He’s washing up the dishes when the apartment door opens.
Yeosang and their manager hyung walk in first. Yunho trails behind them, and Mingi’s immediately worried. He looks like he’s coming down with something, mask still on. He’s not even bothered to dress up, only a worn hoodie and joggers.
Mingi hugs Yeosang hello and greets their hyung. Mingi tells them both to serve themselves a bowl as usual. Yunho grabs for him after, just holds his hand and walks Mingi to his bedroom like it’s normal for them to.
He’s only been in his room once before, the night they all had dinner at Seonghwa’s. It’s much the same as he remembers it, and Mingi tries not to think too much of the picture of them that’s sat in every single room Yunho’s lived in since they had taken it. Yunho sets his stuff down and lies on the bed, hugs his pudongie with an unfathomable cuteness for how upset he looks, asking Mingi to join him. Mingi does so, sits next to him leant against the headboard.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”
Yunho teems, “Saori and I broke up.”
Mingi doesn’t really know how he feels about it. Half of him had been expecting it to be a lover’s quarrel. Yunho looks entirely torn about the entire thing, and that’s what makes Mingi hurt on his behalf.
“She’s the person I was on the phone with after the show,” Yunho explains, “her friends— they looked me up— they found out that I’ve been hanging out with you.”
Mingi knows the circles they all run in— information is around and available for anybody who’s thorough, rich or brave enough to look for it. It’s one thing about idol-hood he knows about intimately, especially once he’d become a fansite, how privacy in this profession is merely a one-sided glass pane, more an illusion than a true concept.
“She thought I was cheating,” he breathes, “fuck— I just— I didn’t know how to explain you, y’know? There’s so much history and I got carried away trying to make sure we were back to a friendship we could enjoy again, and by then I was too late—”
Mingi doesn’t know what to make of any of this. He doesn’t know what part of him constituted enough for him to be a secret Yunho kept from his girlfriend while also being convenient enough to publicly hang out with.
“I didn’t know you didn’t tell her about me,” Mingi says, feeling a little ill. “Of course they’d find me if she looked you up, Yunho. We haven’t exactly been private when we’re out and about.”
Yunho’s head whips up to him then, a sliver of betrayal there, “You knew?”
“Yun what—” Mingi stammers, disbelieving, “everyone knows if they’re looking for it. I’m some random guy that’s been hanging around you all again. I’m not part of the dance crew and I’m not staff— did you think that wouldn’t raise suspicion? Half the other fansites have already figured out I was a trainee with you all.”
“Yeah, okay, but we’re not dating, Mingi-yah.”
It shouldn’t be an insensitive thing to say. Mingi knows that it’s the truth, an intelligible fact that’s always been accurate and constant. What stings is the way Yunho talks at him with it, so callous and casual it’s almost belittling.
He can see that Yunho regrets it the moment it’s out of his mouth. The damage is done though, something feeble and baseless in Mingi’s stomach opening up and willing himself to be broken down into nothing. Mingi tries to breathe through it, doesn’t know if he’s doing a good job.
“I’m sorry— I— that was mean,” Yunho says.
Mingi can’t get his smile to agree with him, “We should eat.”
“Min—”
He can’t take Yunho looking at him with pity. He can survive a lot, just not that. “You’re tired and you’re upset Yunho,” he tries, “let’s eat. It’ll help.”
“Mingi-yah— I— I don’t care if she thought I was cheating. It’s not true, I know it and you know it too. I just—” Yunho stops, rubbing at his face, “I’m upset that she didn’t just talk to me about it, that she was just so sure right off the bat.”
“Yun—” Mingi sighs, “you didn’t tell her though. I would assume the worst, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Yunho says again, “this is not how I wanted this conversation to go.”
Just like that, the Yunho Mingi knows is back in the room again. It’s like every live wired part of him is attuned to Yunho in a way, like he’s the little bit of sun Mingi can see at the end of all his long wind tunnels.
Mingi offers him the grace they both seem to need, “How did you want the conversation to go, Yun?”
He watches Yunho take a deep breath, as if he’d been holding it this entire time, like he’s maybe fielded something catastrophic from happening. Mingi distantly registers this as one of the only arguments they’ve had. Still, it’s them. Yunho and Mingi. Mingi and Yunho.
“You’re my best friend,” Yunho says, tentative and raw, “you mean so much to me and you always have Mingi-yah. I don’t want anybody in my life who misunderstands that.”
Mingi can’t examine the words. He can’t.
“Okay then,” Mingi relieves, “now you don’t.”
Yunho nods, “Now I don’t.”
Their levity is easy to find again. Mingi hums, mouth quirking into a smirk he can’t help. “You’ll have to be a little less shitty when you go about it the next time though.”
The brashness surprises Yunho into a laugh.
It’s one of Mingi’s most favourite sounds in the world. He wonders how he’s gone so long without it, when he’d lost it for years. It’s the same as it was back then, where Yunho embodies it with his entire body, leaning into Mingi’s shoulder.
“You’re being rude,” He groans.
“Well, you should have probably been a better boyfriend.”
Mingi jokes around because he knows Yunho won’t take it seriously. He doesn’t, only pouting at Mingi while he tries to temper the giggle that’s in his throat. He looks like Mingi’s Yunho again, ever radiant and just a bit too bright for everyone around him.
“Too soon,” Yunho whines.
“Food,” Mingi chastises, laughing, his hand grabbing onto the sleeve of Yunho’s hoodie, “let’s go.”
Yunho is ready and willing.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Mingi doesn’t know how he becomes part of the comeback prep, only that he does.
He thinks it happens when Hongjoong asks him to come to the studio to listen to the title track demo. Mingi’s just finished his shift at the studio when he calls, and he doesn’t have any more plans for the night. It’s an unexpected invite, and Hongjoong is almost shy about it.
“You don’t have to,” his hyung says over the phone, “but I like your eyes for this kind of thing, I always have. I think it would help.”
Mingi smiles, “Well I can’t say no to that, can I?”
Hongjoong laughs, breathy and encouraged, “I was hoping you wouldn’t, Mingi-yah.”
It’s weird, being at KQ again. Hongjoong’s moved studios but everything’s in the same place he left it. The rooms are the same and faces are mostly the same too, and it’s a mindfuck for Mingi in the strangest of ways.
One of the ajummas who Mingi remembers doing a lot of the maintenance around the building recognises him on the elevator. It’s strangely emotional, how kindly she takes to him, how she caresses the sleeve of his hoodie and tells him he’s grown up well. It moves him to near tears on a random Wednesday afternoon by the time the floor dings for him to leave. He remembers her telling them not to run in the hallways, back then. They were always rushing as kids, late to practice or late to go home. It unsteadies him completely.
He’s barely got it together when Hongjoong lets him in. He says he’s got the track ready to go.
“The guys have heard it already,” his hyung says, “but I also know what your impression of it is.”
BOUNCY plays on the speakers at Mingi’s nod. It’s heavy bass and intense, sonically cohesive to GUERILLA but in a completely different direction. It’s in its rawest form, but Mingi can’t help but bob his head to it by the time the pre-chorus comes around. The lead in is damn near perfect ear candy, and he loves the idea of pitching down the second repetition of it for variety in the sound. The second and third verses of the song are rap heavy and Mingi loves how unique it is to the flow of it all, and he gets why Hongjoong wants to share it with him. It’s new and exciting of course, but really, it’s fun. The bridge is just as exciting and dynamic as the rest of the song so far, and by the time they get to what Mingi assumes is the dance break, his head is already nodding along to the beat of the last bit of the song.
It leaves him feeling exhilarated. There’s something precious about being able to listen to something that’s not the final product as yet, the potential for what it’s meant to become and all the other versions it could be. Mingi can see so many versions of it brought to life already, and his buzzes into it in a way it hasn’t is so, so long.
Hongjoong reads it right off of his face. “We like?”
Mingi’s in awe, “We love.”
The smile Hongjoong gives Mingi is the one that makes him look his most squirrel-like, the one that quirks the sides of his mouth so that his gums are on show, silly and beaming.
Mingi looks at him knowingly. “You don’t give a fuck about my opinion,” he laughs, “you just wanted to show me the song, didn’t you?”
Hongjoong puts his hands up in mock defeat, “I want to show you the entire album actually, if you’ve got nothing else planned for your night. I’m too wound up about it— I can’t really make out whether I’m excited about it or whether it’s the nerves.”
Mingi stammers. “That can’t be allowed.”
Hongjoong scoffs, “None of this is strictly allowed— but they can’t really reprimand me for something they don’t know is happening.”
Mingi feels his heart inflate a little in his chest, that his hyung’s willing to take such a risk to share something like this with him.
“Thank you, hyung.”
Hongjoong’s eyes shine in the brightness of his computer screen from an otherwise dark room. “You’re welcome, Mingi-yah.”
The album is an entirely out of body experience. Mingi’s practically vibrating out of his skin when the outro to OUTLAW plays. It’s absolutely so strange how easily his mind flits back to whatever little he’d started learning and practicing with production way back when. It comes back to him like instinct, where he can’t help but throw out ideas as they come, asides and comments to Hongjoong about what synths could be toyed with, what kind of layers the track could use or what harmonies they could embed. Mingi doesn’t know whether it’s better or worse that Hongjoong already has half of it planned, that the way they think about music still followed the same trajectory, just like it did when they were younger.
He texts Yunho immediately after, too excited to talk about it.
you came to the studio without me :((
Mingi can’t fight the smile off of his face.
don’t be dramatic yun, hyungie wanted to show me what you guys are going to be working on that’s all !!
He doesn’t even have to wait to see Yunho’s speech bubble pop up.
he’s hogging you, didn’t even see you today :((((((((
Mingi does laugh at that. His hyung looks at him a little pointedly, stopped halfway from packing up his bag to leave.
i’m seeing you tomorrow for lunch
still :(((((((
Mingi can practically see Yunho pouting. He doesn’t bother with more of the texting, ringing him. Mingi switches to facetime as soon as the call connects.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Mingi says, switching the camera around to Hongjoong.
Yunho is pouting. “I must have left right before you came.”
Yunho’s been coming back to himself, little by little. There’s less and less of that weight that followed him around like a ghost after his break-up, the natural tide of time sieving out his sadness. Mingi’s glad for it, and he’s been doing everything he can too, a meal here and a walk there to make sure Yunho’s eating and not drowning himself in work. His subsequent clinginess is something that Mingi doesn’t know how to make much sense of. (It’s not that Mingi minds— it’s that Mingi doesn’t mind, that he possibly craves the company of the vulnerability Yunho trusts him with far more than he’s comfortable admitting to).
Hongjoong shakes his head, zipping up his bag, “I wanted Mingi-yah tonight, you’re not the only one who gets to drag him along to your whims.”
Yunho looks offended, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not dragging him, hyung, if anything he’s a willing participant.”
Hongjoong takes the phone off of Mingi so that he can bicker with Yunho in full force. The entire thing is entirely too adorable for Mingi to handle.
There’s been a lot of this too, more of him just spending time with all of them when they have the time, being a part of them just like he used to be. Yeosang texts him cute things he sees when he goes on his walks in the same lengths Jongho messages him about gaming. Mingi doesn’t know or understand much at all, but there were so many nights at the dorm where Jongho had needed somebody to discuss his gaming with, and Mingi had been the closest person in proximity to him. It’s something he’s always held near and dear to his heart, something so trivial that Jongho’s always trusted him with even if he’s not personally interested. Mingi tries to be as involved as he can, and he’s sure he knows way too much about arena video games he’ll never play. Wooyoung sends him recipes he wants to try or ones that have come out well while San checks in on him about how his gym regimen is going with what little he can do. Seonghwa and him exchange their newest playlist finds from their week, something they’ve heard at a café or on discover in their music apps.
They’ve all integrated back into his life in the littlest and most meaningful of ways. There’s an aspect of it that’s inarguably special even if mundane, parts of his days that were silences and empty spaces now filled with trinkets of sentiments from his friends. His cup is overflowing where once it was almost empty. Mingi doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the novelty of it. He barely did, the first time around.
“Mingi-yah, please tell him not to make that face at me,” Hongjoong pleads, pointing the screen at him.
Mingi laughs, ushering the phone back to himself. Yunho’s face is scrunched akin to that of a kicked puppy.
“I’ll get you some banana milk when I see you tomorrow,” he pacifies, “to compensate for Joongie hyung being so evil.”
“Hey,” Hongjoong calls, “you can’t be abandoning the guy who just spent the evening showing you closed book industry secrets.”
“I’ve known him for longer, hyung,” Yunho says through the phone, “so yes, he actually can.”
Mingi blows Hongjoong a kiss. Hongjoong catches it, glee apparent.
“I saw that,” Yunho sulks. Mingi and Hongjoong can’t help a giggle.
“Yun— I’m always on your side,” Mingi sobers, “don’t doubt it.”
Hongjoong ruffles Mingi’s hair, standing behind the chair he’s sitting on so that Yunho can see them both.
“We’re leaving now,” his hyung says, “I’m dropping him home and then I’ll actually come back to the dorm for once. Say good night.”
Yunho looks like a kid being told off, relenting nevertheless, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mingi-yah.”
Mingi waves good-bye, “Sleep well, Yun.”
Yunho hums in acknowledgement, “Drive safely hyung.”
Mingi gathers his things too, once the line clicks dead. He doesn’t realise that Hongjoong’s watching him with a specific look until he’s picked his backpack from the studio floor.
Mingi’s still kind of loopy from the call. He smiles at Hongjoong, “What?”
Hongjoong shakes his head. “I haven’t seen you both this happy in so long,” he says, “it’s the same as it was when it was just the three of us, back then.”
Mingi’s heart stills. He hasn’t thought about it in so long. There was a time when Yunho and Mingi had been the only other trainees to be part of the company other than Hongjoong, who had been there for months by the time they joined. It was awkward until it wasn’t, their hyung finding a right and good place in their dynamic so securely that Mingi had felt a homecoming in them both. He forgets how lonely Hongjoong must have felt before they came along, how quick he was to seek Yunho and Mingi’s company. That was another thing too, that Mingi might have lost his dream, but he’d never had to walk it alone when he had it.
“It is,” Mingi says, nostalgia growing like a thorny wild rose in his chest, “I’m happy, hyung.”
It’s the truth, an inarguable one.
“Good,” Hongjoong breathes, smiling, “let’s keep it that way.”
//
Just like that, Mingi gets involved with the dance practices too. There’s a certain amount of smuggling that he has to get used to, because he’s technically not supposed to be a part of any of it.
It works out rather well for him. His days at the tattoo studio are pretty fixed, but he chooses to come by for their evening run-throughs, especially once they’ve got the choreography down. Even the dancer hyungs don’t mind him as much, Yunho and Wooyoung’s pouts alongside past comradery wins them over surely enough. There are the odd times the social media team are a part of practice, where Mingi has to make sure he’s sitting with them so that he’s not seen in any of the recorded footage, but even they become permissible to it. Mingi might have bought them all coffee and been extremely careful not to get in their way, but that’s neither here nor there.
The first comment he makes about one of the choreographed transitions is more mistake and instinct. He knows that his place is just to watch, that he was invited because they knew he helped with the KBS run and was comfortable enough to hang out with them now. Still, his mouth works faster than his reservation does. It’s about the way Yeosang and Seonghwa find their positions in the dance break, and he just sees an easier route than the one they’re currently doing. They call five after twenty seconds anyways, and Mingi asks Seonghwa if they’ve considered the alternative. Yeosang’s face lights up with acknowledgement and then they try it out with the next run through. Both of them switch to Mingi’s take soon after, mapping the route a couple times more. Yunho’s beaming at him by the time they get comfortable with the sequence of movement, Hongjoong too.
“Just tell us,” his hyung says, “if you see something you want us to adapt, just shout it out.”
Their dancer hyungs nod in agreement, taking his opinion into consideration just like the rest of the seven of them. Mingi’s conflicted by it, to say the least. Not only does it feel good to be back doing something he truly enjoys once again, but it’s also an entirely awful thing to realise how much he misses it. The yearning finds him like a kettlebell to the chest, how much he wants to be up there with them, how much he really wants to be a part of the team he was always meant to be in. He doesn’t know whether valuing his opinion as much as they do makes it all better or worse for him, only that he’s exhausted by the time they finish up. Still, the thrill of being useful stretches into his limbs saccharine and satisfying, the proximity to dance an entire halcyon almost too weighty for Mingi to handle. For the couple of hours he gets to watch his friends move, watch his friends create, he feels like he’s seventeen again, starry eyed and determined for everything to come.
The feeling doesn’t have time to rest, not when Yunho beelines to him once Hongjoong makes the call to wrap it all up. It’s so much of the old, where Yunho picks up his own bag and then Mingi’s, where there’s no question about if they’re getting a meal after practice is done. The ease with which everything falls into Mingi’s step is damn near maddening if it isn’t as heartening as it is, and Mingi’s constantly stuck between feeling gratitude for the reconnection and utter incomprehensible grief for everything he’s lost. It's something he’s trying not to think too hard about, how being close to idol-hood isn’t the same as being an idol— that he’ll never have that. Every time he indulges his friends with a visit to KQ or a conversation with Yunho about dance or performing, about his day, Mingi realises that his core foundations aren’t as steady as he thinks— that all the strength he mustered into leaving and making peace with never having his dream realised isn’t robust enough in the face of having to be in its proximity as much he's been doing. Then he has to rehash the peace he’s made in that it wasn’t really his choice— that how he lives now isn’t really his choice either, that his body had given up on him where and when it mattered most. It’s so unfair. It’s so devastatingly fucking— he breathes. He breathes.
Mingi tries to shield it all with ignorance in the favour of appreciating everything he does get, of getting to hear Yunho’s laugh and getting to hang out with his friends, of dinner tables full of conversation and sated bellies, of quiet silences that don’t scream at Mingi anymore, of an emptiness dead and buried.
Still, still— Mingi is a decrepit thing at his most selfish. He wishes he never had to learn trading one of those things for the other. He wishes he was able bodied and performing. If nothing else, the constant, aching thrum at his spine is there to remind him of it all, a ceaseless hum of discomfort that is as ever steady as his breathing.
“You ready to go, Mingi-yah?” Yunho asks him, smile tired but full.
“Yeah,” Mingi says, rearranging these pieces of himself so that he’s palatable again, “let’s go eat.”
⤥ ★ ⤦
BOUNCY as a comeback goes by so quickly. It’s much like spring’s transition into summer this year, Mingi is so involved with the changing pace of his life that he almost misses the chance to really sink his teeth into it.
Still, he enjoys the rollout from both near and afar. There are certain things about the comeback that he chooses not to be curious about so that he can enjoy it as a fan. Even if he knows about the title track and the choreography, he stays away from anything to do with the creative direction. He even turns down Hongjoong’s offer to listen to the entire finished album, wanting to experience it in real time with everyone else.
It's fun. There’s so much marketing, and the anticipation of the album is easy to get caught up in. Mingi’s completely enamoured by the concept pictures when they drop. It’s an entirely unfair thing, how pretty his friends are. He spends an embarrassingly long amount of time staring at Yunho in that three-piece suit, something heavy and deplorable stirring in his stomach when he has to process the strong line of his jaw and the chunky ear cuff he’s styled into. It gets inarguably worse when he realises that Yunho’s wearing knee-high boots, that Mingi can pick him out of the seven so easily. The longer hair suits him so well, and Mingi’s reverted to being a hopelessly pining teenager with a crush in the secrecy of his own home.
He feels so deranged about it that he messages Yunho, damn near out of his mind. It’s completely out of character, but Mingi can’t help the instinct he has now, to involve Yunho in every small and insignificant part of his day, even if it’s about him. He sends him his own concept picture with a caption.
so evil of you >:((
Mingi knows they’re in the middle of their initial practices for the Asia tour too, so he doesn’t expect much from Yunho even if it’s past midnight. Mingi’s gotten used to the whims of their treacherously out of sorts scheduling, where Yunho sleeps at odd hours and works at times even odder than that. Mingi wakes up to Yunho’s response, and he’s as much a menace about it as Mingi expects him to be.
glad that you’re liking the concept so far
couldn’t wait for you to see them actually :p
i hope you’re sleeping well mingi-yah !!
Mingi really thinks it shouldn’t be as easy as Yunho makes it out to be, how naturally he makes Mingi so wholly happy. He feels like a child with it, simple things here and there that are filled with so much of Yunho’s inherent earnestness that Mingi’s so taken with it, no matter how hard he tries to remain unaffected.
It’s why he decides on showing up to the pre-recordings. It’s the least he can do, even if getting in and out of bed these days is harder than he’d like to admit. Mingi can’t help it, wanting to be there for Yunho, with him. He can’t deny that Yunho has a gravitational pull, something rooted in how genuine and kind he is, in how he’s always been that way. Mingi’s still not sure how to escape the orbit, if he even can.
He finds that it’s so worth it, when Yunho spots him in the crowd even with the stage lights, that Yunho checks in on him even when he’s running on no sleep and muscle memory to see him through. There’s a window of scheduling that keeps them apart, but Yunho makes sure to be present with him, just like he’s always promised, to know about Mingi’s little and Mingi’s big. It's hard not to get carried away with it, even harder when Mingi has never known what the right thing to do is, when it comes to Yunho. In any case, Mingi’s oldest habits have been known to die the hardest.
Just like that, two weeks of music shows, fansigns and comeback promotions are over. It feels like such a short period of time spent with too many long-haul days. Mingi can tell by just being on the periphery of his friends’ schedules, especially when he doesn’t get to call or speak with Yunho as much. Just like Yunho’s friendship, Mingi’s starting to notice how much his company adds to his days, to his mood. It’s a thorough exhale, when they’re finally done.
Even so, he doesn’t get to see much of Yunho as he catches up on all the sleep he’s missed. It’s not as if he gets any time off, the next leg of the tour requiring practice and refinement before they’re set to fly out. Mingi gets busier with his clientele as the summer fleshes out more and more, so he can’t even sit in on as many practices as he’d like to. Still, he realises that there’s no distance as such between him and his friends— Yunho still calls him when he can and Wooyoung drops by the studio to leave him and his noonas treats he’s made or bought. Seonghwa gets him playing Animal Crossing and Hongjoong sends him snippets of things he’s working on, invites him to come by and have a look at more of his personal stuff when Mingi has the time. They all have a way they keep Mingi a part of their lives, and Mingi tries his level best to be present and give back in the interactions, to not let the instinct of his mind overrun with doubt to take hold. He’s not always the best at it, but they’re patient with him, and it helps that they don’t have a lot of time on their hands to spare either. They don’t sweat the small stuff and Mingi’s grateful for it.
It's a couple of days before Yunho’s set to fly out that he calls Mingi. It’s right as Mingi’s getting out of work and Yunho tells him that he has a surprise for him.
“You’re being weird again,” Mingi says, fighting a smile.
He can hear Yunho pouting, “I haven’t seen you in years.”
“Yun, we text every day.”
“It’s not the same,” Yunho whines, “I need my Mingi time and I’m going to be leaving soon anyways, then I don’t see you for forever.”
Mingi huffs a laugh, “Time is an interesting concept to you, isn’t it?”
Yunho ignores him, “I’ll be at the studio in, like, twenty, is that okay for you?”
Mingi plays it up for himself, checks the non-existent watch on his wrist, “Yeah I think I can make that work.”
“Good,” Yunho says, a smile in his voice, “I’ll see you in a bit.”
//
They’re about twenty minutes into their drive when Mingi gets an inkling for where they’re going. He doesn’t say anything in case he’s wrong, but Mingi has a funny feeling Yunho’s done something insane, because subtlety has never been his forte. He’s proven right when they park into the old arcade they used to go to as kids. The front door has an expressly obvious ‘closed’ sign on it.
Mingi looks at Yunho while he puts the car in park. “What did you do?”
Yunho’s smile is easy and proud, “I might have called in a favour for us.”
Mingi’s sceptical, even if there’s a certain amount of glee he’s trying to manage, “What did you do?”
“You’re looking at the highest ranked player in Dance Dance Revolution three years running,” Yunho admits, wiggling his eyebrows at Mingi, “I know the guys who work there and got them to close down the place for us.”
Mingi knows there’s a little more to it than that. It’s part of being an idol, the doors Yunho can open where no one else can manage them. “Yun—”
“I need this Mingi-yah,” Yunho murmurs, hands on the steering wheel still, “it’s been a few long fucking weeks and I need some space to relax, to hang out with you. I’ve been thinking about this for months.”
It’s said with a certain weightiness that Mingi doesn’t recognise all that well. It clocks a beat later that Yunho’s almost nervous about it, as if he’s worried that Mingi will somehow disparage the entire idea of them spending an entire night at an arcade together— their arcade together.
“You’re getting me so much arcade popcorn for this,” Mingi relents, “so much.”
The way Yunho beams at him should be illegal. He’d been so focused on where they were going the entire ride over that he hadn’t noticed much of Yunho at all. He’s got his hair down naturally today, the slight wave to it as reminiscent of him at seventeen as the face that’s staring at him now at twenty-four. It’s Mingi’s favourite hair on Yunho, no doubt. He’s wearing a simple t-shirt sweater and dark, loosely ripped jeans. Still, he’s so unbearably elegant in how he carries himself, beat up sneakers and dog tag chain included. His smile though— God, his smile. It could power Mingi’s entire universe, if energy worked like that.
Yunho’s eyes clear a bit more, competitiveness settling, “I’m going to kick your ass at Pacman.”
Mingi scoffs, opening the passenger side door, “Dream on, loser.”
(Mingi gets beaten at Pacman, bad).
They’re there for hours. It’s nothing short of what Mingi imagines a child at an all you can eat candy store would feel like. Yunho and Mingi are the only two people to populate the two whole floors of the arcade. The staff are sparse, so it really does feel like Mingi’s woken up in his personalised dream world as a ten-year-old.
Everything is dimmed down into ephemeral neons and flighty blues, the graphic title cards on game screens responsible for most of the illumination in the space. The entire place smells like worn out shoes and a song you love that you haven’t heard in years, every cumulative, good thing about Mingi’s childhood plastered onto the walls and on the floors. It still looks so much like it did when they were kids— when their odd free night with pocket change here and there was reconstituted into a too large cup of soda and some entirely average rehoused supermarket pizza. (They get one of the soda cups to share).
Yunho relaxes into the experience bit by bit, tension easing in tides. He draws closer to the carefreeness he had when they were sixteen and on a dance studio rooftop the longer the night goes on. His cheeks are rosy from hard he laughs, and he babbles— about all the games’ lore they pass by, a skip here and there when he gets particularly excited. Mingi can barely handle it, how much he’s missed this Yunho. It makes him a bit sad that he didn’t realise that he’d been sort of missing in the first place. It’s another thing he’d assumed that time had grown Yunho out of, so much more intentioned with his words and etiquette. He’s so glad he’s wrong, because Mingi adores this Yunho, always has.
Just like it used to be, Mingi’s happiness is where Yunho’s tends to be. It’s easy to forget about everything outside the confines of how insular the arcade is, and he eases, too. There’s so much that’s changed, but here, they are just Yunho and Mingi, and no life or circumstance has touched them.
Mingi can barely breathe by the time they’re done with the first round of Guitar Hero. They decide to compete against each other, and it’s obvious how quickly it devolves into sabotaging each other out of doing well. Yunho’s first to shove at Mingi’s shoulder to unbalance him, and Mingi’s retaliation is inevitable, reaching over the side handlebar and pinching at Yunho’s hip. His yelp is entirely worth it, but all it does is hearten Yunho into abandoning the game so that he can fully stop Mingi from making any progress. It goes about as well as either of them anticipates, Yunho hauling his entire body across the sidebar so that Mingi can’t hold his guitar right to press at the buttons. He grasps at Mingi’s sides so that he has to relent. Mingi’s no quitter, so he goes for Yunho’s neck— he’s always been the more ticklish of the two of them, so Yunho folds like a paper bag as soon as Mingi finds the right purchase on his skin.
Mingi’s a sore loser so he’s unrelenting with it. Yunho’s a mess of giggles and apologies that Mingi’s tyranny ignores, committed to his onward path of Yunho completely falling to the floor. He does, and maybe Mingi miscalculates the angle, because he trips over Yunho’s legs and goes right down with him. They’re laughing so hard they can barely get a word in, everything aching in an embodied joy that’s rooted in their stomachs and spread all the way out to their limbs. The guitar is digging into Mingi’s ribs, but he’s too distracted to care. Yunho tries to get Mingi again, but the tilt is still in Mingi’s favour. His hands are quick to finds Yunho’s, traps both his wrists in one of his own. Mingi goes for Yunho’s side again, but he shimmies in the other direction with so much force he manages to wrangle one of his hands free from Mingi’s grip.
“Stop,” Yunho squeaks, finally clamouring onto the hand Mingi’s trying to attack him with, “ha! Fuck you.”
Mingi’s almost crying with how hard he’s laughing. Yunho isn’t fairing any better, a clear stalemate with one of their hands trapped in the other’s. He’s got his head tipped back with the force he’s trying to gather an incoming breath with, and only moves forward with the momentum of it when finally gets the air back in his lungs. Mingi doesn’t realise how close they are until Yunho’s forehead settles back barely a few inches from his. They’re entangled like this, thighs in between the other’s and hands trapped. Mingi can feel Yunho on most of him in some way, can smell that devastatingly fresh powder on him like he does every time he gets the chance to hug him. Mingi can’t move away, and Yunho doesn’t either.
Their laughter tapers then, when they both realise.
They’re so close. Mingi can see the glow of the game console behind him reflected in Yunho’s pupils, blotches of red and white that’s found a place in them. They’re both breathing too heavily, winded and wanting. Yunho’s lips are spit-slicked and cherry soda red. The blue strobe lights from elsewhere make Yunho’s skin look so subtle and pretty, the curve of his nose and the veins in his neck— everything Mingi tries not to notice, everything he’s been trying not to memorialise for the sanctity of his own mind. Yunho’s still got that smile on him— the one that’s genuine and full and kind, the one Mingi was drawn to at merely sixteen and has never not been affected by since. Yunho’s looking at him the same, like if he looked at Mingi long enough, he’d be able to find everything he’s been searching for this entire time.
Mingi can hear them both breathe, can hear the rise and fall of their chests, the soft rustle of their clothes with every single movement. Yunho’s eyes are trained on Mingi’s, but he can’t miss the way they trace over every part of his face, how Yunho’s gaze hovers over his lips. It’s so much— too much, need re-invigorated so abruptly and so entirely that every single one of Mingi’s nerves feel livewire raw.
He wants this. Fuck, he wants this so bad.
He feels it, the second Yunho gives in a little more, the way he moves to Mingi ever so minutely. He’s so close to committing to it, so close to giving in. Then—
“We should get food,” Yunho murmurs. He’s not exactly moved away from Mingi’s space yet, and Mingi doesn’t know whether Yunho wants that either, how he’s still a breadth away from him. He finds Mingi’s eyes again, searching. Mingi’s absolutely paralysed with the attention.
Mingi clears his throat on instinct. The sound is loud enough in this kind of proximity that his ears grate with it. Yunho flinches just a bit, near and then gone.
“Food— uh— yeah,” Mingi scrambles helplessly, “yeah, let’s do food.”
Yunho nods, perhaps a bit too eager. Then they’re suddenly desperate to disentangle themselves from each other, the closeness almost unbearable. They manage it with about as much grace as a dyad of deer, toppling over each other’s limbs until Yunho somehow manages himself upright. He moves away so that Mingi can follow suit. He can feel the heavy coral of his own cheeks, heated and flushed, as he stands up. All he can do is run a hand through his hair to trample what’s left over from the adrenaline rush that still lingers, his pulse entirely too erratic with all the abrupt change.
Yunho’s quicker to recover, tugging the sleeve of Mingi’s hoodie along with him. “I think they still do the pizza,” he says, “we can get corndogs after.”
Mingi smiles, wholeheartedly endeared, “Lead the way.”
Fear for their metabolism too, is left by the wayside. They practically gorge themselves on grease and the taste of near everything fried or smothered in cheese. The food corner is in the style of an old timey park diner, but indoors. They sit on pseudo-park benches across from each other, sharing the plates of food that are arguably too much for just two people.
“Okay,” Yunho says, only almost done with a bite of his corndog, “flip cup— you land it facing down, you get a question, yeah?”
It’s the game they used to play when they were kids. Mingi’s heartened by it, the complete ode Yunho’s committed to giving their past. Mingi nods along, agreeing. Their first go is a bust, neither of them landing their empty paper cups on the table. Their next try goes better, Mingi winning it.
“Favourite place you’ve visited on tour,” Mingi asks.
Yunho hums, “I like Europe— the culture and the people, it’s nice— quieter than America. Food’s really good in Copenhagen, Madrid too.”
Mingi likes hearing about things like this. Yunho’s so well-travelled now, and he’s so much better for it. He’d sent so many cool pictures when he was abroad, eclectic statues and mouth-watering grub, historical exhibits and obscure bars. It’s entirely precious for Mingi to see the world through Yunho’s eyes, and he’s always loved the opportunities he gets for it.
They go again. Yunho gets it down this time. Mingi does too.
“You go first,” Mingi relents, “then me.”
Yunho clears away their paper plates, puts aside everything other than their drinks and the extra cups they’re playing with.
“Your surgery— it’s—,” he looks unsure, “when did it happen?”
Mingi breathes. This conversation has been inevitable, he supposes. “A couple months after I left, maybe?”
He watches Yunho relax at him entertaining the question.
“The scans were just getting worse,” Mingi says, “and the bedrest wasn’t helping in the way they hoped it would, neither was the physio. They had to cut me open.”
Mingi can’t read Yunho. He’s compelled to talk, now that he’s been asked. “It— there were complications with it too— I have screws in my back to keep everything together, and I get it checked once a year or so. Recovery was fucking slow, and it took me ages to feel comfortable walking again, but nothing went completely back to normal, just close to it I guess.”
The heaviness that Mingi’s been trying to avoid settles onto Yunho’s face.
“Are you in pain?” He asks.
Mingi sighs, “It’s my question, Yun.”
“Mingi-yah—”
“My question,” Mingi re-iterates. Yunho looks at him, a second then another. He relents because he knows Mingi won’t answer him yet. “A fond memory,” Mingi suggests, “a favourite of ours for you.”
There’s a stubborn edge to Yunho. He makes it clear that he’s not done with Mingi yet, and Mingi knows that. He just needs a bit more time, a bit more space for him to enjoy this normal he has. Mingi watches him soften in real time, thinking.
Yunho takes a deep breath, and then one more for good measure. “Do you remember that morning you woke me up at like the crack of dawn? It was a few days before you left— I, uh— you shook me awake with this dumb smile on your face.”
Suddenly, Mingi wishes he’d thought of a different question. The memory comes back to him unbidden, and there’s so much he regrets, so much he wishes he could go back in time and relive. It hurts, that sometimes both the regret and the joy live in those memories together, all in the same days. Mingi remembers the shallow light of Yunho’s lamp, the navy-blue sheets on his bunk bed, and the way his eyes had been scrunched closed with sleep, refusing to wake up. He remembers having to practically shove Yunho into wakefulness, when nothing else had worked. He remembers them both giggling, delirious and tired. He nods slowly.
“It was so cold— that’s what I remember most. You dragged me out of bed and asked me to get dressed so that we could sneak out. I— I remember your backpack, that it was full and that you’d already packed a Morning Rice for you in one drink pocket and a Cola for me in the other.”
Mingi had readied his bag the night before. He’d already known by then, how quickly he was running out of time. Yunho looks at him, nostalgic and meaningful.
“You held my hand the entire time we were on the subway before the sun even rose, and then you said you wanted to go to that dance battle place we hadn’t been to in ages,” Yunho recalls, “I— I thought it was your way of telling me that you were going to be okay.”
There it is. Their entire little rendezvous was the only way Mingi could think to say goodbye. He hadn’t wanted to ruin the illusion, once he’d realised what Yunho was assuming. It had been so long since he’d seen Yunho that happy— so long since he’d looked at Mingi as if he wasn’t something close to breaking, something broken.
“We had so much fun,” Yunho smiles, “I hadn’t seen you laugh as much you did that morning in months, and all I remember is the bass beneath our feet and the way you were bobbing your head even when your hair looked as crazy as it does when you’ve rolled out of bed.”
He takes a sip of his drink, eyes still on Mingi. “You talked to all noonas and hyungs, the ones I didn’t know— I remember you introducing me to them, telling them how we were going to debut,” Yunho can’t look at him anymore, stares at his drink, “I— I believed it, too.”
Mingi’s chest is a hollow and aching thing. “I’m so, so—”
“No,” Yunho says, shaking his head, “no, you can’t apologise— I— Mingi-yah, I’m trying to say that it was the nicest thing you could have given me. I—”
Mingi doesn’t want to talk about any of this, anymore.
“I was so angry with you,” Yunho murmurs, finally, “once I realised that you’d been saying goodbye that morning, I was so— fuck, I was so furious with you.”
Mingi can’t breathe right. He knows he deserves it, he’d done a shitty thing, he’d—
“But a few months went by, then a few years,” Yunho continues, “you were trying to give us something good— you gave me something happy to leave us with. I— it took me a while to realise it, but since then— I just think about how happy I was that morning, to be watching dance with the one person I loved dancing with. It made sense to me then, and now it’s one of my favourite things we were able to do.”
Mingi has so much he wants to say. It’s all too much of a mess between his heart and his brain, the expansive magnitude of everything he’s left unsaid for so long.
“I was happy then,” Mingi settles on saying, “I didn’t have to think that much that morning— being with you was enough.”
It gets too close to a truth Mingi doesn’t want to unearth, certainly not yet. Even so, he wants to extend some honesty for what it’s worth, when Yunho keeps giving him so much. It’s all in his eyes, the way he watches Mingi with the same adoration he had when he was sixteen. Mingi wonders whether it’s ever gone away.
“Being with you is enough,” Yunho agrees, “I didn’t want to lose you.”
Still, Yunho had lost Mingi. That was the unequivocal truth. Still, in the past and in the present, Jeong Yunho doesn’t want to be without his Song Mingi.
It’s too much. It’s always been too much. And yet, Mingi’s stomach swoops at the words, belly turning in his body.
They play again. Yunho wins.
“Hit me,” Mingi says, relenting, “ask me something meaningful, Jeong, something you really want to know.”
“Fill me in,” he asks, “I don’t need details, not ones you don’t want to give. Where did you go, after you left? How’d you end up back in Seoul?”
Mingi’s already told him the bare minimum. They’ve never really spoken about everything that has happened in the five years that’s separated them. Mingi takes the honesty of Yunho’s previous answer in good faith.
“Doing a full course was out of the option for me after surgery,” Mingi sighs, “I needed more time for physio and resting up, learning how to walk again and stuff, I— the photography stuff is a diploma, two years instead of four. I did it part-time the first year and then carried through to graduate once I was better.”
Mingi knows the timing doesn’t add up still. He’d been in Seoul about eight months by the time he’d reconnected with Yunho. There’s a lot of it that’s not worth talking about.
“I did my basic training after, and then I moved to Seoul.”
Yunho’s careful, “And then you moved to Seoul.”
Perhaps it’s Yunho’s earnestness that convinces him to share more of what happened. “I might’ve not been able to get an exemption from the military, but I did end up getting an early discharge from service,” he admits, finally. “I got re-injured and had to be put on bed-rest again, so they just let me go and get the care I needed. It’s— it all goes in circles, for me. Work until I bend and then break— recover after. Rinse and repeat.”
Mingi can’t look at Yunho. It’s more than he really intended to say. He looks pained when he catches his gaze anyways, nowhere else to look.
“That’s— a lot,” Yunho says. Mingi huffs a laugh, nodding. Most days where he looked back on his life, it elicits some visceral introspection from him. How purposeless it all feels is completely intolerable if he ruminates too long.
Yunho snaps him out of it gently. He veers the conversation somewhere better, because he’s always been good at that sort of thing. “You still haven't told me how you ended up in a tattoo apprenticeship in Seoul, though?”
Mingi smiles, “I worked in a tattoo studio as a receptionist when I was doing better and in school full time again— I wanted to help eomma out with my bills. The noona who ran the place wanted to open up her own studio by the time I was leaving for the military. We kept in touch, and she had a job waiting for me here when I was recovered enough to make the call.”
Yunho nods. “She’s been very good to me,” Mingi says, “and I guess I fell in love with the actual tattoos somewhere along the way. I’d been jabbed with needles so regularly by that point that having something pretty for it to leave behind seemed like a better use for getting over the fear of it every time I had to get a drip or bloodwork done— made it less intimidating. She gave me my first one.”
Yunho’s eyes are curious, taking it all in. “What was it?”
“Hmm?”
“The tattoo— your first one. What is it?”
Mingi feels the heat rush into his cheeks. Fuck. “Oh I—”
He knows it’s an additional question. He knows he can just change the topic. Still, for a reason that Mingi can’t at all figure out, he doesn’t take the out. He stands up and lifts the side of his t-shirt, points at the small red M on his hip. He hopes to everything holy that Yunho doesn’t remember.
He swears he hears Yunho’s breath stutter. There’s a second then, where Yunho’s fingers are on rested on the table, and then another where they rest on Mingi’s hip, thumb tracing the letter. Yunho burns, just like the sun. Mingi has to gather every ounce of self-control not to make an ungodly noise at how fervently intimate it is.
It’s another second later that they both snap back to reality, Mingi sitting back down in the same breadth of time Yunho retracts his hand. He can’t look at Yunho, not now.
Mingi stares at his cup instead. “One more go.”
Yunho nods wordlessly, counts down to three. Mingi wins.
“You said you wanted to show me something after we ate,” Mingi says, upturning the cup, “what would that be Jeong-ssi?”
Yunho smiles, as if he’d totally forgotten he mentioned it. “They renovated the basement,” he says, excitement re-emerging, “c’mon I’ll show you.”
It’s a bowling alley.
“Oh my God,” Mingi sighs.
Yunho turns back to look at him, eyes starry wide and shining. “I remember how much you liked doing it back then, thought it would be nice to revisit.”
There’s an incredulous sound Mingi hears himself make. “I’m going to obliterate you.”
And he does.
Yunho’s an even sorer loser than Mingi by the time they’re finishing up, whining about how Mingi’s had so much more time and experience than him. Mingi can’t help but take in how adorable it all is, how serious Yunho is about not being able to knock down as many strikes or spares as him. Mingi doesn’t have the heart to tell Yunho that he hasn’t been bowling since he was last in Seoul, since he was last with Yunho.
There were so many things he’d closed himself off from doing, either from necessity or the vengeance memory had against him. This is welcome though, something good and perfect to replace everything he felt like he’d been missing. There’s been so much of that lately, and Yunho doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
“You can try again next time,” Mingi laughs, putting back his favourite bowling ball of the night— it’s a bit on the heavier side and as neon pink as his hair used to be.
“I swear I’m good,” Yunho whines.
Mingi won by a solid fifty points. He chooses to be the bigger person.
“Careful now Yun— if you keep pouting like that, we’ll have to evaluate who the princess is in this friendship.”
It’s the reminiscence that does it, Mingi swears it is. He doesn’t even know what possessed him to say that out of every combination of words and subject matter he could have picked out. Yunho hasn’t called him that in well over half a decade, he’s probably fucking weirded out by even the implication of—
“I think we know who that’ll always be, princess.”
It’s lightning steady, how fast the shiver travels down Mingi’s spine. There’s something in the weighted timbre of Yunho’s voice when he says it, too easy and pitched a couple of tones lower than Mingi’s frankly comfortable with. It’s so fucking pathetic, how his heart starts beating quick rabbit and flighty in his chest.
Mingi doesn’t know how to curb the urge he has to fight back. “Seriously, Yun,” he mutters, gaze solid, “you’re being awfully presumptuous right now.”
Then they’re right back to being too close for comfort. Yunho’s only taken a half-step forward but Mingi’s at a loss with his footing. It’s another unearthing realisation then— a rediscovery, that Yunho’s certainly taller than he is.
“I think a little assumption would do us some good,” Yunho smiles, cocky and sure, “you seem to think you can go around handing out a nickname that’s not yours to give away.”
It’s an unbearable thing when Jeong Yunho’s attention is siloed onto one focus, worse when it’s Mingi who has to bear the entire brunt of it. Yunho is ethereal like this, the confidence in his gaze, the playful glint in his eyes. Mingi finds him so utterly beautiful.
“Well, I’d like to recall to the house that princess was bestowed onto me, one Song Mingi, and it must mean that I get purview on who gets my nickname.”
Yunho laughs, dangerous and assured, “There it is Mingi-yah, your nickname.”
He’d be nose to nose with Mingi if he leaned in just barely. Mingi could almost feel his laugh, chest so near he can heed Yunho’s warmth. He would have to look up at him too, if Yunho wasn’t doing his due diligence in leveling to Mingi’s eyes.
Mingi’s not nervous about this. He refuses to be.
“Mine?” He asks.
“Only yours.” Yunho settles, glancing at the bottom lip Mingi’s teeth has purchase on.
It would be so easy to kiss Yunho.
Here and now, it would be so fucking easy to reach for that stupid dog chain necklace of his and drag him to Mingi’s lips the way he’s been wanting to do since Yunho had spoken to him at that stupid restaurant, and even before that, with how he’s been pining for Yunho for most of his god forsaken life. There’s so much of Mingi’s that’s always been Yunho’s, the most important of which is almost all of his heart.
But they aren’t sixteen anymore. They aren’t just two kids who love dance and are figuring out their futures together. They aren’t two trainees who have a dream to realise in a few months, gearing up for the challenges of their debut. They are Jeong Yunho and Song Mingi, world-famous idol and vitiated ex-dancer. They are a disfigured present of an aspirated past, the bridge of their realities a paper-thin sheet held over a valley of difference, no matter how hard they try to repair it. All they can have are vignettes like these, singular occurrences where the past they shared allows them a reprieve of the vastly different lives they live. Mingi wonders whether it would have been different, if he were standing next to Yunho the way he was always meant to. Maybe they’d find their forever, in that life.
In this one, they are worlds apart and always would be. It’s another inarguable, unequivocal truth. Mingi is not going to hold somebody as wonderful and vivid as Jeong Yunho tethered to the exhausting gravity of somebody who can’t even move their body the way they want to.
And Yunho sees it, because of course he sees it.
It’s immediate, the way he steps out of Mingi’s space, knowing the moment has been effectively smothered. He looks at Mingi like he’s done something unthinkable, his lips straightening into a thin line while he fidgets with the hands he has in his pockets. He starts biting at the dry skin of his lips, nervous and discordant. Mingi feels so fucking terrible.
“Yunho—”
He’s immediate with the way he shakes his head, the way he stops Mingi from getting ahead.
“No, no—” Yunho stammers, “I’m sorry— I, uh, I just— I’m sorry.”
Mingi doesn’t know how to make any of it better, so he decides against saying anything at all. It’s awkward and weighty when they decide to call it a night, and even more so when they’re in the elevator together to get upstairs and out of the place. It’s only when they’re in the car that the words stop swivelling around in his brain, only then that his heart stops hammering for him to take back the hesitance he exercised with Yunho.
“This has been the most fun I’ve had in forever,” Mingi says, and he means it, “thank you, Yun. Really.”
Yunho wastes no time in looking at Mingi, curiosity clear. He relaxes, when he finds that Mingi’s being sincere. Mingi would dream about this night for days to come, years if he’s particularly unlucky. There’s something kind to do with the karma of it all, Mingi giving Yunho a memory of a worthwhile goodbye in the same lengths Yunho gives Mingi a memory of what could have been. It’s precious, and Mingi will cherish it for this entire lifetime, and the next, he thinks.
“Just say the word, Mingi-yah,” Yunho replies, soft and candid, “I’m happy to give you more of this, as much as you need.”
Mingi hums. If only he had the strength to ask.
⤥ ★ ⤦
The pain is a murmur, to Mingi. It’s consistent and heaving, like a pulse that resides by him just as surely as the beat of his heart. Most days, it’s background noise to him, this many years in. Mingi moves around it like he does most things he needs to live with, accommodates for the weight in a way that’s natural only because he’s taught himself the routine of if for months upon weeks upon days upon hours. Still, it whirrs.
Mingi only realises how much he’s been pushing himself once Yunho and the guys leave for the Southeast Asia leg of their tour. The vitality of his pain works so weirdly, and it comes back with sheer retribution once he doesn’t have as much taking up his day.
He almost forgets to expect it. He’s been so carried away with having so much more to do and so many more places to be that he overlooks the uptick in his pain as an inevitability. It’s always been like this, since his initial physio after surgery, that the ache’s always easier to forget about when he’s occupied. As it happens, there’s been so much that Mingi’s been doing with his time that he doesn’t realise he’s toed the line far beyond occupation and straight into what his body considers innumerable stress.
It's a thin line, and five years in, Mingi still has a hard fucking time getting a handle on where it lies. Whatever it may be, the pain begins to get worse and worse with each progressive day, Mingi’s ability to move around and get anything done depleting faster than he can anticipate. It’s a searing ache as it grows, one that radiates from the base of his spine outward. It makes it difficult for Mingi to walk and near impossible for him to bend in any way that’s necessary. By the fourth or so day, he wakes up with tears in his eyes and an ache that’s so overwhelming he can’t breathe right. It somehow pulses in his head too, a blistering ache that pulses through his body so badly he has a migraine to the beat of the same drum. The whir is overwhelmed into a chug— a loud, unavoidable thing that takes over Mingi’s body as if it’s being possessed. All of his limbs clamour against it, but all Mingi can do is writhe with its insistence, hold out until he’s not a shuddering mess of taut muscle.
He knows it’s terrible when he has no reservations about calling his mom. She’s with him in a couple of hours, drops everything she’s doing to help him out of his apartment and rush to the hospital where he usually gets his check-ups done. The waiting is always the hardest part for Mingi, even now, when there’s a limbo of whether there’s something actually wrong with him, or whether it’s just his body being insufferable because it can.
It turns out to be the latter, as it is in most cases. The doctors order scans to ensure there isn’t anything for them to worry about, but they tell him the same thing they always do when he ends up in the ER— that there’s no swelling or any signs of infection, that it’s the irritation of his nerves that’s causing the pain, that he should rest. It’s when the morphine drip is almost over and the high resolves that the guilt sets in. His mom looks at him the same every single time. It’s as if she’s holding her breath, like she has been for the last five years, that this is finally going to be the hospital visit that tells them that her baby is due to lose more than he already has. He regrets it every single time it happens, regrets calling her and regrets letting the pain get the better of him. He feels so fucking stupid.
Still, he knows he can’t fight her about staying with him. She hovers for a couple of days and makes sure he attends his follow up visits. They prescribe him another course of cortisol injections that he has to come in for recurrently, and it’s the same old song he’s sung for years in the running now. She leaves him with more food than he knows what to do with and a kiss on the forehead. Mingi wishes she had a better son.
He's tired. There’s this worn and familiar bone deep exhaustion he has to wade through as his body recovers from eating away at itself once again, the little ways Mingi realises he can’t do as much as used to be able to without his pain making itself known. This time, it’s reaching for his cups at the top shelving of his cupboards. It’s in the span of his hand’s reach, but the stretch heavies at his back in a way that’s foreign, and it’s another adjustment he has to correct for.
He can’t help it then, the clatter of cutlery that he chucks against the wall of his fridge. The drone of his aircon is the only thing that accompanies the sobs wrack through his body after the fact. Even so, the momentum of it all moves him so abruptly that the pinch in his back is quick to find Mingi again, sharp and piercing. He can only cry harder, chest so constricted and thick he’s close to hyperventilating. He can’t help but think of a different life for himself— beg something of the universe to give him a fresh start, some beginning he can fall into so that he’s unburdened. Everything is so fucking heavy, and he can barely hold himself up. The tears renew, over and over again, they fall despite Mingi’s best efforts, despite all the effort he puts into wiping them away and trying to will himself into a fucking person. There is nothing he can control, not his body and not his life. It hurts, God, it fucking hurts.
It's the same.
It’s always the fucking same. He picks himself back up in the same ways, when he’s done pitying himself. He leaves his mess on the kitchen floor, commits himself to the pain he knows as a truth and as a forever. He cleans his ruddy face with hands that are too rough and shower with water that’s too close to scalding. He takes too fucking long to change into his pyjamas and doesn’t have enough strength in him to dry his own hair. Plugging in the blow dryer is an effort he can’t bring himself to exert, and he can’t be bothered when the water drips from his hair onto his t-shirt, lets the dampness sit on the thin cotton while the shiver from the AC cold tremors through him. He can’t be asked to try and apply the balm that his mom’s left him a new container of, either.
He rolls himself a joint.
It’s all he feels like he can do, on days like this. He remembers when it was fun— when he had gotten high with his uni mates and he felt so much younger than he does now. It was how they’d celebrated every horrid deadline they’d gotten through or every achievement they managed to clinch. There too, the pain had eventually caught up to him, there too, he had to take time off so that he could manage his overactive injury. His friends had all graduated a year before he managed too, contact growing sparser and sparser the better they managed to find the rhythm of their own working lives. Mingi wonders when he’ll be able to escape the thread of loss that’s coiled so heavily around his life. He wonders if it’ll choke him dead before he escapes it, or whether he even can.
The high numbs him. It’s not relief nor is it elation. He’s only granted apathy, and Mingi scuttles for it as if it’s ambrosia. It’s quiet. His body is too relaxed for Mingi to process his pain. He knows it’s there, hiding, but he doesn’t have to be bothered by it, not when it bleeds out from the peripheries of his mind. That too, is entirely empty. Mingi is just void of space and time, just for a little while. He’s free.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been when his phone starts blaring at him. For a second, he can’t even really place the direction of the sound. He gets up from his sheets, the coarseness of the material rough under his fingertips. It’s a bit dizzy when he manages to stand, and it makes him laugh.
He knows it’s Yunho before he even scans for the caller ID on his phone.
Mingi hadn’t wanted to lie to him. It was the version of events that toppled over each other and happened to be. He can’t feel guilty, not when he can’t feel anything at all right now. He’d told Yunho that he came down with something, would be a few days until they could speak. Mingi’s mom had woken him up with a care package a day before she left. Yunho had sent him everything from hangover cures to fresh fruit. Mingi doesn’t even know how he’d managed it from so far away. His mom had just looked at him, something too pointed and meaningful. It hurt. It all always just hurts.
The pears and grapes are wrinkling in his fruit basket. He picks up the phone because there’s no doubt rushing through his veins bellowing for his attention.
“Mingi-yah, hi.”
Yunho’s a breath of fresh air. Even through the fog, Mingi’s heart lurches to a stop, fondness so clear and plain. It would sting, usually.
“Hi, Yun,” he says. The words feel all slow and jumbled in his mouth. He knows he says them though.
“Hi—” Yunho laughs, “are you okay? I didn’t want to call you because I know you were resting up, but I don’t think you’re checking your messages.”
Mingi hasn’t kept up with where he is in the world. He sounds happy. He doesn’t know if it’s because Yunho’s speaking to him or because he’s experiencing his post-show adrenaline.
“I’m okay,” Mingi says. It’s become instinct, on days like this. “It’s clearing up, feeling better now.”
“Good— good,” Yunho replies, “we just finished in Hong Kong, it all went really well.”
Mingi nods, “I’m glad Yun.”
He wants to be with Yunho. He wants to be dancing with him, performing on stage with his friends. He wants to be doing what he loves. He looks at the four walls of his apartment— the chipping wallpaper, the cutlery that’s found a home splattered on the floor, the wood that’s cracked at the bottom of his doors from the humidity.
“It’s— are you okay? You don’t sound okay.”
The lies come easier when he can’t harbour shame for doing so. It’s not a broken promise if Mingi knows that Yunho can’t help from so far away, and what he doesn’t know can’t count.
“I went back to work today,” Mingi responds, “been a long day.”
Yunho makes a sound of acknowledgement. “Being at work sucks when you’re sick. I hope you can get some rest soon.”
Mingi’s so utterly glad he’s not sober. “Thank you for the fruit and the care stuff you sent,” he manages, “that was really, so nice of you, Yun.”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Yunho beams, “I hope it’s helping.”
Mingi can feel it, if he thinks about it for longer than a second. Yunho’s hands had been so warm on his back that day, he’d been so gentle. Yunho is the most beautiful thing in Mingi’s world. His pain is always so ugly. Mingi’s resolve is sure fire and iron clad. He’ll do everything he can to not let the two touch. His rot will not bring ruin here, he won’t let it. It’s already done Mingi enough damage.
“It’s helping.”
A pause. “I— I think I might actually head to bed soon, Yun, the hours are catching up to me.”
Sleep won't come easy to him, not tonight. He can feel his high fading now, the margins of his consciousness gaining alertness in a way he hates. Mingi will be Mingi, soon. He doesn’t know how he’ll bear it.
“Of course Mingi-yah, don’t let me keep you,” Yunho says.
“Thank you.”
There’s a deep breath from the other line, as if Yunho’s unsure. He relents, Mingi thinks. “Sleep well, princess.”
Stupidly, Mingi’s heart threatens to fly out of his chest, fluttering.
“Take care, Yunho-yah. See you soon.”
⤥ ★ ⤦
The universe has always been a karmic fucker when it comes to Mingi’s life. It comes to fruition, yet again, right after his birthday.
The celebration is tame and it’s mostly because Yunho refuses the idea of not doing something for it. Mingi has to spend the entire evening managing how terribly his chest trembles at the sight of Yunho already looking at him when he finds his gaze, in soft, entirely minuscule and meaningless touch that brands his back and wrists, his shoulders and neck. They all have dinner together at a galbi place that’s out of the way enough that his friends can have a peaceful night, and each of them give Mingi a gift that his tax bracket will never be able to afford him. He tries not to let it eat at the sentiment they want to express, but it’s hard— it feels like entirely too much while also brandishing what little he has. It’s the nonchalance that tailspins Mingi, how the purchases seem casual to them. Everything is designer, from the fragrance to the clothes to the jewellery. They shake him off and tell him that everything for the night is already paid for, that he doesn’t have to worry. Mingi doesn’t know what hurts worse, that he can’t be appreciative of the kind gesture or that it’s not even something his friends have to spend time thinking about, how it doesn’t even occur to them that it’ll never be in Mingi’s realm of possibility. He doesn’t process any of it until he’s in bed that night, weightier for having been treated so well. It’s a terrible thing, the envy that stirs so luscious and green in his belly.
Still, he can’t lie and say that they don’t have a wonderful time. It’s good food and even better company, and there are so many updates from the tour that Mingi’s almost sure he’s been with them across all of these countries by the time they’re done talking. They cut a cake that’s vanilla sponge and he blows out his candles while his friends sing him Happy Birthday all too loudly. Mingi doesn’t bother with wishes, not anymore. They settle back into their meals when they’ve gotten in their birthday punches (Jongho) and kisses (San and Wooyoung). Yunho’s steady through it all, a calm presence that sips on his somaek next to him, piling food onto Mingi’s plate wordlessly and laughing as loudly and prettily like he always does. Conversation comes easy, easy, easy— and it’s even easier for Mingi to forget that he’s not actually a part of them, not in the way that counts. The gifts signify it, their stories more so, that Mingi is never truly in with them. He doesn’t know how to ignore it, the longer time moves him into their friendship. He loves them, of course he loves them, but there’s such a stark difference between their lives and his, how everything comes a little easier to them, a little freer in how they move and laugh and speak. Mingi breathes through the discomfort, tries not to feel like he’s wearing a second skin that’s barely comparable.
It's like Yunho has a sixth sense for when he starts getting lost in his own head. When they wrap up their meal and are ready to go, Yunho asks him whether Mingi had some time to hang out after. They decide to go on a drive, and Mingi feels it all lighten the longer he can look at the dark roads in front of him and Yunho humming along to the radio hits playing softly in the car.
“I do have to give you your gift still,” Yunho says, biting at his lips.
Mingi sighs, “What part of all of this hasn’t already been the gift, Yun? We’ve been over this.”
Yunho smiles, “Well it’s ordered, jokes on me for getting the delivery dates wrong though— it’ll be of no use to me.”
Mingi knows what he’s doing. Yunho’s always been good at tempering his surprises so that he’s less likely to react poorly to them, especially when it’s a gift.
“You can always return it,” Mingi tries, knowing better.
“I could,” Yunho considers, “no refunds on this though.”
Ridiculous.
“You’re an idiot.”
Yunho laughs, “Yeah, I am.” Then— “I missed you.”
Mingi has been trying his best not to think about their time at the arcade. It finds him in the most eclectic of moments, when he’s tracing a mock-up for a client or making his morning coffee. It’s blurry, the softness of Yunho’s hair and the heart of his lips, how Mingi could feel him breathe, the warmth. It’s all the want that Mingi has to package and repackage over and over again so that it doesn’t consume him whole.
“I missed you too, Yun.”
He’s glad that Yunho wasn’t around when he ended up in hospital, that he didn’t have to see Mingi that incapacitated and unable to function. He likes being human, when he’s with Yunho, feels like it too, most of the time.
“I’ll come over and drop it off at yours the day after tomorrow? I don’t have much to do.”
It’s then that Mingi forgets the appointment he has at the hospital that day. He agrees easily, and Yunho drops him off at his none the wiser.
He’s in such a rush to get out the door in the morning, it doesn’t occur to him that Yunho’s due to come over. It’s a carousel of too many dominoes he pushes over and then misses putting back up. Mingi gets his vitals done and is a couple of minutes from having an attending consult him when Yunho rings him again.
It all comes back to him at once. “Fucking— fuck.”
He answers his phone.
“I’m like five minutes out,” Yunho starts saying, “would you be able to buzz—”
“Mingi-ssi, the attending is ready for you now,” the nurse smiles at him, “would you like to come with me?”
Yunho stops mid-sentence, too. Shit.
“Mingi, where are you?”
Mingi tries not for his breathing to sound as harsh as it is. He smiles at the nurse and gets up to follow her.
“I— I’m at the hospital, Yun,” Mingi says, his hand tugging at his hair, “I might have double booked myself.”
Yunho’s so eerily quiet, the cheery smile in his voice snuffed out in a matter of seconds. “Which hospital are you at?”
“Yun— what—”
“Send me the address,” he says, tilted to inarguable, “I’ve got nothing else to do, I’ll pick you up.”
Mingi doesn’t want to fight over the phone. He sends Yunho his pin. He swears he hears Yunho’s breath hitch. It’s the same hospital he’s always gone to for his back, in Seoul.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
The line clicks dead. Mingi just tries to relax as best he can.
It doesn’t take long. He changes into his gown and he’s always grateful they don’t show him the needle. His doctor kindly checks in on whether the local anaesthetic is working once he’s been injected with it, and then she does what she needs to, ensuring that the needle gets to where it is supposed through the monitor. He doesn’t look at it, head turned the other way. He’s had to give too many blood tests in his lifetime, more than enough IVs, there’s not a single reason he would subject himself to witnessing more than he has to. He feels the movement of something in him, and he’s just thankful he doesn’t have to feel any of the pain. They’re done in half an hour, and Mingi gets himself re-dressed.
The residual ache catches up to him once the anaesthetic starts fading. He’s used to it now, but it’s never a fun sensation, almost invasive as it settles over his body. He’s so focused that he misses Yunho sat at the waiting room, almost running into him.
The worry is dead set on his face. His eyes are too round, as if he’s trying to survey all of Mingi at once to make sure he’s okay. It’s everything Mingi wants to avoid. Yunho doesn’t even say a word as he takes Mingi’s backpack off his shoulders and slings it over, onto one of his own.
“Yun, I—”
“Is everything okay?”
Mingi sighs, nodding, “I have to come for my injections— they’re to help with the pain.”
“Let’s go home and talk,” he says, “come on.”
It’s almost eery, how neutral Yunho looks. He’s uncharacteristically quiet too, the entire ride back to Mingi’s apartment. So much so that the click of Mingi’s door behind him is too loud to his ears.
Yunho sets down his bag on the little desk space Mingi’s managed to put up at the corner of his room, next to the TV. He doesn’t say anything, and Mingi knows it’s bad.
“Just fucking ask,” Mingi breathes, “you’re here for it.”
Yunho looks at him like he did when Mingi was eighteen, after he’d found out. The walls of his apartment look smaller. “You didn’t tell me about the injections.”
Mingi doesn’t want to lie to Yunho, but Mingi would also prefer talking about literally anything else.
“No, I didn’t.”
Yunho’s always had an aptitude for patience. Mingi’s always had an aptitude for testing it. He’s never won, so far.
He can’t meet Yunho’s eyes. Not about this.
“We’ve been talking almost every day,” Yunho murmurs, a tinge of incredulity that is too close to a parent reprimanding their child, “I just— I don’t understand.”
“It didn’t come up.”
That’s mean, Mingi knows that it’s mean. Yunho stares at Mingi as if he’s grown a second head.
“Did you— is this a daily thing? Has it— have you just been keeping it from me?”
Yunho’s jaw is set, and he’s hunched into himself. It’s almost as if he can’t decide how to feel about any of it. His hands find the top of Mingi’s desk chair, grips onto it knuckle white. The words tick Mingi off. Yunho is not entitled to know everything about his fucking life, especially not the parts of himself that are so utterly broken beyond repair.
“We’re friends—” Mingi breathes, “just friends, Yunho. It means that you don’t get to be in on every single inconvenience my life has to offer.”
Yunho’s head snaps to Mingi so quickly Mingi thinks he’ll get whiplash from it. “That’s exactly what it means!”
Yunho’s clamorous. He’s not raising his voice, but his timbre resonates. His eyes are almost frantic, as if Mingi’s not seeing the point.
“And fuck— it’s not an inconvenience,” Yunho hurries, calming himself down, “for God’s sake Mingi this is your life— I want to be there, I want to know.”
“For what?” Mingi bites, “So that you’re sad and worrying from countries away? Fuck that, Yunho.”
This time, Yunho does raise his voice. “Fuck you!”
“It’s my choice,” Yunho says, as if the words have been years in the making, “it should be my choice. You don’t get to decide that for me.”
Mingi’s just as stubborn, “I decide what I want to tell you— that’s my choice.”
“You promised me,” Yunho says, sobering. The furrow in his brow evens out and his lips are bitten red, “you promised me that you would tell me next time.”
Mingi feels it then, the tightrope of guilt that threatens to cut off his ability to breathe. He can’t fight Yunho on it, he knows what he said. He knows what he did. They always worked because they were honest with each other. They fell apart the first time because Mingi couldn’t be. History repeats itself, apparently.
“Do you not trust me?”
Mingi’s heart gives out, when he realises that Yunho’s near close to tears, voice breaking.
“What— Yun—”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense to me Mingi— I just don’t understand— I don’t,” he heaves, “tell me what I’m missing.”
Yunho looks at Mingi as if he’s hurting him. It’s the only thing he’s wanted to avoid the entire time he’s known Yunho— but he’s somehow always back here. Mingi can’t draw in enough air, can’t look anywhere but his own hands, the ones that seem to break more than mend. He just— he doesn’t know how to—
“Living it enough is hard!” Mingi finally relents, “Fuck— fuck, I just— it’s so hard for me to let you see Yunho— there’s so much fucking mess and I just— I’m not well most of the time— I don’t want you to see that. Who would?”
It doesn’t feel good. The words are too big, too loud in his mouth. He feels so fucking small in the face of his pain, in the face of his grief. He’s never wanted Yunho to be touched by it, ever.
“I’m such a fucking mess Yunho— I—,” he breathes, heavy and stuttered, “the pain got bad again, after you left. I was sick and eomma came over. We had to go to the ER.”
The fight bleeds out of him. Mingi has nothing left to protect. His personhood is as present as an able body, he hasn’t had either for a long, long time.
“They prescribed me the injections again— I was out of it, for a couple of days.”
He watches Yunho register the truth, observes for the way his mind recontextualises all the texts and phone calls, everything Mingi had done.
“You lied to me.”
It’s simple and small, how Yunho says it. Devastating. True.
“I trust you Yun—” he says, “but this never goes away. Not for me.”
The tears fall, finally. Yunho’s restless with how quickly he wipes them away, as if he can’t grasp onto any of his purchase.
Mingi’s so fucking tired of being a source of misery for everybody he loves. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me that night when I couldn’t even stand?” He asks, helpless. “You were terrified Yunho— I never want to do that to you.”
Yunho tries to take a steadying breath. He fails. Mingi wants to do nothing other than go to him from where he is on the bed, he wants to wipe away all of Yunho’s tears like he’s done for Mingi. He doesn’t know if he’d be allowed. Not anymore. Yunho tries again.
“I look at you the same.” Yunho says, “nothing has changed Mingi-yah— just because I’m worried about you— nothing ever changes.”
Mingi finds that hard to believe. He doesn’t want to be somebody Yunho has to worry about. He wishes he were easier, wishes he was just better. There’s a tear or two that finds him too. Fuck. Fuck.
“I want to worry,” Yunho steadies, “I want to do that. If it’s you— I want to.”
Mingi can’t breathe. “It would kill me— if it were you, it would kill me.”
He thinks about it, sometimes. Mingi doesn’t know how he’d survive it, if Yunho had to be in his place. It’s one of the only circumstances he’s thankful that this is all his own twist of fate. Nothing this evil should ever touch Yunho, and it’s apparent in that it hasn’t. Mingi thinks he’s too good to be in its proximity, too.
“But it’s not me,” Yunho reminds him, “and you’d fight me tooth and nail to be there, just like I am. You know it.”
That’s part of the reason why he had removed himself from the picture entirely. Yunho needed to focus on his dream, on getting to the place he had worked and fought for so hard and for so long. Mingi would not have survived the guilt, if Yunho sacrificed it for Mingi’s sake, not when they were so close.
He’s so fucking tired.
“Yun—"
“I would rather take care of you than lose you,” Yunho trembles, “again.”
Mingi’s entire body is paralysed, when the words process— the weight of them. Yunho’s elbows fall onto the top of the chair, as if he can’t hold himself up anymore. He shakes his head, voice auburn tender.
“I can’t do it Mingi-yah,” he tries, voice earth shatteringly uneven, “I won’t survive it.”
His face is blotchy and sunken, distress utterly clear. It’s what wills Mingi to move. He stands, still unsteady with the weight of both the day and the leftover pain from the hospital. He clambers all of Yunho’s body into his, and Yunho comes so easily, gasping into his hold. His tears are hot against Mingi’s neck, his entire body tremoring. Mingi only holds him tighter, and it’s all the way soothing— to know that Yunho is with him, to know that he’s real. His hand rests in Yunho’s hair and he only leans into the touch, as if he’s been waiting for Mingi to give himself over to him, little by little. Mingi loves him. God, Mingi fucking loves him.
Mingi wants to be better for Yunho. For his Yunho— his best friend, the boy who’s only ever wanted to be by Mingi’s side, the one who never pushes, never leaves.
“I’ll try,” Mingi surrenders, “let me try.”
Yunho crumbles further into Mingi’s hold, nodding. Mingi finds himself meaning every word he’s said.
⤥ ★ ⤦
They don’t have much time before Yunho has to leave for Latin America. He sticks to Mingi like glue the remaining few days he has when he’s not in practice or schedules.
Mingi doesn’t hate it. It’s quiet concern that Yunho gives him— he asks Mingi for when his next injections are, schedules him a taxi ride to and from each of them so that he doesn’t have to take the bus, ensures that he has enough food and that he’s getting enough rest. It’s not overbearing, just on the line of doing too much, but Mingi promised that he would try, and Yunho’s always been a man of action.
The first time Yunho just stays over at Mingi’s apartment happens candidly, every time after is just what they make of the familiarity. He brings Mingi takeout so that they can have dinner together, but he comes off of such a late practice that Mingi just offers him half of his own bed, no regard for his heart or sanity. It’s well past midnight when the wrap up for the night, and the thought of Yunho driving back that late seems unnecessary when there’s space to stay over. Pathetically enough, more than that, Mingi wants him to.
The company he’s had over the last few days has been nice. He allows it because it’s only for a short period of time, and he hopes that Yunho hovering now will get it out of his system so that there’s more space Mingi can maintain once he’s back from tour. Still, Yunho livens up his space and fills the quiet with conversation that moves with ease. He’s touchier than Mingi is now, but it’s always so soft and welcomed, so comfortable that Mingi doesn’t even register that it’s happening, most times. Things are simpler. Yunho anticipates for Mingi— takes over when he needs to put on his balm, plugs in the blow dryer when he’s had a shower so that he can dry his hair, leaves it waiting for Mingi. He drops his towel over Mingi’s shoulders so that Mingi’s night shirt doesn’t get wet, laughs with him while they brush their teeth together. It’s not pretentious, just genuine.
And it hurts, because it’s what Mingi expected and leagues more. Yunho’s always been so constant and so brave. There’s nothing Mingi has ever been able to do with his heart falling over itself for the person Yunho’s always been. They’re so close, all the time, because distance means nothing when Mingi can’t help but seek out Yunho’s warmth. His feet find themselves underneath Yunho’s thighs in the cold of the aircon, his head falls to Yunho’s shoulder when he’s dozing off, the anime playing on his laptop a lull to sleep. There are all these small, inconsequential things that Yunho does and allows, where Mingi gets so comfortable falling and falling into old habits. There’s nothing he can do then, when he wakes up wrapped around Yunho.
It’s early morning and he knows Yunho’s flying out to Mexico later today. It seems that Mingi’s mostly asleep mind justifies the pending loss as a means of bargaining closer— so close that Mingi can hear Yunho’s heartbeat under his chest bleed through their t-shirts and into him. Yunho’s got his arms wrapped around Mingi too, safely tucked around his waist and over one of Mingi’s biceps. Their legs, much like their hearts, are entangled too comfortably for Mingi to even think about removing himself. The liminal middle between awake and asleep lends Mingi the comfort of Yunho— unreserved and free. He drinks it up and memorialises everything he can process into memory so that he has all of this for longer than he actually will. Yunho always smells so fucking good, a tiny piece of everything good from Mingi’s childhood carried around in a person. He’s home, with Yunho, like this.
When the alarm goes off too, Yunho’s slow to wake. Mingi gets to watch it happen in its eventuality. His eyebrows scrunch together so adorably, a frown as he registers the sound. He holds Mingi tighter then, almost on instinct, the hand on his bicep extending to Mingi’s bedside table so that he can blindly switch off his alarm. Yunho being Yunho somehow manages it. Then, for a couple of seconds longer, they’re drenched in the quiet of the morning and a cascade of sunlight refracted over Mingi’s sand-coloured curtains. Everything is lustrous and golden, just like Yunho.
Yunho opens one eye, then the other. It takes him some time to realise that Mingi’s already sort of awake. The smile that follows is Mingi’s favourite smile of his, lazy and tender, ardent.
Mingi wants to hold this breadth of time in the palm of his hands and never let go. A small voice in his head asks why he can’t consider a forever like this. Mingi ignores it, just enjoys this good bit of his day for what it is. Nothing else but the present, that’s all he’s guaranteed. It’s only then that he realises that Yunho’s palm is underneath his t-shirt, resting on his lower back. The pressure eases the tightness Mingi usually wakes up with at his back, and his hand is as warm as it was the first time. He remembers that the most, the hearth of Yunho’s calloused fingers on him so secure and warm, when the pain had been making it hard for him to even see.
His thumb draws mindless circles on Mingi’s skin, now that he’s becoming more awake. He makes no effort to move away from Mingi.
“Mornin’ Min,” Yunho greets, his cheek bumping against the top of Mingi’s head. His hand tracks up and down Mingi’s bicep, and Mingi’s so close to being reduced into shivers about it. Yunho is so steady, so serene.
“Good morning,” Mingi says. His voice is all gravelly and raw, not really working as yet. Yunho adjusts under him.
“You have to go soon,” Mingi says. His eyes are closed, taking all of Yunho in. He has one of his legs stretched over Yunho’s thigh, still.
Yunho hums. Mingi doesn’t know what it is, but it almost sounds a little strained. “I do,” Yunho whispers from above him.
“I can cook us breakfast,” Mingi suggests, “you can freshen up meanwhile, and then we can eat before you have to leave.”
Yunho nods again, possibly a bit too enthusiastic. “That sounds good, Min,” he says, gently starting to manoeuvre Mingi off of him, “I’m gonna get up.”
Mingi’s still so fucking comfortable and still not fully awake. He doesn’t really want to let go of Yunho yet, especially annoyed with how abrupt he’s being. He pretty literally whines in protest, shuffling just a bit closer.
Yunho stills.
“You can’t do that,” Yunho groans, “seriously— I need to— Min.”
He sounds almost winded, breathy and helpless. Mingi doesn’t understand why Yunho’s so desperate to— oh. The realisation finds him like a bolt of electricity, willing him awake. He hazards a glance at Yunho’s face above him and finds that his cheeks are unbearably flushed, ears even more so. He doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, but in his haste to move away from Yunho as quickly as he can manage, his thigh ends up brushing over Yunho’s pelvis. Mingi can’t miss how hard Yunho is when the contact registers. Even so, the momentum fuels him up and away from Yunho so that he can get out of bed just as quickly, but the damage is certifiably done. They’re both breathless as Yunho rushes to the bathroom and Mingi shuffles further into the bedsheets.
Mingi physically counts down from twenty to calm down, manages inhales and exhales he times so that he can get his heart rate back to normal. He gets out of bed eventually, when he’s sure his legs will not give out from under him, and slaps himself a couple of times so that he can get to work on breakfast without encountering the same predicament as Yunho.
He thinks about literally anything and everything else. He manages to make the fanciest omelette he’s made in ages and puts on the rice cooker even though he has microwavable packets in his pantry. He makes kimchi jjigae with as much flourish as he can, anything to keep his mind busy from Yunho in the bathroom not ten steps from him after having a boner possibly because of him. It’s stupid. Fuck, he feels so out of sorts he’s panting again. Mingi realises that Yunho’s managed to take his change of clothes in with him once he hears the water run. Yunho in the shower, too, is something he tries very, very hard to not think about.
He only manages about five minutes before every instance he’s seen of Yunho’s pale, unblemished skin in the last few months comes to him unbidden like fucking b-roll. Yunho all sweaty and unkempt at the end of practice, sleeves rolled over his shoulders so that he knows he’s isolating the right limbs. Yunho’s hands on all his Instagram updates that Mingi tries not to keep up with but ends up obsessively zooming into when he's alone. The way Yunho has the worst tendency to wipe at his brows with the hem of t-shirt when he’s choreographing so that the rare and wonderful sight of his happy trail is on show for Mingi to see. His skin all shiny and his hair unkempt when they’ve hung out in the arid heat of the summer, messy with sweat. It all amalgamates into the image of hot water over Yunho’s back, into the soft dips of his waist and the satin of his fingers and arms, toned to perfection. What he could do with those hands— those legs. Mingi moves away from the stove and grabs himself some ice-cold water.
It's like barely nine in the fucking morning for God’s sake. He wasn’t going to entertain this shit, isn’t entertaining it.
He startles over his sip when Yunho opens the door. He chokes on it pathetically, because of course he does. Fuck.
Like something out of a fever dream, Yunho’s only in his denim jeans, entirely shirtless in the middle of Mingi’s fucking living room. Yunho winces, the more Mingi sounds like he’s going to hack up his entire lung.
“I’m fine— I’m fine,” he placates, taking another sip to soothe over his throat. It goes down easier, thank God. “You fucking scared me, Jesus.”
“Sorry,” Yunho says, and he does sound apologetic. It still doesn’t explain why he is yet to wear a shirt. He watches Yunho scrounge around through his backpack for a few seconds before he mutters a fuck under his breath.
He’s looking at Mingi fully now, which means that his entire body now faces Mingi. He actually prays for some semblance of sanity. Mingi can see all of his moles, and the little bit of his hips that spill over his jeans, so treacherously soft— something Mingi could definitely sink his teeth into. He wonders if this is a sort of revenge, a tried upper hand Yunho’s attempting to somehow to make up for the morning.
Mingi is proven both stupid and dumb when Yunho’s face gets progressively more confused, mouth in a pout and eyes so disastrously wet, like a puppy.
“I forgot to pack a t-shirt,” Yunho complains regrettably, “can I borrow something of yours? I’m sorry.”
Mingi thanks everything good and holy for the reprieve. “Quit apologising loser, what’s yours is mine, just pick something out from my closet.”
It really should be illegal how quickly Yunho recovers into his cheery disposition. He mutters his thanks and busies himself picking through a variety of Mingi’s clothes while Mingi busies himself with serving up the food. His pain is a quiet hum today, nothing more than a twinge when he turns too fast. The injections are helping, always do for a bit.
He chooses to wear an old, ratty CK t-shirt that Mingi had thrifted years ago now. It looks so good on Yunho, unfairly so. It’s one of Mingi’s favourite pieces of clothing, and it’s almost threadbare from how well-worn it is. The sight of Yunho in his t-shirt makes a home in Mingi’s head.
“Come eat,” Mingi says, setting aside a pair of chopsticks for Yunho as they sit down on his couch, pulling his makeshift coffee table to them so that they can retrofit it as a dining table.
“Thank you,” Yunho repeats in between a bite of his food. He practically inhales all of it, and he has his cheeks full of rice or jjigae any time Mingi looks up from his own bowl to catch a glimpse of him. He looks so young like this, like his Yunho. Then, with staggering clarity, Mingi realises that he’s one and the same, that it’s all his Yunho, past and present. It’s been so long since he’s seen Yunho eat like this, and his heart is so full with it he could explode.
“What the fuck did you put in this? It’s phenomenal.”
He’s mid-chew again. Mingi shouldn’t be as endeared as he is.
“Close your mouth when you’re eating,” Mingi laughs, “I’m glad you like it, it’s nothing special.”
Mingi was attempting to wade through an entire decade’s worth of pent-up sexual frustration, but he thinks that’s neither tomato nor tomahto. Little wins.
“You’re magic, Mingi-yah.”
It’s funny, how Mingi thinks much the same and more of Yunho.
When it’s time for him to leave, Mingi has a final look through his apartment to make sure Yunho’s not forgotten anything. It’s entirely too domestic— how handsome Yunho looks in his clothes, how fondly he watches Mingi while he runs over the checklist of everything Yunho should have packed in his backpack. He gives Yunho some kimbap that he meal-prepped so that he has something extra for the flight.
Yunho hugs him, and Mingi has to reprimand himself from the insane thought he has to lock Yunho up in his apartment and trap him here. Yunho still smells like Yunho, even if Mingi’s sea salt wood lingers so fresh and perfect on his skin, too.
“Thank you for letting me come by Mingi-yah,” he murmurs into the side of Mingi’s ear, “thank you for keeping your promise.”
Ridiculous.
Mingi’s heart is entirely too weak for this. Be safe is all Mingi can say in return.
Yunho has to let go, eventually. Mingi hates that Yunho’s arms aren’t permanently haloed around him at all times.
Before Yunho saunters off past his door, he looks back at Mingi as if debating something. It’s unsure, but he’s got this grin on him that’s playful if not completely earnest. It’s so entirely Yunho.
“What?” Mingi asks.
Yunho shakes his head, coming back to Mingi at his doorstep. “You’ve got something over—,” Yunho says, pointing at his chest.
It’s a split second, how Yunho’s pointer finger flicks up from Mingi’s t-shirt to under his chin. It holds Mingi steady so that Yunho has enough purchase to kiss Mingi’s forehead when his head is still on the uptake of movement, slow to react.
“Gotcha,” Yunho whispers. Then he’s sprinting off down the hallway with a stupidly giggle heavy laugh in his chest. “I’ll text you before I go to the airport,” he salutes, perfectly timed with the opening of the elevator doors. “See you soon, Min.”
And then he’s gone. Mingi stands at his door for too fucking long, dumb smile on his face. Yunho would be the fucking death of him, ten times over.
He’s proven right on it only a couple of hours after the fact, right in the middle of his workday. Yunho posts onto the band’s official twitter page right after he texts Mingi. It’s only two pictures, but Mingi’s entire fucking body heats over with it. The first one’s a shot of the kimbap Mingi packed for him, and the second is a selfie. Yunho’s pouting into the camera with his stupidly long fucking fingers formed into a peace sign. Mingi’s used to that, not even surprised by it even— but what gets him is what Yunho’s wearing. He’d opted not to change from Mingi’s t-shirt, having added that dog tag necklace he seems to love so much. It’s worse because Mingi spots his, well now Yunho’s, beaded bracelet around the wrist he can see. He even gets another text from Yunho right before his flight takes off, thanking him for the food. It’s entirely too much, and he has to use his physio breathing exercises for the second time.
The weight pools into Mingi’s lower belly the entire day, despite all of his best effort. Mingi’s entirely too keyed up by the time he’s in his apartment again. He tries to shake it off with a cold shower and cooks himself an entire meal again, but the need pulses through him, core taut and entirely wanting. He tries to breathe through the urge but knows it’s a lost cause when he’s under his duvet again. The day has worn him steady and dry, and he can’t get Yunho out of his head. Everything his brain was flitting to in the morning comes back to him, incessant. He’s shirtless, and even the slightest of movements create an anticipatory friction under his sheets, both against the bare skin of his chest and the hem of his basketball shorts. He’s already half hard by the time he indulges the urges to cup himself just barely, if only to give himself the grace of relieving some pressure. Expectedly, it only makes everything worse.
The desperation takes over like a tidal wave, his entire body shifting over itself so that he’s on his stomach. Getting off became an inevitable reality as soon as Mingi felt Yunho hard under him, but here, in the comfort of Mingi’s space just for himself, he still wouldn’t allow it to be easy for himself. He ruts against the cotton of his sheets until he’s wet with precum, the polyester mesh of his shorts sticky with a tethered glide that Mingi uses to make the friction better. He can’t help the little moans that escape him, sung into his pillow. He doesn’t have much patience on a good day, and this is especially torturous, all of the ways he could have Yunho and be had materialising into sequences that play over and over again. Soon, he’s drooling on himself with a knuckle white grip on the bars of his headboard. The angle is almost right, almost enough— but Mingi doesn’t have the agency to move or try anything new. The drag is too addicting, the edge of the chase so nice to toe the line of, heating Mingi over completely. He doesn’t allow himself his hands, because that would make all of this seem too real. He can’t stave off the image of Yunho though, above him and in him, taking him apart with his fingers or his pout wrapped around Mingi’s cock. There’s nothing that can stop the mirage of it cluttering Mingi’s mind. His hips have a mind of their own, eventually. They thrust into his bed until he’s sure he’s rubbed himself almost raw, but it feels entirely too good. He knows he’s close when he’s biting at the skin of his own arm to muffle himself.
Still, his orgasm hits him out of nowhere. He soils his shorts with cum and trembles with the force of his release, shattered and entirely too intense for him to feel comfortable with how satisfied it’s made him. He always loves how wet it is when he gets off like this, and only then does he grant himself his hands. He strokes himself to oversensitivity until he’s grunting Yunho’s name like a prayer, covered in cum. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until he physically shrivels away from the contact of his own fingers, too spent. Mingi can’t do anything but sigh into the feeling.
When he eventually gets to cleaning himself up and settles back onto the sheets, he falls asleep knowing that he’s in some deep fucking shit.
//
He doesn’t have time to think about it, not when the news of Jongho’s injury comes to light a few days later.
Mingi waits to call Yunho until it’s morning over in South America. He imagines that they’re all tired and upset about it, but he does text him, tells him there’s no pressure to call if he doesn’t have the time. Mingi doesn’t know he’s dozed off until Yunho’s ringing him.
“Hey Mingi-yah,” Yunho greets. He sounds exhausted.
Mingi requests to switch to video. Yunho accepts. He checks the time and realises it’s five in the evening for him, which means that it’s five in the morning for Yunho. It’s clear that he’s not gotten a lick of sleep when his face comes into view.
“He’s on a flight home right now,” Yunho says, “he’ll be back in a day or so, all the manager hyungs and noonas worked really quickly— he got to the airport in no time.”
Mingi nods along, finally glad for any and all updates. Yunho’s hair is askew, and his face is all gaunt and waning. He’s wearing his hood up and fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie, restless. He’d seen Yunho not even two days ago, and Mingi knows how bad Yunho must feel for his entire demeanour to be unrecognisable from what it was.
“This isn’t on you,” Mingi tries.
Yunho looks at Mingi through the phone as if he’s seconds from breaking down. “It’s not, Yunho,” Mingi repeats, “it’s bigger than you.”
Yunho sniffles. “It keeps happening— I keep missing it and now Jongie’s going to have to be alone without any of us and—”
“Yun,” Mingi sits up on his couch, “take a breath, c’mon. This is not on you.”
Mingi knows it hits too close to home. He tries to side-step the guilt he feels in causing everything that’s being reopened for Yunho, where he looks so sad and stuck.
“He didn’t tell any of us— it’s— it hit him during when we were in rehearsals, and he was just— he was screaming in pain.”
That’s fucking rough. Mingi feels worse then.
“I knew he was taking meds for it, and he kept saying he was fine,” Yunho breathes, heavy and stuttered, “and then he doubled over like he couldn’t even stand.”
Fuck.
“And you know him,” Yunho says, eyes glassy, “he never, ever complains Min. He never shouts or screams— it— I can still hear it.”
Mingi doesn’t know how to comfort him. He’s never been on the other side of this, and it’s unfair that Yunho’s now had to do so twice over. He doesn’t remember much from when it happened to him, all his memories from then are blurry at the edges with the effort he was exerting in trying to keep it together. If it’s anything like this, Mingi realises that he has one too many apologies to give Yunho.
“Yunho— he’s okay,” Mingi tries again, “he’s getting the care he needs and he’s going to be home so that he can be with his family. It’s going to be okay, Yun.”
“I know,” Yunho murmurs, eyes shot and upset, “I know. I just— I wish he would have just told us.”
They seem to be having two conversations, he thinks.
“He regrets it,” Mingi replies, “as soon as you had to see him in that much pain, the guilt of it all hits Yun, I know he regrets it.”
They both know he’s speaking from experience. This conversation, in some ways, is years due.
“He’s going to get the care he needs, and then he’s going to rest up so that he’s performing with you all in no time. This will be long gone by the time you get to your next comeback.”
Mingi hopes on everything he holds dear that everything he’s saying will hold up. He’s on first name basis with how low life can sink you, and he wants that neither for Jongho nor Yunho. He can’t take another loss like it, and he for sure as hell knows that neither can they.
Yunho sighs, breathing harshly. Mingi watches him internalise his words, nodding. He can see Yunho war with his emotions in real time, trying to get a handle of himself so that he’s a bit closer to feeling like a person again. Mingi can’t imagine how terrible he must feel, to sort of be stuck in the same place again, years later with somebody else he loves.
Jongho would be okay, for Yunho’s sake.
“None of us are taking it well,” Yunho says, raw and tired, “we haven’t slept and all the managers have been running around re-organising everything for us. Nothing stops— we still have to perform.”
It’s the first time Mingi’s ever heard Yunho so distraught over having to do his job.
“I hate it,” Yunho rushes, “I hate that we have to pretend that none of this is affecting us and I hate that we have to carry on like everything’s fine— I fucking hate all of it.”
Mingi knows that most of it is just that Yunho’s not gotten enough sleep, but there’s something so visceral about the way he says it, as if he’s been done with being an idol for so much longer than this specific circumstance. Mingi doesn’t understand.
“Yun, it’s unfair— of course it is, but I think you’ll feel a lot better if you get some sleep. You have so much to do for the show, still.”
It’s as if the words finally bring some clarity to Yunho. He reels everything in, face harbouring into a neutral. Mingi wishes he could be with him, right now.
“I’ll go see him once everything calms down a bit more,” Mingi says, “I’ll check in from here.”
Yunho’s eyes shine. “You’d do that?”
“I pretty much raised the guy, remember?” Mingi smiles, “Give me a little credit.”
Yunho hums, something easing. Mingi’s glad for it. He’d do anything to make Yunho not look as sad as he does right now. He looks so small, cuddled around his blankets like this, and Mingi hates it.
“He’s important to me too,” Mingi sobers, “I’ll bring him some food and dote a little.”
Yunho laughs into his duvet, soft, and relaxes into himself a little bit more.
“You can go to sleep Yun, I’ll stay on call if you’d like— just rest your eyes.”
Yunho blinks, slow and fatigued. He relents after a beat or two, “I need to be up in like four hours— we have soundcheck.”
Mingi nods, “I’ll set an alarm and wake you. Go to sleep.”
Yunho’s wordless as he settles under the covers a bit more, getting comfortable. Mingi moves to his bed and sets his phone on his bedside table. Just as he thinks Yunho’s fallen asleep, Yunho shifts again.
“Thank you for talking me down,” he says, words muffled as if he’s already mostly asleep, “wish you were here with me.”
Mingi doesn’t know how much longer his heart can keep up.
“Goodnight, Yun.”
It’s all he can say.
//
It’s about two weeks later that everything settles well enough for him to go see Jongho. They had a couple of minor procedures to run for his knee, and then he was in and out of hospital for observation and the meds. Jongho texts him once he’s properly back at the dorm, and then Mingi spends some time making him some food over the weekend so that he’s not going over empty-handed.
Jongho tells him the passkey and asks him to let himself inside. The dorm is so quiet when Mingi does so. He sets all the food down and knocks on Jongho’s door. He can hear the beeps of a controller and FIFA on the other side of the door.
“Come in,” Jongho shouts.
He looks a lot better than Mingi expected him to. He knows Jongho’s mom had been over not long ago, and it’s clear that he’d gotten a shower out of it. His ankle is in a bandaged cast and rested over a pillow. Jongho’s eyes are dimmer though, even if he smiles his gummy smile at Mingi.
“Hi hyung.”
Jongho hands him an additional controller, and Mingi doesn’t mind this being whatever Jongho needs it to be. “Hi Jongie.”
He gets stuck in even though he’s terrible at video games, even if it’s of a sport he watches from time to time. They play a few rounds, and Jongho wins every time, as expected. Mingi hopes it’ll give him enough of a boost to not mind talking about everything with Mingi.
Jongho groans, Mingi’s stare perhaps too heavy. “If you ask me how I am, I won’t hesitate to punch you. My hands still work just fine.”
Mingi laughs. He knows Jongho’s mostly kidding, but he’s slightly terrified. Still, they both know it’s a conversation he can’t avoid. It’s already been two weeks of quiet. Mingi’s been checking in on all of his friends, especially Yunho, and they’ve been better for knowing that Jongho’s got the all-clear now, even if it’ll take time for him to recover. It’s like everybody had been holding their breath, like somehow they would end up in the same situation twice. Mingi gets it, he does— but seeing it in real time is something that tides him over with a heavy ache. Till the doctors got back to the team, Hongjoong couldn’t focus on anything and Seonghwa’s hotel room was a mess anytime Mingi had called his hyung. San, Wooyoung and Yeosang had been sleeping over at each other’s hotel rooms and Yunho had been dialling Mingi every free second he had. It’s like they want to make sure they still have each other— Jongho and Mingi included. Every time he’d spoken to any of them or gotten updates from Jongho had been these collective sighs of relief, as if they’d been paralysed till then. Mingi has never seen his friends so afraid.
Mingi’s soft with his approach, “We have to talk about it.”
Jongho looks at him a little too pointedly, “We really don’t have to do anything.”
“Jongie—,” Mingi starts, “you could have said something.”
“It won’t happen again,” Jongho says, cutting him off.
“That’s not the point Jongho-yah,” Mingi hastens, “all the hyungs are just worried about you having kept it from them.”
Jongho just huffs. “I didn’t mean to— fuck, I really, I thought I was fine. I thought I could just push through it since I was already taking the meds— stopping is inconvenient for literally everyone.”
“Jongho—”
“I’ve paid the price for it, okay?” Jongho steadies, frustration clear, “I am paying the price for it. I’m letting my team down and losing the chance to perform at places we’ve never even been. I know, hyung. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Mingi shakes his head, “You aren’t letting your team down Jongie. Your family is just scared— they just want you to be okay, nothing more or nothing less.”
He can see that Jongho’s already worked up over it, breaths coming out unsteadied. “I know I should have said something,” he admits, tired, “I just— I’m also scared. I’ve been scared. Everything felt too big and like it would fall apart if I spent any time stopping to think about it. I— fuck, I know it was stupid.”
Mingi is in no way prepared for how vividly it takes him back to everything that happened with him as a trainee. Everything Jongho vocalises is everything he’d felt back then, and it’s like a sledgehammer to his temple, how viscerally he relates to why Jongho made the decisions that he did.
“You can’t beat yourself up about it,” Mingi says, because Jongho is just as much a young adult growing into himself without any of the pressure he has to deal with day to day. He just looks like a terrified kid trying to play FIFA in his bedroom, here and now. Mingi understands him so much his chest aches with it, the fondness he has for his forever dongsaeng too big for him to handle. “Everything that’s happened has already happened Jongie, it’s over and done with. None of it is permanent either, you’re already on the mend.”
“I know— I just— this sucks.”
Mingi laughs, agreeing. Waiting most things out is hard as an idol, with Jongho he supposes that’s even more true. Jongho’s never really been one for patience and waiting around for his body as it takes the time it needs to heal seems like the worst use of his days. Mingi would know.
“It does suck,” Mingi agrees, “but if you ever need somebody to come over and be shit at your video games so that you can feel better about yourself, you know you’ve got a guy.”
Jongho makes a pained sound at the back of his throat, grateful nonetheless.
“Do you want me to heat something up for you? I cooked some stuff to last you a few days, and you can even share with your parents when they come over to check in on you.”
“Hyung—” Jongho sighs, “you’re so— thank you.”
It’s too earnest, and Mingi’s almost scared of the words that might follow the gratitude. “Is that a yes, then?”
Jongho hums, “Let’s go.”
Mingi helps him up and they move to the couch. Jongho takes the loveseat with a step stool so that he can still see Mingi while he works. He spent time making some sokkoritang the day before, so he chooses to heat that up for Jongho. There’s some banchan in the fridge on account of Jongho’s parents, so he plates up some of that as well.
They eat on the couch so that Jongho can keep resting his leg. He’s not one to force conversation, but after a few bites of food and telling Mingi that he’s done a good job with the soup, he starts looking at Mingi just like Mingi had when he walked into Jongho’s room.
“Spill it.”
Jongho smiles. It’s halfway between his smirk and something playful. Mingi already has an inkling that he’s in for some shit.
“So, you and Yunho hyung.”
Mingi almost chokes on a bite of his rice. “We’re not talking about this.”
“We are so talking about this,” Jongho insists, giving Mingi a taste of his own medicine, “he looks at you like you hang the stars in his sky, hyung.”
“He’s my best friend.”
“And you’re his,” Jongho agrees, “but that doesn’t really change the fact that you’ve been into each other since I was like fifteen.”
“We didn’t know each other when you were fifteen,” Mingi corrects.
Jongho points his chopsticks at Mingi, “But you knew Yunho hyung, which means that you liked him.”
Mingi’s always been the annoying younger brother. His own hyung and him are far apart in age, and even before they lived in two separate cities, he’d always fielded spending time with Mingi in the favour of doing literally anything else. It was hard for Mingi not to feel unwanted because of it, since he was everything Mingi looked up to for a time. He imagines he was a little like Jongho when he was younger, and he’s nothing but endeared, if only slightly taken aback by being read to filth. Jongho has that roundabout way of proving himself right in a way only a younger brother would.
He smiles at Jongho’s insistence, but he does find himself grounding back to earth soon enough. “Jongie— it’s not like that.”
“I know it isn’t,” Jongho says while dipping a piece of meat and rice into his broth, “I’m asking you why it can’t be, when it’s this obvious.”
“Obvious to you.”
Jongho scoffs, “Obvious to everyone! Hyung— he’s— you guys are so good together, always have been. I haven’t seen Yun hyungie this happy in so, so long, I don’t know how you don’t see it.”
Mingi doesn’t know the Yunho from before. With him, the Yunho he got back is mostly the same Yunho he’s always been. It makes it hard for him to really picture anything Jongho’s saying.
“Joongie hyung said that too— I— he seems the same, to me.”
Jongho’s a little more meaningful when he meets Mingi’s gaze. “It’s because he has you back.”
Mingi thinks this is all a bit too dramatic, as if they’re placing him to more of an importance than he ever was. “Jongie, I hardly think it was that different when I wasn’t around, you guys have been doing so well.”
Jongho makes a face. Mingi obviously hasn’t said the right thing.
“Are you fucking serious?”
His tone is frighteningly sobered. Mingi’s confused.
“Jongie—”
“I ran away from the dorm,” Jongho admits suddenly, “for two weeks, a little after you left.”
“What?”
Jongho heaves a sigh. “I— uh, I was so tired— I had been for a while. Since I was a kid, I was so entirely sure of becoming an idol, y’know? So much so that I survived more than a couple of companies to try and stay in the running to debut.”
Jongho’s one of the hardest working people Mingi knows, always has been. He doesn’t understand why he would ever leave, even for a little while.
“It was hard moving from groups of people to the next, from one company to the next— and then, with you guys, it finally worked out,” Jongho says, “I was so— it was the happiest time of my life hyung, to have so many people who were looking out for me.”
Mingi’s immediate with it, “We love you Jongie.”
“That’s exactly it,” Jongho steadies, “you were taking care of me as if I was your actual brother— the other hyungs too, we were a team. You guys were everything to me, especially that young. Seonghwa hyungie used to wake me up to go to school for God’s sake.”
Mingi remembers. They’d found a rhythm to it, soon enough.
“We were going to do it together,” Jongho says, “that was what it was meant to be. That’s how all of this should have turned out— and then you— you were gone. You just— we didn’t even get a goodbye, just a letter and then nothing.”
Mingi had been a child. He would go about it differently, if it were him now. He doesn’t know how, but he’d like to believe that he wouldn’t be such an inconvenience.
“I had gone through everything by then,” Jongho quietens, “rejection, failure— criticism even, but losing you? It was a nail in some coffin. I— I couldn’t do it anymore.”
Mingi’s stomach drops. There’s nothing to distract from how distressed Jongho looks even thinking about it.
“The dorm was oppressive and your stuff was no longer in our room and— it was all just so quiet. I went back home without telling anyone.”
Mingi hates this, hates that he had only left more broken in his wake. He’d thought he was doing what was best for everyone. He had to leave, there was no other choice.
“It took them a week for them to get a hold of me and another to get me back,” Jongho continues, “it was Yunho hyung that did it. He called me and I picked up because I couldn’t ignore his phone calls anymore. Hyung, he was— it was hard for all of us. I think that’s why I did what I did, but— for him, he turned into a completely different person.”
Mingi doesn’t know what to do with any of this.
“He practically begged me to come back, told me that he couldn’t lose somebody else, that he wouldn’t be able to handle it. I— I know they needed me back and we had to keep moving but,” Jongho stammers, voice heavy, “he sounded so broken up about all of it, hyung. It’s just— it’s always been different for him.”
Mingi feels the roil in his gut, unsteady with everything he’s been trying not to think about for years.
“He never really got it back,” Jongho says finally, “that love he had for all of this, he— we all found a way out, somehow. But some days it felt like hyung was still stuck losing you over and over again— he— he doesn’t do as well with any of it, without you.”
Mingi’s voice is dry and raw. “Jongie—”
Jongho shakes his head, stern, “I’m not telling you any of this to guilt trip you, hyung— I was so angry in the beginning, but I look back on it and we were kids. You were a kid— and I get it now more than I ever have that it was an impossible circumstance. I know that. I’m telling you that hyungie’s love for all of this has come back with you— that light of his— it’s back.”
Mingi has never known Yunho without his light. He can’t imagine it, and he’s sort of glad he’s never had to.
“You’re good for each other,” he says again, “I don’t think either of you should waste any more of your time.”
Mingi worries at his lip. “It’s complicated, Jongie.”
He doesn’t want Yunho near his rot. He could keep up appearances, put himself into palatable chunks so that Yunho doesn’t have to see him or his pain. He doesn’t know how to handle the idea of letting him see through everything that’s been growing inside Mingi— attic full of all of the ugly, decrepit things that has been gathering dust. Mingi knows it’s not the best way to live, and he has no interest in involving anybody else in it.
“He’d rather be there for you than lose you,” Jongho hastens, “all of us at that. We all have our bad days hyung— it’s part of living. We’ve learnt to lean on each other through it, and that’s always what’s helped.”
There’s a little voice in Mingi that sounds like all of his friends. It’s gained so much traction in the last few months, especially when they say things like this. For a second, he’s disillusioned with hope, that he’s somehow not beyond the line of deserving more than what he already has.
“I think it might be a little too late for that, Jongie.”
He doesn’t realise he’s voiced it until Jongho looks at him, indecipherable. Mingi doesn’t want this to spiral into anything more than this. Mingi doesn’t know how he’d handle it, baring his chest open like that.
Jongho doesn’t ask him to. “Nothing’s ever too late if you’re still breathing, hyung,” he says, “it’s nice to accept what’s handed to you, helps when you don’t have to fight.”
Jongho’s too mature for his own good. Mingi’s heart aches with everything he’s been told— longing a word too small to even begin describing how much he hates everything for how it turned out to be. He knows there’s some truth to the point Jongho’s making, even if all of him is quick in wanting to disagree. His friends are still here, Yunho even more so.
“I’ll try,” Mingi murmurs, because it’s all he can do these days.
“That’s enough.” Jongho smiles.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Mingi spends so much time with Jongho he gets half-good at FIFA by the time their friends get back to Seoul after finishing up their leg of the tour. He fares a lot better with the company and he tells Jongho about the hospital visits too. He understands Mingi better than anyone, probably. He shows up for some of Jongho’s physio sessions and Jongho holds Mingi’s hands through two of his injections. He texts Yunho about how he’s doing and Jongho sends the ATEEZ groupchat selfies whenever they hang out. They make it through, as it goes.
His pain is subdued better than it has been in ages. It’s always been a coin toss with the injections— how well they work and for how long. It’s the best outcome Mingi’s had in ages, where he wakes up some days with only a slight twinge to his back and nothing else. He’s been doing well for almost a week now, and Mingi’s tempered into a functioning person. Where the whir ceases, so does the spreading rot. He goes to his favourite cafe and gets a lavender latte, sits in the park with Cottonball, and watches Seoul accept the oncoming fall with open arms.
Yunho facetimes him once he’s back at the dorm and they meet up for lunch near Mingi’s work the day after. It’s as easy as he expects it to be because it’s Mingi and Yunho, Yunho and Mingi. Yunho’s thrilled to see how good Mingi’s doing, right back to the same ways he holds himself so closely to Mingi, the way he’s nonchalant with his earnestness like his kindness. He gets Mingi a few magnets from the places he’s been, says that Seonghwa helped him pick some out. Mingi realises Yunho’s observed his apartment to see the ones he has from his fridge that his family has gotten him— a beer bottle from Germany from his hyung and a Busan seashore from his eomma among his favourites. Mingi hugs him in thanks, looking them all over from the bag. There’s a cute golden eagle one from Mexico that he pulls out at the end and Mingi sort of wants to sob. They’d watched a documentary together right before Yunho had left about the little creatures. Yunho had fallen asleep half-way through, but Mingi had talked about it the entire morning after, during their breakfast— how they’re the country’s national bird and how insanely large its wingspans grow to be. The rest of them are flags and national monuments, but Yunho had packed that magnet for Mingi last, just so that they both know he remembers.
Mingi tells himself that it’s all fine and familiar, like it’s been— normal. Except, really, the prominence of how easily Mingi’s heart jumps at Yunho’s laughter or the pout of his chilli beef swollen lips is an unhelpful reminder that something he’s been trying to kill is alive and well. Perhaps he’s too stupid to ever hope that it would be, even if it’s best for them both.
He gets a call from Yunho a few days later and it only proves him right.
“Would you want to come with me to the studio today?”
Even through the phone, Mingi can tell that Yunho’s voice is subdued. It’s as if he thinks if he says it quieter, Mingi isn't going to hear him enough to say no.
They’ve talked about it briefly. Mingi’s technically allowed to dance, especially when his pain remains manageable and steady. His doctors have always encouraged him to be as active as he can when he can without stressing out his back too much, and that’s where he’d gotten his gym rat tendencies from in the first place. Still, dance has always been a sore wound. He knows he wouldn’t be able to do the genres he did back when he was a trainee and certainly not at the difficulty and precision he’d been practicing at. The last time he danced was when he was eighteen, with Yunho, and he’s at peace with how that was where he got his goodbye. Still—
Mingi thinks that Yunho feels it too, that itch to experience the same space that had first put them in each other’s lives. He can’t lie and say he’s not been thinking about it. It’s not the first time Yunho’s offered, but it’s the very first time Mingi considers saying yes.
“I’m not any good,” Mingi warns, quiet, “not anymore.”
“We didn’t start dancing because we were good at it,” Yunho replies. It’s easy for the idol to say, Mingi thinks.
“You know what I mean,” he contends.
“I miss you,” Yunho says, and then even softer, “you pop into hyung’s studio once in a while, why is it different with me?”
Mingi appreciates how careful Yunho is with his words. Watching Hongjoong fiddle with a track in his free time is leagues different to putting himself back where he’d lost it all in the first place.
“You know exactly why it’s different.”
Yunho breathes a small sigh at the other end of the line, “I still think it could be good for us— doing something without any pressure.”
Mingi still feels it though, the stress of having to stay vigilant where he’s not had to pay attention to in ages, the risk of having to show Yunho more than he would be willing to handle. It feels like Pandora’s box and Mingi’s afraid to look his monsters in the eye, doesn’t know if he’d make it out unscathed if he does. Mingi still needed time, needed distance.
Still, still—
The last year of Mingi’s life has been the best he’s had in a long fucking time. It has leagues more to do with Yunho than anything else. The joy that’s accumulated has been like scruffs on his shoes, small rips here and there until the fabric of his lived reality is so worn out it’s been falling apart. Mingi’s cynicism feels entirely like his stupidly hole-riddled sneakers. There’s something almost violent about how much more he’s been able to feel since Yunho’s been back, so much more than the constant carousel of sadness to resentment and then apathy. He’s almost teetering on buying a new pair of shoes all together, letting the scruffs have more of an impact.
“Mingi-yah,” Yunho says again then, when Mingi doesn’t say anything, “you never have to do anything you don’t want to— I just— I know the last few weeks must have been really hard for you, and you’re always happy when you’re around it, even when it’s just you sitting in with us at practice— it was just a suggestion.”
Mingi could do this. “I’ll be ready in an hour,” he returns, “would that be okay?”
“You’re ser— yeah, yeah,” Yunho breathes, and Mingi can tell he’s smiling, “I’ll pick you up.”
Mingi shakes his head, “I can take the bus.”
“Min, it’s no trouble,” Yunho gentles, “I’ll be there soon, okay?”
Mingi doesn’t know why it’s still so difficult to accept the help that Yunho’s always been so willing to lend. Even so, he tries.
“Okay, Yun,” he accepts, “see you soon.”
He clicks the phone dead and gets changed. It’s just as difficult not to think about how acquainted Yunho’s gotten with Mingi’s apartment as he cleans up the place. The first time is something he tries not to think about much, an instance that makes his heart warm over in ways too familiar and too reminiscent of something he’s trying to keep dead and buried. He’s glad to keep busy while he waits.
He picks up the phone on the second ring when Yunho calls again. He goes downstairs with a deep breath and an elevator ride. Yunho’s already out of the car when he spots him, cheery and genuine as he leans against the passenger door.
“Hi, princess,” Yunho says, making a show to bow and open the door for him.
“You’re impossible,” Mingi chastises, even if he’s grinning like a child. Every raw nerve of his smoothes into nothing.
Yunho’s dressed much like him, a ratty t-shirt and a pair of joggers that barely match. His hair is freshly washed and he’s not bothered to blow dry it all, the slight waves curling around his ears like they did when they were kids. This is Mingi’s favourite Yunho, fresh-faced and beautiful. His heart continues to commit treason against his rationale.
He gets in while Yunho guides him to his seat, a subtle hand on the small of his back. Mingi pretends as if he doesn’t feel the touch in his throat.
Yunho hums, “Only for you.”
Fuck.
Mingi will not yield. He knows he’s better than this.
Yunho is none the wiser, closes the door and gets in on his side. He hands Mingi the aux so that he can choose a playlist, and that too, is wordless. Mingi has to breathe through his nose so that he doesn’t lose all his wits in one place.
The drive is mostly quiet, but there are intermissions of them singing along when the song is particularly a favourite, or some recent radio tune that’s too catchy to zone out to. They get to KQ in no time, and Mingi follows Yunho through the hallways and into the studio, even if he’s familiar enough with the floor. Mingi hasn't brought anything much, so he gets started on his stretches while Yunho puts his stuff in the locker. His routine is twice as long as Yunho’s but he joins him anyway, asks Mingi to lead the counts.
Mingi relaxes into the rhythm of it soon enough, and it shouldn’t feel as effortless as it does. Yunho makes it so easy to feel safe. He puts on the songs that they used to fuck around and freestyle to when they were supposed to be practicing. The space reverberates with the beat of the songs and they’re so utterly nostalgic to Mingi. It’s a lot of the music that Mingi had forgotten they even listened to, back then— all the 2010s hits that they used to scream to even if they didn’t really know any of the lyrics, especially in the ones that were in English. There’s some One Direction that plays, and Mingi has to lay down on the studio floor so that he can sing along without tiring his body out too early on.
Yunho’s right. It’s fun. He hasn’t been in a studio to just feel the music and experience his own body integrate to it. It happens automatically, how easily he can see the choreography, and how dynamically he can trace the placement and step count tracking in his head. The music is too loud for him to focus on how that’s not possible for him to actually do.
They finish their warm-ups and only then does Yunho pause the music for a bit. He’s beaming, and Mingi realises he might be too. It’s something weightless and true.
Yunho stands up and gives Mingi his hand. He takes it and gets helped up, utterly gentle.
“We can do some tutting or some floor work,” Yunho says, “that way you can take the lead on choreographing something and I’ll happily follow.”
He smiles at Mingi, handing himself over to his direction. Mingi doesn’t know what to do with himself when Yunho gives him so much, all the time. It makes him want to scream at him— maybe even kiss him.
Mingi breathes. He’s better than this.
“We can tut,” Mingi chooses, “haven’t done it in ages.”
Yunho nods. He carries over the bench from the edge of the room to the centre, facing the mirror. They take a seat beside one another, and Mingi reaches for his phone. He’s too rusty to come up with something himself just yet, but he shows Yunho a dance video he came across a couple of days ago, and the song is one that had been on Mingi’s playlist in the car.
They watch it together a few times over, and go from there. It’s a couple of minutes of pure hand choreography so they take it a few eight counts at a time, but just like before, they’re both pretty fast on the uptake. Mingi’s hands find the movement as easy as breathing once he runs it twice or thrice. Yunho too, follows along.
He doesn’t feel the time go by once they start. They try nailing the choreography on their own and then practice it at a slower speed. They try it on its actual count a few times after that. Eventually they’re just laughing as they find their synchrony, dynamic movement that they add with opposing sides and framing. It’s still beautiful, how wonderfully they move together. Yunho adds his flourish in the gaps where Mingi inserts his own. It looks like something new, by the time they’re happy with it.
“You want to run it again with the last three eight counts?” Yunho asks, “We could actually integrate it there, link up like this.”
Mingi lets Yunho manoeuvre him into position and walk him through his movement. It makes Yunho and Mingi bleed into one continuous finale, placements that are true to the original choreography but start with Mingi’s hands and end with Yunho’s— an expression of the both of them instead of a single dancer. They go through it over again, a continuous sequence of meaningless ta-ta-ba-ba-ba-woosh-da-da-da’s so that they know what they’re doing and where they land. They’re so focused to get it right, the perfectionism still alive and well.
Mingi fucking loves it. The chase of the execution, the thrill of following through as they’d seen it in their heads. It’s so utterly terrifying how terribly he’s missed it all this time.
It’s an obvious thing. Mingi’s felt it since being back in the practice room with his friends and watching them dance, even when he sees them perform on stage— he’s known how much he still loves dance and how much he wishes he could get back into it how he once did. Here though, when he’s doing it with his own body again, creating again, the amalgamation of everything he’s not allowed himself to do hits him in full force. He understands why he’s been so adamant about avoiding it, this cavernous feeling of loss that sits where his heart should be.
“You’re upset.” Yunho says, watching him through the mirror.
Mingi tries to carry his own weight. “I’m okay, Yun.”
“We can stop, if it’s too much,” he affirms, pout in place, “this should be making you happy.”
Mingi feels all the energy he’s had drain out of him all at once. “I am happy,” he relents, “that’s the problem.”
Yunho looks at him, questioning.
“It makes me sad that I’ll never be able to do this like I used to,” Mingi admits. It stings. “I miss it so much more than I think I do— I think— it’s why I avoided it for so long.”
Yunho looks almost as upset as he does. “Maybe it’s about what it can be for you now, instead of what it used to be, Min.”
It’s not enough.
They both know it isn’t. For people like Yunho and Mingi, dancers like Yunho and Mingi, the art is everything. The perfection, the precision— the challenge. The need to push for more and to reinvent presents itself like a pulse, true and thrumming.
Mingi doesn’t know if Yunho understands how terrible it is to live without it because he’s never once had to give it up. It’s the ugliest part of him, when he’s faced with his harsh reality— how terrifyingly unforgiving his mind can be to those he loves. There’s a part of Mingi that can’t stand Yunho when he has to face how limited his own body is. It coats him with a disgusting film of guilt at having thought it at all, shame where he’s been reduced to nothing but his misplaced ambition. The rot.
“Maybe.” It’s all Mingi can say.
Yunho passes him his water bottle, unscrews the lid before he does. Mingi feels two times as terrible, to taint somebody as wonderful as him.
“Okay,” Yunho says, taking a sip of his own water bottle, and standing up, “c’mon— up, get up.”
Mingi takes Yunho’s hand and stands up. Yunho takes his phone from where it’s hooked on the speaker, and scrolls until he finds what he’s looking for. The song that starts playing is slower than the choreography music they’ve been working on. It’s an English song and vaguely reminiscent of something Mingi’s probably heard years ago. There’s a sole piano melody that’s superseded by a soft male voice.
“We’re cooling down,” Yunho says over the intro, “we can pick up again after, if you feel like it, but we’re taking a break.”
Mingi doesn’t know what to do with this type of music. Yunho makes it clear almost immediately, taking Mingi’s hands without looking up at him and placing them on his shoulders, his hands settling on Mingi’s waist.
“What are you—”
“Mingi-yah, just go with it,” Yunho says, closing in on his space, “enjoy the song.”
He draws Mingi closer, gets them situated better so that it’s less reminiscent of one of those western middle school dances. Mingi listens, relents to haloing his hands over Yunho’s shoulders and listening to the melody soothe into the pre-chorus of the song. It shouldn’t feel as comfortable as it does.
It’s so quiet, save for the speakers playing the melody that Yunho’s chosen. Mingi can hear them breathe, if he listens hard enough. The lights are dimmed because it’s an old habit from when they were trainees and the company was trying to save up on bills. It makes all of this arguably worse, where Yunho’s so present and warm as he’s stood by Mingi. He sways them to the music just barely, and they’re almost chest to chest. It topples then, like dominoes. Mingi doesn’t think much about it when he drops his head onto Yunho’s shoulder, breathes him in as they move. They’re inches from slotting their legs between each other’s, and Yunho wastes no time committing to it, moving his hands from Mingi’s waist to his back.
It’s not hard to get lost in it. Everything smells like Yunho, and Mingi’s missed this for so long— always misses him. This is not something they’ve ever done, but it feels like a lost memory found again, a singular sort of closeness that Mingi’s always had with Yunho but never in this way. He slowly realises that Yunho’s played a love song, when the second voice comes in on the next verse. He picks up on some of the words here and there as Yunho continues to sway them with no other intent.
“You were always closest to me when we were dancing,” Yunho murmurs, and Mingi’s glad that they’re not looking at each other. Yunho’s voice is so much deeper like this, like he’s speaking straight into Mingi’s skin.
“It’s always been so easy with you, Mingi-yah,” he says, tucking himself into Mingi that much more. “I’ve never needed you to say anything to me,” he continues, voice right by Mingi’s ears, “I just know.”
Mingi’s heart takes its cue to try beating right out of its cage, and he thinks he can maybe taste his pulse. Yunho can read him, even now.
“It’s the same for you, right?” Yunho asks him, words a river-rush. “You know?”
He’s known what this has been about since the arcade. It’s the subliminal push, the risk that Mingi’s so utterly afraid to take but treading closer and closer to the ledge of. It’s being with Yunho, like this, again. He seems to be so much bigger than Mingi’s contempt— so much bigger than his fear.
For this truth, he can muster up the courage to look at Yunho. They’re entirely in each other’s proximity when he pulls away to do so, breathing in each other’s space. The music still plays, a slow build to the strings that layer over the starting melody as the song moves into its bridge. It settles as readily as Mingi accepting that maybe he’s trying to win an uphill battle he’s been fighting for far too long.
“It’s always the same, Yun, of course it is,” he returns, “I know.”
Yunho’s eyes are heavy with the certainty he’s had since they were fifteen. Mingi knows then, that he’s out-gunned, out-willed and out-manned. They’re forehead to forehead now, heat that is Yunho’s that is also Mingi’s. He watches the way Yunho’s eyelashes flutter as his words reach, the resolution that settles.
There’s no reservation this time, no hesitation.
Yunho kisses him.
And God— God, is it a homecoming.
There’s nothing to stop Yunho, once he starts. He is so entirely thorough with Mingi, claims Mingi’s lips as if they’ve always been his to have. Mingi’s body, for all the will it’s tried to exercise since Yunho’s been back in his life, doesn’t know how to fight the pull. Mingi melts into him like he’s putty in Yunho’s hold. He’s everywhere all at once, hands that trail down Mingi’s arms and cradle his jaw, fingers that grasp at his hair and tighten around his hips.
It's enamouring to be had this way.
Yunho shows Mingi all the ways he’s always wanted to touch him— featherlight caresses that trace over all of his tattoos, his teeth nipping at Mingi’s lips. Mingi can’t help the mewls that escape him then, having to process too much when he’s so used to having nothing at all.
Mingi tries to give as much as he gets, chest against chest and the fervour he’s always had succumbed to. It’s blistering, the energy that moves from Yunho into him. It’s everything good and sacred to Mingi, unforgettable.
Still—
The back of Mingi’s mind doesn’t let him give in completely. He’s reminded of everything that he is, all the miserable, ugly parts of him. There’s a big enough voice that tells him that he doesn’t deserve this— that Yunho is somebody he should have known better than to involve in all his mess. He’s done it once, and he had ended up breaking them both as the price.
Yunho bites at his bottom lip a bit too harshly. Mingi jolts back into the moment.
“Stop it—” Yunho sighs into his lips, breathless with another kiss to soothe in tow, “enjoy this Mingi-yah, let yourself have this— have me.”
Mingi's scared. “Yun, I—”
“I want you, princess,” Yunho says, not even an inch from Mingi’s lips, “you know I want you. Let me.”
Yunho’s frenzied and cocky about it, beautiful. His cheeks are ruddy, and his lips are spit-slicked and swollen. He’s got a wild glint to him, as if he’s finally gotten a sip of water after hours under a parching sun.
Mingi has never known how to say no to Yunho, especially not now, not when he’s been allowed to taste him like this.
Yunho doesn’t do anything to move into Mingi’s space more than he already is. He’s not let go of him, hands steady at Mingi’s cheeks, but he wants Mingi to choose. Yunho looks at him with pure confidence, lets Mingi have the space to decide what he wants and how he wants it.
Mingi’s absolutely fucked.
He pecks Yunho. It’s all he can gather the courage to manage. Thankfully though, it’s all Yunho really needs.
He reclaims Mingi’s lips, soft and slow. He doesn’t rush him or ask for more, just gets Mingi used to the feeling of his lips on Mingi’s once more.
Mingi relaxes into Yunho, easy and true, surrendering himself to the moment. It’s so good, too good. It’s chaste and sweet and entirely too short. Still, when Yunho breaks away, Mingi’s breathless. Yunho rests his forehead against Mingi’s so that have a moment to really savour it all. He leaves a kiss to Mingi’s temple then, and another to the mole right under Mingi’s eyes.
“Do you— we could go back to mine,” Yunho says. It’s not suggestive, just shy. The anticipation builds though, stubborn and intense.
Mingi brings his lips to Yunho’s again, just barely. He can’t help himself. Yunho smiles into the miniscule space between their lips.
“Let’s go, Yun.”
The drive is short, and Yunho’s got his free hand in Mingi’s the entire time. Still, something unravels in Mingi, dreadful and uninvited, in the twenty minutes they’re on the road. By the time they get to Yunho’s dorm, Mingi’s not really able to draw enough air into his lungs. He doesn’t know what happens during the distance between the studio and the dorm, but something trips a wire and Mingi’s completely dysregulated.
Mingi paces once he’s in Yunho’s room, hand on his chest and deep breaths. Nothing works— he feels like his chest is going to explode and his inhales come in short, uncoordinated bursts.
Yunho gives Mingi his space, but Mingi can practically hear the worry from where he’s stood at the corner of the room. He doesn’t know how to manage it until Yunho’s voice cuts through.
“Deep breaths, Min,” Yunho says softly, “you need to take slow, deep breaths.”
Yunho broaches into Mingi’s space slowly, so that he’s not spooked. He interlinks one of his hands in his, and Mingi can only heave a harsh sigh in return. The hold is grounding and Mingi tightens his grip. It clears the peripheries of the room a bit more for him, less blurry than before.
“Fuck— fuck— I don’t know what happened,” Mingi pants, shaking his head, “this is so— fucking hell.”
He can’t get a proper word in, not when the rise and fall of his chest quickens when he tries to speak.
Mingi’s mind runs a mile a minute now. “I just— fuck, I just needed one day— one day where I could just feel fucking normal, I—”
“Min,” Yunho stops him, “baby— could you just keep breathing with me? Can you do that?”
Mingi can feel the tears pool in his eyes. He can’t do this, not here— not again, with Yunho. He doesn’t want to cry. Yunho’s fingers cradle his face anyway, they wipe at his eyelashes and cheeks, relentless but gentle, constant even, patient.
Mingi takes a breath with him. It’s stuttered and entirely unsteady. Yunho does it again. Mingi follows along. It’s a rhythm, eventually.
“I’m sorry,” Mingi breathes, “I can’t ever— Yunho—”
Yunho shakes his head. He mimics another deep breath. Mingi mirrors him.
They stay like that until Mingi’s back down to earth. He can’t help but keep apologising— because God, why can’t Mingi just ever be normal. Yunho just shushes him, tells him that he’s safe and okay.
He tells Mingi to take a breather and go wash his face. Mingi doesn’t know how much he’s needed it until the cool water is on his face, something renewed. He takes a few seconds to gather himself, but all he really wants to do is be with Yunho again.
And it’s so easy, because Yunho’s waiting for him right by the door. He practically falls into his hold, and Yunho doesn’t let him go even as they walk to his bed. He switches on the AC and they both get under the covers.
Mingi’s too tired for self-preservation. He cocoons himself against Yunho’s side, ear to his heart and legs in his. Yunho’s so kind about it, hugging him.
“I’m so sorry,” Mingi says again, quiet.
Yunho just tightens the grip he has over Mingi’s waist. “Stop apologising Mingi-yah, this is a lot.”
“It’s— I freaked out a bit,” Mingi admits, “it would be easier, if it weren’t me.”
Mingi knows it’s childish to say. He’s a few years from thirty and he’s still insecure when he’s at his most weak and vulnerable. Still, he’s too exhausted to hate himself for it, today.
Yunho shakes his head, a kiss to his hair, “Min, do you want to know a secret?”
Mingi readjusts a little in his hold, shifts so that he can look up at Yunho. He’s already looking at Mingi, smile genuine. Mingi nods.
He gets real close to Mingi, nose to nose. Mingi loves him.
“I don’t need anybody other than you, Mingi-yah,” Yunho whispers, “you, here, just you.”
Mingi doesn’t need anything else, not really. Not when Yunho is here with him like this. The worry decompresses into intelligible static. Mingi tries to mould himself closer to Yunho’s body.
It’s not hard to ask, then. “Do you still want to kiss me?”
Yunho smiles, eyes wide and only on Mingi. “I always want to kiss you.”
“You should get to work then,” Mingi murmurs, light and anticipating, “make up for lost time.”
It’s a little different this time. More certain.
Mingi gives easy and Yunho takes even easier. It’s a deep sigh, once Yunho’s lips are back on his again. There’s a push and pull to everything, but here, he just lets Yunho guide him where he needs to go. Mingi just wants to memorialise all the little things that Yunho gives him, like this— the tender way he holds Mingi’s jaw, the way he tries to move into Mingi’s space even if there’s no more left between them. Yunho’s eyelashes rest against the soft skin of Mingi’s cheeks, his nose next to Mingi’s, gentle and grounding. It’s magnetic and entirely heady, that Yunho kisses to prove how he means every one of the words he’s said to Mingi, that his eagerness does make it clear that Yunho always wants to be kissing him. It’s true and certain in how tender he is, how he prods instead of insists, how he keeps everything slow and sating for Mingi’s comfort.
There is want, though, Mingi knows. It’s careful and controlled, but it’s in every single morsel of every single second that Yunho kisses him. Mingi can pick it out when Yunho’s cold hands slip under Mingi’s t-shirt, fingers settled on heated skin, and he can also pick it out when the leg Yunho’s got in between Mingi’s thighs stutters just a little bit closer to Mingi’s hips. It’s well-sealed and managed, but it bubbles, right under the surface.
Now that Yunho’s given him this, Mingi finds that this isn’t at all enough. It’s a budding need, to have Yunho unrestrained and unyielding with how he wants Mingi. He wants to know how he would be coveted, how he would be pushed, if it were to come down to that. He wants it— wants more.
He supposes that’s what makes him brave. There’s only a breadth of contemplation before Mingi challenges Yunho’s chasteness by licking into his mouth. He doesn’t change the pace of their kiss or lean into Yunho more than he already has, but he makes himself clear, a plea for more.
“Fuck,” Yunho whimpers, “Mingi-yah.”
It’s over then, really.
Mingi kisses him again, surer this time. He’s immediate with repositioning himself, swinging a leg over Yunho’s thighs so that he’s near sitting on him. Yunho’s immediately receptive to the change, using the momentum of it all to sit upright. Mingi’s straddling him then, and everything gets a bit hazier for him.
He can tug at Yunho’s hair like this, and he does. His hair is so soft and yielding in Mingi’s touch, and Mingi’s entirely enamoured with it. Yunho chooses to retaliate by nipping at Mingi’s bottom lip, and there, he’s a complete goner. His moan is wanton and his hips have a mind of their own as they roll into Yunho’s.
Mingi gets to feel Yunho’s breath hitch.
“You’re hard,” Mingi can’t help but say.
Yunho laughs, eyes timid and unfocused, “You are too.”
Mingi kisses him. Yunho goes so easy. There’s a glaring few minutes where Mingi’s drunk on the power of Yunho being completely disoriented with Mingi on top of him. He tests out another cant of his hips, only for Yunho to break away from his lip and groan into Mingi’s throat.
It heats Mingi from the inside out, to have Yunho this close and wanting. “Kiss me there,” he stammers, “want you to kiss me more.”
Yunho heeds to instruction so well and pretty, lips immediate on the skin of Mingi’s neck. Mingi doesn’t stop himself from keening, Yunho’s mouth so warm and wet under his jaw and down his neck. He bites and sucks like some sort of deity, every touch of his piteous and prolonged. Mingi is drunk on it, and he can’t help how he moves into Yunho, slow and sure. He knows he’s leaking into his boxers, and that only serves to make the friction all the more delectable. Yunho’s just as taken by it, his hands gripping the sides of Mingi’s waist and keeping him steady.
They’re winded and gasping into each other’s mouths before long, fuzzy with surmounting pleasure. Mingi vaguely knows that there are too many layers of clothing between them for it to amount to anything, but he has neither the patience nor the determination to stop. The room is getting entirely too fucking hot, but still— still, Mingi can’t stop.
“Off,” Mingi says finally, toying with the hem of Yunho’s shirt, “want it off please.”
Yunho nods against his lips, wordless. There are a stupidly long few seconds where Mingi has to actually take off Yunho’s shirt. He can’t bear it, so he’s impatient with taking off his own in quick succession so as to not lose more time.
He doesn’t think too hard about it, but Yunho stuns. His fingers still, almost at Mingi’s waist again and awkwardly hovering. Then— then, Yunho looks at him, awestruck and unmoving. Mingi realises belatedly that Yunho’s never had the chance to look, not like this.
His hands unfreeze, eventually, and then he’s taking in all of Mingi’s tattoos. Mingi watches Yunho’s eyes wander, watches him trace over the little M by his hip and the hundreds of other lines scattered along the skin of his arms and torso. There are so many of them now, dragons and flows and bugs— innocuous, beautiful things that Mingi’s had a fascination with, eternalised to his skin.
Mingi watches Yunho find adoration for it just like Mingi’s always had. “You’re so fucking pretty,” Yunho stutters, almost to himself, hands still traversing Mingi's skin, “it’s— princess.”
Mingi taps Yunho’s cheek, hooks a finger under his chin so that he looks up at Mingi. Yunho obeys, and for that, Mingi traces a thumb over the pout of his lips, takes in the reverence that’s apparent on his face, still.
He kisses Yunho again, slow and fervent. Yunho kisses back.
Mingi doesn’t even get to enjoy the warmth of Yunho’s skin on his because Yunho affirms his own trajectory, kissing the skin of his cheek and then trailing down his jaw and collarbones. Mingi can’t do anything but whine, Yunho’s lips so sure and devoted to his skin.
Yunho, despite his eagerness, is ever so gentle. His first kiss to Mingi’s sternum is featherlight and barely there. Mingi’s breathless because of it, and it’s only with that affirmation that Yunho commits himself to licking at every bit of skin he can reach. Mingi can mostly handle it, but when Yunho grazes over Mingi’s nipple for the first time, he practically trembles in Yunho’s hold. He has to steady himself by bringing Yunho’s lips to his, filthy-sweet and eager.
“Sensitive,” Yunho smirks. He does it again just to get Mingi riled up, and the shivers run up his spine all the way into his ears.
Yunho uses Mingi distracted to switch them around then, Mingi’s back against the sheets under Yunho, carried through by the momentum of his flip. It’s an entirely inane feeling then, to be winded the same time he processes the weight of Yunho above him for the first time. He is steady and ever present, and Mingi can only kiss him about it.
He leverages his legs open around Yunho’s thighs so that their cocks can rub up together again. Yunho seems to enjoy the chase of that friction just as much as Mingi, breathing harsher when he licks into Mingi’s mouth.
Mingi’s hands travel over the marvel of his back unbidden— the tone of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. It’s all so lovely and perfect that Mingi finds every bit of it surreal. It’s also then, that the fear rushes back into him. He comes to the sobering realisation that maybe he won’t let himself have more of this, come morning.
He finds himself desperate about it.
“I want you to fuck me.” Mingi says into Yunho’s kiss.
Yunho pauses them, readjusting on his elbow to stare at him. Even the smallest of movements rub their erections together, so he tries to remain as still as he can.
“Mingi—"
“I’m sure, seriously,” Mingi trudges on, adrenaline on his side, “I’ve wanted this—"
Yunho looks at him, perplexed, “Mingi-yah—"
Mingi would lay it all down here, when he has the courage to do so. “You’re not going to hurt me, Yun, I know what I—"
Yunho kisses him, the interruption shutting him up. Mingi thaws, eventually.
“Min,” he hastens, “we have time.”
Mingi doesn’t know that he does. He bites at his bottom lip hard enough to bleed. Yunho is a grace.
He kisses Mingi’s heart and then the mole by his cheek, pecks his lips.
“We have this, now,” Yunho says again, reassuring, “I’m not going anywhere, jagi.”
Mingi leans his forehead to Yunho’s.
He’s here. Yunho’s here. “Okay,” Mingi breathes, “okay.”
This is real. Yunho is real. Mingi kisses him again to convince himself.
“I’ll touch you,” Yunho affirms, “get my mouth on you even, if you’d let me. You just have to show me how.”
Mingi comes to two startling realisations all at once. One, Yunho has never been with a guy this way before. Two, Yunho wants to suck him off. His Yunho. Fuck, fuck—
He nods at Yunho’s suggestion, his cock heavy and aching now. “You can— yeah, yeah, get me off please— with your mouth.”
Yunho smiles, agreeing. “Okay then, that’s what we’ll do.”
They strip the rest of the way together. Yunho’s blush runs down from his cheeks all the way to his abdomen, and Mingi is obsessed with all the skin on show when he’s free to look. He’s hard against Mingi’s thigh but pays no mind to himself, all of his attention on getting Mingi situated back on his sheets.
Yunho traces over some of Mingi’s tattoos again, and he’s starting to get a feel of which ones he likes. The first he kisses though, is the M on Mingi’s right hip. It’s everything to Mingi, that it’s just as special to Yunho.
He busies himself with Mingi’s nipples again, and he does so until Mingi’s keening for him to both stop and keep going. It’s only then that he follows his way down Mingi’s happy trail with kisses and nips, determined and wanting.
Yunho’s not even got a hand on Mingi’s dick yet, and he’s already shaking. The lack doesn’t last long though, because Yunho spits into his hand and strokes Mingi for the first time, and it happens with no warning. It’s a little dry but Yunho’s not shaken, gathering the precum at Mingi’s head and smearing it on his spit-slicked hand. Mingi’s groans are pathetic and insatiable. The more he gives Yunho, the more he gets.
Eventually, Yunho does situate himself between Mingi’s thighs. It’s an image that’s forever branded in Mingi’s brain the moment it happens, and it’s then that he stares back at Mingi, a little mystified.
“Start small,” Mingi breathes, “take a little bit, at first, and get a feel for if you like it.”
Yunho listens. His eyes never leave Mingi’s as he sets himself down on Mingi’s cock, licking from shaft to tip at first. Mingi’s not taught him that, but he’ll take the feel of it either way. He does, then, start small. Yunho takes in the tip of Mingi’s cock into his mouth experimentally.
Yunho feels so fucking good around him, velvety heat that’s soft and beguiling. His lips look like they’re made for Mingi, and it’s a fucking sight to behold. He bobs his head just barely, once or twice, on pure instinct.
“Yeah— yeah, Yun,” Mingi encourages, embarrassingly winded, “just like that, you can suck too, if that works for you.”
Yunho stares up at him, eyes wide. He commits himself completely after, taking a bit more of Mingi in and constricting his soft palette around Mingi’s cock while he sucks. Mingi’s head falls into the pillows because Yunho’s doing such a good fucking job, hands trying to grip onto his sheets. Yunho makes it worse, moaning into Mingi’s cock as if it feels just as good to give Mingi what he needs as it is for Mingi to receive it.
He’s a fast learner, from there. His hands find themselves secured onto Mingi’s hips so he can’t move all that much. Yunho’s fingers are so big and steady by the side of Mingi’s torso, and Mingi loves it.
Little by little, Yunho takes more and more of Mingi as he’s comfortable. He pays attention to what he does when Mingi’s breath hitches or when Mingi makes a particularly desperate sound, and before long, Mingi’s on the precipice of cumming from just Yunho’s mouth on him.
He doles out a litany of praises for Yunho as his core is wound tighter and tighter, helpless to Yunho’s pace now.
Mingi’s babbling, soon enough, “Close— fuck, Yun, so close, jagi.”
Yunho slows down just barely, his mouth being replaced by his hands. He takes his place next to Mingi as he’s ushered up next to him, and then Mingi’s desperate to touch him too.
He’s entirely debauched, hair askew and lips pink and swollen. Mingi kisses him in both want and need, near frenzied.
“Gonna touch you now, too, okay?” Mingi asks, “Want you to cum with me.”
Yunho just nods desperately, lips on Mingi’s again. They adjust so they’re side by side, Mingi finally able to palm Yunho. He’s gratified with a full body shudder that stops Yunho’s hand from working on Mingi’s cock for a few satisfying seconds. Mingi savours every bit of it.
They trudge to their finishes like that, side by side. Mingi cums first, and Yunho not long after, both of them gasping into each other’s mouths as they do. It’s certifiably one of the times in Mingi’s life where he’s cum the hardest, and it’s only belatedly that realises he wasn’t even fucked through it.
Yunho, too, seems stunned for a good while. He only moves away to get something for them to clean up with, and once he has, he’s right back to Mingi’s side.
It’s a lot.
Mingi supposes it settles in then, just how long they’ve both wanted to do that. It’s in those same seconds that the incredulity properly sets in, Yunho the first to devolve into helpless giggles.
Mingi starts, smiling at nothing, “That was—”
Yunho laughs harder, hands in the air. “Good— great,” he exclaims, “I don’t think I’ve cum that hard since high school.”
That’s when Mingi joins in too, “Me either.”
And then it’s just them again. Yunho and Mingi. Mingi and Yunho.
They stay close, move under the sheets when the nip of the aircon starts getting to them. The silence accompanies them then, kind and revelling. Mingi’s mind is a comforting blank for the first time in what feels like years.
Hours could pass, and he wouldn’t know.
Yunho rests his head on Mingi’s chest, hand trailing over one of Mingi’s biceps and their legs entangled. He’s almost tipped over to sleep, when Yunho speaks.
“I prayed for you every day after you left,” he whispers, like he shouldn’t be saying the words out loud, “I still pray for you.”
Mingi doesn’t know what to say. It shouldn’t hurt this much, to constantly grapple with the realisation that he’s being considered by Yunho, that that never went away. It’s in stark contrast to how he usually views himself— where his mind convinces him that he’s disposable, merely swaying through life.
Mingi bumps his nose to Yunho’s, hoping to nurture some of the ache.
“I’m sorry I didn’t push,” Yunho breathes, “I should’ve— I knew something was wrong when you started pulling away, I knew—"
Mingi shakes his head. This was all dead and buried, a past they could only relive but in no way unearth.
Yunho could be afforded this truth. “All that would’ve done is ruin the time I had with you, Yun, with what we all were,” Mingi hastens, “I got to walk away from it on my terms, that’s the best that could have happened.”
Yunho’s devastated, still, “I didn’t see how much pain you were in, though— I’m so sorry, Mingi-yah.”
“You were a child, Yun,” Mingi breaks, “I don’t blame you for anything.”
Yunho shakes his head. He kisses Mingi, once then twice.
“You were, too.”
It’s a sucker punch and then some. Mingi forgets that, most days. He’s so busy beating himself up for all his mistakes that his memory forgoes that he didn’t know any better, either— that there wasn’t really any alternative other than to leave.
He can only hold Yunho tighter then, be grateful that he’s here and willing.
He lowers his lips down to Yunho’s and savours the taste of him, toeing the line between desperation and longing. Mingi can’t help but take, now that he’s been given. Yunho lets him.
“In another life, we’d would’ve been on that stage together,” he assures in a murmur right into Yunho’s lips, “I would have written a song or two for us and we would have performed it for everyone to see, just like we talked about.”
Yunho looks at him so earnestly, so painfully, tears welling. They fall from the apples of his cheeks and onto Mingi’s chest. He just wishes he could go back in time and save them from everything that’s happened. There’s an odd sense of déjà vu to it that Mingi doesn’t understand.
“We would have made it together, Yun,” he whispers, “we would have lived it together and had everything we dreamed of, I’m sure of it.”
Yunho’s hand finds Mingi’s. He interlocks them just like he used to when they were kids, as he had done in comfort and as he had done in strife. He places a chaste kiss onto the side of Mingi’s palm. It’s a quiet moment, a sure one.
“I wish it didn’t have to be another life,” Yunho muses, a barely there bitterness gracing the words, “I wanted it to be us in this one.”
The conviction unsteadies Mingi like a gust of wind through a tightrope, unexpected and dispiriting. “Me too, Yun,” he affirms, “me too.”
⤥ ★ ⤦
Everything gets quieter as the days go on. The constant barrage of incessant worry Mingi has internalised for years takes to slumber. It’s not all gone and it’s not all pretty again, but Mingi finds himself having a break from most things that have had him drawn string tight and afraid for a long time. Yunho does that for Mingi, it’s a little more of what he once had all those years ago, what Yunho had always done for him.
It's in the stillness that Mingi finds it matters most. It’s where he would normally be alone that Yunho ensures him, when he’s going to bed or cooking a meal— where his racing mind or his tendency to pace is replaced by Yunho’s soft smile or laugh. Quiet, beautiful things that soothe over Mingi’s terrible habits. He doesn’t know how to show him his gratitude, how vastly he’s changed things in the big and small.
Yunho is also better with their liberties. Mingi’s wanted him for so long he almost chokes with it every time he so much as looks at Yunho with the need to be closer to him. He’s shy about it, pathetically enough— as if he’s some middle schooler experiencing a crush for the very first time. They haven’t done anything else since that night, no need to rush. There are lingering stares and cuddling in bed, sleepovers at each other’s places and showering together, good morning and good night kisses to cheeks and temples, a peck here and there. Not much more than that and certainly not less.
It's so weird, because they’ve always been so comfortable in each other’s proximity, and now, Mingi feels like he’s burning every time Yunho so much as looks at him too long. He’s so enamoured by him, and it’s utterly terrifying that he’s allowed to be, out in the open for Yunho to see. Still, Yunho is here, still, Yunho doesn’t push. He takes care of Mingi in all the ways he asks to be allowed, waits with him and assures him patience, initiates when he knows that Mingi wants to but doesn’t have the courage to ask. He is so kind, and so brave. His Yunho.
So, it’s not a surprise when Yunho buzzes into Mingi’s apartment as he cooks dinner. Mingi had gotten out of the studio a little bit early today and tried his hand at some Western food— pasta carbonara and some salad. He thinks it’s turned out well for the most part, but works to make some chicken just in case they want a second dinner. Mingi hears the lock click behind Yunho as he breads the meat he’s got in a bowl. Careful arms snake around his waist in greeting.
“I’m very serious about my dredging,” Mingi murmurs with a smile, “don’t mess this up for me.”
Yunho hooks his chin onto Mingi’s shoulder, “That does look very serious, Chef Song.”
Mingi faux scoffs, “Don’t mock me.”
Yunho hums into his shoulder, “You’re wearing a kiss the chef apron.”
“That I am,” Mingi says, leaning his head to Yunho’s.
Yunho tightens his grip around Mingi in contentment. He kisses the side of Mingi’s neck just barely, and it’s bold. It’s the boldest Yunho’s really been since they started doing whatever it is that they’re doing right now.
It sends a shiver through Mingi from his head right down to his toes. He turns around to look at Yunho so that he doesn’t do something insane, considering the fact that his hands are a mess of panko, flour and eggs.
Yunho’s cheeks are flushed red, and his eyes are sparkling. He hasn’t tamed his hair from the late September breeze outside and he looks almost high, elated with a barely contained excitement. Mingi hasn’t seen him like this since—
“What?” Mingi asks, “What is it?”
Yunho’s eyes are glassy, and he’s practically vibrating. Mingi knows it’s big.
“We booked Coachella.”
It is big. It’s then that he places it, that this expression on Yunho is the same as what he saw the day they graduated from trainees to being members of a boy group that were going to debut. It’s the face of achievement, of working for something so long and so unbelievably hard that you don’t even know what to do with it when it’s staring you in the face. It’s disbelief, it’s astonishment.
It processes slowly. Mingi’s awe-struck, “Like— Yunho? The biggest music festival in the world, Coachella?”
Yunho nods voraciously, “They came to us— they came to us, Min. Apparently we have had a good enough track record with our shows and with our American audience, we— the Coachella.”
“The Coachella,” Mingi parrots.
Mingi kisses him. He doesn’t even know what comes over him, only that his arms halo around Yunho’s winter jacket clad shoulders with no regard for getting flour on it. He kisses him with a laugh in his throat and a pride that glowers so deep and true that he can barely contain himself with the force he feels at getting to witness something as wonderfully earth-shattering as this for Yunho. His Yunho— the man who deserves every opportunity like this and then some.
Yunho is shaking. Mingi feels his entire chest tremble against his when he draws closer. Still, his grip on Mingi’s waist is every steady and firm, and he’s laughing in incredulity just like Mingi is, his teeth clacking into Mingi’s. Mingi can’t grab at Yunho the way he wants to, but Yunho does it for him, kisses him again and again and again, because he understands exactly what Mingi’s trying to say. Congratulations. I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you. God, I fucking love you. It’s on Mingi’s lips every time he has them on Yunho’s, a fervour that Mingi is keyed up on adrenaline enough to give. He licks into Yunho’s mouth without a second thought, catches him in the middle of a sigh and takes some more. Yunho makes a sound that’s winded and brilliant, no resistance to how Mingi moulds them together. And it’s so good, how nice Yunho tastes, how solid he is for Mingi to fall into. He is everything to Mingi, and he’s so, so glad for him.
It's not long before he’s being tilted against the cluttered counter of his kitchenette, not long before he hears the clang of metal of his breading and dredging station threatening to be knocked over. The noise startles them out of it, and Yunho does end up getting some flour on his cheeks. Yunho stays close, nose to nose.
“It’s not the main stage, obviously,” Yunho says, “and it’s going to be hard— so crazy difficult with the set-lists and practice and comeback—”
Mingi kisses him again.
“It’s Coachella— it’s ATEEZ,” Mingi breathes against Yunho’s lips, smiling, “it’s what we dreamed of. You’re going to pull through and pull through the best of the best, we both know it. It’s what you do.”
Mingi doesn’t let the moment be bittersweet and exists in this happiness that he has for Yunho. He ignores the part of his mind reminding him that they had all spoken about Coachella together, how it was a pipe dream of eight hole in the wall kids exhausted from sixty-hour practice weeks and never enough sleep, that being the best of the best is supposed to be what they both did— not just Yunho. Mingi doesn’t let the rot grow, doesn’t let it ruin more than it already has.
The quiet would stay.
Mingi leans into Yunho, watches him smile too hard and beams at him brighter than the sun. “Congratulations, Yun,” Mingi whispers. It’s earnest. It’s true. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
Yunho kisses him again, kisses his neck and jaw and hair. Yunho kisses him until Mingi’s in a fit of giggles and he almost forgets how dark and damp the base of his chest is, heavy with so much that’s putrid and deteriorating, unresolved. Yunho kisses him until Mingi’s laughing at him to wash his face, to let him get back to making them both dinner.
Mingi, with all his effort, tries not to focus on how even in the quiet, things decay.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Mingi’s his happiest come Christmas time.
Just as Halloween draws to a close, there’s an uptick of clients that get booked in with Mingi after some of his flash designs go viral on Instagram. Yunho’s buried under the pressure of being mid-comeback training cycle, and all the organising around their Coachella run. They barely have time for themselves, let alone each other, but they try.
They plan at least one dinner a week, and Mingi finds himself just crashing at Yunho’s more and more because the dorm is closer than his apartment. It becomes a quiet routine, and Yunho’s bed smells so much like him— fresh and powdery, that Mingi pretty much knocks out as soon as he drops onto his sheets. Yunho says the same about Mingi’s apartment, that his bed is comfier than the one at the dorm, that his sheets are nicer and his space is decorated better and homier than Yunho’s own. They work it out by switching between places for their nights.
Maybe it’s because he’s taking some more time to take care of himself, but even his pain hasn’t been as obtrusive in recent days. He’s good with his balm and finished his course of injections a couple of days ago now, so he’s at the nice lull where he feels mobile and human. His lower back is mostly stiff and aching, but it stays a whir. It’s a good stretch of time, and Mingi’s grateful.
Comeback season arrives too, not long after. They’re all in good spirits— and Mingi gets to watch the news break that the new songs are units in real time. Hongjoong had already sent him the demos before they were properly recorded, and from the get-go, Yunho and Jongho’s duet had been gunning for his favourite. He’s proven right, when he listens to the entire run of the album. Everything is beautiful and heart-breaking in all the right ways, and he can see why they wanted to leave it as the last proper track on the album. Yunho’s shy about it when they listen to the entirety of it together, but Mingi opts to kiss him to prove a point. There’s a lot more of that now, Mingi getting bolder with the little ways he can get Yunho to blush or stutter. Their time together these days has been more kissing than anything else, and it’s almost like they’re making up for the lost time they didn’t have as kids.
It’s also then that they have the what are we conversation. Mingi brings it up because it feels no longer avoidable, and Yunho only responds with confusion.
“I— wait, I thought we were already together.”
Mingi can’t help but laugh, stunned. He had planned an entire speech and segue about how he wanted them to be exclusive, that they were ready. Mingi can only kiss Yunho then, chuckling into his lips.
“Okay then,” he accepts, “we’re together.”
Yunho smiles, “It’s only you for me, princess.”
Mingi tucks himself into Yunho’s neck and squeals.
It’s a building thrum, from that conversation— the want to have Yunho, fully. Mingi’s had a part of his longing be that for a long time, but it hits him in full force, at times like these.
Mingi also continues to be a fansite. He shows up for the pre-recordings like he did last comeback and gets tickets for all the end of year shows they’re performing at. The only addition is that he also sits in on some of ATEEZ’s end of year festival prep. He adds where he can and suggests things that work and don’t. As the days go by, Mingi finally feels like he’s finally adjusting to this aspect of his life, where he’s in such close proximity to Yunho and all of his friends again. They all go out together too— groups of three or four, to meals at local spots they like or nights at the dorms gaming or watching a movie. It’s reminiscent of when they were trainees, and Mingi’s heart is run over by how wonderful it is to have company as genuine and unwavering as theirs.
They don’t have any set plans since Yunho’s working the New Year stretch, but Mingi’s mom mentions that she’d like to come see Mingi for Christmas. The plan falls into place without much fanfare, and Mingi ends up agreeing to cook Christmas dinner and have it be a small affair— him, Yunho and his mom. They do gifts on Christmas Eve.
“So, I do have two presents for you,” Yunho starts off.
They’re at Yunho’s dorm tonight. Mingi’s gift is a shabby little collection he’s been picking up whenever he sees something he knows Yunho will love. Yunho’s taste, as he knows, is a bit more refined.
“Open mine first,” Mingi says, handing over his bag, “then you.”
Yunho doesn’t protest, taking the bag excitedly. He sits next to Mingi on the bed and gets to unwrapping.
“It’s not much at all, Yun,” Mingi warns, “I’ve just been picking up whatever I think you’d—”
Mingi’s kissed so hard he’s knocked onto Yunho’s bed with the force of it.
“You’re an idiot,” Yunho sighs, amidst kisses, “you get me vintage editions of the Spidey comics and the new game and you tell me it’s not much, c’mon princess.”
He bites at Mingi’s arms and kisses him all over. Mingi’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe by the end of it. “Thank you,” he says, “I love them.”
It’s easy for Mingi to believe.
It takes Yunho a few minutes before he’s willing to let go of Mingi’s lips in his. Mingi has no objections, happy to savour Yunho’s joy and hearth in one of his favourite ways.
“Okay, okay— my turn,” Yunho concedes, “You can’t be mad at me because I’ve already warned you that I got you two.”
He looks at Yunho a little pointedly. “Yun—”
Yunho raises his hands in mock-surrender.
“They’re gifts, princess,” Yunho says, a peck to his lips, “you accept them and say thank you. Exchange them at the mall later if you hate them— these though, I don’t think you’ll be able to return.”
Mingi huffs, “Seems like a running theme with you.”
Yunho smiles, cheeky and ardent, “You’re starting to get the idea.”
He hands Mingi an envelope first. Mingi sits up on Yunho’s bed and opens it. Yunho stares at him, expectant and a little unsure. Mingi doesn’t know what to say.
He looks at the paper, reading over the details over and over. “These are tickets to Coachella.”
Yunho nods, biting his lip, “I— uh— would you want to come with me? I sort of— already booked the tickets and spoke to your noonas at the studio about you taking a week off in April— and it’s all paid for already, but— I want you to be there, if you want to, that is.”
“My present is fucking shit— Yunho,” Mingi whines.
Mingi gets to watch the expression on Yunho’s face change, a literal kid on Christmas morning. There’s no way he could say anything other than a yes, not when it’s Yunho.
“Your present is one of my favourite things I have ever received,” Yunho beams, “is that a yes?”
“I hate you.”
Yunho giggles when he goes to kiss Mingi, sated and warming. Mingi wants this joy in the palm of his hands forever.
“And your second gift,” Yunho says, opening his closet, “is actually your birthday present— I just never got to give it to you because of the whole hospital debacle. So really, you’re hitching a side ticket to my work trip and I’m reusing presents. See, terrible gift giver.”
Yunho’s entirely too insufferable when he’s this adorable.
There’s no hiding what it is once he yanks it out. “Yunho—”
“You’ve been staring at Joongie hyung’s one for ages now, and I know you’re still thinking about picking back up the music stuff so— I just wanted to help.”
Yunho brings it over to them on the bed, and Mingi gets to uncase it. It’s a guitar. It’s a beautiful, bird-fret electric model that is sleek and a thing of Mingi’s dreams. He doesn’t even play anymore, not really.
Ridiculous.
Mingi would take his time to explore that guitar of his. Right now, though, he has other plans. He sets it back into its case to Yunho’s confusion— and then he’s straddling his annoyingly perfect, genuine, pretty boyfriend.
Yunho’s eyes heavy embarrassingly quickly, “Oh—”
The rest of whatever Yunho wants to say is lost in Mingi’s mouth. He savours it, the relent of Yunho’s limbs under his own.
They’re busy for a while.
//
Yunho’s the most jittery Mingi’s seen in ages, the next morning. By the time they have to get ready to pick up his mom from the train station, Yunho starts worrying about whether or not he should switch his phone case to a newer one.
“Jagi— seriously, it’s fine,” Mingi says, taking the phone from Yunho’s hand, “eomma loves you, always has, why are you worrying.”
He starts fidgeting with the buttons of his cardigan next. “I know, I just— she’s not seen me in a long time, y’know? And now we’re—”
Mingi smiles, “We’re what?”
Yunho makes a face, flush high on his cheeks. Mingi kisses him because he can never resist with that face of his. “Together.”
“Oh?” Mingi smirks, “We are?”
It’s Yunho’s turn this time, to draw him into a kiss, “Oh yes, we are.”
They show up at the train station fifteen minutes late. Mingi’s been learning, multiple times a week recently, that Yunho’s very good at making Mingi cum with just his lips and hands. It should be embarrassing that he’s having his vision white out from third base more than once a day sometimes, but that’s neither here nor there.
His mom doesn’t spare Mingi from a knowing glance when she hugs them both hello, but she’s kinder about it with Yunho. He greets her like they’ve never met, and his mom laughs at him easy, easy, easy. Mingi watches the relief take over all of Yunho once the ice breaks, and then he’s bright and unreserved in all the ways Mingi loves him.
The station isn’t busy this early in the morning and Mingi hopes that they’re all dressed casually enough to be innocuous to any wandering eyes. Here, Yunho looks like any other guy in their mid-20s, and he hopes it stays in their favour.
Mingi offers to get them all their coffees, and Yunho wordlessly takes the two bags his mom’s carrying off her shoulders and onto his own. It’s so hot Mingi needs to look away to cope.
“You’re only here for the day, eomma,” Mingi smiles, giving her a kiss to the top of his head, “what are all the bags?”
It’s food. He knows it’s food.
She pinches the side of his stomach and Mingi yelps. She laughs, soothing his skin over with her hand. “Be grateful, aegi. I’ve been cooking all week,” she says with a smile, turning around, “Yunho-yah, I packed some banchan for you and the boys as well— made some mandu too, we’ll sort it when we get home, okay?”
Yunho’s eyes are shining and so pretty. Mingi’s never seen him revert back to seventeen and unabashed quite so quickly. He thanks her in earnest and promises to take back everything she’s prepared for them.
Mingi gets himself an iced americano and buys caramel lattes for both Yunho and his mom. They’re similar like that, and he’s reminded of how familiar their company is when Yunho drives the three of them back to Mingi’s apartment.
It turns out to be one of Mingi’s favourite days in recent years. They spend the entire day playing board games, cooking and talking.
Yunho’s on prep duty but he’s terrible with most things. His mom spends an awful amount of time trying to teach Yunho how to dice an onion, and all it does is end up with both him and her in tears because Yunho keeps having to start over. Mingi laughs so hard he comes down with a coughing fit, and they all make the call to take a break for some tea before they reconvene.
His mom asks Yunho about everything— from his performances to his travels to Yunho’s favourite places to eat. It’s such easy conversation, and Mingi ends up learning more than he expects about where Yunho frequents around Seoul.
Mingi has a four-course meal ready for them by dinner time and it’s some of the best food he thinks he’s cooked. He gives his acknowledgements to the sous-chefs with a stupid accent and lengthy embellishments, and then they dig in, laughing. He’d splurged on the good meat and it’s well worth it because Yunho and his mom practically inhale the food. The meal is a small and certain happiness, and Mingi wants years of this and then some.
Yunho brings out the good yakgwa soon after, and cuts up the persimmons and apple pairs he’d bought for them all as his contribution. They open a bottle of wine and get way too competitive with a game of monopoly. They laugh and laugh and laugh. It’s too fulfilling a day.
The evening rolls around far too quickly then, and its already time for them to drop her off again. The goodbyes are always harder than the hellos, even for a short while.
“You’ve grown up so wonderfully, Yunho-yah,” his mom says, kissing Yunho’s cheek, “I’m so proud of you.”
Yunho’s eyes are glassy when he hugs her. “It was so wonderful to see you again, eomma.”
“You too, my love,” she returns, “come by with Mingi-yah next time you’re free, okay? I’ll make you all the galbi you can eat.”
Yunho nods into her shoulder, and Mingi’s sure there’s a promise there. She hugs Mingi next, wishing them both a happy holiday once more.
“I’ll see you both, soon.”
She departs with her cheeks bunched into a smile, and Mingi already misses her. It’s so different from all the times she’s come to Seoul so far, when she’s had to take Mingi to the hospital then worry the whole time she's here as Mingi forces her not to waste her leave.
He wants more days like this instead, for her.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Mingi’s need simmers softly.
It starts in the small, inconsequential places— when Yunho has a hand on Mingi’s thigh while they eat dinner or his little acts of service around Mingi’s apartment. He puts the dishwasher on before leaving for practice in the morning if Mingi’s still asleep, unpacks his blow dryer for Mingi so that he doesn’t have to reach for it on Yunho’s shelf at the dorm. It’s little things that pile on top of each other until he can barely look at Yunho without wanting him so bad it hurts.
Mingi manages it as best as he can. He’s busy anyway, working on getting his camera gear for the end of year festivals and drawing his designs for new year clients due to come in. Still, it exists as a continuous hum in the back of his mind, his entire body wound and wanting.
Seeing Yunho on stage only makes it worse, the costumes and makeup making everything that Mingi adores about Yunho that much prettier. He’s confident and charismatic in his ments, beautiful, to Mingi.
It builds and builds until it breaks.
Just like the year before, Mingi’s at the barricade for all of the end of year festivities. He gets a good number of pictures from each one and is nearly as sleepless as his friends are by the time they all make it to Gayo Daejejeon. Mingi feels it in his stomach, every time he captures Yunho move on stage, desire a sure, aching thrum. His dance break is dynamic and so precise, and it’s one of the most captivating parts of the entire performance. They’re happy about the entire set, Mingi can tell, and it’s all he ever wants for all of them. Still, by the time they’re drawing the year to a close, Mingi just wants to go home.
He meets all of them backstage not long after, and they’re driven back to the dorms within the hour. Mingi and Yunho get undressed together, too tired to wait for individual turns for the shower. They remove their makeup together and wash off their days together. It’s quiet and intimate, and inarguably the best way Mingi’s started any of his years. The water is warm and soothing, Yunho is too. He kisses Mingi’s shoulder as he goes to turn the spray of the water off, and hands him his towel when he goes to grab his own. They change into their sleep clothes and get stuck on that incredulous laughter you can only fall into when you’re coming off of a ten-hour day mostly on your feet.
They’re still giggling about nothing and everything when they get into bed, sheets cold and accommodating under the hum of Yunho’s heater. The two of them cuddle up to beat the cold, blanket bound and content. Their kisses are sleepy and soft. Mingi will never really know why he chooses for that to be the moment where he speaks his mind.
“I want to have sex with you,” Mingi murmurs, just as sure as their kisses, “wanted to for a while now, ‘m ready.”
Yunho laughs, nodding. It’s all a bit spacey and ridiculous. “Okay,” he says, “we can have sex.”
Mingi, again, seems to have lost his brain to mouth filter. “I keep thinking about it— when you’re on stage and when you’re like— just being you, makes me crazy.”
Yunho’s so unbearably genial about the admission. Mingi knows he’s never going to let him live this down when morning comes. But for now, as long as the present is concerned, Yunho is too honest, too.
“I don’t think you know what you do to me, Mingi-yah,” Yunho confesses, raspy and wanting, “you make me crazy, too— mental, even.”
Then they’re kissing. It becomes less and less passive the longer they surrender themselves to the moment, need that evolves into a blaring heat despite their exhaustion. Everything blurs into impassioned kisses and ardent touches after that.
It melds into one paint stroke— the way they discard each other’s clothes under the blankets and the way Mingi finds himself somehow pressed up against Yunho’s body as he’s kissed silly, hot and desirous. It’s also in how Yunho kisses every inch of Mingi he can reach, no set trajectory except a commitment to appreciate.
Mingi gets his mouth on Yunho for the first time, too. He has such a pretty cock, and Mingi’s a man put to work at his volition once he gets a taste. Yunho keens above him with his first kitten lick, and Mingi’s inebriated with the rush of adrenaline it gives him, cheeks hollowed, and momentum paced. He’s not given the opportunity to make Yunho cum, but Mingi gets the satisfaction of Yunho digging his hands into his hair and moaning his name like a prayer. It’s just enough to tide him over for next time.
Yunho’s fingers, when they get down to it, are just as gratifying as he thought they would be. He works Mingi open slowly, and it’s excruciating for Mingi not to lose his mind and beg Yunho to stuff him full. Yunho gets him filthy wet with lube, and Mingi can’t place where he’s leaking from by the time Yunho's got three fingers inside him. It’s so fucking good, the maddening drag of Yunho inside him, the flutter of kisses Yunho places on his chest and throat, his aching cock left to the biting cold-hot of Yunho’s bedroom— all of it draws Mingi to the precipice of his pleasure without being able to tip it. Mingi’s almost angry with Yunho at being such a fast learner because it’s already the best Mingi’s ever had, even if Yunho’s never fucked a man before.
Yunho keeps teasing him until he’s almost reduced to tears. It’s only when he begs for Yunho to fill him up that he sees the urgency return to him again, his cock arguably worse off than Mingi’s.
And finally, when it happens, Yunho slides into him thick and hot but entirely too fucking slow for Mingi’s liking. Yunho pays him no mind and tells him to enjoy it. Mingi makes fun of him, tells him he can’t get his shit together because he’s too close to cumming already. Yunho bites at his shoulder but he doesn’t disagree. The contact makes Mingi yelp, and it’s so easy to laugh with Yunho, especially in moments like these. They’re both fully awake now, wanting, even as the peripheries of their attention become imprecise as they chase the high of their orgasms.
Then it's even better, when Yunho eventually finds his rhythm. He’s so big, and Mingi’s completely taken with being filled so good and well every time Yunho bottoms out. It’s in those few seconds, too, that Mingi knows it’s truly fucking over for him. Yunho is purposeful with his thrusts and eager with his determination to make Mingi cum. As soon as he angles his hips into Mingi just right and finds the place that startles Mingi into a whimper, Yunho commits himself to making Mingi do so again and again and again. The ledge hurts, too much and not enough as Yunho gives it his all to make sure Mingi gets everything he needs.
He's a mess of affirmations and Yunho’s name, pleas for him to go faster once it’s particularly unbearable. Yunho’s quick to adapt. They’re both gasping into each other’s mouths when Yunho speeds up, and just as Mingi thinks he’s going to come untouched, Yunho spills into him, sudden and heaving.
“Fuck— fuck, Mingi-yah,” Yunho trembles, “I’m sorry, princess— ’m sorry, couldn’t take it—”
Mingi just kisses him, guiding Yunho’s hand to his leaking cock. He still babbles timid apologies after, and Mingi thinks he shouldn't be as endeared as he is. Still, his mind is reduced to nothing more than static and free space when Yunho's hand is on him, instinctual in how he thrusts into Mingi with whatever pace he has left while also jerking him off.
It’s completely untethering to feel so full and warm when Mingi tips over the edge too, cum spilling into Yunho’s hand. Mingi can’t help but clench around him as it happens, and he gets the satisfaction of Yunho whining into his mouth, just as helpless.
All things considered, they realise that neither of them lasted very long at all.
It’s something that they end up laughing too hard about, after, delirious and loose-limbed. They play rock, paper, scissors to decide who has to go get the wet wipes from Yunho’s vanity. Mingi makes them play until he wins.
They don’t even bother getting back into their night clothes, in the end.
Yunho hugs Mingi tight and whispers into the dark, “Happy new year, Mingi-yah.”
This is another quiet and certain happiness. Mingi can only smile, “Happy new year, Yun.”
That night, Song Mingi falls asleep knowing what it is to love and be loved by Jeong Yunho, true and definitive.
Chapter 3: the fall
Chapter Text
⤥ June 2017 ⤦
It gets worse little by little (and then all at once).
The first few months of it, Mingi only feels the pain in his back when he’s overexerting himself. At least that’s what he tells himself. It crops up here and there, when he’s walking to his classes or sits on his bed the wrong way, an insistent little thing that resides in the back of his mind like the monster under his bed that he was scared of as a child. He builds himself an almost obsessive routine, doubles up on his stretches and his ice packs, wakes up early and goes to sleep late so that he can accommodate the extra half hour of maintenance his body forces him into.
Against all his effort though, the pain persists.
It becomes something Mingi learns how to live with. He rationalises getting it checked out as soon as they pass another checkpoint, tells himself that he can wait just a bit longer, until the next piece of choreography or the next concept meeting. It’s a delicate balance, he quickly realises, that he’s still enough of a liability to get rid of from the team, that he’s replaceable. In any case, Mingi doesn’t want to take a chance with telling anyone, and makes the executive decision on what he assumes is a safer gamble.
He’s thankful he’s able to keep up with the choreography. He’s been coping with an extra hour or two in the studio space to help him keep up. He’s slower now, he knows, but he’s trying to prevent anybody from thinking that there’s anything out of the ordinary. He chalks it up to a tired day whenever he gets a worried look, that his exams are coming up or that his mom expects him to keep up with school to the same intensity he has to keep up as a trainee. Yunho and Hongjoong are the least convinced, and somehow it feels as though they’re preying on Mingi’s vulnerabilities rather than trying to look out for him.
He knows it’s not true. He knows, rationally, that they’re just worried about him. Still, the pain has started something in him that’s been growing steady, something ugly and daunting that casts vignettes around the life he’s stirring through. He’s been getting stuck lately, when there’s a particularly harsh rush of pain that stomps up his spine while he’s in practice or he’s shuffling in bed, on whether or not he’s going to make it to debut. It’s an entirely unending spiral then, how his friends would be so utterly disappointed in his failure, how his body was choosing this right exact moment to fuck with him, how it isn’t fair that all the work he’s been putting in may as well amount to nothing. It’s a consistent foundation that’s setting itself brick by brick in the moments where Mingi’s life is quietest. It makes everything seem harsher than it is, fouler than it is, thorns of apprehension that threaten all of the truths Mingi knows. He tries his best to fight it, attempts his hardest to maintain normalcy where he can manage it, and tells himself that everything’s fine.
“You look like shit.” Hongjoong says.
He’s sat next to Mingi while they have their ten-minute break during practice. There are early ideas of what performance videos they want to draft coming together now, ones that will introduce them as a team before they debut. It’s a shapeless pool at the moment, but he knows it’s slowly becoming something.
The way Hongjoong says it is mostly light-hearted, but Mingi knows him well enough now to pick out the slight worry in the crease of his brows.
“Haven’t been sleeping all that well.”
It’s a half-truth, but Mingi knows he’s a shittier liar than he gives himself credit for. He’s not in the mood to play games when he knows Hongjoong’s coming from a good place.
“Do you want to come with me to the studio after practice?” Hongjoong asks, his concern growing, “You always fall asleep on the couch while I work, I’ll be messing around in there for a while— could be good ambience.”
“You mean you’re going to be repeating a four count about a hundred times until the layers make you want to cry.”
His hyung startles into a laugh, “Don’t be an asshole.”
Mingi’s been resorting to a lot of deflection lately, and he’s trying not to feel bad about it. Even now, as his back is lined up against the wall as best he can, there’s a dull ache that Mingi has to breathe through. It sits with him just as surely as Hongjoong does, but he still can’t bring himself to say anything about it. For as comfortable as he’s grown to feel with everyone in the room, he’s almost scared of what his vulnerability could cost him. He doesn’t know whether Hongjoong or Yunho would go out of their way to tell a manager or their choreographer, if they would let their worry cloud them enough to put him out of his dream while thinking it’s in his best interest. The thought clogs his throat up, and makes his stomach feel like it’s turning over in his own body.
He could manage this himself. He’s fine.
“I think I need some extra practice anyways,” he says, “make sure I’ve got all of this choreo down.”
Hongjoong hums, sipping on his fourth iced americano of the day, “Don’t stress yourself out too much. You’re doing well, Mingi-yah, we need you well-rested.”
It’s an ironic thing to hear from somebody Mingi barely sees eat or sleep unless forcefully prompted. He thinks he understands the sentiment, though.
“Thank you, hyung,” Mingi says, almost too earnestly, “you don’t have to worry.”
Hongjoong looks at him a little pained. “I’ll always worry about you,” his hyung steadies, tapping Mingi’s shoulder with his own, “it’s because I care.”
Mingi spaces out for the rest of their break, watches Yunho teach Yeosang a few steps he asked for monitoring over. Neither of them have been getting much time with just each other these days, too tired from practice when they get to the dorm and all the rest of their time spent in the studio as a group or at school. Mingi’s forgone their lunches under the excuse of studying, and he’s too much of a coward to admit that it’s because he’s scared Yunho will see right through him if given long enough. So he’s hiding, but he convinces himself that it’s temporary, that it’s only till debut. Once he makes it, everything would go back to normal.
He doesn’t even realise Yunho’s squatted to his eye line until he waves in Mingi’s face. There’s a weird look there, almost as if he’s confused by how spacey Mingi is. Mingi dissuades him with a quick smile.
He smiles back, only minutely questioning, “You good, princess?”
“Yeah,” Mingi says, taking Yunho’s outstretched hand in his, “let’s do this.”
Practice goes by agonisingly slow. The sitting seemed to have made the dull ache a bit worse once he gets back into it. Still, Mingi pushes himself until he’s practically biting his bottom lip raw to keep in time. He promises himself that he just needs to keep it together long enough for practice to be over, that he’ll rummage through the company fridge where he stores his extra ice packs as soon as everybody else has left.
They’re in their final run through when one of Mingi’s legs go completely numb. It’s a strange fucking feeling, for his balance to teeter mid-choreography. It’s a zap at first, a few seconds where the pins and needles race up from his thigh right down to his calf before returning to normal. Then it happens again, and this time, it unsteadies him enough that he trips over himself.
He knows something is wrong immediately. Something is so fucking wrong.
He can’t help the grimace his face contorts into when he falls knees first onto the floor. There’s a bit of a commotion before the music stops and he’s being crowded. Mingi wishes he could say he’s the first instance of somebody collapsing during practice, but it’s happened a couple of times with them, either when Hongjoong hasn’t been getting enough sleep or when San’s forgotten to eat because of the stress. His brain uses the familiarity as leverage to wave them off, straightening out his legs in front of him.
His leg still has no feeling in it, so he settles for pawing at his thighs as subtly as he can.
“Guys, I’m fine,” Mingi breathes.
Yunho scoffs, “You just nearly kissed the floor.”
Yeosang hands him a water bottle and he’s thankful it’s cold. He presses it onto the leg that’s still prickling with pain but barely any sensation. Mingi can feel the condensation of the plastic and not much else. Fuck.
Seonghwa’s the first person to kneel to his level. It’s the same brand of worry he’d fielded with Hongjoong not half an hour ago that meets his gaze.
“Are you okay?”
Mingi hums, waving him off, “I think I’m just more worn out than I thought, I’m sorry for fucking up the run-through.”
San sighs, “The run-through can get fucked.”
Yunho looks at Mingi’s leg as if it’s personally offensive to him. “What’s up with that?” He points, “What’s wrong with your leg?”
Mingi takes a deep breath. He could do this. “I think I’m just tired Yun, my muscles are sore.”
Yunho looks at him only partly convinced. Mingi holds his ground and hopes that it’ll get him to back off. He’s thankful it’s independent practice, that there aren’t any hovering adult eyes that would make pretending leagues harder than it already is.
“Seriously, guys, I’m fine,” Mingi says, “I just need like fifteen and I’ll be good to go. Good night’s rest is gonna fix me all up.”
He prays to all things holy that he’ll be able to stand by then.
“Mingi-yah,” Yeosang gently prods, “you know you can tell us when you need breaks or a pause, right? We’d never hold it against you.”
Jongho nods next to him, “Yeah hyung— none of this amounts to anything if we’re not taking care of ourselves well enough to get through it.”
Mingi wants to break down into the tears he’s been holding in for months now. Taking care of himself is all he’s been doing. Keeping himself functional enough to show up for everything he needs to do has been an all-consuming, uphill battle that he’s so valiantly trying to fight.
“I’m okay,” he tries, forcing a smile, “you guys go ahead, okay? I’ll come by with the manager hyungs in a bit. I said I was going to stay a bit longer for practice anyways. I just need to lay here for a bit and I’ll be all good to go.”
“Yeah,” Yunho agrees, “I’ll stay with him, you guys go.”
“Yunho—”
Yunho’s stern when he looks back at him, “Either I’m carrying you out of here and we all leave together or you’re leaving with me, Min. You decide.”
The choice is practically made for him. Seonghwa ushers everyone to pack their bags with a light tap to Mingi’s shoulder. He orders Hongjoong too, standing his ground even through his grouchy pouting.
Mingi hears Seonghwa re-iterate himself while he resituates to lie on the floor. “You’re seriously expecting me to let you rot in the studio when we just saw first-hand where not resting enough can get you? Fuck off.”
Hongjoong huffs, “Seonghwa-ya I have—”
“Work— I know. It can wait Joong-ah,” he breathes, “you can get a good night’s rest and circle back to it, the music isn’t going anywhere.”
There’s a grumble. Mingi knows Hongjoong’s relented even before the footsteps retreat from the studio. If there’s anybody who could get Hongjoong to listen, it’s Seonghwa. His eyes flutter close as his back gets used to the floor below it.
He hears Yunho lay down beside him. Mingi tries to measure his breathing. Yunho doesn’t say anything for long enough that Mingi thinks he’ll be able to escape the conversation they’re bound to have. His leg is still frighteningly lacklustre to any sensation, only registering the dull pressure of Mingi’s palm that should be pressing down hard enough to hurt.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Fuck.
Mingi has to stop himself from trembling, because he doesn’t know how to even consider where to start. He wishes he knew, wishes he could talk about it all without having to worry about possibly changing the trajectory of his whole fucking life.
When the pain had first settled, the panic had been a tiny ember, burrowing itself into Mingi’s psyche and warning him of everything he could lose. It’s grown into a wildfire now, no part of him untouched with the scorching anxiety, and Mingi’s agency has been overthrown, untameable and callous.
He looks up at the ceiling, “What are you talking about?”
Yunho sighs, as if that’s what he expected of Mingi. He gets up again then, and for one terrifying second, Mingi thinks Yunho’s going to leave him. Instead, he saunters off to the mini-fridge at the corner of their studio and grabs the ice packs from the freezer nobody ever uses. He doesn’t say a word, just comes back to Mingi and sits next to him, hands gentle when they rest the weights on Mingi’s leg.
“How’d you know those were in there?”
Yunho looks at him a little pointedly, “You think I haven’t been clocking that your turns aren’t as sharp anymore? You’re in the studio longer than any of us are willing to be, you’re working too hard.”
Mingi doesn’t know what to do with that. He feels it, even the tallest, strongest of his trees slowly being engulfed in flames.
“I don’t want to fall behind,” Mingi whispers, eyes closed.
“There were a few missing from the dorm,” Yunho returns, “figured you were stocking up here.”
Mingi can’t feel the cold on his leg. He wants the ice packs to be on his lower back, where the resurging stab at his skin is worsening by the minute. He tries to breathe through it long enough not to panic at the lack of feeling in his leg.
“Mingi-yah,” Yunho pleads.
Only then does Mingi realise how tightly his eyes are shut. Even if the brightness of their practice room lights have been turned down, they clock into Mingi’s vision like stars, unfocused and bleary.
“I’m fine,” he returns, “seriously, Yun, please— I’m okay.”
Mingi can’t look at Yunho when he says it, bites down on his lip so hard he’s sure it’ll bleed. He can feel Yunho’s gaze borrowing into his cheek, the contemplative way that Yunho’s deciding whether he should push or not. Mingi silently prays, begs for him to let it go.
There’s a tired sigh from beside him, “I’m here Min— we promised we’d do this together and I know you know that, just— I’m here.”
Yunho’s honesty tears at the fabric of Mingi’s reality so thoroughly. He feels utterly helpless to where he stands, nothing but prickles of pain that run up his spine to compete with Yunho’s contemplative breathing next to him.
Mingi breathes, too. In. Out. In— “Thank you,” he whispers, because that really is all he can offer Yunho.
And Yunho is dutiful. They wait like that until Mingi’s almost dozing, and he doesn’t know how much time has passed until one of the manager hyungs comes to get them off of the floor. Mingi thanks whatever took pity on his feeble body that it feels somewhat normal by the time he has to attempt standing up again.
In the car, Yunho sits closer to him than necessary. Mingi pretends not to notice, resists the urge to punch out the weird staticky feeling in his thigh from where he’s lost all of his feeling. Still, he can’t help but let their thighs touch, Yunho’s body leant into his like it’s always done.
Yunho offers to go in and shower first so that Mingi can take as much time as he likes. They’re late enough that everyone else has already freshened up for the night. He ices his back as soon as he’s alone, and ignores Yunho’s kindness trying to instill itself into his heart. There’s not enough space for it, years of consideration packed in layer by layer that’s insulted by Mingi’s betrayal. It makes it difficult for him to think straight, somehow worse than the pain.
The hot water is relief when the stream runs over his worn body, if nothing else. He tells himself that it’ll be okay, that what counts is that he’s trying and that he’s doing his best.
It’s only when he’s settled into bed that the numbness fully fades. What replaces it is the pain at his spine, only that it comes back with a fucking vengeance. He can barely stand to shift under his sheets before long, movement unbearable. He doesn’t know whether it’s sweat or tears that’s wracking his face by the time the sun rises, only that he needs to tell someone. It becomes startlingly clear that he isn’t going to make it if he doesn’t. Mingi’s core draws so taut it trembles at the sheer exertion it takes to lift himself out of bed when his alarm goes off, and he really does cry then, because it hurts so fucking bad.
He wants to call his mom, wants to yell for Yunho. Fuck—
Just a couple of days. He just needed some time to figure out what to say. He would do it in a couple of days.
That morning, he takes his first ever double dose of ibuprofen before the day begins.
⤥ ★ ⤦
In the depth of Seoul's winter, Mingi gets Yunho in the big and small.
The big ways are the ones that Mingi spent years only dreaming of— private dinner dates where he's wine and dined and quiet cafes that are reminiscent of how this all began. Yunho is absolutely wonderful with Mingi, and it's so much of what he's always known of his character. He is chivalrous, kind, and entirely gentle with him. It's all the things that Mingi thinks he doesn't deserve. Even as Yunho’s preparing for the encore concerts, he makes time for Mingi and makes sure that he sees their relationship as important to him. They're in each other's beds more often than not, and they end the day together even if it's only a phone call.
Yunho is also there in the small ways, the ways that Mingi doesn't really expect him to and all the ways he does. He shows up to his apartment with flowers when their only plans for the night are to watch a movie together, asks him if there's anything he can do when Mingi wakes up wincing. Yunho takes care of him, in chaste kisses while he moves into Mingi and whispered assurances the more he pushes Mingi over the precipice of pain-pleasure just the way he needs. They even go to the studio together when Hongjoong is working, and Mingi sits in on some of their practices just to be with them all. Their friends make fun of how insufferably lovely the two of them are together, eyes shining.
Mingi and Yunho also get back into the practice of laughing, ease and familiarity tiding them through it. The tiles fall into place, and it's quiet— so quiet that Mingi's more focused on where his feet take him rather than what the rampage of his mind used to be. It feels like some sort of atonement from the universe, Yunho as his hearth. It's normal for the while it lasts, good.
But there is the inevitability that's always run Mingi in his circles, especially when he gets a taste of joy. It waits in its corner, biding into his time. When it sees fit, in the same ways it always goes, Mingi's timer runs out.
They’re leading up to the encore shows in Seoul when the grate of the pain returns, the whir on its way to an unceasing chug. He tries to ignore it at first, diligent with his physio exercises and all the extra precautions he's been taking for what's been months now. It's that commitment that makes him sure that he can get it to taper out on its own, the stupid, unyielding hope that tells him it’s different this time around. He puts on his balm and does his exercises, wills himself to walk even if his legs are weak from the ache that keeps radiating. He works up the courage to mention it to Yunho too, before it goes from bad to worse.
They're in bed a day out from the first show, and Yunho under his sheets is still a sight that Mingi can't get his mind to process as real. The moon's out, even if it's closer to mid-morning, and Mingi makes out the blur of Yunho's softness in the twilight.
"Yun," Mingi whispers, "are you awake?"
Mingi had already gotten out of bed and freshened up, spine too static heavy for him to have stayed asleep. He has some tea on the bedside table despite being under the duvet. Even with Yunho by Mingi's side like this, he's scared.
Yunho grunts. He's still asleep but his hands are instinctual. They follow the direction of Mingi's voice and pull him in— one of them resting under his shirt by the skin of his lower back. Mingi’s not ready to cry so early in the morning.
"Yun."
That gets his attention a little more. Yunho shifts in his pillow and opens one eye, bedhead as treacherous as it always is. The singular thought resounds then, how much he loves Yunho.
"Mhm— up now," he murmurs, eyes blinking too slow for it to be believable, "what's up?"
Yunho's not new to this. Mingi's at his most contemplative in the morning, and he's been at the end of many conversations where he's only half-awake, assuring Mingi of whatever he needs to hear on the day. It's become somewhat a regularity, and Yunho always handles it with grace. This is just the hardest thing he's had to say.
"I think—," Mingi starts.
He gets stuck then, recedes. He shifts under the covers.
He steadies himself again, a breath that’s probably too harsh.
Mingi’s handled so gently then, the fingers that are splayed across his back drawing mindless patterns while they remain firm on him. Yunho comes into wakefulness a bit quicker after that, eyes open and questioning. Mingi wants this safety forever.
He wants to keep his promise. He counts to three. "It's back," Mingi heaves.
There's no margin for error. No speculation. Yunho understands immediately, something sadly obvious. He doesn't say anything, not for a while, and Mingi's known him for long enough that he doesn't mind the silence. Yunho's still here, and Yunho's still touching him. He's here.
"Here's what we'll do," Yunho finally says, "we're going to continue with the night routine for right now and book in for an appointment when the clinic opens, yeah? I'll be with you every step of the way."
Mingi's not new to having support when the pain takes over. He's had his mom the entire time the worst of it's happened, and he’s always made it out. This is a first though, where Mingi admits to wanting it willingly and before everything catches up to him completely, where he's actually open to the help. Still, he knows how most of this will pan out, doesn’t know what he’ll do in the face of Yunho’s disappointment. He’s been doing these doctor’s appointments for ages, and they’ve only ever had one outcome, most of the time.
Yunho just looks proud that Mingi’s told him, kissing his forehead in thanks. He wants to protect Yunho from all of this, but he doesn’t know how.
Even so, his body relaxes into Yunho’s embrace, springs unwound. He kisses his cheek, right on his twin moles. Mingi’s voice comes out heavy, "Thank you."
Yunho nudges his nose to Mingi's, "I've got you, jagi. Always."
//
Mingi gets an appointment scheduled for three days later. Yunho doesn't let him do anything around the apartment until he has to leave for his rehearsals, makes them some juk and cleans his entire place. Mingi doesn't mind it all that much when the lull of Yunho's voice singing along to some ballad while he works soothes him over to being barely awake. Yunho leaves with a kiss to Mingi's temple and a promise to be back as soon as he can.
Mingi, against his better judgment, rests. It’s everything that he hasn’t allowed himself to do, but in the spirit of trying to yield himself to be better than he normally would, he listens to his body. He doesn’t spite the ache, as such, only wishes it would resolve itself before the day’s over so that he can do encore shows as he’s planned. His cameras are already rented, and Mingi’s not willing to give up on something he’s been excited to do since before the new year. He takes it easy and hopes that the pain won’t escalate into one of his episodes.
It doesn’t, at first. He manages both shows relatively fine, even if Yunho’s smothering him with text messages as soon as the lights go down or they have b-roll running during the costume changes. Mingi doesn’t forgo his tickets on the floor since he still wants the best pictures, but he does make sure he’s keeping himself hydrated throughout the entire set. He side-straps his camera so that he can manoeuvre it as fast as he needs without putting as much stress on his back, and has his bag set down between his legs. The adrenaline of the shows help him forget most of the ache until after it’s all over.
Yunho is kind about the entirety of it, and skips the team dinner after the second show so that the two of them can go back to Mingi’s together. He tells Mingi that he’ll drive him to the clinic the next morning, and Mingi just has to accept that he doesn’t have to shoulder as much as he used to. Again, it’s a strange feeling.
He tries not to let the guilt fester, but it’s hard to avoid how much of Yunho’s life he takes up now. It wasn’t so bad before this, where he was relegated to small parts of Yunho’s day like meals or a singular evening. Now, Yunho prioritises him, and he doesn’t ever let Mingi know how much he’s giving up to be with him. He’s sure it’s not that Yunho’s already impossible schedule somehow clears to suit Mingi’s convenience, that he’s changing his hours when he can for Mingi. He’s grateful— he is, it’s just a lot.
When Mingi’s pain gets in the way and prevents Yunho from his life, like celebrating another bout of shows, it’s hard for his stomach not to hollow out at him having to sacrifice for Mingi. Even more, it’s infuriating that Yunho does it without being asked to, as if there's an expectation for it.
They’re in the car back to Mingi’s when it comes up.
“You didn’t have to do this y’know? I could’ve just gotten a cab home.”
Yunho clicks his tongue, eyes on the road, “I was going to drive over to yours anyways Min, I don’t think it would’ve made much difference.”
Mingi watches all the glistening lights over the Han River. “You’re missing dinner.”
Yunho hums, “It’s one dinner, they’ll be okay without me.”
Mingi doesn’t know how Yunho’s so nonchalant about it all. “I would’ve been fine without you, too.”
“I know,” Yunho murmurs, and he sounds almost hurt, “but I want to be here, Mingi-yah— it’s— what’re you trying to say?”
“You don’t have to give up parts of your life for me,” Mingi tries, “I don’t like that you have to cancel things.”
Yunho spares him a glance, “I like being there for you.”
Mingi huffs, “You deserve your own life, Yunho.”
“I want mine with you in it,” Yunho replies, “and I’m not giving up anything Mingi-yah, I’m making space for you. It’s my choice.”
Mingi doesn’t know if he’s making the right ones. They always come to an impasse with conversations like these, an irresistible force to an immovable object. Yunho has been saying that a lot, that it’s his choice to be there for Mingi— that he’s making the decision willingly. Mingi has no way of telling him how entirely wretched it makes him feel, how extremely torn apart he is that he needs so much all the time, how Yunho’s forced to do so much for him even if he’s happy to. Days like this, when the staggering pain at his spine gets worse and worse the closer they get to his apartment, Mingi finds it difficult not to hate Yunho’s willingness. At least when he was alone, it only took away from him.
Still, Yunho’s a steady presence helping him out of the car and getting him up to the apartment. He’s a constant when he gets Mingi into the shower and a change of clothes, when he helps him ease into the sheets.
The exhaustion hits him in full force where the adrenaline recedes, and Mingi knows. He’s close to tears, by the time he’s warring with his body for some sleep. This would be just like the summer, once again. It will keep happening, Mingi realises, no matter his effort or how much he tries to be diligent with his physio and self-care. It would always be this, over and over and over again. The ceaseless chug, the rot that takes— it's here, it’ll always be here.
“You’ll be okay,” Yunho whispers, once he settles into bed with Mingi, “we’ll do this together, Mingi-yah.”
He kisses Mingi, soft and gentle. Mingi doesn’t have the nerve to say anything at all. It’s hard to forgo noticing how terribly he deteriorates into such a broken thing, when the pain starts to emanate.
//
Mingi has to count his breaths the entire drive over to the hospital. It’s searing by the time he’s being called in for his appointment. He holds Yunho’s hand so hard he’s almost sure it’ll leave a bruise. Yunho doesn’t say a word, just grips at Mingi’s waist and gets them there.
“Mingi-ssi,” Doctor Ha greets, “it’s good to see you.”
“Good morning,” Mingi winces, “this is Yunho, my best friend. Feel free to speak freely, you don’t have to mind him.”
“Nice to meet you, Yunho-ssi.”
Yunho smiles politely. It’s disingenuous at best, his mouth drawn into a thin line. He’s fighting the urge to pace even as he takes a seat, one of his legs bouncing.
Mingi finds it a bit difficult to keep his eyes open as he goes to lay on the bed for examination. Doctor Ha has always had a gentle hand, and she assesses him over familiarly. Mingi tries to manage his inhales so he can tell her where it hurts without doubling over into tears.
“It’s back,” Mingi says, as if they haven’t been here countless times over the last few years.
Doctor Ha nods at him, sympathetic. She’s so kind to Mingi, always.
“I have your scans from when you visited the ER in the summer,” she says, “it’s good that you didn’t wait that long and booked in with me this time.”
Mingi can only nod. He knows how this goes. “What are my options right now?”
“We can’t put you on another course of the injections,” she informs him, “it’s too soon since the last round and I’m not willing to risk your tolerance to it. I can give you a morphine drip now so that you can manage for the day and then you have the option of painkillers, which you know I’m not the fondest of prescribing to you.”
“You get your stomach pumped one time,” Mingi mutters.
Doctor Ha sighs, “It was thrice in as many years, and I don’t want to put you in more risk than necessary.”
The harsh ache travels from his lower back into his legs. Mingi sighs, “What the hell am I supposed to do, then? I have work.”
“Mingi-ssi, your scans are unfortunately normal, so I have no reason to believe that your condition is escalating. I can offer you the same options I always have.”
Mingi fights the urge to groan.
“And what would those be?” Yunho asks, voice more timid than it normally would be.
“I’ve asked Mingi-ssi to consider either a walking stick or an ambulatory wheelchair,” Doctor Ha informs, “they can possibly help negate the frequency and intensity of his episodes when he’s between medicinal treatments such as this. I keep trying to give him the brochures for them, but his stance on opting out has been so far clear.”
“Right.” Yunho says. It’s tight, just like his smile had been.
Mingi knows they’re in for another difficult conversation, once this is all over. His eyes are still closed, and he’s still breathing through the pain. “Doctor Ha, respectfully, is there anything else we can do?”
Doctor Ha shakes her head, “I’m sorry Mingi-ssi, this is all I can do.”
He feels his entire body tremble. It’s another repeat of the same, where Mingi keeps it together right up until Doctor Ha says she can’t help anymore. There’s a terrible familiarity with the sensation of it, the hope bleeding out of Mingi’s body to make space for all the fucking pain.
“I’ll take the painkillers— paracetamol over ibuprofen,” he decides, “I won’t end up in the ER again, I promise.”
Mingi can’t prevent the groan that escapes him when he sits up and goes to his chair. Yunho looks at him, gaze hard. Doctor Ha, much the same.
“I’ll provide you with a two-week prescription,” she agrees begrudgingly, “come back if it gets worse. I’m including the morphine drip as well, you know where the ward is.”
Mingi nods, “Thanks Doc.”
She writes everything up and tells him which nurse will be handling him in the out-patient ward. “Would you like the wheelchair to get to the ward, Mingi-ssi?”
Mingi says he can walk over, the same time Yunho says they’ll take the wheelchair.
Doctor Ha looks between them, waiting.
“Yun—”
“We’ll use the wheelchair, thank you,” Yunho interrupts, “and we’ll take those brochures too.”
Fuck.
In the interest of maintaining the decency he’s managed with the doctor he’s consulted with since he was eighteen, Mingi chooses not to pick a fight with Yunho in Doctor Ha’s office. It’s pin drop quiet when Mingi relents to sitting in the wheelchair and even more so when they get to the ward. He pulls out his phone before Yunho can engage him in a conversation, and he addresses only the nurse as she hooks him up to the morphine. It's probably some of the longest twenty minutes of his life.
His anger gets worse, the more the pain alleviates. He walks to the car ahead of Yunho when they’ve picked up Mingi’s prescription. He thanks Yunho for the drive and the help when they get to his apartment, and tries to get out without saying much else.
Yunho’s better adjusted than he is, and puts the car in park. “We’re talking about this, let’s go up to yours.”
He’s as assertive as Mingi’s silence, and that threatens to piss Mingi off even more. Yunho’s barely closed the door of his apartment before he says his piece.
“You don’t get to make any decisions for me,” Mingi sterns, “especially not ones regarding my care.”
Yunho watches him, a twitch in his jaw. Mingi can tell that there’s a lot toiling beneath the calmness he’s trying to maintain. They’re both exhausted and raw from the morning, and he’s distantly aware that this is Yunho’s first hospital visit, even if it’s one of too many to count for Mingi.
They should slow down and take a breath— stop this where they can save it.
“I beg to differ, Mingi-yah,” Yunho replies, “I feel like I have the right to knock some sense into you when you seem to be making the wrong ones.”
Mingi’s tired of fighting his worst fears realising themselves over and over again. “Yunho, where the hell have you gotten the idea that you know my life better than me?”
Yunho stuns. Just for a split-second, there’s an expression of absolute disbelief that mars over his features, as if he doesn’t recognise Mingi. It’s vaguely familiar. It’s gone then, just like that.
“I was just trying to help,” Yunho sighs, softening.
That’s not fair. Mingi’s been true to his beliefs this entire time. Even if he wanted Yunho by his side, he’d taken every single precaution against realising it because he knew that it would amount to this. Mingi already struggles enough with having no control over his life, always has— he doesn’t need the person he cares about most in the world, adding to the lack of it.
Mingi stills. “You’re my fucking boyfriend Yunho, not my keeper.”
Then there it is again, the disbelief. “Mingi-yah, you can’t actually be serious— you can’t do it alone, Min. You don’t have to!”
It stings. Mingi knows Yunho thinks it. Hell, everybody thinks it. He’s lesser than for everything he’s been through, and he knows it too. It just hurts to have it out in the open like this— like he’s this weak, wounded animal that can’t fend for itself.
The ember of self-control he was trying to cling onto is smothered by the tidal wave of white-hot anger. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do— fuck, Yunho, are you hearing yourself right now?”
“Are you?” Yunho bites, “Doctor Ha said that a walking stick could help Mingi— that a wheelchair could reduce all the pain you keep having to go through! Why is that not worth it to you?”
He can’t do this today. Mingi needs to rein it in, he needs to—
“Because I tried,” he yells, final and dissonant. Mingi feels his chest hollow out in real time, his voice radiating off the four walls of his apartment. He hates himself like this, hates what he’s become.
“You haven’t been here, Yunho,” he shatters, “you haven’t been here for when I had to be stuck in a fucking wheelchair post-op and watch everyone on the street looks at me like I’m fucking weird, or worse, take pity on me as if I’m not even a person.”
Mingi can’t stop, now that he’s started. “You haven’t been there for when I couldn’t get out of bed in time to get to the bathroom and had to lie on piss-stained sheets for the days it took for the pain to subside— or when I’ve had to survive hospital visit after hospital visit where my eomma cries at the doctors to do anything they can to fix me.”
Yunho processes the words like a slap to the face. It’s twisted; how good it feels to have him realise how much it hurts. Mingi can hear the pulse thrum at his temples, feels the rush of blood in his ears.
“You think I don’t know I’m a fucking embarrassment, Yunho? Do you really think I’m above that sort of introspection?” Mingi heaves, “I don’t want to seem like any more of a cripple than I already am, sue me.”
Yunho’s eyes are glassy now. Mingi can’t read him, not when there’s so much of himself that’s shaking and devastated. He keeps looking at Mingi, chest trembling.
Mingi sees the rise and fall of his chest. Once. Twice. Thri— “And whose fault is that I don’t know, Mingi?”
It’s Mingi’s turn to feel like he’s had a hammer lodged into his stomach.
“That’s not fair.”
Yunho shakes his head, smile sardonic. “What’s not fair about it, Mingi-yah? What? I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t— fuck, you’re trying to hold all the time that you took from us against me, you think that’s fair?” Yunho asks, voice a jarring low, “I would have been there, if you had only chosen to let me.”
Mingi can’t control the tsunami now, torrid and overwhelming. “So what? I could watch you from the sidelines while you got to dance and then came home to play nurse? So that I ended up some drop-out trainee still clinging onto a dream that’s dead and gone?”
The tears fall then, irrevocably. Yunho chooses not to wipe them away. Mingi can’t focus on them, not when Yunho’s barely paying attention to anything he’s saying.
He stares at Mingi, cheeks flushed and hair askew. He looks so fucking exhausted, eyes sunken and absolutely distraught. “Is that what you thought it would be?”
“What else would it be, Yunho? I just— what more would there be to it?” Mingi asks, desperation clear. He can’t draw in enough air, he can’t—
“This is why I left—,” Mingi says, finally, “this is why I didn’t want you to see me, and this is why I didn’t want you to see this side of me—”
“I want all of you or nothing at all.”
Yunho maintains his truth, stands taller with an unsteady inhale. Mingi doesn’t think Yunho would stay, if he knows how much there is of Mingi that’s decaying.
“I— I have never liked seeing you hurt, Min, and I can’t stop myself from not wanting that,” Yunho reiterates. “I meant what I said though, that I want you in my life than not at all— call me when it’s the same for you.”
His voice shakes through the entirety of those words. Mingi watches him hold his chest to gauge some control of the sob that’s threatening to break out. He feels the same pressure press up against his own ribcage.
“I should go,” he says then, when Mingi does nothing in return. The proceeding silence deafens.
Mingi thinks this is all for the best. Here, he’s certain that he would only ruin Yunho, like this, if he were to say. He watches Yunho break away from looking at him a few seconds too late, watches him walk to the door— watches him leave.
He doesn’t understand why getting what he wants has to hurt as much as losing it all.
⤥ July 2017 ⤦
While Mingi prepared for his final exams, weeks ago now, he had a lesson in his biology curriculum that was about decomposition. His textbook defined it as the breakdown of complex substances into simpler ones— a slow, intricate process that would leave nothing recognisable of what had once been in its wake. Mingi can’t help but think his pain had steadily evolved to be like what he read about.
The weeks go by, and he recognises less and less of himself.
Even after he starts losing sensation in his leg from time to time, Mingi feels like an unopened pressure canister when he considers speaking to anybody about it. The hours of contemplation turn to days, and those days turn to weeks. Almost a month passes with the gnawing urge to tell somebody, but the same clawing dread remains. He’s too fucking afraid, too mortified to lay himself bare to somebody else in case he was overreacting about something that should’ve been better managed in the first place, something that maybe wasn’t even as big as Mingi was making it out to be. Worse, he’s scared that it’ll all be met with anger, from Yunho— from Hongjoong, that they would rally for him to be taken off the team, that they’d see it as some kind of betrayal. There’s a voice telling him that all the company needs is one slip up, one place where Mingi has no control for them to strip him of everything he’s worked to earn.
Then he would experience a bout of pain again, the intensity of it so utterly terrifying that he would dwindle back to square one with his resolve, remembering all over again all the reasons that he should suck it up and just tell someone.
He almost does it.
Amidst it all, he knows that there’s only one person who’ll be the easiest to start with, as hard as this all is. Really, Mingi gets so damn close to telling Yunho. But then.
Then—
Wooyoung is the meteor that crashes into Mingi’s dinosaur embellished earth.
Nobody is exactly thrilled that there’s a brand-new addition to the team when they’d finally figured out their chemistry. Their CEO announces it suddenly and abruptly, just like a rock crashing into Mingi’s levels of atmosphere until a majority of Mingi’s planet is embers and smoke. Everything dies, whatever unimpeded by the impact of the crash slowly killed by air that chokes. All that settles into Mingi is the sure-fire conviction that if he were to say anything now, they would have no reason to keep him, that they had practically found a replacement on a silver platter. It hits Mingi hard, harder than the rest of them.
Later, Yeosang comes back into the room looking like he’s seen a ghost. He’s slow to clarify that the elusive Jung Wooyoung the team expects is the same Jung Wooyoung he’s known for over three years, the one person he had an irreparably hard time leaving behind at his previous company. It’s the only thing that comforts Mingi, because Yeosang is kind, meek, gentle. A friend of Yeosang’s would be a friend of his. He trusts that they’ll get through it as they go.
They don’t.
Jung Wooyoung is a supernova. He shines bright but burns even brighter, all sharp edges and unending charisma. He laughs loud and dances louder, a flurry of precision and hardened determination. He’s a sight to behold, even Mingi can’t deny it, graceful in how he moves his body the same lengths he’s crass with his jokes and even more so with his honesty. And here’s the thing about boys like Wooyoung— he came to claim, and he came to hunt. It’s the first time Mingi ever experiences being on the receiving end of the rebuff, where Wooyoung can’t seem to see Mingi as anything other than a placeholder for his position in the group. Their styles are similar, too similar, and the way they move and make decisions about where they place and block their limbs are all sorted into the same frameworks. It’s jarring to be encroached in the territory that Mingi had grown confident to embody as his the last few months.
Even more, is that Wooyoung’s caution of Mingi exists in the same crevices his fondness for Yunho flourishes, a safe space and comfort extended to Wooyoung just like Yunho extends to the rest of their team, like he does for Mingi. It shouldn’t feel as terrible as it does. Still, it festers, wedges into Mingi like the burden of a popcorn kernel stuck between two molars, unerringly embedded and stuck too deep for him to pry out.
It's especially terrible because they had all been on the same page, before Wooyoung had arrived. Aside from Yeosang, who had a quiet reservation to him, the other five of them were as unsettled as Mingi had been about the announcement, angry that their balance would be tainted when they’d worked so hard to build it.
But once he settled into the fold, made it clear he was just as hungry, just as sure, his friends fell like a stack of dominoes. It was a flip-switch, endearment replacing discontentment within a week, a kind of magical spell that Mingi wasn’t included on. They all softened, began to laugh with him— care for them, like he’s one of them.
Wooyoung, though, doesn’t try with Mingi the way he does with everyone else. He barely even gives Mingi the time of day. And to Mingi’s already fragile mind, it’s the last straw.
He can’t help but feel like his entire life is falling apart like grains of salt he’s trying to keep enclosed in his palm. It pushes him to be reckless. He gets less reserved with more practice, commits himself to learning the choreography faster than he’s comfortable. He needs to be good enough, needs to make sure nobody sees him slacking.
But the pain— fuck, the pain gets so much worse.
It starts living with him like a haunting. It’s the only thing Mingi can focus on in between the seconds, the sole thrum that resides in his body besides his pulse. It’s aggressive and exhausting, half of Mingi’s effort on managing it and the other half trying to survive it. It’s a whisper of inferiority that Mingi has to constantly fight, one that he has to submerge in order to try and get by. Still, the sensation that resides at his lower back is a violent, hostile predator, like a parasite that guts Mingi and everything he’s ever been from the inside out.
And here's the other thing, Wooyoung gets better in the same paces Mingi gets worse. It angers him unsteady, rage at everything and everyone, especially his own fucking body. He doesn’t clock that he’s retreating until he has no way to come back from it. It’s as if he personifies the instincts of a wounded animal, lashes out when touched, lunges into wrath when inquired about. His friends worry quietly, learn to give Mingi his space, find the peripheries of Mingi’s misplaced temper so that they’re not hurt by him.
It's ugly. The pain turns him into an unrecognisable thing, sharp cuts and jagged edges too mishappen for anybody to get close enough to inspect. And Yunho— sweet, beautiful, kind Yunho, he faces the worst of it.
Still, he tries, and tries, and tries. He pushes to stay in Mingi’s proximity when Mingi feels like he can’t breathe, tries to include Mingi in conversations that he can’t focus on, invites Mingi to dinners that he doesn’t have the bandwidth to sit through. It all comes down to the searing pain, the scorching, unforgiving thing that starts to possess Mingi whole.
It comes to a head when Yunho asks yet again.
“I’ve said already that I don’t want to fucking go!”
The tone leaves Yunho stunned, patience long run thin. There’s an abrupt reconfiguration then, as if Yunho’s tired.
He’s half confused when he questions Mingi, “What the fuck’s gotten into you?”
Mingi wants to break down in front of Yunho. He wants to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, wants to tell him how much it hurts— how he can’t breathe without it feeling like his entire body is trying to collapse in on itself. His words betray him.
“You’re so entirely happy to drop me for the new recruit, aren’t you?”
Yunho looks at him as if he’s been thrown. “Mingi— what?”
“Fuck you, genuinely,” Mingi snaps, “don’t act as if you can’t use your head to figure it out.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You chose your side!” Mingi fastens, “Young-ah seems to be your new friend of the week, spare me the puppy eyes Yunho, you’re better than it.”
“There aren’t any—”
“Of course there are,” Mingi yells, “fuck yes, there are! I know he can’t stand me for whatever reason, that he’s keeping up with the choreography better than me. I just didn’t expect you to buddy up with him so quickly.”
“Buddy up— Mingi he’s our fucking teammate!” Yunho heaves, “He’s here to stay, just like me, just like you— there is no you or him— fuck, we’ve been over this, it’s an us now Mingi. Us.”
Mingi’s tired. He’s so fucking tired. The prickles at his lower back are screaming at him. They’re resonating through his spine and up the hollows of his neck. His blood is rushing painfully at his temples.
He needs to switch off the lights. He needs to tell Yunho the truth. He needs to go to a doctor. He—
Yunho looks at him as if he’s something distorted, like Mingi’s somebody he can’t comprehend. Yunho’s never, ever looked at him like that.
It’s like being doused in ice cold water.
Mingi, carelessly— callously, realises he’s alone in this. Yunho can’t see that anything’s wrong. There’s no safety net, no parachute. The olive branch barely reaches Mingi’s shore. Yunho doesn’t see Mingi, can’t see everything he’s trying to say.
Mingi breathes. He bites at his bottom lip so hard he feels the grind of his teeth against the muscle of it.
“Just go hang out with Wooyoung like you planned to,” he sighs, “I’m fine.”
Yunho looks at him for a beat. He assesses, evaluates— a shuddering breath. A sure relent.
For the first time in their friendship, Yunho leaves Mingi be.
⤥ ★ ⤦
As it happens, Yeosang’s the one who ends up talking some sense into Mingi.
In the days following the hospital visit, Mingi has to grapple with his episode going from bad to worse. So, he’s not exactly conscious when Yunho flies out to Japan for their encore shows over there. He manages to get by his work shifts on the fuck-ass paracetamol, but it barely does anything to stop the bite at his back every time he so much as breathes. He switches off his cell phone because he has no interest in being contacted, confident that everything has been said and done with Yunho.
Mingi goes through the motions of it all— he cries in the shower when the warm water gives him no reprieve and cries when he has to set himself down onto the sheets. Everything aches, from his toes to his teeth, by the time the pain peaks. He doesn’t even bother with food, settles on coffee and some soup here and there. He gets high so that he can fall asleep and stays high after work so that he can feel like he’s not drowning. He fights the temptation to take more painkillers than the dose he’s been prescribed to get through the worst of it and then belittles himself for having had the thought itself. It’s not better or worse than the majority of what he’s been through already. Mingi suffers and suffers and suffers, until the pain decides to taper off. This time around, that takes about a week.
One of the worst parts about it is that he dreams of Yunho’s hands and his warmth. It’s a side effect of having had Yunho in the way he’s always wanted him, and Mingi boxes it away as such. He thinks he can almost feel it, sometimes, fingers that trace over Mingi’s tattoos and the drizzle-soft kisses on Mingi’s skin. It always happens when the ache is at its worst, like it always does. For that too, he cries.
It's about two days after he’s recovered that it happens. He's freshly showered and rolling a joint when there’s a knock to the door. Mingi, again, expects no one, but the insistence only gets worse the longer he leaves it unchecked.
“Mingi-yah,” the voice calls, “it’s Sangie— open up.”
Yeosang is the person he’s least expecting to hear from the hallway. The surprise is what ends up moving Mingi to listen to his request, unlocking the door and letting him in without much thought.
He hugs Mingi hello as if nothing’s wrong and takes a seat on Mingi’s couch as if he’s been in his apartment before. “This is nice,” he says, looking around, “I would’ve buzzed up but the door was open downstairs, and I saw your name by the door number.”
He knows Yeosang has dropped Yunho over to his place a couple of times. Still, Mingi’s confused. “What’re you doing here, Sangie?”
“You’re going to smoke,” Yeosang distracts, pointing at his coffee table, “I’d like one too, please.”
It’s all a bit strange. He’s disarmed by Yeosang’s innocent inquiry once again, and he finds himself listening. Mingi takes his seat next to him on the couch and prepares one each for them both.
Mingi can tell Yeosang smokes from his first drag. He watches Mingi notice it, giggle genuine and small.
“Don’t act so surprised Mingi-yah, we all have our vices.”
He can wager a guess as to why Yeosang’s in the middle of his apartment smoking a blunt with him right now. Tonight though, Mingi wants to do anything other than talk about himself.
“What started it then?” Mingi asks, “The reason for this vice of yours.”
Yeosang exhales slowly, savouring his first hit. He’s thoughtful. “Did you know that Wooyoungie was my first kiss?”
Mingi looks at him, questioning. He takes a drag of his own, shakes his head no.
“Well, he was,” Yeosang murmurs. “We were fifteen? Sixteen, maybe? Anyway, we were getting absolutely obliterated at our monthly evaluations with all of the trainees who had been there for half as long, and the only thing that made it okay was that I had Young-ah to go through it with.”
Yeosang chews on the dry skin of his lips. “He used to shield me from everyone, y’know? We were the same height and everything, but he knew I hated talking to too many people at once, so he just— made sure I didn’t have to. He’s still like that, loyal to a fault.”
Another hit. Mingi watches the embers of Yeosang’s joint glow on the inhale. His head rests on the top of Mingi’s couch, staring up at his ceiling. Mingi waits.
“He’s the only reason I hung around as long as I did at our old company— he— he was just too much for me to lose. But I knew what I had to do if I wanted to make it to where I wanted to be someday, so I left. And that fucker— he followed me here.”
Pain is Mingi’s reason. Wooyoung is Yeosang’s.
He watches Yeosang as he exhales into the space above him, a tiny cloud fogging up the view Mingi has of the ceiling.
“The only reason Sannie and Young-ah even started getting along was because I was somebody they both loved,” Yeosang admits, “I was what they both had in common.” There’s a little bit of bitterness there, if Mingi’s really looking for it.
He remembers how it was with San and Yeosang— the push and pull, the reliance and complete trust. They had become so close, so fast.
Yeosang chuckles, hollow and empty. “Hell, I was the first person to see their matching tattoos and the first person they asked to switch rooms with when they needed time alone, even the first person who they confessed to about liking each other,” Yeosang breathes, voice entirely too sad, “their best friend.”
Mingi takes another hit. He doesn’t understand, until he does. Oh.
“I introduced the boy I fell in love with to the boy I had a crush on and somehow ended up with neither of them,” Yeosang says, running through the words like a list, “thus, the vice.”
He salutes Mingi with a smile and takes another drag of his joint.
“Fuck.” Mingi says, stunned.
Yeosang laughs. “Yeah.”
They sit in that silence and Mingi processes. The haze of his high hits, and he realises how much he’s missed having somebody’s company while he smokes. It’s always such a lonely thing when he’s gotten around to it in recent years.
Yeosang keeps his eyes on the ceiling, and Mingi’s halfway sure he’s falling asleep before he speaks up again.
“Don’t be like me, Mingi-yah.”
Mingi’s a bit slower now, grounding himself back into his ears a hard enough task. “Hmm?”
Yeosang leans his head onto Mingi’s shoulder.
“He hasn’t been eating or sleeping much at all from what I can tell,” Yeosang says, full of intention. It takes Mingi a second longer than normal to realise he’s talking about Yunho. “I don’t know what’s happened because he’s not talking to anyone about it— but you haven’t been around and your phone’s been off, so I figured I’d come by.”
“Sangie—”
“I don’t need to know what happened, okay? That’s between you and him— but Mingi-yah— I know what it’s like to lose your chance with somebody who’s a piece of your heart and then some— it’s— the pain becomes different, but it never goes away. Trust me, Min, it’s not worth it.”
Mingi sighs. “It’s complicated.”
Yeosang shakes head, his cheek still smushed against Mingi’s collarbone. “It doesn’t have to be, Min. You love him, he loves you— that’s how it is and how it’s always been. Be adults and figure the rest of it out.”
They’ve not even said the words to each other. So much has moved so quickly and not at all in the same amount of time. Mingi doesn’t know what to do with himself.
The healthiest, most rational part of him knows that Yeosang is correct. Still, the quiet has been long gone now, and the fear Mingi’s known his entire adult life sits next to him like an overwhelming silhouette. It tells him that letting go of Yunho is what’s best for them both.
Strangely enough though, Yeosang’s appeal is convincing. There’s no pressure to it, only an insistence of a perspective Mingi may have not considered. It's encouraging at its best and conciliatory at its worst. Either way, it’s clear that he cares about them both, in one way or another.
“We missed you so much y’know?” Yeosang says then. Mingi doesn’t know how long they’ve spent in silence. “I didn’t know how we were going to do it all without you— we were so close to falling apart.”
It’s the second time he’s heard that. Mingi still doesn’t know that he’s convinced. “But you didn’t.”
Yeosang clicks his tongue. “We did,” he affirms, “the company just managed to glue us back together again, by the skin of their teeth at that. It might look complete to everyone else but it isn’t, Mingi-yah, not to us. It was supposed to be all eight of us.”
Mingi doesn’t think he has another repeat of this conversation left in him. “It was.” He says.
They seem to get lost in their own highs, after that. He thinks they scrounge together some ramen from his pantry before Yeosang leaves, but he can’t be too sure. In the end though, Mingi feels leagues better, and for once, he can attribute it to something besides his high.
“Call him,” Yeosang says, putting on his shoes. The manager-hyung at their dorm had been kind enough to agree coming by to pick Yeosang up. His phone lights up with the message that he’s waiting downstairs. Mingi nods, pulling him into a hug.
“I’m sorry that you didn’t get your chance with them,” Mingi murmurs against the top of his head, “I know how hard that can be.”
Yeosang smiles. “I know you do, Mingi-yah, that’s why I told you,” he returns, “I’m okay— it’s been a long time, and I still have them y’know? They’re my closest friends. I’m lucky for it.”
Mingi squeezes him in their embrace. He hopes that Yeosang understands it for the gratitude and comfort it’s meant to be.
“Get home safe, Yeosangie,” he says, letting go.
Yeosang leaves with a kiss to Mingi’s cheek, “Sleep well, Mingi-yah.”
//
It takes Mingi three more days to gather up the courage to ring Yunho’s contact on his phone.
He just takes a deep breath and hopes that he’s not catching Yunho at a bad time. Mingi lets it get to the fourth ring before he contemplates letting it become a missed call. Just in time though, Yunho picks up.
“—m hello?”
Mingi’s been so wired that he doesn’t realise what an ungodly hour of morning it is. The realisation that Yunho’s probably been in rehearsals late into the night only hits him after the fact. He sounds slow and sleepy, like he’s answered the phone without even looking at who’s calling.
“I’m sorry— it’s so early I didn’t—”
“Mingi-yah?”
There’s a rustle of bedsheets and a quiet sigh from the other end of the line. He imagines Yunho trying to sit upright.
“Hi,” he says, helpless.
“Hi,” Yunho replies. He hasn’t cut the phone yet, and Mingi considers that a win.
“Is this a good time? I’m sorry I woke you up.”
Yunho hums, “I’m up now— I— don’t worry.”
It’s awkward for a beat or two. Mingi knows he’s the one who made the call, but he finds himself stupidly at a loss for words.
“You— I—," Mingi tries. Fuck.
He counts to three. He starts again.
“You told me to call— when I was ready to talk.”
Yunho sighs. “I did.”
“I— uh— Sangie came over the other day, tried talking some sense into me. He said you haven’t been doing well.”
Yunho huffs a laugh, tired. “I didn’t really leave on good terms.”
“Right,” Mingi says, “I just— he told me that whatever happened, it isn’t worth losing you over. I know he’s right. I know that. I just don’t know how to talk about everything else though.”
Yunho’s quiet. Mingi knows he’s still there because he can hear his breathing, but he says nothing.
“I haven’t had anybody for a long time now, Yun— the change is overwhelming and I— most days, I don’t know how to cope,” Mingi admits. “I’m bad with letting people in and letting people stay because of how ugly it all is— living like me— where I’m constantly just revolving around my pain. It’s— everything, most days, and I don’t want you to think so too.”
The words are given to Yunho willingly, but it does feel like his teeth are being pulled. It’s some of Mingi at his ugliest. Yunho is still quiet.
“You’re my best friend,” Yunho says, finally, “you’re still my favourite person to dance with and you’re never not going to be my first call for anything that’s happening in my life— Mingi-yah, your pain is the least of you, to me. It always will be.”
Mingi didn’t know how badly he needed to hear the words until he does. It’s a warm jacket on a winter day.
“But— I know how much it fucks with your life though,” Yunho continues, “it’s— you never want to talk about it, and you shut everybody out when they try too. I just— I want to help, that’s me choosing how to be there for you, Min. I want to be in your corner.”
It’s fair. Mingi knows that’s fair. Still, his insides knot at the insinuation, something in his chest clawing to be mean about it.
“I don’t want to be side-stepped in an argument with everything you haven’t told me,” Yunho steadies, “it makes me feel like shit.”
Mingi runs a hand through his hair. It’s a shattering thing, not being able to see eye to eye with the person you love most in the world. “I don’t like when you try to make decisions for me as if I’m not capable of making them myself, Yun— that makes me feel like shit.”
It’s heavy to confess.
“Being in my corner has to look different, Yun,” Mingi admits, “I don’t know how to handle you inserting myself as my caretaker— I fucking hate that.”
“Do you really just want me to watch you get worse then? When there are options you aren’t considering that could be genuinely good for you?”
There’s a slight tone of incredulity to Yunho’s voice, and Mingi doesn’t want to fight him. Not again.
“You don’t get to decide.”
“Fuck— Mingi-yah I’m not forcing anything down your throat— I’m suggesting— I’m trying. Why do you insist on continuing to hurt yourself when you don’t have to?”
Mingi draws in a harsh breath. He doesn’t want to fight.
“Tell me you wouldn’t worry anyway, if I don’t do things your way, Yun. Tell me that, and maybe I’d believe you saying that this is all just suggestion.”
There’s no anger left for Mingi to externalise. He’s just exhausted.
“Mingi—"
“We can’t do this— I don’t want to argue with you Yun, I— I have a way I manage how I live my life, and you don’t get to hold that over me. I— I never want to lose you, ever. But I can’t have you this way. It’s different, now.”
They both still. “What are you saying, Mingi-yah?”
Fuck. Tears heavy at Mingi’s eyes but he reels it in. He would not cry about another inevitability.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he repeats, “but I can’t survive having you look at me the way you did at the hospital. I won’t do it. It’s— you looked at me like I’m some broken thing, Yunho.”
“And you expect me to be just that— a thing,” Yunho hastens, “you want me to be in your life and not care that you’re hurting yourself. How is that fair?”
Mingi’s mind vaguely notes that Yunho didn’t deny what he’d said.
“It’s not.”
They’re quiet again, for a while. Immovable object. Irresistible force. Mingi’s so tired of crying.
“I think I need some time,” Yunho murmurs.
Mingi’s entire body hollows out.
“Rehearsals are a lot right now and I’m not in the right mind,” Yunho says, “I don’t want to fight, either— I just— I don’t know what to say.”
This should be where Mingi lets go. It’s the moment where Mingi should be stronger than he is and finally make good on all the things he’s been telling himself. Yunho can’t be there— the rot, the ruin— it’s all here, now, tainting everything good and kind about Yunho. Mingi should end this.
“Time,” he decides, “we can do time.”
Mingi can only see the limbo of this ending one way. Still, still— he is a weak and selfish man. So, he agrees. They agree.
⤥ ★ ⤦
It turns out to be a weird couple of weeks.
Yunho and Mingi don’t stop talking as spring emerges, but it’s all off-beat. They catch up over phone calls, minutes stolen here and there when they’re free enough to. It isn’t exactly meaningful conversation so much as making appearances, but it keeps them going— gives them both something to tether themselves onto with regards to them being in each other’s lives. Really though, they’ve been taking their space and working more. They laugh over the phone and joke like they usually do, recapping their days, but quietly skirt around the weight that sits under every one of their conversations, begging to be addressed. It’s disingenuous at its worst and bearable at best. Somehow though, they survive it. Yunho’s scheduled for a shoot block on his birthday too, so any chance Mingi has to encounter actually seeing him face to face stays slim. He doesn’t know whether he should be grateful for that.
In any case, Mingi avoids it all by staying high after his shifts, and it balms over more than one type of pain. All of the big feelings are kept over a precipice he has no interest reaching over. Really, they both avoid.
So, it’s a surprise when Yunho shows up at his door the night before he’s due to fly out to the States. There’s more for Yunho to do in preparation overseas, and he’s been so busy in Seoul that Mingi’s almost unsure if he’s actually standing in front of him. He's scheduled to catch his flight at the end of the week, right before their first performance, and the two of them had planned to meet in the US straight away.
It’s late now, and there’s nothing to soothe over Mingi clicking his lock to open his door other than the rustling wind outside his window. Yunho looks tired. He’s hunched over almost like he can’t hold himself up, hair wet from the shower and hoodie drawn over his head. He doesn’t fill out his clothes as much as he did the last time Mingi was with him, and it withers Mingi’s fragile heart that much more. He wishes that he could be better for Yunho.
Getting to see Yunho in Mingi’s space again throttles a realisation into him then, abrupt and unyielding. He misses Yunho— misses them. Still, he doesn’t know if it’s the right thing, to expect so much out of somebody who deserves better.
Mingi’s pain isn’t so bad today. There’s been a shift in how it ebbs and flows, shorter spans of time where Mingi gets a break compared to how it used to be. The episodes are starting to last longer too, but Mingi’s gotten better about not crying wolf. He’s been forcing himself to handle it alone until it tides over, to prevent the mess of it all.
“Hi,” Yunho greets, “can I come in?”
Mingi nods, opening the door for him. The apartment is clean now, but he got around to it only a couple of hours ago. He managed a shower for the first time in two days too, earlier. He’s glad Yunho’s here on a good day.
“Do you want something to drink?”
Yunho doesn’t even take a seat, shakes his head no. He stares at Mingi for a beat longer than Mingi thinks is necessary. Then there it is again, Mingi knowing without the words.
“C’mere,” he ushers, going over to Yunho and taking him in.
He practically melts into Mingi’s hold. There’s something awfully sad about the way he clings to Mingi, the way he stammers a breath once he realises that Mingi is real and here, that nothing’s really changed.
“I missed you,” Yunho whispers.
Mingi doesn’t know what to make of it all, his mind pulling him in a million different directions if he’d care enough to let it. Yunho feels right, always has. The time they’ve spent apart results in the cavern they still don’t know how to navigate, though, it’s here and here to stay.
Mingi breathes him in— Yunho’s skin that’s a rosy pink where can he see, his fresh-floral powder that’s never not given Mingi a home to reside in. “I missed you too, Yun.”
Another stuttered rise and fall of Yunho’s chest. “We haven’t been the same— I just— I wanted to see you before I left.”
Mingi holds him a bit tighter. “You’ve been busy and there’s been so much going on Yunho-yah, I’m glad you came by.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right into the skin of Mingi’s neck, “I don’t want to lose you.”
Mingi’s chest aches. He’s been afraid for so long. He’s still so afraid. Mingi thinks he still sees the end more clearly than Yunho does.
“You have me jagi,” he reassures, “I’m right here with you.”
“Mingi-yah—”
“Look at me,” Mingi prods, cradling Yunho’s jaw. He’s practically clay in Mingi’s hold, ready to go wherever he’s been handled to. Yunho’s gaze is sad and aching, and Mingi doesn’t know what else to do than tell him what he’s sure of. “I’m here.”
He hasn’t been close to Yunho this way in weeks now, and he wants this moment to remember them by.
Mingi leans in slowly and kisses Yunho’s nose. He watches Yunho’s eyes flutter close as his thumbs trace over the soft skin of his cheeks. He places a kiss to one of them to start, and then to the other. Yunho takes it all absolutely, heart beating sure fire and calm against Mingi’s. His temples are next, meant to ease, and Mingi’s as gentle as he can be. Yunho unwinds, bit by bit, muscle by muscle. Mingi kisses every single one of his moles on show— the ones under his eyes and on the side of his face, the ones above the curve of his jaw and on his cheeks. Mingi covets every little bit of Yunho, always has.
There’s none of the rush that Yunho usually carries. He surrenders to Mingi’s touch for the very first time, lets him set the pace. Mingi’s so close to him that he can hear the whistle of his inhale. Mingi loves him.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he breathes.
“Please.”
Yunho’s lips are chapped from the evening breeze outside. He yields to Mingi so easy and true, nothing more than a gasp caught midway when their lips meet. It’s everything they’ve both been needing, he can tell. It grounds Mingi back to how special Yunho is, how special Mingi is to have somebody like him in his corner. Yunho’s hands resituate themselves from Mingi’s waist to over his shoulders, grabs onto the purchase of them so that Mingi can draw them closer together. He makes a home of his lips on Yunho, barely insistent but ever present. He wants Yunho to know that he’s not going anywhere, not as long as Yunho is here with him. Their lives moving forward be damned, here, they’re together and real.
Mingi’s hands rake over Yunho’s hair, the dull pads of his fingers tugging at the strands so that he can move Yunho’s head as he pleases. He’s so receptive to all of Mingi’s whims with the smallest of sounds that affirm him. They are so deeply content and wanting, no reservations about giving himself over to whatever Mingi provides.
“Tell me what you want,” Mingi murmurs, “I’ll do anything for you.”
Yunho’s eyes are still closed. Mingi watches him just revel in being in his arms, like this— as if it’s in short supply. All of it feels liminal, the stretch of time too small between minutes and too long between seconds. It’s clear that Yunho needs some sort of reassurance.
“I want you to have me,” Yunho says, “take me to bed, Minigi-yah.”
It’s something they’ve never done. Mingi’s enamoured by Yunho’s trust in him for a moment longer than it probably calls for. Yunho’s gaze meets his then, and Mingi notes the apprehension immediately.
“Unless—”
Mingi kisses him again. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
He knows it is. He sees it in how pliant Yunho is, how obvious it is that he needs to be taken care of tonight. Mingi has to hear him say it though, needs to know for sure.
“Yes,” Yunho nods, his forehead against Mingi’s, “you’re my one and only, princess. Only you.”
Each word has so much openness woven through it, a bid for connection— a call for more. And who is Song Mingi to deny anything, when it’s his Jeong Yunho who asks.
Everything is tender, and Mingi doesn’t rush. They stay there, in the middle of his living room, for as long as it takes Mingi to take off Yunho’s hoodie and t-shirt. He’s soft with his kisses and even softer with how he touches Yunho. There’s no biting or nipping, no urgency to any of the ways Yunho’s handled. Mingi licks into his mouth ambrosia heavy, wallows in the whine it elicits from him. He lets the feeling of it simmer over, lets them both get carried away with what it’s like to feel one another like this, in the quiet, when it’s just the two of them.
Yunho’s got his hands on the bare skin of Mingi’s hips under his t-shirt, through it all. He only ushers the material off of Mingi when he leads them both to his bed, lips still caught on Mingi’s as they make their way. It’s all careful inhales and measured gazes, paces where they trace over what it feels like to hold one another in all the ways they want to. Mingi divests them from the rest of their clothes just as gently as he had Yunho’s hoodie.
Mingi’s had Yunho in his bed so many times over now, to sleep and to hold— to be had by and to be comforted with. But here, Yunho’s especially fucking beautiful splayed against Mingi’s pillows. He’s seen Yunho in so many ways in such little time, but there’s nothing that compares to the way he looks up at Mingi now, eyes completely vacant in their expectation, wanting Mingi to move them into whatever he decides. Mingi kisses him saccharine sweet, kisses him hard enough to promise Yunho that Mingi will take care of him in all the ways Yunho has for him, for better or worse.
Yunho relents.
Mingi travels down the planes of his chest, sucks at unblemished skin with enough pressure to leave a mark wherever he’s been. He wants Yunho to remember all of this, for him to know that he’s well and truly Mingi’s to have.
Yunho leaks onto himself so prettily, little mewls and whines whenever Mingi stays in one place too long. He lets the scorching heat of it settle into them both, the anticipation steadying them into the want of it all. Mingi kisses at the inside of Yunho’s thighs and the side of his knees, grabs at the side of his hips and grazes over his nipples. He tracks every one of Yunho’s movements through it, the arch of his back and the pleading for more, his grip on the sheets and the way he can’t keep his eyes open the longer Mingi touches him.
“Please, Mingi-yah— please.”
Mingi nods, kisses Yunho’s lips with a murmured promise to make it good for him. Like the entirety of their night so far, Mingi takes his time in opening Yunho up. He shyly admits to having done so himself, when he was so much younger than he is now. The more Yunho’s body relaxes around two of his fingers, Mingi steadies at the skin of his neck and the haven of his lips. It’s so completely captivating to hear every mishap of Yunho’s breathing when Mingi changes the pace of his hand inside him, every half-gone moan and strangled gasp for more. His eyes are glassy and pleading by the time Mingi’s fully prepped him, hands around Mingi’s shoulders that have clung to his back with a desperate longing. Mingi tries not to think too hard about how he’s the only person allowed to have Yunho this way.
“Ready now, jagi,” Yunho pleads, “want you now.”
Mingi’s lips find his. The clawing want at the base of his stomach is on fire with the urge to take. Yunho is wound tight with the eagerness for more. Still, Mingi wants to be sure.
“This is what you want?” He asks, nipping at Yunho’s bottom lip.
“This is what I want,” Yunho breathes, sure and steady.
Mingi has nothing keeping him, then. “Need you to relax for me, Yun— take it easy.”
Yunho listens, a shaky sigh so that he’s resituated into his body better. Mingi can feel all of him now, everywhere he’s soft and aching, everywhere he’s hard and wanting. He lines himself up, and his eyes never leave Yunho’s.
It’s completely insular, the moment Mingi pushes in.
Yunho gives into him just like he’s always done, throat stuck on a drawn out keen as Mingi inches into him.
“Fuck— fuck,” Yunho splutters, “please, Min—”
“I got you, baby,” Mingi assures, “you’re doing so well for me.”
Mingi feels like every atom of his is being rubbed against one another to create a pulse that devours him from the inside out. Yunho’s so complete, and so warm under him— around him, that Mingi can only surrender to a moan he can’t help. He stays just like that for a bit and lets Yunho get used to the stretch. It’s an overwhelming feeling, the pleasure-pain of being consumed entirely. He can hear how outrageously loud their breathing is, how eager they are to preserve all of this into memory.
“Mingi-yah— need you to move now, please,” Yunho says, “please.”
That’s all the waiting Mingi can do. He eases out just barely so that he can push back in. Every reserved inch of it feels like miles of sensation, too much and too little for Mingi to lay purchase onto.
Yunho’s right there with him, twin gasps when Mingi’s hips meets his. Mingi can barely handle it all, his head dropping onto Yunho’s chest. The weight of the moment is blurred by how much he wants a forever of this.
“Jagi— Yun, feel so good.”
Mingi’s yet to find a rhythm to it all, but he’s winded by just Yunho’s weight under him, how warm and tight he is. He’s so steady even now, breathing against Mingi and stroking at his hair. He allows for the remedy Mingi needs it to be.
Mingi adjusts though, little by little, ensures himself so that he can make this last for Yunho. He kisses up Yunho’s shoulder then, pecks on his chest that move up to his neck and then the corner of his mouth. Mingi is zealous about his worship of Yunho, always would be. His lips are Mingi’s forever home and Mingi comes back to them, gasping.
A kiss. “You ready, baby?” Another.
Yunho smiles, cheeky and entirely too lovely, “I’ve been ready, my love.”
Mingi bites at his jaw just slightly, laugh easing into the space between them. Fine. Passion is something Mingi would never be short of.
Yunho dwindles into a giggle, tugging Mingi from where he’s rested under his chin. He kisses Mingi whole and certain. This is sacred, to them.
The first proper thrust Mingi tries stills Yunho almost abruptly. His laugh is cut into a groan as soon as Mingi’s hips settle back between Yunho’s thighs.
“Good?” Mingi smirks against Yunho’s cheek.
“Great,” Yunho affirms, voice short and faltering, “more.”
Mingi is a giver through and through. He settles for the slow roll of his hips the first few times. Like this, he can gauge how much Yunho wants— how much he can give. It’s clear that Yunho gets lost in the feeling so easily, his body stuck between drawing closer and trying to toe the line of giving in entirely. Mingi is completely too close to cumming already, and it’s then that how much he’s wanted this knocks into him so intensely. He moves into Yunho, purpose renewed.
And Yunho? Yunho clings.
Mingi gives as much as he can. He listens to Yunho through the entirety of it, focuses on where Yunho holds onto to him that much tighter, the moments when he grapples for more of Mingi in any way he can. He finds his pace surely enough, and from there, it’s feeling the give of Yunho’s body into his own, the sounds of Yunho’s want high-strung and frantic in Mingi’s ears. Mingi’s never heard Yunho like this, once he starts gearing the man under him to orgasm— he’s a frenzy of praise and pleading, an admiration of Mingi’s name on his lips.
“Please touch me, princess,” he begs, “touch me more.”
Mingi’s hands stroke Yunho’s cock, timed to his thrusts now. There’s not much Yunho can do, eyes scrunched close as he babbles into Mingi’s mouth for more— that he’s almost there, that Mingi’s doing so well.
It’s an entirely incredulous moment, to have Yunho like this in all of his vulnerability. It untethers Mingi completely, gets him hungry to satisfy. He gives everything over to Yunho, like he’s always done, and there’s not much more to it, when Yunho spills over Mingi’s fingers, clenching around him enough to knock the wind from his sails.
Yunho’s practically trembling in his after-shocks, but Mingi holds on just as tightly, lets him know that he’s here and not going anywhere. He’s so close, kissing at anything of Yunho he can reach.
“Princess,” Yunho heaves, “so full— keep going, yeah? Want you to keep going, Mingi-yah.”
Mingi is a weak, weak man in the face of Yunho’s piety. He carries through until the entirety of his body is trembling just as terribly as Yunho is, all his muscles drawn taut with a biting anticipation. Yunho kisses him spit-slicked and filthy, tongue in Mingi’s mouth earnest and entirely wanting. His hands tug at the hair of Mingi’s nape hard enough to sting, legs entangled by Mingi’s waist. Mingi’s pushed in deeper somehow, and he feels Yunho’s breathing unsteady with it too. His hands grapple for Yunho’s thighs as it happens, grip sturdy and insistent, and there’s not a lot more that Mingi needs after that, a few thrusts until he’s collapsing onto Yunho, spent.
Then it's over, just like that.
All that fills the room is the occasional car horn from outside. Mingi hears the descent of Yunho’s heartbeat, follows it through from its jackrabbit high to its river-run slow.
Yunho’s touch is featherlight soft as they trace over the patterns on Mingi’s skin, too. He places a kiss to Mingi’s shoulder and cheek, and Mingi feels him smile into it. It’s good. All of this is so good.
Still, Mingi’s reminded that it’s only as good as it is because Yunho showed up on the right day.
He tries not to grapple with what that means for them, just yet. For now, he enjoys Yunho’s warmth— enjoys the safety he’s always given Mingi and everything good and holy Mingi’s ever had in the form of his favourite person. Mingi wishes everything was different.
“Thank you,” Yunho whispers into the quiet.
“Thank you,” Mingi returns.
They shower together and clean themselves up eventually. Yunho says he still has to pack for his trip back at the dorm. He promises to call every day and asks Mingi to check in too. In a way Mingi can’t place, there’s a lingering sadness when Yunho changes into Mingi’s t-shirt that he loves, a touch of hesitation as he puts on his shoes to go. This is what feels unbearable, the unsaid.
“I’ll see you at the end of the week,” Mingi comforts, meaning it. “I’ll be there.”
Yunho kisses him, slow and full, nodding. “See you soon Mingi-yah.”
Mingi, in his heart of hearts, tries to ignore the voice in his head telling him that it’s some sort of goodbye.
//
Mingi wakes up alone. The thing about living with an acquainted ache for so long is that he knows whether it’s going to be a good or bad day pretty much immediately after he opens his eyes.
Today is a bad day.
Shifting in his sheets presents itself as harder a task than it would be on most days. Mingi, in all his stubbornness, tries to breathe through the pain as if it’ll will it away. Still, his vision whites out, red hot and searing, when he tries to so much as move. He’s reduced to a mess of frustrated sobs by the time he makes it to his bathroom to freshen up and relieve himself. He has to lean onto the wall the entire time he walks over, and he foregoes brushing his teeth because he can’t stand for that long.
By the time he’s back in his bed, the pain is bad enough that his hands shake. He’s not steady enough to try applying his balm, and he can’t give a fuck when he swallows four paracetamol pills instead of two. It soothes him over just barely, and the next time he opens his eyes, it’s well past noon.
The pain still emanates, so he just settles on curling further into his sheets. The migraine he’d fallen asleep with has thankfully subsided when he’s lucid enough to notice, and Mingi takes it for the little win it is. It also means that unfortunately, Mingi has reason to check his phone.
He logs into his fansite Twitter to pass some of the time, and it’s only then that he’s reminded of ATEEZ’s departure. He checks his text and sees that he’s got a text from Yunho telling him that he’s boarded the flight, assuming that Mingi’s still asleep.
Mingi realises that some of them had gone live earlier, before they did their airport press. It’s there that the rot ascertains its place so undoubtedly in Mingi’s life once more. He sees that Hongjoong’s gifted the seven of them team rings as celebration for all the time they’ve made it, and in anticipation of Coachella. Mingi sits through clips of San and Seonghwa’s lives that talk about how Hongjoong designed it himself, clips of them showing it off at the airport. The ATEEZ twitter also posts a picture of his friends’ hands with the rings on too, not long after Mingi gets through the airport press photos. They all look so happy.
It’s moments like these where it doesn’t matter that his friends have told him how difficult it’s been to be performers without him— that they were supposed to be a team. The reality sets itself in stone, certain and unyielding. They are a team without Mingi and always would be— they’re performers and dancers, internationally renowned entertainers. They are every bit of Mingi’s dream realised, and it’s never something that Mingi will have access to, not in this lifetime.
The rot thrives, and so does all of Mingi’s noise.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Song Mingi lands in the United States of America to attend Coachella as an ATEEZ fansite for eight days. In those same eight days, Mingi also manages to lose everything good that’s left in his life.
Day 1 is fine. It’s the Saturday before ATEEZ’s first performance, and he’s due to meet Yunho at their hotel room once he’s chauffeured there from the airport. It’s the days leading up to the Saturday that unsteadies Mingi. His pain logs in an extension, because of course it does— and Mingi manages the mobility to pack only once he’s had a double dose of paracetamol and a blunt and a half. He sleeps in a bit too late and books a cab even later, so by the time he shows up to check in, he’s heaving and in pain. It’s also only then, that he realises Yunho’s booked him a ticket for business class.
It shouldn’t bother him, he knows it shouldn’t, but he’s already agitated with the radiating ache at his spine, and so it’s easier than normal to be pissed off at him spending all of this money like it’s nothing. Mingi, regardless, gets to sit in some swanky lounge and drink more than he should so that he doesn’t have to think about the discomfort of both this journey and the pain. The flight is half a day, and he knocks out for most of it, still exhausted from the residual post-high weirdness and the clamouring ache that persists. He’s just so unsettled by it all, and it’s not necessarily a comfort when he then sees a three-piece-suited up gentleman holding a sign and waiting for him at arrivals just as the sun sets.
Yunho checks in with Mingi when he’s on his way, and he has to reconfigure everything he feels so that he’s ready to see Yunho at the end of the drive. When he’s offered a key card at reception and gets in the elevator, Mingi feels more dread than he does excitement. He ignores it for the omen it is. He tries to be as normal as he can be— smiles when the hotel room door opens to Yunho, and collapses into him because only then does it occur to him how much he’s missed the man in front of him.
The dissonance fucks with Mingi’s head like it would anyone’s, how he can’t help but lean into Yunho’s comfort so completely like this, even if everything he’s felt in the last two days stews just beneath the surface, festering. They get dinner and catch up. Yunho’s a ball of energy still, the nerves clear and anticipating. He talks about how rehearsals went and how unpredictable the weather seems to be, how the stage is bigger than they expected and how there are too many cameras to count. Mingi engages him wherever he needs to and tries not to focus on the glint of Yunho’s team ring while they eat. He doesn’t mention the still present pain or the ticket. It’s all fine.
Day 2 is more of that dissonance. It’s show day, so they get up early and get dressed as fast as they can before being shuffled into the vans that get them to the festival. Mingi packs his cameras and his change of clothes into a separate bag, but Yunho’s the one who carries it out, wordless about the help. He doesn’t know whether he’s disconcerted or grateful. He falls asleep on the drive after greeting everybody, and once they get there, Yunho hands him his VIP pass for the show and staff pass for meeting them all after, and hugs him goodbye. They share the locations with one another so that Mingi doesn’t get too lost. Mingi wishes him luck and tells him he knows they’ll be the best out there because they will be. Then, he’s left to his own devices before he needs to change and line-up, and he realises that thankfully, today his pain is back down to a little above a whir. It’s windy and arid but Mingi explores, tries a few food stands and even an interesting sounding drink or two. He’s pleasantly tipsy by the time he finds himself set up for Yunho’s set.
He’d chosen something more adventurous with his outfit— a cropped mesh vest that showed off all his tattoos, and a knee-length skort with cowboy boots. He’d settled for his make-up to be heavier than it usually would be— a berry red lip and a glittery eyeshadow. His jewellery is as loud as it always is, but he adds some chain link stuff for the outfit to pop. There’s a guy with a starkly glitter embedded red hat that makes conversation with him. Mingi’s got a less than fair understanding of English at best, but he’s pretty sure that he’s being offered drugs by the time the conversation comes to a close. He kindly turns the guy down and he walks away with the same nonchalance he came to Mingi with. It’s only belatedly that he realises it might have something to do with what he’s wearing.
The energy roars to life when they’re about ten minutes out from the set, and from the get-go, Mingi knows that this performance will change the trajectory of ATEEZ’s career. It’s when the VCR begins that Mingi knows the parts of him that are Yunho’s boyfriend, a fan and a chronically injured ex-trainee have been put in a ring to fistfight.
The set enamours him as a fan, through and through. It’s all of the group’s strengths condensed into fifty minutes, everything he’s always loved about dance and his friends an amalgamation of charisma, grandeur, precision and beauty. The show is so creatively and technically clean, with their enthusiasm engaging the audience and then vice versa. It’s entirely enamouring and Mingi can’t help but be whisked into the tide of it all. He gets pictures of Yunho that are devastatingly beautiful, the soft lines of his suit contrasted to the harshness of his limbs and expressions when he performs. Mingi gets to capture the entire group as the superstars they are, and he even manages a few portraits of each of his friends at their most compelling. It’s a completely enthralling high that never stops, and by the time they’re closing out with THE REAL, Mingi’s ears are ringing and his heartbeat resonates in his stomach.
The majority of him, though— the part of him that’s the chronically injured ex-trainee, doesn’t know how to cope. The yearning is unbearable and the sadness even more so. He has to watch the history he’s supposed to be a part of be made without him, and it’s the most devastating loss he has to stomach with a smile on his face. Envy too, sits thick and constricting around his throat, and it’s almost too viscous for Mingi to find a way to swallow it. The seven of them look complete up there, perfect and beautiful and all the way good, just like they have been for the last six years. Mingi realises he has to lose performing and being a part of their team over and over again at this rate, for the rest of his life, while his friends get to do just that— that they get to perform and be the team. The rot proliferates to most of his chest now, and he doesn’t know how long his personhood can hold out. Then, it’s that much more shattering, that he has to package all of this up to be Yunho’s boyfriend.
By the time the crowd clears and Mingi makes his way to the talent tents, he’s mostly a normal, well-adjusted human being again. Seeing Yunho makes it easier, because his eyes find Mingi before he’s even all the way past the doors of the greenroom. All the harsh and unfair vitriol that had swirled through Mingi’s head is lost to the way Yunho beelines to him, the way he takes Mingi in his arms before he can even congratulate him. He manages a kiss to Yunho’s cheek and then politely breaks away so that he can hug all of his friends. They laugh at Yunho’s pout but it’s clear they’re all deeply sated. He hasn’t seen them this satisfied in a long time, and it’s easy to move into the energy of it— seeing the people he loves be happy. Mingi watches them do a quick live when they get back to the hotel, and then they invite him for the group dinner. Yunho doesn’t really let him say no, and he’s in Mingi’s space the entire time they’re eating, innocuous touch that lights a fire in Mingi’s belly bit by bit.
It's expected then, that they barely make it through the door of their hotel room before Yunho’s kissing him silly. Neither of them last very long— it’s fast and heated and all too desperate, the patience to savour barely in the picture at all. Mingi’s fucked so good and well he thinks he sees literal stars right before his comedown.
Day 3 is one of the two rest days Yunho has, and Mingi returns the favour in two-fold. They wake up late because they have nowhere to be and spend the entire day in bed. It’s an insatiable need, Mingi comes to realise, to have all of Yunho’s body and even more of his attention. He gets to use his mouth and his cock and his hands, and Yunho’s so pliant in bending to Mingi’s will that he’s inebriated with the feeling of it.
It's rougher than the first time, Yunho testing his own limits in ways he never has before. Mingi’s addicted to it, the way Yunho moans under him and the way he asks for more, the way he pushes Mingi and likes to be pushed.
They’re exhausted by the time late-afternoon rolls by and take a bath together so that they don’t have to watch housekeeping handle their mess. Yunho promises to tip them well, and Mingi giggles about it for the entire time Yunho shampoos his hair.
It’s a sacred thing then, the small ways Yunho cares for Mingi that he had forgotten about after being apart for so long. He puts on a show that Mingi likes and gives him his favourite hoodie, blow dries his hair and makes sure that the kettle’s ready if Mingi needs his hot pack. He falls asleep on Yunho’s chest, heart torn between knowing the inevitability of when this would end and not if, all while grappling with how he will never be loved like this again.
Day 4 is when Yunho shows Mingi around LA and the bit of California they’re around. It’s his first time in the States, and Yunho tells him that he’s had the itinerary planned for ages.
They dress as simply as they can, and Yunho wears both a beanie and a mask so that they can try their hand at privacy. They have two manager hyungs that accompany them, and they all hope that having a group makes them less approachable and recognisable for the day.
Yunho takes him to a bagel place for breakfast because there was a time when Mingi had sent him silly food TikToks, and then they explore a few museums that Yunho thought Mingi would love. He does, every single exhibit better than the last. It’s a collection of places that span both history and art, and Mingi gets to spend hours looking at paintings and artefacts of a city he doesn’t know much about. Yunho trails behind him the entire time, lets him talk about what he already knows and what he’s learnt. He gets a magnet from each place, too. Mingi thinks that this is who they would be all the time, in another life.
They end their day at the Santa Monica pier with funnel cake and ice cream. The seagulls attempt to steal from Mingi, but Yunho is valiant in fending them off. They laugh, and laugh, and laugh. It’s all too fond and all too malleable for Mingi, the moments falling through his hands like sand. They sleep easy, still.
Day 5 is when the sobering reality throttles into Mingi’s life again. He almost forgets that he’s agreed to accompany Yunho for his press day until he’s being woken up with a kiss to his temple.
Mingi realises he might’ve overexerted himself the last few days when the pinch in his back aggravates into a full body ache the moment he tries to get out of bed. It’s the worst it’s hit since being in the States, but Mingi’s determined to make sure he’s not in Yunho’s way. He tells Mingi that ATEEZ have a couple of interviews and a magazine cover to shoot, and Mingi only belatedly realises how much damage it could end up doing.
He takes his painkillers when he’s in the shower and bites his lips while he walks until the meds kick in. The hot water helps just barely, and he’s running the same hamster wheel of coping once again.
Yunho looks at him, worried, as they get dressed, but he resists the temptation to ask.
As expected, it only gets worse as the day goes by. Mingi’s practically grimacing every time he moves come lunch time, and the exhaustion from keeping it together is bone-deep and heavy. Still, he’s tries his best to be the good, dutiful boyfriend. He encourages all of his friends throughout the shoot, and focuses on how the fashion is moved and co-ordinated for editorials like the one his friends are booked for. It’s why Yunho had asked Mingi to join them in the first place, his interest in clothes something he went on and on about when they used to go to cafes together.
Mingi tries not to take Yunho’s vigilance personally, but it’s hard to do so when he chooses to hover. Even if they don’t discuss it, Yunho checks in on Mingi more than necessary, delays the hair and makeup team just barely while he comes to keep Mingi company. It’s probably not noticeable for anybody else other than him, but the disruption that Mingi feels like he is ends him up in a terrible mood by the time they’re done.
It's hard too, that he’s the idol’s boyfriend and not the idol himself. It’s another round of the harrowing concoction of loss, envy and resentment that follows him around like a thrum, amplified until it’s most of Mingi. It’s ugly and unbecoming, but Mingi doesn’t know how to field it— not when it’s lived with him for so long.
But really, the nail in Mingi’s coffin is something entirely different. The drive back is mostly quiet, and Mingi doesn’t know how much of what he’s been feeling is painted on for everyone else to see. Yunho makes conversation with their hyungs, and it’s there that Mingi loses any semblance of the grace he’s been trying to cling to.
It doesn’t stop, once it starts. Yunho tells them that the day was more tiring than he expected, that the looks he tried for the editorial didn’t feel like him— that he felt uncomfortable and out of place for most of the shoot and some of the press. He talks about how he didn’t enjoy having to speak English for the interviews and how the games they had to play felt a bit disingenuous. It’s all so shamelessly entitled that Mingi barely processes that it’s coming out of Yunho’s mouth at first, and that he’s serious about it.
Still, Mingi doesn’t want to cause a scene. Mingi doesn’t want to fight. He takes a breath and tries to fall asleep until they reach.
Again then, he bites his tongue and tries not to show how much pain he’s in when they walk down the hallway to their hotel room. Yunho looks at him, when he holds the door open for Mingi to walk into, but he doesn’t bring it up just yet.
They’re silent as they undress. Mingi doesn’t bother with trying to untie the laces on his shoes, using the opposite heel to pop off each one instead. Yunho’s silence is louder than when he’s speaking, and Mingi fucking hates it.
“What, Yun?”
Yunho sighs, harsh. “You’ve been limping the entire day today.”
There’s no point in lying, not anymore. “Yeah, I have been.”
Another sigh then. Mingi thinks he sees Yunho shaking his head. “Mingi-yah, you could have just taken the day.”
“I didn’t want to do that,” Mingi hastens, “I already promised you that I would show up.”
“That was before you woke up with your pain the worst it’s been in days.”
They would keep having the same conversation over again. Mingi’s tired.
“Yun,” Mingi tries softening, “the day is over, and I already came with you. It’s done.”
“You keep pushing yourself when you don’t have to— I hate it, Mingi-yah, I just—”
“We all have things we hate,” Mingi says, a bit too defensive for his own liking, “there’s no pointing in talking about this, Yunho.”
Yunho’s jaw ticks. Mingi knows this is going nowhere good.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Mingi?”
Mingi rubs at his eyes. The feeling in his legs come and go. “Yunho—"
“No— what the hell is that supposed to mean, Min?” Yunho asks, coarser than Mingi likes, “You might as well tell me.”
“It means that I hate how you frivolous you are and how you don’t see how easy your fucking job is,” Mingi heaves, “feeling weird about having to wear something that makes you look pretty? Come on, Yunho— it’s— you’re being ridiculous.”
Yunho stops rifling through his suitcase, posture ramrod straight when he looks at Mingi again. There’s so much grief there then, mottling over his features so severely. Mingi hates the person he’s turning Yunho into.
“That’s not fucking fair,” Yunho whispers, shaking his head, “it’s not— I’m allowed to have a bad day, Mingi-yah— I don’t have to feel guilty about not liking a part of my life.”
“What’s not to like?” Mingi clashes. “The entourage you have planning your every move and getting to travel the word? Your pay check being so big you can afford the rent you pay? Are you hearing yourself, Yunho?”
Yunho stands there, stunned. He’s looking at Mingi like he’s never seen him before. “We worked from nothing to—”
“But you’re not nothing, anymore!” Mingi sterns, the vault open and thrashing now, “I am nothing. You’re a performer and an idol— you’re something, Yunho— fuck, you’re somebody important and your means are a part of that.”
Mingi watches the rise and fall of Yunho’s chest. The way his eyes are wild and wide-eyed, reality re-inventing itself in front of him. He staggers on a step or two, stutters a loud breath.
“I— I won’t feel bad about trying to take care of somebody I love,” Yunho says, voice final but trembling, “you can look at it any way you like, but I— it’s something that’s obvious to me, something I do in the ways I can because I have the means. If that’s what you can’t handle— I don’t— I had no idea.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Mingi watches Yunho walk to the bathroom and shut himself in, away from Mingi. The stillness is gutting.
He still can’t feel his legs. Only then, do the tears come.
Mingi does what he does best— he takes his pills. He parcels all of his feelings into tetherable parts. He steels.
Day 6 is another press day of Yunho’s. Mingi makes the right decision this time and opts out of going along with him. He’s asleep when Yunho leaves and asleep by the time he comes back. All the time in between is pain-worn and aching.
Day 7 is when Mingi finds a dispensary. Yunho’s left for rehearsals by the time he’s up, and Mingi decides it’s a good enough task to negate the terrible feelings that threaten to take over Mingi’s ability to be rational.
He takes more paracetamol than he should and figures out a place with the help of Google Maps. The errand takes about an hour, and he’s more wrung out than he should be by the time he’s back.
He smokes out on the balcony he doesn’t realise the room has until he looks for it, and he’s too high to notice Yunho when he comes back. The entire time he’s awake is lost to him, but he knows he packs all of his stuff in preparation for his flight back home the day after tomorrow.
Yunho doesn’t ask about it, and Mingi doesn’t attempt to make conversation.
Day 8— well, Mingi doesn’t remember much of day 8.
It's another morning where Mingi knows it’s bad as soon as he wakes up. Yunho’s already left for breakfast by the time he’s out of the shower, but he texts Mingi the time the vans are due to leave.
Mingi manages to smoke before he gets himself presentable, the tendency to reach for a high immediate and natural.
One of the staff noonas hands him his audience and staff passes when he meets them in the lobby, and the ride over doesn’t entail much conversation even if Yunho and Mingi sit next to each other. Seonghwa asks him whether he’s doing okay once they get out, and Mingi assures him that he’s fine, and that the sunglasses are just to fend off a bad headache he’s woken up with.
He can’t carry anything he bought the day before into festival grounds. The painkillers are pretty much a non-starter considering how much he’s been relying on them the last few days. The pain goes from irritating to excruciating to unbearable in the span of a couple of hours, the more sober he’s forced to become.
Mingi’s set-up to fail.
He doesn’t even bother with a change of clothes this time. The vignette of his high blurs everything a tad bit, and the pain is there to take over as it fades. And then, in a strange, twisted turn of events, he spots the guy from last week. He’s wearing the same starkly glitter embedded red hat, and Mingi distantly understands why he’s done so. It’s not even a decision, not really.
He doesn’t even bother asking the guy what it is when he pays for it. The red hat isn’t discreet, but the interaction ends up being just that. He’s not really done a lot of pills in his time, but he doesn’t second guess himself, not when the pins and needles in his legs begin making it near impossible for him to stand.
Mingi loses the concept of time, soon enough. He knows there’s a bit of ATEEZ’s set when he’s fine. He gets around a lot better and even has the energy to take some pictures, gets a few shots of the opening sequence and a few songs after that. The minutes though, blend together like they’re not individual pieces of life Mingi’s living. He loses cohesion after their first ment and clarity a few songs after that. He doesn’t really catch that he’s falling unconscious till his balance unsteadies a bit before it happens.
Mingi has no purchase to hold on to in order for the fall to stop. So, he goes down with his camera.
The next time his eyes open, there’s a group of frantic EMTs trying to work on him. Mingi still can’t exactly tell what’s wrong. He thinks he speaks, responding to some of their questions, but he can’t be too sure.
Mingi doesn’t know how much time has passed when he’s lucid next, but Yunho’s looking over him when he does. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his eyes open for long, but Yunho looks so afraid.
He vaguely recognises the hum of an engine around him, eventually. He has no meter to gauge for people, things or places. He’s not even sure what exactly happened. He won’t know until ages from now.
//
Mingi wakes up in a hotel room— their hotel room. Yunho isn’t with him, but one of the manager hyungs is. The night comes back to him in bits and pieces, and the hyung with him fills in the rest, briefly and with most details spared. He gets to know very little, but the most important of it is about Yunho, that he’s finally asleep in Hongjoong’s room after being up with Mingi the entire night. In the rush of those few minutes, the guilt settles about too many things to count, crushing and baling press heavy.
Mingi has no options left. He does what he’s always done best and leaves.
⤥ October 2017 ⤦
Mingi wakes up to the beeping of machines.
He thinks he’s dreamed of soft hands and gentle hearth, but it’s all too blurry for him to tell. He’s disoriented until he gets his eyes to open. He’s not sure where he is until the sterile smell of ethanol finally filters through his nose and into his head.
Mingi feels like he’s been fine strained through mesh, everything jelly-like and wobbly. He blinks at the ceiling above him and he’s unsure he can even turn his neck before he does. It’s time with his mom’s face fielding into his vision.
“Hi, baby,” she says softly, eyes heavy with something sad.
He realises he turned his head because his mom held his hand first. Mingi registers the sensation of him gripping at her hold, enclosing his fingers in hers. He hears her breathe a sigh of relief.
“Eomma?”
His voice is gravel heavy and raw. Mingi still can’t place why. He knows he’s in a hospital bed now, feels the itch of the cotton gown rest on his bare stomach under the white sheets he’s tucked into. He feels cold, colder than he should.
“I’m here aegi,” she smiles, “breathe for me. Breathe my love, you’re okay.”
And again, there’s a delay in him processing that his breathing is coming out in short bursts, close to hyperventilating. A small voice in his head is beginning to take shape, unmute around the edges. Something’s wrong.
He swallows. His throat stays dry. He tries again. “What happened?”
His mother has never once looked at him with pity in her eyes. He’s been everything to her, her baby boy, the youngest son, her sole dependant, but she’s never underestimated him, never held him back. Dread brews into him like tea that’s been boiling on the stove too long, bitter and rigid. Memory fails him still.
“Eomma— what— just tell me.”
He watches him bite at her lip, and it’s a beat later than that that he realises that she’s trying to stop herself from crying.
“Your back isn’t doing well at all,” she says softly, “you collapsed at practice. The boys had to call an ambulance for you since you weren’t waking up. They called me after, and I got here as soon as I could. I was at grandma’s.”
His heart hammers against his ribcage, erratic and hefty.
“Can I dance— eomma, can— is it—”
It’s bad. Mingi knows it’s bad. He feels so fucking stupid, so fucking small. He’d been managing fine, he’d kept it all together for so long now. Fuck, he’d been fine.
Her mom shakes her head, quieting him, “The doctors are going to speak to you when you’re eased off of the pain meds, okay? In a couple hours they said— you’re okay for now.”
He can hear her desperation for him to wait for them, for him to take the rest his body needs and ease into the conversation that Mingi’s been tiptoeing around for months now.
He gives her a weak smile in relent, pretends not to hear her quiet respite.
“They brought in your food not long ago, how about we eat while we wait, yeah?”
Mingi nods, because it’s the only thing he thinks he can do.
Everything feels so heavy to him. There’s a resonant thrum at the base of his neck making his vision blurry. His hands and legs don’t feel like they’re his own, somewhere between independently sentient and barely there but attached to his body. His eyes struggle to keep blinking, mouth dry and weighty. He can feel his teeth in his mouth, the grind of his upper and lower molars touching. Even his ears ring, slightly.
Still, still— he can’t feel his spine. There’s no sensation where the back of his abdomen is concerned.
Mingi knows. Even without the doctors, he knows.
//
His stay at the hospital lasts three days. They only allow him to sit up on his bed once the doctors shuffle into his room at the end of the first day.
There are more people than he expects, and it all feels like a funeral procession to his career before it’s even begun. They come into the space with encouraging smiles and their heads held high. For a second, Mingi almost thinks it’s all okay.
“This is Doctor Lee and Doctor Cho, I’m Doctor Ha. We’re your team of specialists for your back and stomach. Dr. Lee here is going to be monitoring the ulcers you’ve gotten because of the painkillers. We’ve put you on a few meds for the pain too, but Dr. Cho and I wanted to walk you through your spinal injury.”
She seems like a kind lady. Mingi watches as her expression remains open and genuine but unwilling to beat around the bush. Doctor Cho looks much the same, and Mingi wages that he’s only a little shorter than Mingi himself.
“We couldn’t assess for much since we didn’t know what was wrong,” Dr. Cho starts, “one of your friends mentioned to the EMTs that you’d been caught out with your legs giving out during practice once or twice. They’re used to the trainee type— they usually check the spine if there’s no visible injury on the legs, made sure to check your stomach for painkiller misuse too, since you had symptoms of exhaustion while being unresponsive.”
Mingi’s head spins. There’s something awful about knowing that he’s far from the first person who’s gone down this route, that there were so many kids just like him who are willing to do almost anything to realise a dream they’ve harboured for ages, worked toward for ages.
Dr. Lee continues, “You were two for two Mingi-ssi, and we were able to get you on the right drip barely in time. You’ve been putting so much pressure on yourself my dear.”
His mother is a quiet presence next to him. Mingi doesn’t have the strength to look at her just yet, too guilty about everything. She’d helped him sit up on his bed just before they’d all walked in, fed him until they waited. Every one of the doctors’ words seem like a personal betrayal to her. It breaks Mingi, unrepairable and unforgiving, silent tears that finally stream down hot and desperate down his cheeks.
“The X-rays show that you’ve got a severely herniated disc,” Doctor Cho says, “you’ve not let it rest so it’s gotten worse as time has gone, and it’s been constantly irritating your nerves and pushing up against them. It’s what’s been causing you the pain and what’s been taking out the sensation of your leg. Can you confirm that for me?”
Mingi nods his head, forcing himself to speak. “It’s been happening on and off for a couple of weeks,” he stutters, “I just thought I was overtired.”
It doesn’t even sound believable to his own ears. The doctors’ look at him unconvinced.
“We don’t know the capacity your body has to heal on its own. It’s bad enough that surgery should be taken as a consideration,” Doctor Ha says, “but we know your background Mingi-ssi, we empathize that you’re a trainee so we know how detrimental it can be to determine it as your next course of action.”
Mingi can’t fucking breathe.
“We recommend two weeks of bedrest,” Doctor Cho completes, “we can assess the damage and how well you respond to medication we prescribe you if you can promise us you’ll stay away from movement for a fortnight. That way we can better delegate your outcomes and how realistic it is for you to keep dancing.”
There’s a sob begging to escape him. Mingi breathes and it gets only halfway before he has to try again. He tucks his face into his elbow so he doesn’t make himself more of the spectacle he feels like he is. He nods as much as he can.
“You’re an incredibly strong boy for having gone through this alone for so long Mingi-ssi,” Doctor Ha says sincerely, “I’m so sorry that you felt like this was the only option, but I promise you that we’re going to try our very best to get back in your best health.”
Everything hurts. Mingi doesn’t know what to do with any of this, his entire body shutting down now that the confrontation of what he’d been trying to avoid has forced its way into the stark centre of his life.
He’s trembling when he asks, “Do I have a chance— can I—”
“We don’t know Mingi-ssi,” Dr. Cho says, “pain is different for everyone, the pace and capability for healing too. You’ve hurt yourself pretty severely, and we’re not using our best bet against it because of your commitments. Your mother made it very clear that you would be unwilling to undergo surgery immediately, and I see that she’s correct. I understand why, but I can’t account for what will come of the decision as of yet.”
Mingi wants to strip his skin from his own body and disappear until he’s nothing and no-one.
“Bedrest and the medication is where we’ll start and then we can assess what we can do next,” Dr. Ha follows up, “I need you to follow through on this Mingi-ssi. We’ll write you a report for your company so that they agree without any issues, and then we’ll see, okay? That's all we can do.”
Mingi agrees, helpless. His mom kisses his temple and thanks the doctors for their help.
//
Mingi is given a wheelchair upon discharge.
He doesn’t know what to expect when his mom opens the door to their dorm and wheels him in. He certainly doesn’t expect seven bashful faces and a banner welcoming him home. There’s nothing to shadow the relief that etches onto each of their faces when Mingi gives them a surprised pout.
Unexpectedly, Wooyoung is the one who speaks first.
“Yun has been texting your eomma so that we could all know what’s going on,” he breathes, “we wanted to come and visit so badly but the manager hyungs have had their eyes on us like hawks, and then Yun told us you would be discharged soon enough.”
Wooyoung is cute like this, Mingi realises. His eyes are too big for his face and he’s speaking too quickly Mingi’s unsure if he got a breath in between any of those words. He doesn’t know whether it’s general exhaustion or delirium, but Mingi finds himself endeared.
All Mingi can offer him is a small smile, a bit unsure, “Thank you for worrying anyways, Wooyoung.”
He hears San groan, “Of course we were worrying Mingi-yah— for Christ’s sake that was so terrifying.”
Seonghwa smacks him on the upside of his head. Yeosang makes a pained sound for San while Jongho scoffs. Yunho’s eyes are on Mingi, in that they hadn’t ever left Mingi since he’s entered. He looks like he hasn’t slept in the three days Mingi’s been away, eyes sunken in and lounge clothes unkempt, even if it looked like somebody had tried to spruce it up before Mingi came up to the dorm.
Hongjoong sighs, and he looks almost worse for wear than Yunho does, “What Sannie means is that we’re so glad you’re back with us now. We’ll take very good care of you, we promise.”
All Mingi can do is smile. There’s a certain weirdness to having been laid out in the open. Mingi knows that even though none of them have talked about it, they all know now. It’s equal parts terrifying as it is liberating.
It’s excruciating that they still look at him the same. Nothing has changed, they welcome Mingi like he’s still part of the team, like he’s still competent. It’s an unerringly devastating realisation that maybe the pain had been clouding Mingi in ways he didn’t anticipate, making him see only what he wanted to.
The feeling scratches up his throat and clogs up his chest. He feels so stupid. “I’m sorry—” he whispers, eyes down on the palms he’s got rested on his knees, “I’m so sorry— I just—”
There are so many hands around him then. It’s immediate, the warmth. The tears only come down harder, something unlocked and unsteady overtaking his need to push through the moment. He’s sobbing then, as his teammates— his friends, dote on him. They grab every part of him they can, gentle but assuring, pats and kisses and dutiful contact that affirms how much he’s valued. They shush him and tell him how glad they are to have him back, cry with him and wipe his tears away all in the same minutes. He’s never seen Jongho or his Hongjoong hyung look so distraught in his life. They cry and cry until Yunho says something stupid. Mingi doesn’t process what it is, only that he’s laughing, something easing despite everything yet to come.
He’s home. For now, he’s home.
“There’s cake,” Yeosang finally says, tucking a strand of Mingi’s hair behind his ear, “Young-ah spent all morning baking it fresh so that we could have something for you when you got back. I told him you like vanilla sponge.”
“He ran the kitchen like a drill sergeant,” Seonghwa smiles, “wanted the frosting to be perfect.”
There’s a blush high on Wooyoung’s cheeks when Mingi catches his gaze. “They’re so bad at doing what they’re told,” he says with a pout, “we almost burnt the entire dorm down because Sannie and Joongie hyung wagered turning the temperature up for a shorter amount of time would give us the same cake.”
“Hey—,” Hongjoong snaps, “why is that so wrong to assume?”
“Joong-ah—,” Seonghwa sighs, exasperated.
There are fingers that entangle in Mingi’s as everyone breaks away to serve themselves up a plate of the cake and the food they’d set up for him. Mingi doesn’t even have to look up to know that his hand is in Yunho’s. He’s already looking down at Mingi when he looks up to meet his gaze. It’s impossible to miss how much lighter Yunho looks, like Mingi’s tangible again— real. There’s still worry there, Mingi can see it, but there’s so much more too, so many things he doesn’t and hasn’t ever known how to name.
Yunho leans into him, knocks his temple to Mingi’s.
“Let’s eat, yeah?” He says.
Mingi can only agree, “Let’s eat.”
It's the most hope he’s felt in months.
//
Mingi is diligent with his meds and his call to rest.
There are a lot of meds. Some of them make him sleepy, and the others make him feel like he’s floating or nauseous. Sometimes both. None of them are opiates, since his doctors logged his ibuprofen misuse, but it’s enough to relieve some of the pressure, give him some semblance of hope that something might be improving the longer he stays still. He doesn’t really feel like he’s grounded to earth most of the time, and he can’t blame it only on the pills, the routine doing him in just as much. The contractual obligations require him to live in the dorm since he’s still considered a part of the group, and his mom calls him and Yunho to make sure he’s okay, multiple times a day. Yunho takes it with certainly more grace than Mingi does, reassures his eomma that he’s taking the right meds at the right time and that he’s doing the exercises in bed just like Doctor Cho had shown him.
The morning hum of his friends getting ready for another day of practice is steady and constant. They’re up with the sun and include Mingi just like they’ve always done. Wooyoung especially, Mingi realises, is much like a cat. Most days, he sits at the vacant side of Mingi’s that Yunho’s not taking up, ensures that he’s eating all while chatting his ear off. They all hover in their own ways, and Mingi learns to be grateful for it.
It's what he feared he wouldn’t have, if he had told them. He feels so fucking stupid now, when he’s faced with the way Yeosang uses an evening walk as an excuse to get him out of the apartment, or as Seonghwa makes sure to keep bottles of Morning Rice stocked in the fridge for him. Jongho comes home as fast as he can from practice so that he’s not alone in their room for too long, where San and Wooyoung has made it their personal mission to ensure that Mingi’s gaming or singing with them— anything to keep him occupied. Then there’s Hongjoong and Yunho. Hongjoong who had come into Mingi’s room quietly the night after he’d come back from hospital. His hyung who had cried, salty tears running down his cheeks as he apologised profusely, that he couldn’t believe he didn’t notice, that he’d failed at taking care of Mingi the way he’d promised. Mingi had received glaring clarity then, the weight of his actions on everybody he loved so dearly. He’d shushed his hyung, brought him into his own chest and assured him that his mistakes were only his own. There was no point in crying now that the damage had already been done.
Yunho is quieter, steadier. He takes care of doling out Mingi’s meds, makes sure that he’s eating. He’s the hovering presence that helps Mingi out of his chair and into it, the one who brings him snacks they used to share post-practice when he’s having a bad fucking day, the one who asks Jongho to switch rooms with him so that he can be with Mingi on nights where Mingi’s non-verbal and waning. There’s a lot of that. Mingi knows that’s why everybody tilts to trying so hard, why they make sure his days are as full as they can be, even if he can’t move around much, even if he’s wheelchair bound. Still, the silence is quick and unforgiving, stirs Mingi’s convictions the longer he has time to think.
His pain isn’t going away. Everybody’s too scared to ask. He knows it though. No matter the exercises, no matter the painkillers, the pain sits still and heavy at his spine, prodding and prodding and prodding. Mingi’s quiet about it, chalks it up to needing space or needing rest. He thinks he’s painting the right picture. He’s grateful for the help, for Yunho— who helps him stand in the shower, who is so gentle in shampooing Mingi’s hair when he’s too tired and worn out to, who comes home from sixteen hours on his feet, exhausted and unwound, but still smiles at Mingi like he’s light and beauty and hope, like Mingi undoes all the fatigue from his day. Yunho’s so soundless with his care, so assuring, that Mingi just sobs into his pillow when the dorm’s empty.
It’s different this time. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to tell Yunho, it’s that he can’t. There’s so much anticipation in his eyes, every time he looks at Mingi, that if he just cares enough, cares more, somehow it’ll weave into Mingi and heal his spine, make Mingi a whole thing again, a working thing. But Mingi feels it when he’s helped onto his wheelchair, feels the tension wound to his back when he fails at his butterfly kicks in bed. It’s a lingering presence, a mounting goodbye.
By the time the two weeks are over, Mingi knows that he’s not going to make it to debut. His gut says as much, and the scans only confirm it.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Yunho wakes up disoriented and heaving.
He can’t remember what he’d been dreaming of, but he knows it can’t be good. There are a few seconds where he can’t catch a breath, and he has to put a hand on his chest to calm himself down.
San’s by his side when he goes to sit up, helping him. Yunho’s got a headache that makes it hard for him to keep his eyes open. Fuck.
It’s only a few seconds later that everything with Mingi comes back to him in one go. Yunho scrambles in place while San tries to get his attention, eyes sad and disappointed.
Yunho’s already dreading the answer to his question. “Where is he?”
San just keeps looking at him, bottom lip trapped between his teeth.
“Sannie,” Yunho pleads, hating the way his voice already shakes, “where is he?”
“He caught his flight home,” Seonghwa responds, leant against the desk. His gaze is as equally weighted as San’s. “He couldn’t stay.”
Yunho’s heart stutters, aching. “Couldn’t or didn’t want to?”
Neither of them respond to him. Fuck, where is his phone— where did he— it’s next to his pillow. Only a single message waits for him when he clicks it on.
I can’t do this to you anymore, Yunho. I’m so sorry.
Yunho stares at his hyung, begging him to tell him it’s not true. Seonghwa stares back at him, no such hope to give.
The reality of it all settles in Yunho, sure and agonising. Finally— finally, Yunho sobs.
//
He goes back home to Seoul early. He’s barely of any use to the remaining press schedules in the States, and Hongjoong fights for him to leave.
He tries, over and over, to reach out to Mingi in the day and a half before he flies out. It’s to no avail— Mingi’s phone is switched off and none of his texts go through. Yunho’s a gaggle of working limbs and a bleeding heart by the time he’s back in Korea, his entire flight time spent surrendering the person he is to the repeat memory of Mingi on a stretcher, dehydrated and close to an overdose.
He can’t take much more of it, an almost loss and then a complete one. He needs to speak with Mingi, needs for Mingi to keep his promises.
Yunho barely lasts a half-hour before he’s grabbing his keys once he’s back at the dorm. There’s not much on his mind than the need to see Mingi and make sure he’s okay. It all falls apart in sequence.
He still has the key to Mingi’s apartment, but buzzes in anyway. There’s no response even if he does so a couple of times. It’s only then that he uses his fob to get into the place, taking the elevator.
He knocks on the door. When that doesn’t work, he bangs on it. He knows that Mingi should be home by now, well into the evening even if it is a workday. It’s right before the door opens that Yunho’s worry of Mingi having gone to his eomma materialises. It has no time to form, not when Mingi stands in front of him, unkempt and annoyed.
Yunho doesn’t ask him, only pushes his way into his apartment.
“Yunho—”
“You don’t get to leave,” Yunho heaves, “you don’t get to tell me that you don’t want to lose me, and then leave, again.”
Mingi’s exasperation is clear. Yunho gets no satisfaction that he looks equally as worse for wear as himself, eyes sunken and t-shirt days old.
“I’m not doing this with you,” Mingi sterns, “we’re done, get out.”
A half empty bottle of whiskey. The stench of weed pungent and suffocating. Yunho’s anger threatens to drive him, now that he knows Mingi’s at least alive, responsive.
“We’re not done.”
“Yunho—”
“What the hell happened to you? Hmm?” He rushes, “The Mingi I know would never give up on himself like you have— you’re fucking unrecognisable right now, Mingi, who are you?”
Yunho needs to get a handle on his words. He needs to find an anchor before he completely untethers himself. They’re both forest fires, like this.
Mingi’s sigh is grating. “From the get-go, I told you that I didn’t want this, Yunho,” Mingi says, still trying to manage his tone, “from the beginning I told you that I never wanted to know you, because of exactly this.”
“Because of exactly what?”
“You want me, the me I was before I was hurt,” Mingi yells, breaking, “you want me when I was useful and happy and a working person— but guess what, Yunho? I’m not seventeen and neither are you— fuck, so no, I’m not going to apologise for the falling short of the person you wanted me to turn out to be while you judge me for coping the way I know how.”
“Judge you— I— you think that’s what I’m doing?” Yunho questions, disbelieving, “You’re a ghost in your own fucking life, Mingi— how the hell am I supposed to ignore something like that?”
Mingi scoffs, smile hollow. “That’s so fucking easy for you to say! Of course it is— does it ever get tiring for you to stand on your high horse when you already have everything you want and you can’t appreciate it for longer than two fucking seconds?”
Yunho’s trembling. “That’s what you think Mingi— fuck, that’s what you see,” he unsteadies, “you’re projecting the idol you wanted to be onto me— I’m not some fucking puppet— God, Mingi— believe it or not, I’m a person who’s got shit to fucking deal with too.”
“Like what?” Mingi shouts, jaw tight and eyebrows fierce, “Getting to dance? Having a perfectly functioning body and getting to do what you’ve wanted your entire life? That millions of people love you for it?”
Yunho has never felt this ugly. “I’m not going to explain myself to somebody who can barely stay sober for longer than twenty minutes.”
It doesn’t register, really, that Mingi’s thrown a punch.
It’s a split-second occurrence— one where Yunho isn’t hurt and the next where he is. He feels the ache hit only after the impact sends him stumbling, bleary and perplexing. It traverses the entire side of his face a beat later, and it stings. Yunho cradles his jaw with his hand, instinctual, and Mingi looks at his own hand as if he can’t believe what’s happened.
That also doesn’t last very long, his mask recomposed back to a tempered neutral as immediate as it came off.
“You’re a fucking asshole.” Mingi whispers. There’s none of him left, Yunho realises— he can’t see the boy he met at fifteen or the man he’s been in love with since.
It’s Yunho’s turn to laugh, sardonic. He knows his eye is going to swell shut before the day’s over.
“That’s ironic coming from you,” he breathes, “you’re being so fucking stubborn Mingi— and over what? The longer you refuse to look at what happened to you in the face, the more it’ll keep hurting you! So, what you didn’t get your fucking dream? So, what you had to leave dance, hmm? You’re the strongest person I know— you could have healed all these years— you could’ve found something new.”
Mingi looks at Yunho as if he’s thrown a punch in return.
“I wanted this,” he bellows. "Fuck— I wanted to do what I love and be fucking good at it. Because I was Yunho, I was good at it, and I fucking loved it,” he spits, “I still love it— and you will never know what that feels like— to have something you love with everything you have taken from you.”
Mingi is wrong. He is so, so wrong. Yunho is tired of trying to tell him so.
Yunho loves him, though. It’s why he can’t watch Mingi like this, even if he’s no longer what Mingi wants. He can’t stand this devastation— the one where Mingi is taken over by somebody he doesn’t know.
It’s why he begs. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Mingi-yah” Yunho says, voice pleading, “you have a death wish.”
Mingi stares at Yunho as if he doesn’t even hear him. “Who do you want me to be Yunho?” He asks then, “Which should it be, hmm? Do you want your equal, who tries to reinvent himself at every turn? Or do you want the injured, sick fucker who can’t do anything for himself? Because you seem to keep changing your tune whenever it’s convenient for you.”
Mingi’s also barely coherent in his rationale, Yunho can tell. They’re two ships on capsizing waters, and Yunho no longer knows how to escape the wave that’ll pull them under.
“I’m coping the way I know how, Yunho— managing how I can. It doesn’t work the way you want it to just because you want a magical fix-it for an unsolvable problem.”
Yunho’s chest aches. The pain emanates from his jaw all the up to his temple. Still, still—
“This isn’t you managing, Mingi-yah, this is you caving,” Yunho tremors, “fuck— how can you not see that?”
The wave rises high above them, ready.
Mingi shakes his head, teary eyed at last. “This was a mistake,” he seethes, “all of this, you— you were a mistake.”
It’s done.
The fight dissolves out of Yunho, nothing left. The words brand into Yunho because Mingi means them. He’s been dropped into the ocean, sinking. This is where he would drown. “Well, if that’s how you feel, Mingi-yah, I won’t take that from you.”
Tears fall over Mingi’s cheeks, one by one by one— “I was so fucking proud to have known you Yunho, you were my best friend— the best of us, the best for me. I just—”
Yunho’s done. He’s done.
“We’re not seventeen,” he repeats, “you said that. You’re right Mingi, we’re not, and maybe we were only supposed to have those years together— but please, quit pretending that this is all on me as if there’s not a part of you that fucking hates me for getting to live your dream.”
He watches Mingi stun.
“You hate me, Mingi-yah. You put all this pressure on me and then left me, and now you hate me.’
“Yunho—,” Mingi dwindles, shaking his head, “that isn’t fair. You fucking know that that isn’t—”
“I did this for you,” Yunho admits, finally, “fuck you— I did it to honour you and that fucking stupid letter that you left me to make our dream mine— I had to keep going, for us, and you fucking hate me for it.”
Mingi stirs again at the insinuation. “After all of this you think— fuck you!”
Yunho can’t take anymore of this. He’s being unravelled at the seams, tissue and muscle and viscera being unzipped for Mingi to see. He doesn’t want to do it, not anymore. He can’t draw in enough air and it hurts to breathe, his nose sore and weighty.
“Just call it like you want to Mingi,” he concedes, “you don’t want me now and you never have— I was just the closest thing to the dream you couldn’t have, and you know now that I’m not enough. Call it.”
Yunho knows he’s talking shit. He knows. Its contempt meant to hurt Mingi because there isn’t a part of Yunho that isn’t in pain right now. It’s stupid and childish, he knows, but it works.
Mingi staggers. It’s worse than anything Yunho’s felt so far, that he’s responsible for it.
“I didn’t want this—,” Mingi stammers, again, “I didn’t want you back in my life— I wanted to look at you from afar, I just needed—”
“Why?”
“We would keep running round in circles— like this, like now! I’m in pain Yunho,” Mingi sterns, helpless and exhausted, “I will always fucking be in pain— it doesn’t go away and it doesn’t get better. You can’t protect me from it.”
“You’d never give me the chance.” Yunho stills, “You never did— and I’m not enough for you to talk about it with.”
Mingi backs away from Yunho, a few more steps while he sniffles into his elbow. He looks as much a mess as Yunho feels like he is.
It’s done.
Yunho works to steady his breathing. He manages all of three counts. “Call it.”
Mingi turns away from him and picks up his bottle of whiskey. “We’re done.”
⤥ ★ ⤦
Yunho only knows that three days have gone by when he’s woken up to the muffle of his hyung’s laughter. He’s not done much other than be half awake since Mingi— he’d managed some ice and then a shower before going to bed that night. He hadn’t even bothered to put anything on his face to prevent a bruise, too spacey to manage. Since then, he’s pretty much only gotten out of bed to drink a bit of water, if that. He’s too dizzy to realise what he’s witnessing at first, but Seonghwa’s bedroom door opens and then clicks shut, so he figures that his friends have flown back home.
He only realises Hongjoong’s presence when Seonghwa moans his name.
Yunho’s throat is dry and aching when he tries to speak. “Hyungie?”
Both of them jump apart, hands on their chests and gasps abrupt. They look at the mass in Seonghwa’s bed and slowly recognise Yunho. His head is too heavy for him to lift so he stays nestled in the sheets, eyes closed.
Hongjoong’s the first to shake it off. “What the fuck— Yun— fuck, you scared us.”
Yunho can only hum in acknowledgement, body weak. There’s a beat, then another. Yunho doesn’t know if he falls back asleep in the meantime.
“Yunho,” Seonghwa says this time, “aegi? Wake up.”
There’s a horrible weight over his eyelids that makes it entirely too difficult for him to open his eyes. He manages it though, only because the second time Seonghwa calls for him, he sounds a bit more insistent but leagues more worried.
Yunho shifts towards Seonghwa’s voice and sits up, slowly. He sees Seonghwa the same time they see him. Yunho observes Seonghwa’s apprehension grow at least two-fold when he goes to touch Yunho’s cheek. Yunho can’t help a wince even if he doesn’t know how bad it looks.
The entire right side of his face just aches. His cheek feels hot and taut, as if there’s more blood warming and pooled where he’s been hurt. The last thing Yunho wants to do is talk about it.
“What the hell happened to your face?”
Hongjoong looks like a mess— his hair is all askew and his lips look bitten raw. It’s worse now, eyebrows furrowed and jaw set, the longer he looks at Yunho. It’s then that Yunho belatedly realises what he’d heard before. In the years-long on-again-off-again relationship-that’s-not-a-relationship between his hyungs, they’re back on again.
A part of him feels guilty then, that he’s gotten in their way.
“I’m fine.” He croaks.
Seonghwa just caresses the side of his face that isn’t bruised. “Yun, please tell us what happened.”
Yunho doesn’t even know where to start. Even if he did, his head is governed by a thick cloud right now, nothing really processing.
“I’m guessing you haven’t done much since that,” Hongjoong softens, “let’s get you some food and a shower, first.”
Yunho has barely any choice in the matter. He goes through the motions as his hyungs lead— they get him into the shower and then help him into a new set of clothes. Seonghwa takes out the first aid kit and tends to Yunho’s wound while Hongjoong picks up the food at the door. He catches himself for a brief moment, in the mirror, and it all becomes very real. His skin is mottled purple and yellow now, his eye swollen almost all the way shut. He has to keep himself from thinking that it’s proof that he had already spoken to Mingi— that everything he remembers happening had in fact happened. The tears come, then.
Seonghwa is quick to wipe them away, “Oh, Yunho-yah.”
Yunho eats quietly. It’s nothing heavy, a bit of broth and some rice, but everything feels so heavy in his mouth. It all tastes wrong, like somebody’s gone in and changed his palette while he’d been asleep. He hates the way the broth coats his throat on the way down and how gelatinous the meat feels under his teeth. He has to breathe through his nose to beat the nausea.
He stays quiet until his hyungs can’t.
Hongjoong roves over Yunho’s face again. The distress grows, apparent and rigid on his features. “Did he— Yun— did he do that to you?”
The broth that he drank remains sour and pungent at the back of his tongue. He can’t breathe right.
He shakes his head no because he can’t admit it just yet. He knows Mingi didn’t mean it— knows that all of this is just deeply wrong.
The words come anyway. “He’s— he hasn’t been sober, hyung. Not since Coachella—,” he heaves, finally. “He has never put his hands on me before, never— please, he’s just— he’s not okay.”
He says it all in a rush, and he doesn’t realise how worried he’s been for Mingi until he’s practically begging his hyungs to understand that there’s so much he doesn’t know how to explain.
“We know, Yunho, we believe you, of course we do,” Seonghwa says, even if his face now matches Hongjoong’s in distress, “we just need you to tell us what happened, from the beginning.”
Yunho doesn’t know how to escape it. He’s spent the last few days trying to avoid it, even if all that rests behind his eyelids is Mingi in the shape of a person he doesn’t recognise. He makes it through the entire thing just barely, but he tries. He tells them whatever he can remember, whatever seems important— Mingi’s pain and how it’s never gone away, the hospital, the fight— how he couldn’t stand the thought of going back to his dorm because Mingi’s slept in his bed. He’s teetering on a sob by the time he’s done, almost hyperventilating. Seonghwa soothes him over, takes Yunho into his arms and lets him cry.
“We need to get him help,” Hongjoong says, “I’ll go and talk to him.”
Yunho moves so fast his head spins. He shakes his head anyways, “No, hyungie, you can’t—"
“We have to, Yunho-yah— if it’s as bad as you think it is, as this—” Hongjoong starts, incredulous, pointing at Yunho’s face, “we have to—”
“We make it worse,” Yunho interrupts, his voice loud enough for Seonghwa to flinch. Fuck. His entire face throbs with the effort.
He tries to control his breathing again, fails.
“I make it worse, hyung— he—,” Yunho stutters, hand on his chest, “it’s hard for him, having us without having everything he was also supposed to have. The life he lost—he— it keeps staring him in the face, we do that to him. It’s fucking— it’s why he left in the first place.”
Hongjoong processes his words, so does Seonghwa. They’re stunned into silence.
“Promise me you’ll leave him alone,” He asks, helpless, “please, hyung—”
“I promise,” Hongjoong assures, nodding then. He looks as though he’s seen a ghost, eyes heavy with unshed tears. He whispers it again after, as if to reassure himself, “I promise, Yunho-yah.”
It doesn’t make him feel any better.
Seonghwa clears their plates while Yunho stews in the quiet. It’s all too devastating for him to really understand or process. Hongjoong brings him some ice so that Yunho can put it on his bruise. He listens, wordless.
He’s led back to Seonghwa’s bed a little bit later. His hyung doesn’t leave him, he strokes Yunho’s hair until he cries and even after, when the exhaustion finally succumbs him to sleep.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Soon enough, Yunho finds a rhythm to losing his fucking mind.
He doesn’t exactly know how it happens. All he processes is that he becomes terrible with the silences – when he’s in his dorm room at night, in the early mornings where he’s tossed and turned in exhaustion for not even a slight avail to sleep. He moves in blanks and routine, nothing but an emptiness that grows larger and larger the long he lets it run free in his head.
It's how he ends up finding himself at an unremarkable bar. He’s not particularly looking for anyone or anything, just something different to everything he refuses to think about. He justifies ordering himself a drink because he can feel the thrum of memory begging for his attention, figures he deserves a chance to get away from it all.
He orders himself a second to stop himself from thinking about how he’d driven himself to the middle of fucking nowhere without so much as a word to anybody else, a far cry from even considering the accompaniment of a manager as he should have.
The third is where he starts losing the peripheries of his focus. He’s mostly resolved on calling a cab back to the dorm only for a small, kind little thing that looks so different from Mingi to grapple for his attention. He entertains it, despite rationality begging him not to. He smiles back, flirts in kind. She’s nice enough, and there’s not even enough conversation for him to deduce that she’s boring in comparison to the company he’d kept before it all fucking fell apart.
He bargains with himself again, reasons that he’s not got enough of a fanbase at home for him to get into trouble with his recklessness. She makes the first move anyway, tells him that she’s staying nearby and that her friends are leaving to another bar for the night. Yunho doesn’t know why he takes her up on it.
She offers herself up to Yunho so easily, and he gets to call all the shots even if there’s whiskey on his tongue when he kisses her, or that he barely even cared to ask her her name. She begs for it, for him, and it feels good to be needed. The power trip feels virtuous, for him to mould her into whatever he wants her to be, to take and take and take and to be praised in return. He’s heavy handed with the way he bites into her neck, rough when he eats her out, unrelenting when he fucks into her so hard her makeup gets blotchy and smeared, even if she pleads for more.
He wakes up to an empty bed and a note telling him that she had to leave for the day, for him to help himself to the room service she ordered. Yunho barely makes it to the bathroom before his stomach shoves everything he’d eaten in the last day up and out of his throat. He’s stuck there until all he’s throwing up is bile and spit, joints weak and sore from having kneeled for so long.
The quiet settles and he’s too exhausted to feel how oppressive it is. There’s a twisted kind of relief.
He does it over and over and over again.
Yunho loses count of all the girls he fucks into a nondescript mattress week after week after week. He gets used to tasting vomit in his mouth and grows familiar with the food he forces himself to put in his mouth feeling ashy and incoherent. He pacifies himself with plush breasts where there should be tender thighs, with him having somebody half his size under him while it should be a grounding weight similar to his taking him apart. He relies on muscle memory and sheer force of duty to coast through work, buys his own concealer to cover up hickeys and eye bags alike. He doesn’t look in the mirror long enough to realise the wither that’s settled into his skin, placates his groupmates when they ask him why he only comes back to the dorm or his hotel rooms right as dawn breaks.
He’s fine. Really, he is.
Yunho pretends and pretends and pretends.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Hi Yun,
This is a weird feeling but I’m trying my best to push through, so bear with me okay?
I never really planned on leaving without a goodbye, hell I don’t even know the last time I wrote a fucking letter. I wish I was brave enough to talk to your face about it, maybe even crack a joke about this.
But I can’t Yun. Not about this and not today.
If I’m being honest, the pain’s been getting so much worse. It’s been doing that for ages actually, and I didn’t tell you because I was scared you’d worry. Truth is, I got my reports back a while ago and I’ve been staring at them hoping that I’d wake up to something different the past few days, but I think it’s time for me to grow up a bit.
This’ll be a forever thing Yun, the doctors have said as much. It’s making me so miserable, and I know you not being able to help would make you miserable.
Fuck, I wish this were easier.
I don’t really know how to do this but I’m trying, and I hope you will too. This dream is no longer ours Yun, it’s yours. I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger, and I guess I’m sorry we couldn’t be the best together.
I’m just so sorry.
Keep going for me, okay? I know you’ll be so incredibly loved.
Your Mingi-yah <3
⤥ ★ ⤦
Hongjoong texts Mingi a few months after he’s returned to his normal life.
It’s about the point at which everything that happened with Yunho feels like a fucking fever dream, the echo of his stomach sunken from its place a permanent enough feeling that he’s gotten used to it. He’s almost surprised by it, that Hongjoong still remembers who he is.
He’s in the throes of smoking too much or drinking himself stupid to keep clawing ache at the base of his spine at bay. Mingi knows that something’s wrong, knows that this isn’t the way that he should be handling himself. But it’d been weeks since he last went about twenty minutes without being inebriated in some way, the pins and needles that had emanated from his back making him dizzy with pain, the clarity of having to come to terms with himself that much heavier. And more, the constant vignette around any forming thought is also the only thing that kept his dreams from straying too close to a mop of floppy hair and a soft voice that had once been a part of him like his own limbs are. He’s been barely scraping by, cups of mouldy instant ramen strewn onto the shitty desk he used to draw in, his clientele dwindling the more prone he’s been to flaking, pain or vice stunting him. There’s a tiny voice in his head begging, screaming maybe, that he’s close to the end of the line with his bosses’ patience, as kind as they’d once been to take him despite knowing he’s a barely functioning human. An even tinier voice is tethered to anger, reminding him that his pain isn’t what will cost him the work he’d put in the training to earn.
It's all ignored. Mingi feels like he’s out of his own body, most of the time.
So here he is, wafts of milky air pooling from his barely open mouth clouding his barely open eyes, when the phone he’s tossed onto his bed buzzes to light. The glare of his lockscreen is too bright, and he groans at the effort his fingers have to exert to bring it down, irritated by the ways his eyes refuse to focus.
Yunho’s sick and we need to talk. I’ll be coming to pick you up in 15 minutes, we can go to the café down your street. Be ready.
He doesn’t realise the time has gone by until there are insistent knocks on the door. The floor he’s propped up on doesn’t feel real, neither does standing up. Opening the door is hard, hands slower to move than he’d prefer them.
He ruffles his hair and realises that he’d shaved it into a buzzcut not long ago. He can’t recall the night it happened to save the life of him.
“You look like shit.”
And Hongjoong does, look like shit that is. The bleach is making his unwashed head of hair look greasy and unkempt, roots untouched and grown out. The bags under Hongjoong’s eyes almost rival his. Mingi’s so fucking high he barely resists the urge to make a joke about somebody having died. He’s never seen Hongjoong this frumpy, an oversized hoodie mismatched to some sweatpants thrown on with his ratty converse.
He gives Mingi a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Have you taken a look at yourself recently?”
Mingi shrugs, “Can’t be assed.”
“Let’s go.”
The walk is quiet. Mingi substitutes his blunt for a cigarette. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s showered. The cold should be getting to him, they’re almost in the thick of winter and he’s barely managed two layers, but all Mingi feels is the tinged burn of his lit cigarette on the tip of his fingers.
He’s mildly aggravated that he has to stub it out before they enter the café.
They find a corner booth and Hongjoong pays for the coffee. It’s a weekday so the place is mostly empty, and Mingi’s too intoxicated to realise that he got his order right. The coffee tastes like ash, something warm and tasteless down his throat. He waits for Hongjoong to say what he needs to.
He watches the man who was once his hyung more than vulnerable now, observes him as he takes a shaky inhale, then another. Mingi doesn’t understand.
“Having to leave you behind was the worst fucking thing that happened to all of us. Especially Yunho.”
Mingi’s so fucking tired. He can’t comprehend why he has to keep being haunted with the ghosts of his childhood.
“Well, you all did it anyway,” he says as matter of fact, “and Yunho’s done pretty well for himself too.”
Hongjoong looks at him a bit pointedly, voice low, “They’ve shipped him off to Europe for a few months. This kind of thing doesn’t give him an exemption from the military, but I’ve done everything I can to delay it. I think he’ll quit us, after.”
Mingi’s quick, “He would never quit his dream.”
Hongjoong seems surprised, as if he expected Mingi to know something he obviously didn’t. “I don’t think it’s been his dream for a long time now.”
“Then he’s an asshole who doesn’t know what’s been handed to him.”
Hongjoong’s fists meet the flimsy wood of their table loud enough for a few people to stare. “Would you get your head out of your ass for one fucking second? Maybe understand that you’re not the only one who’s entitled to pain and suffering?”
Mingi’s barely affronted.
“I came here to check in on you Mingi-yah,” Hongjoong seethes, “because I’ve been just as worried sick about you as I have been Yun, when I realised how bad it had gotten for you both.”
Mingi’s throat is too lazy to scoff. Round and round they went.
“I’ve been driving through the tattoo place every other day, and most of the time you’re not even in. The noonas there speak so highly of you and they’re so worried, but you’re not there! You’re not here. Yun was the same before it all happened, he—” Hongjoong looks shaken, aged a decade or two from the twenties he’s still living through.
“He had— has a thing with food. It got so out of hand so quickly and then he couldn’t stomach anything at all,” he stutters, running a distressed hand through his hair, “it got so fucking bad after you both fell out and after we went on tour again. He became a shell of the person he was without any of us clocking it. It’d been going on for years Mingi-yah, I— I can’t believe I didn’t even notice until it was too late.”
Hongjoong breathes. Mingi feels nothing.
“I don’t want that for you,” he says finally, hand tapping at the rim of his espresso cup, “tell me how I can help.”
Mingi’s tired of ingenuine self-righteousness because it felt like that’s how he got here in the first place. There was a weak voice somewhere in his hazy brain begging him to wake up.
“You all have deep enough pockets to make sure this goes away for him,” Mingi concedes, “you just said he’s getting the help he needs, and then you can go back to your lives. He’ll be as good as new soon, ready for the next tour or whatever you have planned after all this is over.”
There’s an edge to Hongjoong’s voice as he treads, disbelief marring his features. “What happened to you?”
This time Mingi does scoff.
“Some of us actually have to live on earth, Hongjoong. We have bills to pay we can’t afford and a life that’s been given to us that we don’t want to fucking live. Forgive me that I don’t have enough kindness in my heart to empathise with a boy who’s cried wolf.”
Mingi scowls, “I don’t really have the time in my day to see eye to eye with rich, fulfilled people and their first world problems.”
That small voice that sounds eerily like who he used to be goes deathly quiet. He thinks he sees Hongjoong sift into shattered hurt before it’s shut down into an iron clad neutral, giving nothing of himself away.
“He almost died.”
“I did too,” Mingi defies, “but at least he won’t lose everything.”
That’s all the grace he can offer, and he stands his ground. Hongjoong looks as apathetic as he feels, some sort of realisation dawning.
“Do you know how wrecked he was that night? When you gave out from the pain?” His voice wobbles, fragile. “The manager hyungs had to rip him off of your unconscious body, Min. He sneaked off to the ER as soon as they dropped us back to the dorm, found your hospital room against all odds and somehow even convinced the nurses to let him stay. He was by your side all night, Mingi, didn’t even think twice about the consequences, only that you weren’t alone until your mom got to you.”
Hongjoong breathes heavier than Mingi’s ever heard it. “He did lose everything, when you left. Even when he tried to hold it together, even when he told us he was okay, he was always dealing with not having you. That’s the kind of friend Yunho-yah is, the one he’s always been,” Hongjoong stutters, “I thought it was the same for you.”
Once upon a time, the words would’ve anchored Mingi to the moment he’s living in. They barely even register, now. Nothing seems real anymore.
“Go back to your life, Hongjoong,” Mingi breathes, “be there for Yunho and make your music. Please, please, forget about the crippled low life you can’t let go off because of your pity, or because I make for some flimsy second-hand substitute for the person you actually wanted to save. I don’t want it.”
He watches Hongjoong flit through a myriad of emotions before his eyebrows draw taut and his nose pinches, carefully concealed rage that’s somehow sadder than angry. He fixates on the way Hongjoong’s fists clench, the way he breathes a heavy sigh and then another. It makes it easier for him to ignore the sparks of pain that’s started running up and down his back the last few minutes.
“I hope you get better Mingi-yah,” Hongjoong says, unshed tears glossing over his eyes, even if there was a sense of finality in the words. “I’ll always root for you.”
Mingi calls bullshit. Hongjoong takes his cue to leave.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Mingi gets fired two weeks later. He moves back in with his mom a week after that.
Not even her kindness can save him.
It’s barely three months in that she finds him unresponsive on the floor of his childhood bedroom. He doesn’t hear her screaming, and neither does he hear her begging for her son to come back to her. Mingi doesn’t even know what he’d taken before it all happened, doesn’t even remember whether it was intentional.
The numbness doesn’t leave. His dad moves back into the city until he’s released from the hospital. His hyung comes up to see him every weekend. His mom begs for him to be honest. She manages a visit with his physicians from when he was a teenager who intervene at her request. They do some scans and tell him that the rods in his spine are infected. They ask him why he waited so long without getting checked. Mingi goes through the motions with the prodding, chooses to say that the pain was manageable until it wasn’t. He neglects to mention that he’d been doing as much as he could to avoid it, but something in his doctor’s eyes tells him that she already knows.
Doctor Ha waits until visiting hours to come check in on Mingi. She’s so much older than when he’d last seen her, so much smaller than he remembers. He’s clinical about the way he recalls how he’d survived the last few months. Still, his cheeks come away wet when he’s done.
She gentles him into the news that he’s actively tiptoeing his deathbed, that whatever had almost happened would’ve been inevitable if he’d been a couple of days late to the hospital. There’s irony somewhere in there, he thinks.
He’s scheduled for another surgery the next day and told that he’s not going to be given anything for the pain. He’s cut open two days later. They wean him off of the morphine within the first 48 hours, and Mingi has to face recovery sober than he’s been in the better part of the year.
It fucking sucks.
The first few weeks of recovery trudge by painfully slowly. He’s in so much pain all the time that he feels drunk with it, consciousness barely there when the nurses prod at him to stand and then move. It’s gruelling in every sense of the word, the grind of his jaw almost second nature, where he wakes up with his teeth clenched and muscles aching in the anticipation of another day he’ll be asked to give more than he’s capable. There are days when he cries, he remembers it in a daze, begs the nurses for something to manage the hacksaw grating of a weight at his spine that makes it difficult for him to breathe. They stroke his hair and hands, refuse him as kindly as they can. His regular night nurse even cries with him, once or twice.
They start him on physical therapy as soon as he’s discharged from the hospital, and his mom’s reinvented the whole orientation of their apartment so that Mingi doesn’t walk into the same environment he’d overdosed in. He cries about it that night, when his mom’s fallen asleep in the next room. It all rushes into him, hazy but bright, and he finally feels like he’s woken up from a bad dream.
Still, it doesn’t really get much better.
The next few months hurt. He has physical therapy or general therapy in what feels like suffocating turns, no time to think or feel or move unless it has purpose or direction, unless it contributes to him doing better, being better. Mingi doesn’t know if it helps. He mostly does it to appease everyone around him, his mind a blank slate of commands and rote action from sunup till sundown just so that he’s making it through every passing day, even if he’s indifferent to it. He’s honest about it in his sessions, that he feels mindless and aimless. His therapist says that it’ll come back to him, as long as he keeps up with the work. Mingi doesn’t really believe it.
Maintaining sobriety isn’t really a choice Mingi makes. There isn’t an inspiring redemption story or a moment where Mingi finds the will to come back to his life again. He just has to reckon with the face of the mother who’d worked so hard to provide for him every day through his childhood, the one who’d supported his dream and the resulting fallout. She is the only thing that forces him to get his shit together. It’s in the meals she cooks for him every single day, the way she kisses his temple like she had every single morning when he was a child and then teenager prior to going to work. He loves her, that he knows. So, he stays sober. So, he stays alive.
He hates ever fucking second of it, until he doesn’t anymore. Then he gets used to not hating it all so much.
He doesn’t really know when the switch flips. His therapist anticipates it with certainty, but Mingi isn’t convinced until it happens. He finds that it’s like trying to close an overfilled suitcase, that your only focus is on making sure the two halves are close enough together that you can get the zipper through, with no focus on how far you’ve come and no idea how far you have left to go until you’ve zipped it across entirely. And then it’s strange, like Mingi’s a long wind tunnel away from all the pain he’d been feeling so constantly. It’s like he’s been mellowed at the edges, more pliant to mould and move. His mobility gets better too, or maybe he just gets better at coping with it. The pain is constant, but Mingi addresses it like an unrelenting acquaintance rather than a nemesis. He thinks he’s getting better about it, in any case.
He spends a few months with his dad and hyung by the sea, when his mom is confident he’s on the right side of recovery. He shucks oysters and cleans shrimp for days on end, enjoys the salt in his hair and wind on his skin. He spends time with his nieces and nephews, counts their little fingers and toes while he lulls them to sleep, gets matching tiaras to play princesses and tea party with them. It connects Mingi to the child he once was, the before. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it used to.
He comes back to the city feeling moderately refreshed, goes through a phase where he cleans the house more times a day than he should, where he learns to cook cuisines he’s never heard of, DIY’s scrap furniture and tinkers for everything that needs to be fixed around the apartment. He packs his mom’s lunches and considers trying to find some kind of job, readier now than he ever has been.
His mom is still protective, asks him to wait just a bit longer. Mingi commits himself to being a dutiful son, and it no longer feels like a burden.
There are days when the pain overwhelms him, where his entire body feels like it’s been dehydrated for ages, where his fingers tremble with want for some sort of reprieve, where he can’t get out of bed. He breathes through it on those days, comes face to face with his fears and calls them out, maps his plans for how he’ll continue living if he can’t get out of bed again, of how his life would carry on even if he can’t walk or move his legs. He wakes up tired and aching the next morning or in a couple of days’ time, where the pain at the base of his spine is manageable enough that his legs don’t give up on him anymore, where he can move them, where he feels like he’s able to breathe. It takes a while for his body to be convinced that it won’t be this overwhelming forever, that he’s stronger than every substance he’d taken to numb the enormity of the pain. It sucks and it sucks and it sucks. But Mingi continues to live.
In the back of his mind, when it’s been more than an entire year and he can’t help his brain anymore, he thinks of Yunho and the rest of the guys. He remembers bits and pieces, fragments of what he’d said to Hongjoong, the most hurtful shit he’d hurled at Yunho. That hurts in a different way. It’s sort of like the first time, knowing that Yunho won’t come. But it crushes him from the inside out this time, that he’d chased it all away again.
Mingi processes it like he does everything else. He grieves his friendships, grieves Yunho, and readies himself to discuss it with his therapist, finds ways to cope when it all gets too much. He doesn’t realise how hard recovery is until he has to commit to it every time he breathes.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Mingi only ends up scouring the guest bedroom of his mom’s apartment because he needs a way to reckon with his boredom. There’s a lot that he couldn’t do now, and the list of habits he’d usually spend his free time with were mostly no-go’s. He’s done everything he can think of, bleached his grown-out hair last week, and gotten another tattoo, too. He even gave himself another helix piercing with a hot needle a few days ago.
He's running out of things to do without needing to crawl out of his skin, still too anxious to pick up his carefully strewn sketch pads to draw anything. The piano and bass at the corner of the space also remained untouched. Still, there’s a thrumming need to do something.
His mom tells him she’s kept some of his old stuff in boxes, tucked away in the closet, and Mingi decides it’s as good a time as any to look through it all. There are clothes he can no longer fit into among everything else he’d been forced to outgrow. Only when he’s halfway through putting it all into bin bags for donation does he come across the backpack he’d left Seoul with all those years ago.
A part of him is almost happy dumping the entire thing into the trash, contents be damned. But his hands almost have a mind of their own, already drawing the zipper open with morbid curiosity. He doesn’t remember what he’d taken with him when he’d left, the collection of what he’d considered essentials too lost to time.
There’s not much there. A hoodie he once loved, a spare t-shirt. Some of his English textbooks. He tips it all onto his bedroom floor. The clack of his contraband trainee cell phone is deafening.
The onslaught of memories threatens a headache. Him and Yunho had smuggled the matching pair of flip phones just so that they could feel more grown up than they were. Mingi’s was a hot pink while Yunho’s had been a bright blue. A Spider-Man blue. Mingi remembers buying a sticker pack so that he could stick the webbed logo onto the closed face of his best friend’s phone. The smile that had been returned to Mingi flits to the forefront of his mind so clearly he doesn’t know how he lost the memory in the first place. It’d been a precious secret.
He traces the indents of the keys with his thumb. He’s surprised to find that it turns on. He’s more winded by everything that waits for him when the home screen lights up.
Voicemail Inbox [42]
from: yun <3
Mingi’s pulse hammers against his throat. He clicks on the oldest message. Holds the phone to his ear.
18th October 2017
You better be fucking joking me Mingi-yah I swear to God. You can’t have just left without a word to me, fuck— you think leaving me a letter makes any difference when you’re gone? You said we’d do this together Mingi-yah, you promised me. You should’ve told me Mingi, [pause] why the fuck did you not say anything to me? What the fuck? Call me back right now.
Yunho’s voice is yielding and child-like, even if it’s hardened with anger. Mingi reminds himself that Yunho was a child then, he had been too. They’d been so young. His entire chest tremors. The messages span years.
14th April 2018
I can’t believe you’re not here. You haven’t been returning any of my calls and I don’t even know how you’re doing Mingi-yah. Your mom asked me to give you both some time, that you just need some space to process everything. I just— God, I don’t understand Mingi-yah. I just want to be there for you but I don’t even know where you are. They keep reassuring me that you went back home to your family, but you’ve moved too. [tired sigh] I hate you. Most days, I hate you. You’re my best friend and we haven’t spoken in months and that’s just— God, I just hope you’re okay. We’re going to the US soon— LA, like you always thought it would be. You’re right again. They found the money for it somehow and I can’t believe I’m not going with you Mingi-yah. [pause] Pick up your phone.
Mingi scrolls through the list of messages, eyelashes already tear glossed. There are so many of them.
24th October 2018
We debuted Mingi-yah. We did it. [voice crack] I wish you were here with me. I miss you. We all wish you were with us y’know? Joongie hyung said that our chant was supposed to be eight makes one team [sniffles] and we did it before our first performance backstage. You should be here with us, but I hope you’re okay more than anything else. I miss you. [sad laughter] God, I miss you.
21st June 2019
[sheets rustling] [deep sigh] We won today. Our first win [pause] and it felt like everything we dreamed about and nothing at all. [shifting] It’s so late but I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m live wired but I kept looking to my right to try and find you there on stage with me. I keep saying it, but I think about you being with me probably more than I should. I miss you. [pause] It’s stupid, I keep hoping I’ll run into you somehow, I even keep an eye out when I go to pick up shit for the dorm. Every other lanky guy my height isn’t you, though. It almost feels like I’m holding my breath all the time on the off chance I spot you. I’m disappointed every single time I— this is stupid. This is so stupid. [heavy breathing] We won and you weren’t there.
9th August 2020
It's your birthday today. [a muffled cheer] Happy birthday Mingi-yah! [laughs] Is it a little pathetic that I send you a voice mail to an abandoned number on your birthday every year? Maybe. I miss you though, especially today. [pause] It’s easy to say I guess, when I know nobody’s listening. I wonder how you’re doing but I can’t find you on social media. Yeah, I do keep checking like an idiot. The pandemic’s been fucking horrible, I haven’t had this much time to think in ages and I don’t know if I like it. I’ve been gaming a lot, and it’s easy to nerd out about Val when there’s fuck all else to do. Anyways, I hope you’re close to home and that your mom made you miyeok-guk. Youngie would’ve, if you were with us. He would’ve found a way to drop it off for you even if we were social distancing. We still talk about you y’know, and we miss you more than we’d care to admit I’d say. I do, that is. [soft breathing] Seonghwa hyung still hasn’t gotten rid of your toothbrush from our bathroom— I don’t know— sometimes it’s like we’re hoping we’re just stuck in some kind of daze that we’ll wake up from. [pause] Uh— yeah, well— thank you for being born, I hope you’re doing well. Happy birthday, [chuckles] can’t believe we’re already twenty-two.
He realises that the messages are time stamped to dates that are significant to Yunho, some that are special to Mingi. Most though, painfully, are entirely random.
3rd March 2021
Mingi-yah it hurts. It hurts and I don’t know how to make it stop. [sniffling] Everybody’s relying on me to do a good job and all I can do is think about how I’ll never live up to what anybody fucking wants from me. We haven’t slept in days and my body is so tired I want my legs to give out on me so that I have an excuse to leave. I’ve tried everything— everything, please— I need you right now, I wish you could tell me what to do. I wish you’d just call me back. [voice crack] I need my best friend.
12th January 2022
I’ve been noticing that nothing tastes like it’s supposed to, lately. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s all become so hard Mingi-yah, and tour’s soon. Waking up is hard, dancing is hard. The voice lessons, the working out, the English … even the Japanese, the constant practice. God, I wouldn’t be complaining if you were with me. I just know it Mingi-yah, I wish you were here, it was always better when you were. I want to give up on all of it Mingi-yah. I want to leave it all and hide. [heavy sigh] Whatever, I think I’m just exhausted, it’s probably nothing. I might just be overtired. I am— [laughs] I am over tired. I hope you’re sleeping better than me.
10th July 2022
I’m in Japan right now. I found a food I like— abura soba. It feels like relief. Uh, a date took me there— well, [shuffling] she’s my girlfriend now, actually. I just— that’s not relevant. Anyways, it’s like this noodle thing? I think you’d like it. I don’t know, it made me think of you. We’d always talked about coming here, running away maybe. Or what was it? [chuckling] Hawaii we’d always said? Well, I managed Japan. [wind crackling] Our first show here is in a few days. I hope you get to see Japan too, someday.
Mingi realises that there’s none in the time they’d reconnected, only that the final voicemail left for him was dated to when they’d last seen each other. It’s from more than a year ago now. Mingi only remembers bits and pieces.
24th April 2024
God— I fucking hate you. I hate you and I wish you’d stayed the idea of my best friend, the one that wanted me— the one that loved me. Mingi-yah I just— I hate you [something clashing onto the floor] Fuck. I hate you and I wish all I had was the memory of you. [muffled cries] I wish I didn’t love you as much as I do because then I’d actually be able to escape this constant ache of wanting you with me all the time. [pause] [heavy breathing] It hurts Min— it hurts so fucking bad and it always has. I didn’t ever think we’d outgrow each other. I hate you.
Mingi goes back to the beginning and listens to every single one of them. Mingi sits there for hours. Mingi sobs.
⤥ ★ ⤦
The headlines about Yunho’s return from the military slips past Mingi’s notice.
Still, the news of ATEEZ disbanding does make its way to Mingi, only it reaches him weeks after it happens. He’s not had social media since retiring as a fansite, and catches it serendipitously during the commentary of a pop culture channel on his mom’s TV. They discuss Hongjoong’s fast evolving, newly planned clothing line and Seonghwa on a modelling job for a European fashion house he couldn’t pronounce the name of if he tried. Jongho’s booked a major motion picture soundtrack and Wooyoung had shifted to teaching dance at an idol academy. San and Yeosang were apparently quiet in their retirement, Yunho too. Mingi’s ears ring when he realises that he’s not being fucked with.
He creates a burner account almost immediately, spends hours on twitter catching up on everything he’s missed.
With trembling hands, Mingi messages Yunho not a week later.
⤥ October 2017 ⤦
Yunho doesn’t even know that he’s fallen asleep until he startles awake.
The lights are dimmed in the room but everything Mingi’s hooked up to is still beeping steady, his heart rate firm and the IV drip half-full. He realises a nurse has been in and out in the meantime, having changed the bag out from the last one that was almost over, when Yunho was last awake.
“Hi sleepyhead.”
Yunho knows he’s being spoken to because there’s nobody else in the room. His nap-heavy scan of the bare space tells him as much, only second to the realisation that Mingi’s staring at him, eyes half open and sort of dazed.
Still, he’s smiling.
Yunho had opted not to put his chair by Mingi’s bed, too scared to move it even though the nurse he’d valiantly gained the sympathy of to sneak in here had told him Mingi was too hopped up on meds to hear anything. Yunho had decided against testing fate, either way. Now, he’s not privy to Mingi’s micro-expressions because of it, feels the five feet of distance between them as if it’s an entire canyon of space.
He hears the rustle of Mingi’s head moving against the pillow once more, a new rhythm in the stillness, and then he’s raising his arm in Yunho’s direction, beckoning him. And who is Yunho, if not the boy who answers to Mingi’s call.
He takes the risk then, the slow drag of the shitty hospital loveseat as slow as he can go to not disturb either of their ears. Mingi makes a pained little sound, as if it’s an irritation all the same.
“Just get in here Yun,” he slurs, “too cold.”
Yunho stops dead. There’s nothing more than the steady hum of Mingi’s heartbeat on the monitor and the pulse rushing into his own ears. He almost forgets why they’re even in a hospital room, Mingi more carefree than he has been in months. It’s an entirely heartbreaking realisation.
He’s obedient. The steps Yunho takes are quiet but purposeful, hasty when he takes off his shoes to try and manoeuvre himself onto Mingi’s side. Yunho realises Mingi’s fallen asleep in the time it’d taken him to get to bed, the deep scruff of a sigh that he utters only to perceive Yunho being near him all over again.
“Hi, you,” Mingi says. His eyes are closed but he’s smiling.
“I can just sit next to you, Mingi-yah,” Yunho whispers, half-scared he’s waking Mingi up, “you need the space.”
Mingi shakes his head no, blindly grasping for where Yunho’s wrist had last been. Yunho, like blind leading the blind, gives his hand over to Mingi’s warmth.
“’s too cold,” he repeats, “squeeze in.”
It’s an endeavour to say the least. Yunho’s terrified that he’ll hurt Mingi somehow, that he’ll make the pain worse. Mingi doesn’t let go of the hold he has on Yunho’s wrist, making it that much harder to adjust. Yunho just about manages squirming to the side of the bed, head propped on his elbow.
He can’t help but look at Mingi then. It’s eerie, how much he looks like Yunho’s best friend and all the same ways he doesn’t. It’s not hard to see how sunken in his eyes are, from this close, how tired Mingi looks even if his entire face is relaxed, like he’s been straining so long without anybody telling him that it’s okay for him to put the weight down. He looks older, worn out. Yunho wonders whether that’s why he’s not been allowed to get this close these past few weeks, why he’s not been able to touch or soothe Mingi like he’s done in second nature. He resituates a bit— head dropping onto his bicep so that his fingers can roam Mingi’s scalp tentatively, something he’s never done before but is compelled to. Mingi hums, the fingers around his wrist tightening just barely. They’re almost nose to nose, like this, and Yunho gets to watch Mingi’s eyes flutter open with effort.
When he comes to it, it’s slow, and Yunho watches the panic appear just as fast as the relent takes over. It’s two-fold he thinks, that Mingi realises he can no longer hide from his pain and that Yunho’s here anyways, beside him, like he should’ve been the entire time.
“’m sorry,” Mingi breathes, only sort of lucid. Yunho wouldn’t hear it if he weren’t so close.
“Let’s not do this right now,” Yunho says, and he finds that he’s almost begging, “you’re on such strong meds— you won’t remember any of this in the morning.”
There’s a muffle of something that gets stuck in Mingi’s throat, maybe a chuckle, maybe a whine. Yunho can’t tell.
“’s better if I won’t remember,” Mingi says, “don’t wanna to talk to you about it.”
It hurts, for Yunho to truly know. It should be obvious, that you wouldn’t know all consuming fear until the situations that incited it smacked you square in the jaw. Still, Mingi crumpling to the worn floors of the studio they’d been leaving their blood, sweat and tears on felt world-ending to Yunho as it happened, how lax and unresponsive Mingi had been no matter how loudly Yunho had called his name, softly and then incessantly. He’d had enough time to stew in the confusion and hurt in the hours after, where the adrenaline had coursed his entire body, thrumming in his veins and making Yunho untethered to all rational thought. There’s none of that left, now, only that Mingi is beside him and that he’s okay. God, he must’ve been in so much pain. Yunho doesn’t know how he’d missed it getting this bad.
Yunho tries to steady his voice. “They said you’ve gotten ulcers from all the painkillers you’ve been taking— it’s partly the reason you collapsed,” his voice shakes anyway, “why didn’t you tell me Mingi-yah?”
“’m disposable—” he says, words sluggish and rough around the edges, “didn’t want to get in your way, didn’t want to get in my own way,” he pauses, as if he’s almost lost his own train of thought, “telling you would have made it real.”
It is real, Yunho wants to scream. You’re in a hospital bed barely able to move because your body gave out from the pain. You looked dead when I was screaming your name in the dance studio. I could barely hear you breathe. Being an idol means fuck all if you’re the price I have to pay for it. I don’t want it like this— I’ll never want it without you.
Yunho’s head spins at the word disposable. In what world would Song Mingi, the best dancer in their pre-debut group and one of the most insightful, hard-working and brilliant musicians of their time, be disposable? Yunho feels bile claw its way up his throat. Yunho’s eyes are heavy with tears. This feels too big, too weighted for the shoulders of a teenager. The resounding clarity that then hits Yunho attacks him like a freight train. Mingi had been managing this same weight for weeks, months.
“You’re torturing yourself thinking like that,” Yunho sterns, “you aren’t disposable Mingi-yah.”
“I will be,” he slights, final, “’m only as good as my stupid body.”
Yunho wants to kill him. Seriously. Yunho wants to ring his neck out and shake him so hard he hurts in the same intensity as the open wound that’s cracking open in Yunho’s chest, frazzled and bleeding frantically. There’s so much Yunho doesn’t know how to say, so much guilt that threatens to explode him from his stomach, undone viscera and all. Yunho wants to tear Mingi apart, wants to rip the serene look that’s on his face as if none of this bothered him, like this isn’t their dream in jeopardy, their lives on the precipice of unimaginable change, not just his. Fuck— fuck, Yunho just wants to—
He'll chalk it up to how tired he is, in the years to come. He’ll rationalise the decision to put his lips to Mingi’s as a spur of the moment release of all the pent-up emotion his body’s been subjected to in the weeks that’s led up to Mingi lying in this hospital bed, where he’s been withdrawn and borderline apathetic towards Yunho, behaviour that’s never been an aspect of their friendship prior to this. Years later than that, he will look at this moment in a bittersweet haze, accepting everything that Yunho processes the second he commits to kissing Mingi all over again, realising in real time that his mind and heart and body has been Mingi’s for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t even know the enormity of what it will become, what it is. All he focuses on is the way Mingi’s lips are soft even if they’re chapped from the frigid, sterile air, how Mingi is so warm even if the room’s so fucking cold, how Mingi doesn’t realise what’s happening until he does, how he garners impossibly closer to Yunho in response, taking and taking and taking.
Even as Mingi’s a little delayed on the draw, he is unerringly charismatic, his hand moving from Yunho’s wrist to entangle their fingers together. He sighs into Yunho’s mouth and gasps when Yunho licks into the space between his lips. Yunho doesn’t mean to be as insistent as he becomes, determined to make Mingi understand the immensity of everything he can’t say but believes. You’re an integral part of our team. We aren’t the same without you, we aren’t as good without you. You aren’t disposable. You aren’t. You’re my best friend. You’re mine. He hopes the sentiment transfers as much as Yunho’s body heat does, that the words bury themselves underneath Mingi’s skin and seeps into his convictions. Yunho knows Mingi’s stubbornness and denial will find him when he’s fully awake, fully Mingi. Here though, Mingi can be convinced, can be swayed. So, Yunho puts himself to work, kisses him until both their lips go numb.
He only slows down when he hears how breathless Mingi becomes, even if he’s committed to wanting himself bound to Yunho’s lips. Yunho assures him by kissing his cheeks and each of his moles, never straying too far while letting Mingi breathe. Yunho even manages to peck one of his temples before Mingi smiles into his neck, heaving.
“What?” Yunho murmurs.
“Maybe I should’ve told you sooner,” Mingi sighs, an ebb of a smirk, “if I knew this would be how you’d act.”
Mingi’s beautiful. He’s so fucking beautiful.
He suddenly realises how much the pain has taken from his best friend, from them. He’s shocked into a laugh because Mingi hadn’t spoken to him like this in weeks at least, something light and unburdened in his demeanour. It’s earth shattering to realise it’s because he’s being pumped full of morphine, that he can be Yunho’s Mingi because he’s not actively worried about his body giving out on him, of his body fighting him. The open wound reinvents itself in Yunho’s chest then, that this is something he can lose forever.
Mingi snaps him out of it. There’s a careful lift of his hand to Yunho’s forehead, a gentle brush of two fingers along the furrow of Yunho’s brows. He relaxes on instinct, like Mingi wants him to. He looks the most lucid he has all night, eyes clear and overbearing, earnest as they always are when Mingi has nothing to hide. It terrifies Yunho how easily Mingi can see through him, if he were to look at him like this.
Mingi uses those fingers to cradle Yunho’s jaw, smiles up at him where Yunho’s still closer to him than they are on most days, that they have been in weeks. He tugs under Yunho’s chin ever so slightly, like Yunho would somehow say no to what Mingi’s asking of him. It’s like being doused in the sea, baptism by water, when Yunho relents to Mingi’s lips on his again. Yunho doesn’t push this time, doesn’t claim. He instead revels, of the opportunity Mingi gives him, of the willingness he puts in the palm of Yunho’s hands. He’s gentle when he breathes into Mingi’s mouth, lets Mingi kiss him over and over again, lets them both have what they want but can’t yet fully understand.
“I love you, Yun,” he hurries into Yunho’s lips, then again, like he’s scared Yunho’s not heard him, “I love you.”
Yunho knows. Yunho’s always known. Still, it feels like walking on thin, breaking ice. Still, it feels like the first break of sun after a long, dark winter. It doesn’t hurt that Mingi won’t remember. Yunho knows.
“Tell me when we make it, okay?” Yunho says, and this time he is begging. Even if Mingi won’t remember this, even if he’s to be the only witness of this night and the one singular truth Mingi’s heart offers him so dutifully. He doesn’t shy away from the tears that fall from his cheeks, lets them rest between him at the weight in Mingi’s eyes. “Tell me then, when we debut and we’re standing on that stage together.”
Mingi just hums, non-committal. He’s quick to wipe his tears away, a gentle thumb that stops them down the apples of Yunho’s cheeks. It makes everything feel worse, that even if Mingi feels so strongly for Yunho when he’s so utterly inebriated, it’s in the same intensity that it seems like he’s already given up on his dream. Yunho knows that they’ll be okay, that this is just an unexpected bump in the road. Anything other than that is inconceivable to him, unimaginable. He gives Mingi a final kiss, and Mingi smiles into it.
The exertion of staying awake catches up to him though, Mingi’s eyes duller and less awake when he opens them again to look at Yunho. Yunho’s fingers return to Mingi’s hair, soothes at the strands in a rhythm until he snuggles closer into Yunho, seeming to affirm for himself that his best friend isn’t a dream his drugged-up brain has conjured. Yunho leaves a kiss on his hair, reassuring him.
Yunho and Mingi would do this together, or not at all. It’s the only thought that comforts him long enough to use Mingi’s even breathing as a lullaby to fall asleep.
//
Yunho’s woken up by a gentle tap to his shoulder. Mingi’s mom peers down at him, too many emotions to count. There’s a knowing look there, as if she can read Yunho’s heart and intent even if Yunho keeps it buried under lock and key, even if Yunho doesn’t fully understand it. Mingi’s asleep next to him, a hair’s breadth from his lips like they had been the night before, when they were the only two people in the world and everything was insular and theirs for only a moment. He doesn’t know why, but there’s a hot curl of shame that turns his stomach, at both the memory of them leaving their self-control suspended outside the hospital door, and because of the liberties Yunho had taken as if he was just as high on pain meds as Mingi had been. He feels grimy then, like he needs a bucket of cold water doused over him and enough time for him to scrub himself raw.
He's quicker to hurry off of Mingi’s side, to stand up and anchor himself to the floor long enough to greet Mingi’s mom with a proper bow of respect. She looks sympathetic when he meets her eyes.
“None of that, Yunho-yah,” she says, garnering him into her open arms, “c’mere.”
Yunho has no choice but to be enveloped into her embrace. She’s so much smaller than him, but he feels so tiny inside her little bubble, her arms running along his back comfortingly. It’s pathetic that he can’t help the sob that escapes him, tearing at him like a skin against the friction of harsh gravel. He realises he’d been it all together then, hadn’t so much as processed the last day until right this moment.
“Oh, my sweet boy,” she coos, voice thick and sad, “you’ve done so well Yunho-yah. Thank you for keeping him company until I got here.”
Yunho feels so fucking pathetic. Here he is taking up her time while her child’s lying injury ridden in the same hospital room, inches from them. He shouldn’t be this weak, this short-sighted. Still, he can’t let go, another sob wracking through his entire body in a shudder. He realises that he’s apologising a beat too late, that he’s been muttering it into her shoulder this entire time. Like penance, like prayer.
It feels real then, suddenly, it all feels so real. Mingi’s hospitalised. He has a severe, unevaluated back injury, he’s over-exhausted and borderline malnourished. He’d pushed himself onto his last legs right under Yunho’s nose, had hid it from Yunho all the same.
“None of this Yunho-yah,” she repeats, “this is not your fault. It isn’t.”
Yunho tries to breathe through his nose, tries to pick himself back up from the pieces he’s become inside this room. He doesn’t believe her words, he can’t. He’s numb when he pulls away, paws at his eyes so that he’ll stop crying. It’s a wasted effort, but he does it anyway.
“I should go, eomma,” he says, bone-deep exhaustion finding him, “he needs you right now, the doctors should come by soon.”
She’s worried, a hand still stroking Yunho’s arm. “Are you sure—”
“He doesn’t need me, you’re here now,” he breathes, “he’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”
She looks just about as convinced as Yunho feels. He can’t be here then, the room threatens to suffocate him if he doesn’t find his way out.
“I’ll see him at home,” he says as goodbye, giving her a quick kiss to her forehead in thanks and putting his shoes back on, “don’t worry about me.”
It stays a steady repeat, running its circles in Yunho’s head. He should have known. He should have pushed. Yunho swallows the need to risk a fleeting glance at Mingi when he closes the door shut behind him.
⤥ ★ ⤦
Mingi sees Yunho first.
He’s turned towards the ocean watching the waves, but Mingi can tell it’s him because he’s wearing his favourite jacket. It’s one that Mingi had helped him pick out at a time that feels like eons ago now. Yunho’s got his arms crossed across his drawn knees, head resting on them as he peers toward the view in front of him.
The dip of the sand beneath Mingi’s shoes unsteady his walk a bit, but he’s too focused on the man paces away from him. The whistle of the rushing sea is comforting as he makes his way to Yunho, reservations be damned. It’s a beautiful afternoon out, and Mount Fuji stares back at him on his left, an unerring presence that grounds him to traversing unfamiliar territory. The sky is almost entirely cloudless, and the afternoon sun is as clear and inviting as the ocean.
He takes his time to get to Yunho.
“Sorry this isn’t Hawaii,” Mingi greets.
He sets his cane down between the two of them before he settles on the sand next to Yunho. Mingi’s watched while he manages it, Yunho perhaps memorising all the ways he’s changed since they last saw each other. There’s something wistful about it.
Yunho looks at him, small smile in recognition, “It’s close enough.”
Mingi doesn’t know where to start. The trip to Kamakura had been a whim of a suggestion, one that Yunho somehow agreed to. He figured some neutral meeting ground would do them some good and had travelled here separately, still giving each other the inklings of space that’s spanned them since they’d last spoken in person. There’s a whole chunk of life that they’d trudged through to get here, and they have been so far privy to only pieces of the other’s from here and there. Mingi tries to begin from where he’s sure.
“You left.”
“I did.” Yunho says, the wind carrying most of his voice away, “I needed to.”
Mingi owed many apologies. When he’d reached out to Hongjoong to dole off a fair share of them, he’d been asked if he was finally taking care of himself. Mingi had been honest and told his hyung that he’s trying his best. Just like that, he’d been easily forgiven and told the full story. Yunho had pulled out of the contract renewal as soon as he’d gotten back from rehab. They’d all recognised the end of their run, refused to go ahead and live more of their dream without another person they cared about. All six of them had figured out their backup plans while they worked through their service, called it off once they’d been relieved of their time. It’d kept Mingi up for days after his hyung had told him, that Yunho was spared the pain of having to continue because Mingi had always been a part of their story, that he’d actually mattered enough in the lives of people he’d been so scared of considering friends. Hongjoong had promised to check in from time to time. Mingi’s been called every week since.
Yunho looks at him for a second or two. “You’re using a cane.”
“I am,” Mingi relents. It’s been months since he’s started, his gait used to shifting his weight around it now, “I need one, most days.”
It’s still not easy to say. He’s better about honouring how he’s different from everybody else, but he’s still in the middle of yearning for more, some of the time. He knows his limits though, is better about not pushing them. Even if he isn’t all that ready to talk about it, he is doing better for himself, has his physicians to help. He’s put in the work for it.
Mingi breathes. “I punched you.”
That earns him a winded chuckle from Yunho. It’s good-natured. “I think I deserved it.”
“You didn’t.”
Yunho clicks his tongue, agreeing. “I didn’t.”
Mingi’s back to feeling a bit helpless, “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said that already.”
He had indeed. It had been said in the minutes of the stilted phone call they had three weeks ago now. It’s where they made visiting Japan, a figment of Mingi’s imagination at that point, into a solid itinerary.
“It doesn’t seem to make anything better.”
Yunho’s thoughtful when he responds. “I think that’s more on the two of us than the actual apology. But we’re here now,” he says, the tinge of hope unmissable, “you wanted us here.”
Mingi had seen blooms of plum blossoms when he’d made his way from the B&B. He’d thought about visiting a temple or two before coming to see Yunho, bask in some sort of quiet before he reckoned with his past, more on precedent than belief. In the end, he’d chosen not to bother.
He’d been right not to. Nothing feels as peaceful as being by Yunho to Mingi, nothing ever has. There’s rest here.
“You were right,” Mingi says, “about everything. You were right.”
Yunho sighs, “You were too.”
It doesn’t feel like anything Mingi had said that night was fair. Somehow, Yunho’s still willing. Somehow, Yunho’s still here.
“I found your messages,” he admits finally, “all the ones you left on my trainee phone over the years.”
Yunho’s head whips to Mingi’s. Mingi continues to stare at the sun, hues of iridescent yellows and oranges as it bows its way to kiss the horizon. The meeting of sun and sea is as inevitable as every dusk. Mingi thinks they are too.
“The thing fucking turned on,” he breathes, “The pink had chipped and the keys had faded but your name was still saved, and the inbox was full. I found it stuffed away in a fucking backpack I was too scared to open when I’d left and then let myself forget about.”
Weight heavies at Mingi’s eyes, the rush of Yunho’s voice throughout the years over static too big a gift and too great a loss all at the same time. It resonates completely—in all its pain, and so much more in all its joy. It still sits with him now, even weeks later, even when he’s almost sure it’s too late.
“I was a fucking idiot, Yun,” he tries, “God, you fucking deserve better than me.”
“I want you though,” Yunho’s quick to say, “Mingi-yah— fuck, it’s always been about you, for me. From before the day you left me that stupid fucking letter too, I—"
Mingi doesn’t stop the tears that fall this time, there’s nothing left other than the hollow and heavy. He keeps his eyes on the dip of the sun into the waves below it.
He hears Yunho take a steadying breath.
“I think I grew to hate it, once you were forced out of it,” Yunho says irrevocably, “I only realised we were a majority of the joy in it from me once you were gone, and then it was about surviving.”
The wind hovers, weaves around them enough that it feels like a hug. Yunho sniffles beside him too.
“Everything I enjoyed about it went with you, and I hated it as much as you hated me. I was honouring your promise, and I was also honouring the responsibility I had to the people I love, but I hated it,” he says, a sigh of relief in tow, as if this is the first time he’s let it out of his own head.
The conviction bleeds out of Yunho like a fresh, un-cauterised wound. “I hated what it became without you that nothing I gained mattered, and then I hid from the resentment of it all until it drowned me,” he tempers.
“That’s what I meant,” Yunho finally says, “that’s what I should have said.”
Mingi heaves a sigh. He takes a beat, affords himself another. His body feels lighter than it has in years, and maybe it had long before he sat next to Yunho this particular afternoon.
“I don’t hate you,” Mingi whispers, because it deserves to be said. It deserves to be heard.
Yunho looks at him slowly. Mingi finds just enough courage to stare at the sun to his own sea.
“I know, Min,” he says, “I’ve always known that.”
There’s a ghost of a smile that Yunho gives him. It ushers his dimples just enough leverage to show, and Mingi’s sixteen again. Yunho doesn’t hesitate, extends his hand from where it was rested on his knees out to Mingi’s cheeks. His fingers are featherlight and careful when they wipe away the tears that rush down soft skin. Mingi would miss this over and over and over again, if that were his fate.
Yunho gives, just as he always has. “I don’t hate you either.”
Mingi finds it in himself to smile back at him, “I know.”
Yunho remains too many things that mean too much to him all at once.
“Are you okay?”
It’s more innocent that Mingi intends it, something small and naïve. There’s faith there too, so much of it.
Yunho’s gracious, “I’m getting there.”
Mingi understands Yunho then, in the ways he’s always understood him. Time had lost them their translation, but maybe they had a bit more time now.
The last of the sun haloes Yunho’s skin a pretty golden, even if he looks a lot older than he is. Still, every smile line and wrinkle earned with effort or strife is given to Mingi freely, and he finds himself cherishing it all dearly.
They watch the waves until the stars come out and the crowds thin out. They survey the night surfers embrace opaque water. They observe the sand in front of them shift into the tide until their legs get tired. Through it all, Mingi feels the warmth of his best friend reclaimed to his side.
They stay there like that until the spring breeze nips for their attention, insistent for change. As it tends to be, Yunho’s the first to listen.
He stands up and extends his hand to Mingi like he’s always done.
Here, Mingi takes it, like he used to.
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