Chapter Text
Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.
There’s a slight tremble in Mingi’s right forearm when the muscle flexes, a fine vibration that crawls up to his shoulder. It grows sharper each time he pulls the weight back against his chest.
Twenty-nine.
A dull ache blooms across the chafed skin of his palm. It burns now; hot, raw, and a little wet with sweat. The metal feels rough, biting into the tender crease beneath his thumb. Mingi grunts, the sound low and irritated.
Thirty.
He lets the weights fall to either side of the bench with a muffled thud. His arms hang there, grazing the coarse carpet, heavy and slow to answer him. The fibers scratch at his knuckles. He drags in a breath and feels it snag somewhere behind his ribs.
The air doesn’t flow quite right. That must be why he’s been so shitty with the exercises today. His breathing has been off since the first minute he stepped inside the gym; or maybe since he woke up this morning, earlier than he was supposed to, because of Eunah’s snoring.
He did move to the couch to try and finish his night, but couldn’t get back to sleep. Eunah had said it was because he was too stressed about the new job when she eventually woke up. Mingi replied with a half-groan that he wasn’t stressed—he wasn’t the type to be. No, Mingi is strong and reliable. Has to be. Not weak. Never.
Still, he has to admit that his throat feels too tight, the air too thick, and maybe he’s been sweating more than usual for the mild October weather.
He has no reason to feel apprehensive, he tells himself. It’s not even exactly a new job. He’s still in the same boring office worker position, still in the finance team, still in the same company he doesn’t really care for. He’s just transferring from the Seoul office to the Tokyo one because his boss needed him there.
It was surprisingly easy for Mingi to accept the offer. He had never particularly fancied living abroad before, but neither had he been particularly attached to his homeland. He hadn’t cried when his mother hugged him goodbye in the airport lobby.
Eunah often says he should care more about it all; his country, his family, traditions, and long-term planning. She’s probably right. And it’s surely one of the reasons that led Mingi to propose to her after three years of tranquil and uneventful dating. Building something. A good life. That, and the fact that Eunah is a nice girl. Very pretty, too. She can be a little irritating at times—too assertive, perhaps—but she’s smart and reliable, and when Mingi said he wanted to move to Tokyo, she agreed without a single question.
There’s a vague fondness when he looks at the silver ring on his finger.
It’s just past noon when Mingi adjusts the edge of his suit for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. He’s followed his morning schedule with the utmost precision: managed to exercise for a good while—although it hasn’t helped relax his shoulders or slow down his racing heartbeat as much as he’d hoped—went back home for a shower, ate the boxed lunch Eunah had prepared with such care the day before, and got himself ready.
And now he’s staring at himself, utterly disliking what he sees in the mirror, without exactly knowing why. His suit is neat enough. It fits a bit snugly over his shoulders, since he’s been getting more muscular lately, but it’s still nice. The deep navy suits his skin tone well, he thinks. His new glasses look very serious, too. He looks reliable. And nothing’s wrong. Still, like every time he looks too long at his reflection, his heart clenches. There’s just something ugly that he sometimes feels is seeping out of his body.
Stupid.
That’s definitely not the right time to sink into those kinds of thoughts.
Be a man.
Keep yourself together.
He forces his eyes away from the mirror and grabs his coat.
There’s a soft ache in his chest as he reads the small note, dark ink on yellowish paper, taped to the backside of the front door. Clumsy letters—Eunah’s handwriting has always been messy, which is part of her charm, Mingi thinks—spelling out: “You’re gonna rock it!”
For a brief moment, Mingi wonders where she is right now. She's not supposed to be working this week, is she? She probably told him; she always does, but he’s often too far lost in his thoughts to catch her words. The thought makes him feel a little guilty as he steps out of the house.
“Here’s the communication cubicle,” Mr. Park says, gesturing toward two rows of computers. A few faces turn around, curious, greeting Mingi with polite nods before returning to their screens.
The office looks nice, too bright, perhaps, like all these open spaces, but not unpleasant. It’s crowded with desks and monitors, a vague hum of conversation and keyboards filling the air. A few potted plants soften the corners, their leaves glossy under the fluorescent light. That, Mingi thinks, is nice.
His own department is tucked away in a quieter corner of the thirteenth floor. The view from the large window is unexpectedly good. He can glimpse the Hama Rikyu Garden, a much welcome stretch of green against the ocean of concrete and glass.
Mr. Park, his new supervisor, has been showing him around for nearly thirty minutes now, guiding him through departments and introducing him to an endless list of names Mingi knows he won’t remember. He nods, smiles, murmurs the right words when prompted. Still, his attention keeps drifting. His palms are sweaty. He’s distracted by the small piece of something caught at the corner of Mr. Park’s mouth. A bit of vegetable, maybe. It’s impossible not to notice. It makes Mingi vaguely uncomfortable; he can’t stop his eyes from flicking toward it again and again.
“And that’s the public relations service,” Mr. Park announces as they arrive at the very back of that floor. “Ah—there’s someone you should meet.”
The older man walks over to one of the desks. A figure sits there, back straight, a mop of dark hair falling over the top of the computer screen.
“Mr. Jeong?”
The man turns, and Mingi follows Mr. Park’s lead, stepping closer.
“Here’s Song Mingi,” Mr. Park says to the other man. “He just transferred from Seoul, so you might have met already?” He turns to Mingi, “Mr Jeong transferred from the Seoul office four years ago.”
The other young man’s eyes meet Mingi’s. Then they flick downward, scanning his face with brief, polite curiosity before returning to his gaze.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says finally, standing up to bow. “Nice to meet you,” he adds, switching to Korean, “I’m Jeong Yunho.”
For a brief moment, Mingi simply looks at him. Yunho’s taller than he expected; just an inch more, but it makes a difference. His hair is dark and a little tousled. His eyes are warm. He has a kind face, Mingi notices. There is something a little feline in the way his lips curl, Mingi notices too.
He’s handsome, Mingi thinks. The thought makes something tighten in his chest. Envy, probably.
Mingi feels the urge to bow deeper, although he isn’t sure if the other man is older than him.
“Song Mingi,” he says, quieter than he had intended. “From finance.”
When he straightens, Yunho’s smile has deepened. There’s something warm in his expression. Mingi feels a faint heat bloom at the back of his neck before he can stop it.
“Well, Mr. Song,” Yunho replies, voice smooth and even, “feel free to come to me if you need anything. Settling into a new city can be challenging. I’d be happy to help.”
Mingi mumbles a quick thanks, eyes briefly catching Yunho’s again before he turns away to follow his supervisor. The rest of the tour blurs into indistinct corridors and polite small talk.
Mingi doesn’t talk much with Eunah when he comes home. She’s already in her nightgown, sitting cross-legged on the couch, a mug of tea cooling beside her.
“How was it?” she asks as he takes off his coat.
There’s a brief silence during which he wonders himself. How was it? Good, mostly. The people seemed nice. The work will be the same as always. Nothing to complain about.
“It was alright,” he says finally. “Nothing extraordinary.”
Eunah smiles, faintly. “That’s good,” she murmurs, and returns her attention to the television. The light flickers across her face, washing her features in dull blue.
Mingi watches her for a moment, then turns away. The day was long. He moves through the small apartment quietly, aligning his shoes near the door, brushing his teeth, folding his shirt. Everything in its place.
Later that night, as he lies beside Eunah and the room hums with the rhythm of her breathing, his mind drifts back to the office. To the brightness of the thirteenth floor. To the countless new faces he’s already forgotten. And also to the curve of lips, very pink, feline, smiling at him.
He turns on his side, facing the wall, and exhales slowly.
Sleep takes him soon enough.
Mingi’s heartbeat isn’t much calmer when he wakes up for his second day at the office. But the workday passes by smoothly enough.
He greets his team with a bow, sits down, opens the files that were left on his desk. Numbers, invoices, standard forms. Tasks that require no thought beyond habit. Things move calmly.
By mid-morning, his shoulders have started to relax a bit. The others in his section keep to themselves, polite and efficient. He likes that. No one asks unnecessary questions.
At noon he opens the lunch box Eunah prepared. Rice, a bit of meat, vegetables. Everything neatly arranged. He eats while checking an email. The food tastes fine. He sends Eunah a short message to say lunch was good. She replies with a heart.
It’s all perfectly quiet and alright until mid-afternoon, when Yunho suddenly appears in his line of sight. He walks through the room holding a folder, talking with another man who Mingi cannot seem to remember. The light from the windows hits his shirt, pale against his skin. When he notices Mingi, he smiles and changes direction. He's coming towards him.
Mingi feels the air tighten. He straightens in his chair. Nothing weird in that, he tells himself. He’s new here. Wants to make a good impression.
“Hey,” Yunho says as he reaches his desk. His tone is easy. His voice is low. “How’s the first day going?”
“Second,” Mingi says automatically.
Yunho laughs. “Right. Second. How is it so far?”
“It’s fine. Just getting used to everything.”
“You're settling in okay? Liking Tokyo?”
“It’s good. Everybody's nice.” The words come out clipped. Mingi hopes it doesn’t sound rude. He’s just a little nervous. He's never been too good with new people. Never been too good with people all together.
Yunho nods, still smiling. His sleeves are rolled up. The movement of his forearms catches Mingi’s attention. The fabric of his shirt stretches lightly when he crosses his arms. His hair is more controlled today, brushed back with a bit of product. It reveals his forehead and the clear line of his brow. It suits him. Mingi makes a mental note that maybe he should try doing his own hair that way. Maybe it would suit him too.
He realizes he’s been staring for too long. He forces his eyes back to the computer screen.
“Well,” Yunho says, “if you need help with anything, don’t hesitate. You know where to find me.”
“Thank you,” Mingi replies.
He curses at himself for his sudden lack of eloquence, but finds it impossibly difficult to find anything else to say with Yunho towering over his desk.
Yunho’s gaze lingers a second longer. Mingi feels his heartbeat against his collar. Then the other man nods again and turns away.
Mingi stares at the numbers on his monitor, and finds it a little difficult to get back to work.
On the third day, Mingi wakes up before his alarm rings.
He arrives at work a little early. He walks through the building he’s starting to know a little, makes his strut as confident as possible –fake it till you make it, they say-. When he passes by the public relations service, he can’t help himself but glance at one particular desk. Yunho isn’t there. His chair is empty, a neat stack of papers left on the corner.
A small thought crosses Mingi’s mind—disappointment, maybe—but he dismisses it. He’s just getting used to seeing familiar faces. He’s been alone in a new city for less than a week. Anyone would want company.
Work is steady. He finishes a few reports, checks totals, sends confirmations. The tasks demand enough focus to keep him still. Around noon, he joins two coworkers in the break room, eats the lunch box Eunah prepared once more. They talk briefly about the weather. He doesn’t bother smiling too much.
By mid-afternoon his eyes burn from the screen. He stands up, walks to the corridor for a coffee. The vending machine hums softly. He presses the button, waits for the paper cup to drop, watches the thin stream of liquid fill it. The smell is faint and bitter.
When he turns around, Yunho is there.
Mingi startles slightly.
“Taking a cigarette break,” Yunho smiles. “Care to join?”
Mingi hasn’t smoked in years. He opens his mouth to decline but hears himself say yes instead. His voice sounds too quick.
They walk together down the hall, into the elevator. The silence between floors is not uncomfortable. Yunho checks his phone; Mingi keeps his eyes on the numbers above the door.
The rooftop air is cool. The sky is pale, the sun leaning low behind the nearby buildings. Light spreads thinly across the concrete, soft and gold. The city noise reaches them faintly, filtered by the height. A few employees stand near the railing, smoking in pairs. Yunho greets them with a nod but heads toward the opposite side of the roof. Mingi feels a sense of relief at that choice. Or pride, maybe. Yunho wants to smoke with him. Him only.
The taller man offers him a cigarette. Mingi takes it, a little shy, though he tries to look composed. He tells himself to keep his shoulders straight, to look at ease. He has to be cool to fit in with Yunho. To be standing next to him, and for it to make sense.
Yunho lights his own first. The flame flares between his hands. His wrist moves with precision, steady, skin pale where the cuff of his sleeve has slid back. Mingi watches the lighter tilt, the small reflection in Yunho’s eyes. His hands are beautiful. His fingers are long and elegant. Neat. There’s a prominent vein at the back of the right one.
When Yunho leans forward slightly, the light touches his mouth. His lips close around the cigarette, soft, the corner of his mouth curving faintly as he inhales.
Mingi realizes he’s staring again.
Shit.
He looks away, down at the cigarette still unlit between his fingers. For a second he can’t remember what he’s supposed to do. He hasn’t smoked since college. Never been a fan. Still, he brings it to his mouth, flicks the lighter. The flame wavers. He inhales too quickly. Smoke hits his throat hard. He coughs once, then again, rough and too loud.
His cheeks heat. He half expects Yunho to laugh, but he doesn’t. The other man only glances sideways, the same quiet smile on his face. His eyes return almost immediately to the skyline.
Pale gold stretches on the surrounding buildings. Mingi focuses on breathing normally again. He’s glad Yunho isn’t watching him. And for some reason it makes him a little disappointed too.
There’s a soft woody fragrance mixing with the cigarette smoke, Mingi notices. Yunho’s cologne, probably. It smells good and soothing. A little dangerous too.
They stand in silence for a while. The wind moves lightly across their clothes. Yunho’s hand rises, cigarette still between his fingers, smoke curling upward. The veins on his wrist shift faintly as he moves. Mingi’s eyes follow them again without meaning to.
Yunho breaks the silence. “Where are you living?”
“Minato,” Mingi says, voice as steady as he can.
“I like that area,” Yunho answers. “Quiet, clean. Close to the bay.”
Mingi nods. The smoke tastes bitter. He lets it fall from his mouth slowly, trying not to cough again.
He wants to say something back. “Do you miss Korea?”
Yunho shrugs. “Not really.” He smiles. “I like it here.”
Another short pause. Yunho takes another drag, then lowers his hand. “You moved here alone?”
Mingi hesitates. The question lands awkwardly in his chest. He feels a quick urge to lie, to say yes, to keep the moment simple. Eunah’s name wouldn’t make sense in this conversation. It’s simply better to keep her out of workplace stuff. Logical.
But Yunho’s gaze shifts toward his hand, to the silver ring around his finger. Before Mingi can answer, Yunho continues. “Fiancée?” he asks.
Mingi nods once. “Yeah.”
“Lucky.” Yunho smiles as he looks away.
Mingi looks down at his own hand. The ring catches the soft autumn light. It feels heavy. He glances at Yunho’s again—long fingers, neat nails, no ring.
“What about you?” he asks.
“No fiancée,” Yunho says with a short laugh. “I actually haven’t had a boyfriend in forever.” His voice is light, unbothered.
Mingi feels his head spin a little.
He didn’t expect Yunho to be so open. Especially while having that type of lifestyle. It isn’t exactly the most accepted thing. But Yunho doesn’t seem to care. Which makes sense, Mingi thinks. Yunho looks like the kind of man everyone likes. Him being a homosexual probably doesn’t change that.
Mingi decides it doesn’t change the way he sees Yunho. He’s always been rather open minded. Doesn’t judge people who are different. Everybody deserves to find love after all, right? The sudden weight in his chest isn’t disapproval. He’s almost certain.
Before he can stop himself, he wonders what Yunho’s last boyfriend looked like. Wonders what kind of man Yunho might like.
His hands suddenly feel shakier. The cigarette slips from his fingers into the tray. The ember fades, smoke carried off by the wind.
When his eyes lift again, Yunho is looking at him. Dark eyes, open, steady. They feel too direct. Mingi has the strange sense Yunho is seeing more than he should. He prays he isn’t. It feels disarming.
Mingi’s chest stays tight as they head back inside. He follows Yunho through the door, down the corridor. His gaze keeps catching on the man’s shoulders, the easy way he moves. At the back of his neck too. There’s a small cluster of moles there, scattered like points on a map.
He looks away, jaw tight.
The fourth day is a Friday. The office air still feels heavy.
By mid-afternoon, Mr. Park stops by Mingi's desk. “We’re going out after work,” he says with a polite smile. “Izakaya near Shimbashi. You’ll come, right?”
Mingi doesn’t want to come. That whole socializing thing is the worst part of his office job. Has always been. But it doesn’t sound like a question. He forces a nod.
“Of course.”
When Mr Park leaves, he sends Eunah a quick text.
I’ll be home late. Work thing.
The izakaya is loud and warm. The walls glow with amber light, everything tinted with that comforting dull orange. Too warm. The air smells of grilled meat, smoke, soy sauce, perfume. Conversations overlap. People laugh too loud.
Mingi sits at a table near the back. He doesn’t know anyone there. Mr. Park is with the other managers, already deep into some discussion. Mingi nods when someone offers him a menu. Orders a highball.
It tastes good, cold, easy. He orders another.
The people around him talk about wives and children, about golf, about the next business trip. He smiles when it feels appropriate, eats what’s passed to him, tries to look relaxed.
Halfway through his second drink, he looks up. Across the room, Yunho is sitting at another table. There’s a small smile when their eyes meet—barely there. Mingi looks away too quickly. Then looks back again.
He notices a man sitting next to Yunho. Shorter, sharp nose, animated face. Handsome. Or pretty, rather. Mingi has seen him before around the office. He laughs loudly, hand brushing Yunho’s arm as he leans in. Yunho grins, head tilted slightly toward him. Something inside Mingi tightens. He wonders who that man is.
Someone stands and suggests moving to a bar nearby. The group cheers. Mingi nods automatically, before his mind can weigh the choice.
By the time they reach the bar, the night air is cool, soft. Mingi’s steps feel lighter, less certain. He thanks the liquor for that.
One of his colleagues, a woman from HR, talks to him the entire walk. She’s kind, a little older, and she keeps touching his arm when she laughs. Her hand lingers a moment too long each time. There’s a ring on her finger. Mingi notices it and feels an uneasiness creep in. He’s never been the unfaithful type. Not much of a womanizer anyways. He tries to put a little distance between the two of them.
The standing bar is smaller, darker. Wooden counter, walls covered in posters. The light buzzes faintly. Someone orders a round for everyone. The drinks come quickly.
Mingi sips. He starts to laugh at something he doesn’t really hear. The alcohol has warmed him. His heartbeat feels almost quiet for the first time this week maybe.
He finds himself pulled into a group conversation with people he doesn’t know, or doesn’t remember. They probably don’t know him either, but nobody asks. There’s that short man he’s seen with Yunho earlier in the group, chirping about a story Mingi doesn’t understand. He talks quickly, bright and loud. He gestures with his hands, voice full of energy. Charming and easy.
At some point, he turns to Mingi fully. Scans his face. Nods lightly.
“I’m Wooyoung,” he smiles. “You’re the new guy, right? From Seoul?”
“Yeah,” Mingi answers. “Song Mingi.”
“Right, right. Yunho told me.”
“Oh.” Mingi doesn’t know what else to say.
Wooyoung laughs again, the sound open and contagious. Mingi watches him talk, notices the curve of his wrist, the light bouncing off his hair. There’s something enviable in the way he exists—so sure of himself, so bright. Mingi could never be like that. It looks easy for him. Something close to envy blooms in Mingi’s chest. Because Wooyoung is too much, and there’s something a little too feminine in the way he carries himself, yet nobody seems to care.
Mingi wonders if that’s why Yunho seems to like him so much.
His throat feels dry. He orders another drink.
No matter how many people he talks to, Mingi’s eyes seem to always find their way back to Yunho. The brunette is standing near the bar, tie gone, shirt slightly open at the collar. His hair is still slicked back, though a few strands fall forward now. He’s smoking again. The cigarette glows in the dim light, smoke rising around him.
Mingi looks away. Then back again. Yunho’s name sits at the back of his mind, repeating itself without sound. It's a little scary. It's been a very long time, since he's felt that way. He knows he shouldn’t indulge in it too much. Still can’t help it. Yunho
Yunho. Yunho.
Their eyes meet once, twice. Yunho doesn’t look away. Mingi’s chest tightens. He goes to the counter to order another drink.
“Are you okay?” a voice says behind him.
He turns too fast. Yunho is right there. Closer than expected. His face open, eyes steady.
“You look a little lost,” he adds, tone soft.
“I’m fine, thank you,” the younger man says, maybe too sharply. He can’t place the edge in his voice. He’s angry, somehow—at Yunho for not talking to him sooner, maybe for noticing him now. For finding him lost and pathetic, apparently.
Yunho’s smile doesn’t waver. “It’s normal. You should’ve seen me when I started here. Got lost in the building three times my first week.”
Mingi lets out a small laugh despite himself.
Yunho nods at the bartender before Mingi can react. Pays for his drink.
“You don’t have to—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Something loosens in Mingi’s chest. He doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Want to get some air?” Yunho asks.
Outside, the street is cooler. The city hums. Yunho leans against the wall, pulls a cigarette from his pack. He doesn’t offer one to Mingi, and Mingi feels both relieved and grateful. He frankly hopes he never has to live the humiliation of choking in front of Yunho again.
The smoke curls upward, fading quickly into the dark. Yunho watches the traffic, then glances back at him, waiting. For Mingi to speak, probably.
Mingi wants to find something to say. He wants to please Yunho, he realizes. Needs to. But his mind feels soft and slow and a little hazy.
He steps a little closer, without knowing why. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to catch the faint scent of Yunho’s cologne again. Wood, smoke, something clean underneath. He hates that he notices it.
“Rough week?” Yunho asks. His voice is low. Only for Mingi to hear. Mingi likes that, a lot.
He nods. “I guess. Just… new things.”
“It gets easier.”
Mingi feels pathetic. He looks pathetic too, probably. Yunho smiles. His eyes are calm, kind. The noise from inside the bar filters through the door—laughter, glasses clinking. Out here it feels distant, muffled.
Mingi’s balance shifts slightly; the alcohol is heavy in his limbs. He stumbles half a step. Yunho’s hand catches his shoulder, steadying him.
“Careful,” he says.
The touch is light, but entirely too much at the same time. Mingi feels something stir in his chest—something too big, too undefined. He wants to melt in that soft contact. Wishes it could be more. A hand on his waist, maybe.
Shit.
What the hell is wrong with him?
“You’re really drunk, aren’t you?” Yunho says, still gentle.
Mingi nods. “A bit.”
“Oh Mingi, look at you,” Yunho coos, and Mingi feels like crying.
Does Yunho thinks he looks miserable? Messy? He certainly feels like he is.
Does Yunho thinks he looks pretty at least? Mingi hopes he does.
“Let’s get you home, okay?” Yunho asks gently, although it doesn’t really sound like a question.
Mingi shakes his head faintly, words stuck somewhere in his throat. He doesn’t want to go yet. Doesn’t want this to end. He wants to stay here, with Yunho. Or needs Yunho to come with him, because he thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t get to continue talking with him, breathing his air, staring at the oh-so-soft curve of his smile.
Shit.
Eunah wouldn’t want him bringing a friend over so late. And Yunho isn’t even a friend. And Mingi wouldn’t like Eunah to see Yunho anyways. Wouldn’t feel right. And above all perhaps Mingi only wants to be with Yunho.
Yunho Yunho Yunho.
But the taller man is already pulling his phone out, calling a cab.
The world moves around them, neon signs flickering, the low hum of passing cars. Mingi watches Yunho’s face lit by the screen, eyes focused, the quiet line of his mouth.
When the cab arrives, Yunho guides him forward, a hand still on his shoulder. Mingi feels himself sway under it.
“What’s your address?” Yunho asks.
Mingi mumbles it, barely hearing his own voice.
Yunho repeats it to the driver, then presses some bills into his hand before Mingi can react.
A small part of him wants to argue that he can pay for himself. That Yunho owes him nothing. But he also feels strangely warm at the sight. It feels good to feel taken care of.
"Rest well, okay?"
The car door closes. Yunho’s face fades behind the glass, and Mingi already mourns his traits.
The ride is quiet. Tokyo passes by in fragments; lights, signs, faces, all blurred. Mingi leans his head against the window. His fingers rise to his shoulder, to the place where Yunho’s hand had been. He presses lightly, as if he could still feel the warmth there.
His chest feels too full.
Now that he’s back to silence, he realizes just how much he fucked up. He knows he’ll be embarrassed tomorrow. He knows he indulged in thoughts he has no right to form. He’ll probably have to hide away from Yunho forever.
But tonight, he lets himself sink into the memory of that touch. That innocent, soft touch. Into the comfort of being seen and steadied.
He closes his eyes.
Yunho’s name sits quietly at the back of his mind, steady as his pulse.