Chapter Text
鸟儿唱歌不是因为它们有了答案，而是因为它们有歌要唱
A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.
The good news is Minghao has nabbed his dream job.
The bad news is he needs to marry a stranger to keep it.
Any minute now. A thick snow blankets the street beyond the clerk’s office windows, where frost blooms over the glass and distorts the view of cars crushed in evening traffic. Maybe his future husband is caught on the road.
Minghao doesn’t know much about Kim Mingyu—only that he is a Korean citizen, he’s in dire need of money, and according to Junhui, he’s nice.
Minghao laces his fingers together to keep from fidgeting. He never imagined his future spouse would be late to their own wedding. Civil ceremony. Whatever. The heating in this building is weak and he stifles a shiver as the clerk blatantly checks his watch.
Junhui smiles sheepishly and squeezes Minghao’s shoulder.
As their sole witness to the marriage, Junhui is dressed in a sleek navy button-down and slacks fit for the occasion. He looks like his pockets are bottomless, which they are, and his cell phone costs more than Minghao’s ever earned in his whole life, which it does.
The situation is frankly ridiculous. Forget cold feet—Minghao has feet frozen solid. He doesn’t want to do this. If there were any other choice, he’d take it happily. But the magazine was very clear: they would hire him as a lead photographer, but they wouldn’t sponsor his visa.
Thus the need for an unwed citizen willing to take his hand in marriage for a hefty price.
It’s medieval. Probably immoral. Definitely illegal. Minghao bites his lip. He should change his mind while he still can; he can’t marry a literal stranger. No matter how vetted they are by Junhui.
Not to mention they’ll have to fool everyone for months just in case the government comes investigating. Marriage fraud is a criminal act. Minghao will have to start pretending to be in love with whoever the hell shows up at the door, and he won’t be able to stop until their eventual divorce two… maybe three years from now.
Honestly, what was he thinking?
He opens his mouth to call the whole thing off, but before he can speak, a man walks through the door.
“Sorry, am I late?”
Minghao looks up. And up. And up.
Kim Mingyu is the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He’s in a black pinstripe blazer with damp spots across the shoulders and when he steps inside, he does a little stomp-stomp to dislodge the snow from his boots. His smile is a total knockout. And he’s drop dead gorgeous.
Minghao is so fucked.
He doesn’t realize he’s supposed to speak until Junhui raises his eyebrows significantly.
“It’s okay.” Minghao does a little wave. Hopefully his face is neutral and not on fire.
“Finally,” the clerk sighs and claps his hands together.
A slight widening of his eyes is the only reaction Mingyu has to seeing his new husband-to-be, so either he’s an excellent actor or Junhui had shown his picture beforehand. It must’ve been a difficult negotiation— please marry my family friend from China, he will pay you lots of money and he’s an okay person —so Minghao’s not surprised.
Mingyu nods sharply. “Let’s do this, babe.”
Then he extends his hand. Minghao takes it.
The clerk opens a folder. “Are we ready to begin?”
This is truly his last chance to change his mind. Minghao swallows hard, thinks of his dream job waiting across the city, and says, “Yes.”
After the rushed ceremony, after the documents have been signed, after their lawyer has explained the normal procedures for marriages involving a foreigner, they congregate in the back parking lot where no one can see them move Minghao’s bags into Mingyu’s car. The snow is falling thicker now. Traffic has dispersed and the sky is dark with dusk. Minghao stands for a moment between the two cars, shivering, taking in the peaceful fields beyond the road.
He’s married and it doesn’t feel real.
“You have a lot of stuff,” Mingyu comments as he’s tossing a bag into his tiny trunk.
Minghao shakes his fringe out of his face and doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to say. When he nestles his camera bag on top of his last suitcase, they stand in an awkward semi-circle until Junhui looks up from his phone.
“I guess that’s it.” He claps Minghao warmly on the shoulder. “Call me if you guys need help. I have a good feeling about this, though. Don’t screw the interviews and you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Junhui.” Minghao watches him leave.
His last connection to home is driving away, abandoning Minghao with his intermediate Korean, and it stings somewhere in his throat to watch. He won’t cry. This was his choice, and it’ll be worth it after that first shoot with the magazine, he just knows it.
He turns back to the car to find Mingyu watching him with raised eyebrows. There’s something annoying about his face. He looks like he wants to say something, mouth hanging open a little, uncertain.
“What?” Minghao frowns and brushes past to get into the passenger seat.
“Nothing. Um.” Mingyu hurries to the driver’s seat. He sits unmoving for several seconds, eyes wide and blank like he’s forgotten how to hold the steering wheel. “Wow, we’re really married.”
“I noticed.”
When the car rumbles to life, the radio starts blasting a heavy rap song at full volume, and Minghao flinches so hard that Mingyu scrambles for the volume knob and slams it all the way down. They sit in awkward silence while Minghao sighs.
Is this guy trying to be annoying?
They drive and don’t speak. The radio remains off.
The paperwork rests on the seat divider. Minghao reads it from the corner of his eye—slowly, painstakingly, skipping the advanced vocabulary he doesn’t know—and stops to stare at his printed Korean name. Seo Myungho. It looks different from Xu Minghao. It sounds different from Xu Minghao. He doesn’t know how to feel about it yet. Will he be able to answer to a strange set of syllables?
Apparently Mingyu lives in a less-than-stellar neighborhood just outside the inner city, off subway line #5, between two hills where the apartment buildings are stocky and offer roof access. There’s a nice snow-dusted park across the street.
He parks in the structure behind the building and pauses before getting out, hands fidgeting in his lap. Blinking dashboard lights illuminate the graceful angles of his face. He suddenly looks young.
“I’m sure Junhui told you, but it’s a one-bedroom. We don’t have to… share the bed or anything. We can just make it look that way when Immigration comes to check.”
“Okay.” A drop of tension ebbs away from Minghao’s spine. “That works.”
“And no rush on the first monthly payment. I don’t know when your job starts.”
Minghao looks up from his boots. “Why do you need the money?”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows they were a mistake. But he’s been burning with curiosity since Junhui first claimed to have found someone, a friend even, willing to marry him for 800,000 won a month. Because honestly, what the fuck? Mingyu dresses well, he has a decent car, and apparently makes rent just fine on his own. There’s no obvious sign he’s short on cash.
Mingyu’s face goes slack. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back and revealing a well-defined face. His attractiveness just adds to the mystery; he could pick up modeling in his spare time with ease.
“None of your business.”
Minghao rolls his shoulders uncomfortably and mumbles, “Nevermind then.”
Shrugging, Mingyu gets out of the car and shuts the door. They unload the bags and drag them to a metal staircase. Minghao wants to ask about an elevator, but he doesn’t know the word in Korean, and figures Mingyu doesn’t hate him enough to subject them both to this physical torture. Yet, anyway.
It’s a long-winded struggle to ascend three stories under flickering lights, and Minghao nearly drops his camera bag when a moth flies into his face. He does curse in quiet Mandarin, which makes Mingyu turn around with a surprised Pikachu face, like he somehow forgot that his fake husband would speak a different language.
But the expression on Mingyu’s face isn’t exactly negative. He looks… curious. In a warm way. At least until the strap on a duffel bag breaks and Mingyu trips on the penultimate step, latching onto the railing and slamming his knee into the wall.
“Fucking ow.” He rubs at the spot tenderly.
Minghao bypasses him and waits at the hallway door.
They stop in front of apartment 97, out of breath, until Mingyu unlocks the door with a practiced hand and Minghao steps into his brand new life.
Despite the nightmare living situations Minghao had stressed about in his imagination, the apartment is pretty average. A long navy couch, a tall bookcase, a large window with a small balcony, and an immaculately clean kitchen behind a half wall. Small and cozy.
Mingyu toes off his shoes and stacks them in a neat shelf beside the door. He hangs the key on a hook and drapes his jacket on a tasteful coat rack in the corner. Minghao is starting to think he misjudged this guy and he’s actually a suave business-minded adult—until his eyes roam back to the bookcase and, on closer inspection, he notices the books are all romance mangas.
He awkwardly puts away his shoes and jacket. The suitcases take up most of the common area, and Minghao realizes he has to share this tiny living space with a literal stranger.
“So…” Minghao gestures to the couch. “I’ll sleep there. Where should I put my stuff?”
Mingyu points to a door beside the balcony window. “That’s the bathroom.” He points to a door off the kitchen. “That’s the bedroom. Not a lot of space, but I bought extra storage. There’s a few empty drawers. Put your stuff wherever.”
“Okay.”
There’s an awkward pause where Mingyu tries to smile. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.” Minghao’s stomach feels like it might eat itself. He just wants to be alone.
“Well, I like cooking,” Mingyu says, crossing into the kitchen and opening the fridge. “So there’s plenty here if you want—oh, do you like Korean food?”
Minghao knew what he was getting into when he applied for this job in Seoul. He took a few Korean language classes in college, back when Junhui started talking seriously about moving to another country. He took a vacation to Jeju once. He wouldn’t have moved to a place he disliked, especially their food, knowing he’d have to live there indefinitely. Who doesn’t love kimchi?
But lying to Mingyu might be funny.
So Minghao lifts his nose and says, “Not really.”
It’s definitely funny how Mingyu’s face gets this pinched, stressed look for a moment before he closes the fridge. “Oh.”
“I’m gonna start unpacking.”
“Okay. I’ll just… be in the room. If you need anything.”
So Mingyu disappears into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked open.
Finally he has some space to breathe a little. Minghao puts in his earbuds and blasts the newest release from Bii so loud he can’t hear himself think. Unpacking his toiletries and skincare products is a soothing ritual. Cleanser, toner, moisturizer, sunscreen. He hangs a few coats on the rack, and they blend nicely with Mingyu’s evenly-toned wardrobe. Navy and black and beige and white.
There’s space on the bookshelf, below the plants and above the manga, so Minghao cleans his camera lenses and arranges them artfully. They look good enough to be decorative, but any real photographer would see their worth immediately. He spares a quick prayer that Seoul doesn’t have earthquakes.
He sends an email to his new boss verifying that he’ll be in tomorrow morning. While Mingyu emerges from the bedroom and heats up a bowl of what smells like seafood stew, Minghao deliberates over what to wear for his first day, switching his playlist to Tchaikovsky and spreading several shirts over the couch.
First impressions are important. He wants his to last.
Minghao becomes so absorbed in his task that he doesn’t notice when Mingyu steps outside to the balcony, but he does notice when the glass door slides open and he returns, dragging along the thick smell of cigarette smoke.
“You smoke?” Minghao tugs out an earbud and wrinkles his nose.
Mingyu looks up, startled like a small animal would be, and goes pink in the face. “Sometimes.”
The disgust must be evident on Minghao’s face, because Mingyu continues defensively, “Only outside, never in my apartment.”
Minghao makes a noncommittal noise, a neutral hum, that must come out harsher than he intends, because his husband bristles like it’s a sensitive topic. His face scrunches up.
"Our apartment,” Minghao corrects, then feels like an asshole.
“Right.” Mingyu sighs and deflates. “Well the extra sheets are in the bathroom cupboard. Goodnight.”
He shuts the bedroom door hard and Minghao flinches. The camera lenses wobble on the shelf. Instead of knocking and apologizing, like he knows he should, Minghao stubbornly jams his earbud back in and thinks malicious thoughts about his husband. He’s awkward, clumsy, childish—as evidenced by the manga collection—and not someone who has anything in common with Minghao.
He won’t let his guard down with this guy. Minghao has good reasons not to trust anyone.
Soon enough his visa will arrive, and after enough time they can peacefully divorce and go their separate ways. He just needs to forfeit some independence right now to get what he wants.
He heaves a sigh and rubs his palms over his eyes. Dream job, he reminds himself. Dream job.
Minghao forgoes sheets and sleeps on the couch bare. When he wakes up, restless and antsy, before his alarm, the bedroom door is cracked open and the key is gone. Whatever Mingyu’s job is, it gets him out of the house before 7 am. How strange.
“We’re glad to have you on the team.”
Seungcheol is an approachable boss with an impeccable eye for design, if his outerwear and office are anything to go by, and Minghao has nervous butterflies just sitting across from him. The office is cramped and lived-in, the desk a brainstorm of several different concepts. A laptop dings in front of Seungcheol once, twice, but he doesn’t even glance at the screen.
This man is more powerful than his friendly attitude would have you believe. Seventeen magazine operates on several floors of a downtown high rise with views of the Han river and six different studios, all supervised by Seungcheol as the design head.
One of those studios is about to be Minghao’s.
“I’m happy to be here,” Minghao says, and he’s so nervous he stumbles over the words a little bit, so he clears his throat and continues with clearer pronunciation. “I admire the magazine’s work.”
“And we admire yours.” Seungcheol smiles and laces his fingers together. “It’s great timing that you moved here. Jeonghan tells me you recently married your long distance partner?”
“Oh yes, that’s true.”
“Congratulations.”
Minghao starts sweating. Is it normal to congratulate people on a new marriage, or is his boss suspicious of the serendipitous nature of his visa? He straightens up and tries to arrange his face into something lovestruck.
“Thanks.” He smiles very big. “I really love him. The whole thing was so... “ Clinical. “Romantic.”
He thinks of how Mingyu slammed the door last night but snuck out early this morning without so much as a note. They haven’t even exchanged phone numbers yet.
Luckily Seungcheol seems none the wiser, because he nods like he understands the feeling and slides a portfolio across the desk. “That’s great to hear. He’s welcome to visit during your break anytime, Jeonghan’s partner is always stealing our coffee anyway.” He taps the folder. “But let’s talk about your first assignment.”
All thoughts of Mingyu and marriage fly out the window. Minghao leans forward. “Yeah, let’s get started.”
Seungcheol fastens the button on his blazer and stands up. He’s taller than he appears, broad in the shoulders and with old money posture. He opens the office door for Minghao and follows him into the hallway, calling, “Jeonghan, come meet our new photographer from China. He’s doing your spring spread.”
The trouble really starts when Minghao attempts to get home.
He doesn’t remember the address of his apartment. This morning, rushing out the door to catch the next bus, he blindly followed the map app into the city center and didn’t pay close attention to his starting point.
Minghao retraces his steps to the bus stop. Downtown streets are flooded with people getting off work and they shout plans to one another across the road, heedless of honking traffic. Down a smaller street to his left, a collection of street vendors are grilling beside the patio of a high-class cafe, and he spares them a longing look. He doesn’t have the cash to buy a meal—only enough for the bus—but the smoking meat smells like home.
If only he had someone to stop and get dinner with.
For the first time since he moved to this country, a whole two days ago, Minghao feels lonely.
He has a headache from concentrating on Korean all day. There were several moments he missed a comment from Seungcheol or struggled to answer a direct question and once, memorably, Jeonghan described in explicit detail an outdoorsy concept that could’ve been incredibly sexual if Minghao hadn’t snuck his phone out to search the translation of grasshopper.
Minghao waits until a bus comes along going in the right direction and boards. Now he just needs to figure out which stop is Mingyu’s apartment.
Near the back of the bus, a window seat is open, and Minghao gratefully shoves his earbuds in and sits down. He leans his head against the window and watches the evening flash by. They drive out of the business district and down a street already choked with nightlife. Neon signs advertise beer, karaoke, dance, and other entertainments too quick to see. Minghao cranes his neck hoping to see a street performer.
The neighborhood starts to look familiar. Apartment buildings shrink and grow further apart. Piles of snow are still frozen to the streets in some places due to lack of foot traffic. Anxiously he taps a fingernail against his seat until an elderly lady turns back to glare. Minghao bows his head, stops, and tries to concentrate. His bus stop is directly across from the park beside Mingyu’s apartment. It shouldn’t be hard to find.
Except there are a dozen parks in this neighborhood, and by the third one he’s convinced he’s missed it.
Minghao jumps out at the next stop. The streets look correct, but they’re unfamiliar, and he finds himself standing in front of an ivory stack of apartments with a narrow dog park and a fountain. Definitely not his place. Fiddling with the strap on his camera bag, he follows the street until it begins narrowing into an alley.
Shit. He’s lost. To his left is the backside of a fried chicken restaurant, where a stray dog is gnawing at the edge of a dumpster, and to his right is a small residential street with more fire escapes than actual doorways. It’s crowded and unlike the neat building where Mingyu lives.
When Minghao checks his location on his phone, it doesn’t help. He’s still in the right neighborhood—probably—but can’t see his apartment building anywhere.
And of course his stomach is growling audibly now.
Minghao admits defeat and enters the fried chicken restaurant. He spares a quick glance at the menu—nothing he can afford with the 2,000 won in his pocket—and approaches the man at the cash register with a friendly smile.
“Excuse me.” He fiddles with the strap on his bag. “I’m looking for…”
Pause. He can’t exactly say he’s looking for his own fucking apartment.
“For my friend’s apartment,” he finishes. “I think I’m lost. Where is the nearest park?”
The man, an elderly worker with strong sideburns, points him in a direction and wishes him well. Minghao wanders for another two hours before he finds the right park, and by that point it’s dark, he’s exhausted, he’s starving, and he’s pissed.
Mostly at himself for not having the foresight to ask Mingyu’s number or address. But also at Mingyu for not thinking to tell him these things. They’re supposed to be fucking married and Minghao can’t even leave the house properly. By the time he stomps his way upstairs and knocks at room 97, he’s had plenty of time to stew and he blames them both.
Mingyu opens the door frowning. He’s in sweatpants—pajamas! He was about to sleep not knowing where Minghao was!—and his bangs are hanging in his face. “Where have you been?”
That’s the wrong thing to ask. Minghao shoves past him with a huff. “Great fucking question.”
“What does that mean?”
“I got lost coming back. You left this morning without giving me your phone number or address, thanks."
A flash of something crosses Mingyu’s face before his lips thin. “Oh.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and looks deceptively soft in his sleep clothes, which only makes Minghao madder somehow, that Mingyu’s been here for the past several hours relaxing and having a grand ol’ time while Minghao was out there shivering and scared.
“I don’t have a spare key yet,” Mingyu admits.
“Whatever.” He doesn’t have the energy to argue. Minghao fishes around in his suitcase for his emergency stash of money. Tomorrow he’ll go to the bank and transfer the last of his savings from Anshan, but for now, he needs to eat. “I’m going out to get dinner. And I’m taking the key.”
Mingyu looks like he wants to argue—about the late night wandering or the loss of his only house key, it’s unclear—but he shrugs. “Fine.”
The next morning, Minghao finds a yellow sticky note on the fridge with a cell phone number in messy handwriting. To his surprise, there’s a list of Chinese restaurants scribbled underneath, sorted by distance from the apartment. He checks and some are within walking distance. It does a little to ease the ice around Minghao’s chest, but not much.
The good parts about moving to a new country and becoming a professional photographer: the excitement, the new foods, the independence, the general thrill of it. Minghao wakes up most mornings feeling like he’s walking on sunshine, living the dream, the whole shebang.
He looks over Jeonghan’s preprints of a jungle-themed advertisement for luxury cologne with an eclectic mix of bokeh and oversaturation. He falls asleep brainstorming his next spread and keeps a gorgeous leather notebook on the back of the couch full of half-dreamt ideas. For the first time since diving headfirst into the world of photography, he’s artistically challenged.
The bad parts about moving to a new country and starting a brand new job: literally everything else. Minghao is affectionately known at the office as “the new Chinese photographer,” which, while annoying, could be worse. But it feels like an asterisk instead of a fun fact. All small talk around the coffee machine is the same: How’s the food here? Do you miss China? Where exactly are you from? Oh, I’ve never heard of it. Do you like it better in Korea? Haha, just kidding.
It’s a little exhausting.
And then there’s his husband. Mingyu is loud. He nags him incessantly to clean the couch. Or the bathroom. Or the kitchen. He never stops humming and he has a serious smoking problem. He takes excited phone calls at the dining table, laughing and sometimes speaking too fast to follow, even after Minghao shoves in earbuds and gives him the stink eye, because on top of everything else, Mingyu is deeply uninterested in criticism.
One month into their arrangement and Minghao still isn’t sure what his husband does for a living.
They have a decent routine now where they’re only in close contact for an hour each day. Early evening, Mingyu’s typically in the kitchen, blasting music or chatting with friends as he cooks, while Minghao’s just gotten back from work and is decompressing. Soon enough Mingyu eats and goes to bed—sometimes offering leftovers to Minghao, sometimes not, or asking him to take out the trash, or just throwing out judgemental glares at the prints spread over the couch and ink-dotted fingers. Really depends on the night.
Sometimes they make frosty small talk. Mostly about Minghao’s work or Mingyu’s social circle. But they don’t have to see each other often. It’s like living with a particularly annoying roommate and nothing more.
Until Minghao nearly dies.
He’s woken up early on a Sunday morning by the front door slamming shut. Groggy and imagining a burglary, he sits up too fast and makes himself dizzy.
Mingyu is toeing off his shoes and nodding his head to whatever inane pop is playing on his headphones, obviously just home from a morning run. Sweat sticks to his collarbones, forehead, the fringe of his hair when it falls loose in his face. He doesn’t even glance at the couch before shutting himself in the bathroom. The shower turns on.
Minghao blinks and rubs his eyes. His phone says it’s only 8am. Great.
Half-asleep, he makes his way to the kitchen, blinking sunlight from his eyes. It’s clearly gorgeous outside. He entertains the idea of going for a walk himself—he knows the neighborhood much better now, thanks to several hours studying the map, and feels confident he could explore a little without getting lost.
Minghao is thinking so intently about his free afternoon that he doesn’t notice his deadly mistake—picking up the tiny glass bottle of honey instead of the tiny glass bottle of agave syrup—and mixes his tea without a care in the world. Mingyu’s parade of succulents on the windowsill smile cheerfully. The room is filled with a sleepy, warm glow.
He takes a long sip of tea. The taste is strange and the reaction is immediate. Minghao’s throat twitches once, like he swallowed a chili flake the wrong way, and then ignites into a burning, itching, festering pain. He coughs. His eyes fill with startled tears and he fumbles for the drawer, double-checking the ingredients, because there’s no way that Minghao would’ve made such a stupid mistake, since he’s deathly allergic to honey.
The two identical bottles are sitting side-by-side. Fuck. Gasping through a swelling throat, Minghao slams the drawer closed. He grabs the counter for support and accidentally knocks the mug onto the floor, where it shatters, hot tea bleeding over his bare feet.
A confused yell comes from the bathroom, but Minghao’s throat is incapable of shouting back. He throws himself onto his work bag, fumbling with the zipper, his heart a frightened hummingbird. The epipen is stuck on a loose thread. He tugs and tugs, fear like a second rope around his thin windpipes, while dark spots dance in his vision. He’s going into anaphylactic shock.
Finally Minghao pulls the epipen free and stabs it into his bare thigh. Hands shaking, he slumps into a limp sitting position and just tries to breathe. Panic only makes it worse, he knows, but god that was close. Too close. Tears sting the corner of his eyes.
He doesn’t even notice Mingyu barreling out of the bathroom, hair sopping wet and bare-chested in sweatpants, until he’s standing between Minghao and the kitchen, looking at the destruction with an open-mouthed confusion.
“What the hell."
Minghao can’t speak yet. He wipes his eyes and curls his knees to his chest.
“What did you do?” Mingyu pushes a shard of ceramic with his toe. “Dude, that was my favorite mug.”
It was an accident, Minghao wants to scream, but he doesn’t know the Korean word for anaphylactic shock, because he’s not a goddamn thesaurus, so he balls his hands into fists and refuses to speak. His throat is raw and ravaged, but he can breathe comfortably now. He closes his eyes.
Apparently that was the wrong move, because he hears an agitated shuffling before Mingyu’s foot prods into his hip. “Minghao. You need to clean this up.”
Minghao really tries. He gives it an honest go. He opens his mouth, forms the word honey on his lips, and thinks about pushing air past his vocal chords. Then he gives up. The adrenaline is fading and the shock is setting in—he almost passed out, and he certainly would’ve died, because Mingyu has no idea where the epipen is. He would’ve died sprawled on the floor in his pajamas.
So he screws his eyes shut even tighter and shakes his head.
Mingyu snorts. “You’re really unbelievable.”
Minghao drops his head into his arms and thinks I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
He locks himself in the bathroom and Mingyu must take pity on him, or something, because when Minghao emerges after a long, hot, steamy shower to clear his sinuses, the mess is gone. Remnants of the mug are stacked hopefully on the counter instead of the trash.
Minghao goes for a walk and brings back a bucket of fried chicken in a weird sort of apology. Not that he needs to apologize, because he almost died, but Mingyu doesn’t know that and his stupid mug is broken, so. Fried chicken.
Mingyu takes a piece and doesn’t say thanks.
After that, their relationship goes from awkward cohabitation to something more volatile and petty. Minghao trudges home from work to find his leftover jajjangmyeon eaten. His clothes, deliberately scrunched into the back of the drawer. Sometimes, though he has no proof, he’s sure Mingyu starts gaming right as Minghao gets on a videocall with his parents, making the connection falter and fuzz.
In retaliation he hides Mingyu’s phone charger in the bottom of the laundry basket. He uses all of Mingyu’s expensive coconut shampoo, even though he has plenty of his own, and deliberately leaves water all over the floor. He smiles when he hears Mingyu curse and nearly slip later that night. The best part is Mingyu always confronts him.
Like last night, when Mingyu finally found his phone charger, he stormed up to Minghao reading on the couch and asked, “Did you hide my charger on purpose?”
“What charger?” Minghao blinked dumbly.
“You did.” Realization like anger crosses his face. He might be intimidating, if he weren’t so soft. “Seriously?” He throws his hands up and returns to the bedroom, mumbling, “What’s the fucking point?”
Minghao’s satisfaction, that’s the point. Just like tonight again. He’s left a lake on the bathroom tiles, so much that he considered mopping a little to keep his husband from blowing a goddamn gasket entirely, but. Mingyu’s annoyance is entertaining.
“Hey.” Mingyu sticks his head out of the bathroom. His shirtless shoulders peek out. “Clean up the floor next time, seriously. I almost slipped.”
Minghao settles into the couch cushions and keeps scrolling through Instagram. “Not my fault you’re clumsy.”
“I’m not asking for much.”
“I pay all your rent. I can do what I want.”
"My name’s on the lease.”
"Our name?” Minghao fires back, just to be contrary, because neither of them opted to change their names and they both know it.
But it works, because Mingyu gets that pinched look on his face and retreats, slamming the door for good measure. He’s still murmuring curses, barely audible through the door, until the shower water turns on and a heavy rap song begins playing from the portable speaker on the shelf.
Minghao smirks. One point to him. This feels more and more like a game, and more and more like a game he can win.
He needs to keep the upper hand. He needs it to feel secure in this situation where Mingyu has so much power, whether that oblivious asshole knows it or not. Minghao knows how other people are capable of treachery.
The best part of Minghao’s week becomes the semi-regular visits from Jeonghan’s partner.
“Hi Minghao,” says the unfamiliar guy pouring himself a cup of coffee one morning. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Joshua.”
Joshua is viciously pretty and the kind of person to smile before 8am, so he’s already perfect in Minghao’s opinion. He’s dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans but could still model for the cover of their magazine. He does a friendly nod, passes over the coffeepot, and takes a seat on their lounge couch, effortlessly looking more comfortable than anyone who actually works here.
“Oh, good morning.” Minghao fumbles a greeting, delayed. “You’re Jeonghan’s partner, right?”
“Yeah, don’t mind me. I’m just here for the free drinks.”
His first meeting isn’t for another twenty-five minutes, so Minghao sits on the couch and strikes up a conversation. Joshua is an excellent conversationalist—engaging, willing to share, patient with Minghao’s once-in-a-while stutter or mispronunciation.
“How do you like Seventeen so far?” Joshua smooths out a wrinkle in his t-shirt. “Jeonghan mentioned you recently moved here from China.”
A part of Minghao deflates when the topic moves to himself. Here come the same questions about the same shit. “Seventeen is great,” he says, which is true. “I like it here.”
“I remember when I first moved to Korea, I could barely read Hangul. But you already have a job.”
"What?"
Joshua brushes a wavy fringe out of his eyes. He sips coffee, drawing out the dramatic pause, before he raises both eyebrows. “I’m from America. I grew up speaking Korean but I never learned it in school, so when I moved here to join my band… let’s just say I crashed and burned hard in the first few months. Everyone spoke so fast."
“I know exactly what you mean,” Minghao says emphatically.
He can’t believe his luck. Setting down his mug, Minghao turns to better face this stranger-turned-ally and, before he knows it, they’re trading embarrassing cultural faux paus and linguistic mishaps. He hasn’t been this honest with someone since he last called Junhui. He hasn’t been this honest with someone he just met in years.
Equal parts excited and nervous, he fidgets with his shirtsleeve, twisting his fingers in the fabric rhythmically as they talk. Minghao doesn’t want to mess this up or come on too strong, but he’s surprising himself with how easily he connects with Joshua.
Joshua gestures wildly to the window and finishes his story, “But it’s literally translated as seagull meat, why would you call pork that?”
“Ridiculous!”
“I know.”
Minghao covers his giggles with a hand. “I was so nervous flying to Incheon that I drank three glasses of wine on the plane, and I don’t normally drink, so I really felt it, you know? I couldn’t even ask for directions afterward. I just—” He mimics his own awkward attempt at sign language. “—mumbled nonsense and made taxi sounds until a janitor pointed me towards the street exit.”
That’s not something he’s told anyone yet, not even Junhui, so he’s relieved when Joshua laughs. Joshua’s voice is soft and his eyes turn upwards into cute crescents when he’s amused, shoulders shaking, reminding Minghao of how it felt to ruin an algebra class with inside jokes between high school friends. His whole body feels loose and energetic. Like talking to Joshua so casually, so happily, has stretched out sore muscles.
Is he making a friend? With his coworker’s partner, no less?
Or is this how Joshua acts with everyone he first meets—incredibly kind and welcoming, eagerly responding to everything they say? Of course, that would make more sense. Minghao shouldn’t get ahead of himself. They’ve only been talking for…
“Oh, sh—” Minghao springs to his feet. “I have to go, I’m going to be late for a meeting. Sorry Joshua.” He gathers his bag and portfolio in hand, coffee forgotten on the table. Hesitates on the threshold of the door, boots digging into the carpet, because he doesn’t want to end this conversation. “It was really nice meeting you.”
“You too.” Joshua smiles like he can see through Minghao’s fancy clothes, his favorite self-defense mechanism, and straight to his lost, lonely heart. It’s a nice smile. “Have a good day, Minghao. I’ll see you around.”
The rest of the day, though tiring and redundant at times, passes quickly. When he next returns to the breakroom, it’s late afternoon and Jeonghan is there, typing on his laptop. He’s playing Sims 4. His screen is reflected on the windows well enough that Minghao can see the design of the Sim-mansion perfectly.
“I met Joshua this morning.” Minghao organizes the drawer full of mismatched teabags.
Jeonghan raises an eyebrow and doesn’t look up from the screen. “Who’s Joshua?”
Minghao freezes. Did he have the wrong information? Did he misunderstand someone speaking—be it Seungcheol or Joshua—and make an assumption? Oh, no. These kinds of mistakes always make the workplace uncomfortable. His hands go cold.
Shutting his laptop, Jeonghan stands and stretches both arms above his head, revealing a soft line of abdomen above his jeans. He pats Minghao on the shoulder as he passes by. “Just kidding, he told me. Hope you two hit it off.”
He disappears into the hallway. Minghao exhales a frustrated sigh. Damn that sneaky Yoon Jeonghan. He wants to play that way, does he? Minghao accidentally slams the drawer and startles himself. Who’s he kidding? Of course he won’t stoop to Jeonghan’s level and play his stupid games. At least not until he’s acclimated to the office a bit more.
The conversation with Joshua lingers under Minghao’s skin. When he boards the bus headed home that evening, he calls Junhui and settles back against his usual seat to watch the city coast by.
Junhui’s soft voice comes over the phone in familiar lilting Mandarin. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey.” Minghao fiddles with a loose thread of rubber on the windowsill.
All the words he wants to say catch in his throat like a bunch of moths, flapping and crazed. He wants to spit them out individually. How did you do it, Junhui? What was it like when you first got here? When did you feel at home? When can I move out and be my own person again?
Minghao swallows hard and says, “Just checking in. What’s new at work?”
“Oh, we have a big performance coming up that everybody’s practicing for.” There’s a shuffling noise, a distant beat drop, and faraway laughter. He’s probably still at the studio. “How’s the job? How’s—” His voice dips low and teasing. “The husband?"
The moths freeze. Minghao’s throat closes up. Suddenly he feels like he might cry, right here on the bus, in front of the knock-off Louis Vuitton purse lady who smells like cats, because he wants to tell Junhui everything. He wants to scream and complain and beg to go home. He wants...
Minghao swallows hard. “He’s okay. The job is great. I really love it. My boss is a genius, seriously.”
“That’s great. I’ve been meaning to call— Chan, watch the floor, someone spilled water —but. Jeez, we’ve been busy.”
“Sounds like it. When’s the performance? Can I come?”
“Ahhh,” Junhui sighs. “No, sorry. It’s for a big awards show, we’re only doing backup for a group so we don’t get any guest passes. Next time!”
Minghao remembers skipping classes during high school to hop in Junhui’s shitty car and drive two hours to a regional competition, where his best friend would shine onstage and Minghao would struggle to keep up in the background, an ever-lacking shadow. He only started dancing at all because Junhui could make anything look cool.
Together they would crank the radio on the drive back and Junhui would say something like I can’t wait to get out of this place and get famous while Minghao, a year his junior, said only Me too, me too.
But that was a long time ago. Now dancing is Junhui’s career and Minghao’s errant hobby. Minghao pulls his thoughts away from pointless, nostalgic tangents and refocuses on the Junhui of today. “Wow, a big awards show. What a hotshot. I’ll watch you on TV then.”
Junhui laughs and the sound is like sunlight. His voice changes, slipping into a warmer, quieter tone.
“Thanks. Are you really okay, little frog?”
“Of course,” Minghao murmurs. “I’m still adjusting.”
“C’mon, complain to me about something.”
“Um… the office is too cold sometimes.”
Junhui sighs. “I should’ve known. You were never one to ask for help. I want to visit soon, okay? After the performance.”
Minghao smiles. The thought of seeing Junhui face-to-face is enough to relax him fully in his seat, tension he didn’t know he was carrying eeking out from his joints. He feels safe again, his lighthouse friend returned. “Sounds great. I’ll tell Mingyu.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“I’ll be okay,” Minghao says. “Thanks.”
I’ll be okay.
He repeats those words to himself long after their phone call is over, long into the cold midnight while he lies awake and stares at the closed bedroom door.
The following morning is Saturday and Minghao feels different when he wakes up. Probably because he opens his eyes at an ungodly 7am and can’t fall back to sleep afterwards, though he tossed and turned last night. Mingyu was out late. Very late. So late that Minghao doesn’t even remember him coming home, though his shoes are stacked near the door now.
Minghao rubs sleep from his eyes. The day will be cloudless, he can tell from the strong dawn through the window, and he stretches luxuriously before getting up. Energy buoys his feet. Today he’s going to paint. There’s an art store at the end of the bus line he’s been itching to explore and today, this clear and free Saturday, he will allow himself the indulgence of buying acrylics.
Such a small joy, but he’s thrilled. He hurries through a breakfast of rice and eggs and leaves before Mingyu’s door even opens—which is uncharacteristic. Minghao considers knocking, but if Mingyu is sleeping in for once, he doesn’t want to disturb that.
At his destination, he loses himself in the familiar smell of paper, paint, wood shavings, ink, metal. All the necessary parts of an art store. How strange that a generic place feels like a part of his own soul, like walking inside immediately made him more Minghao than he was before. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to hold a tube of sunflower yellow nontoxic paint.
When he was much younger, Minghao exclusively painted landscapes. Mostly beaches. Mostly beach houses, where he lost himself in daydreams of living on the shore with his partner and a dog, watching the sun drip like an orange popsicle into the waves every night. He never imagined himself settling down in a city, even one as interesting as Seoul.
Is he happy?
The thought takes him by surprise in the easel aisle. He feels fulfilled and challenged at work. He feels grateful for new experiences, peppered with the joy of discovering new things. Admiration for his co-workers. Pride in himself for getting out of bed every day. But is he happy?
Minghao doesn’t know.
I’m not unhappy, he reasons. Is that enough?
Swiping that fresh credit card adds another positive emotion to the list: relief. He’s reclaiming himself one hobby at a time. On the bus ride home he cranks up the music in his headphones and thinks of Mingyu.
It’s unclear whether or not Mingyu knows the real man he’s married to. Sometimes Minghao feels like Seo Myungho is a stranger and that he’s playing house. Fake it till you make it taken to the extreme degree. How much of himself is lost in translation? Blurred by cultural differences?
He tries not to be dramatic about it. Seoul isn’t crazy different from Anshan, it only feels that way when he’s frustrated. Sometimes… he just can’t help but watch Mingyu move around the apartment and wonder what he thinks about everything.
Minghao struggles to unload his goodies at his bus stop. The driver, though unrecognizable, is kind enough to wait. He’s out of breath by the time he lugs all three bags to the door. It’s barely past lunchtime and the light is still good, he can start painting today if he’s efficient…
Familiar sounds of clattering pots and running water echo from the kitchen. Minghao kicks off his shoes and carefully sets his things beside the couch. He walks to the kitchen with the intent to warn Mingyu of the painting supplies taking over the corner, but freezes in the threshold of the door.
Mingyu looks awful.
He’s moving around the kitchen like a sad sloth in sweats. Chin down, eyes puffy, hands slow to adjust the burner. The sight is so unfamiliar and jarring that Minghao stands with his mouth open, unable to think of what he meant to say, for several seconds.
“Hey,” he settles with.
“Hi,” Mingyu mumbles, barely glancing up from the stove. He massages his temple with two fingers. “Do you need something?”
It’s not the rudest thing they’ve said to each other, but Minghao is still a little thrown off. He’s never seen his husband look this way before. He wants to ask if everything’s okay. He’s concerned.
“No,” Minghao says. “Are you okay?”
“Fine, just hungover.”
Mingyu has never had a sip of alcohol within the walls of this apartment. The idea is so foreign that a hangover didn’t occur to Minghao—he relaxes and leans against the wall with one shoulder, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice as he says, “Oh, hah. No wonder you look like that.”
“Don’t speak to me for the rest of the day and you can eat some of this chili.”
“Deal.” Minghao turns and almost forgets what he initially entered the kitchen for. “Also—I bought some painting supplies. I won’t make a mess, I’ll keep everything behind the couch. Just so you know.”
Mingyu does look up from the pot then. He’s interested, at least, even if there’s a vague cloud of death hanging over his body. Jeez, he looks like he was poisoned last night. Sympathy wars with spiteful enjoyment in Minghao’s conscious, and to his horror, sympathy seems to be winning.
Mingyu shrugs. “That’s fine. Please don’t spill on my carpet.”
“Cross my heart.” Minghao makes a mocking X over his heart.
Mingyu turns so his tight smile isn’t visible, but Minghao sees the corners of his mouth lift anyway.
The next day Mingyu slams a plate of beef and rice onto the dining table and says, “Our lawyer called. The Immigration Bureau is coming next week.”
Minghao is sprawled across the couch, laptop open on his chest, eyes dry and ticklish from staring at the screen all afternoon. It’s Sunday, but he’s been editing his latest shots for hours, partly because he wants it finished and partly because he has nothing better to do and no friends to hang out with.
He looks over and pulls out an earbud. “Did you say something?”
Mingyu repeats himself. Minghao’s heart drops through the floor. Shit—it’s too soon, he forgot, he was lulled into a false sense of security by Seungcheol’s demanding schedules and Mingyu’s obsession with Scrubbing Bubbles. This life has started to feel permanent. Now he’ll have to fight for it.
Minghao removes the other earbud. “Oh.”
“We need to talk about it.” Mingyu sits and makes an awkward hand motion towards the beef and rice.
Minghao takes the hint and sits at the table to serve himself. This is the first meal they’ve eaten together face-to-face—usually their dinners are taken hunched on the couch or on the kitchen counter, respectively, and the silence now is uncomfortably intimate. It stretches on, accented by gentle chewing noises.
Minghao looks straight down at the wooden table and worries a thumb over a stain. He doesn’t like when Mingyu cooks for him. It’s happened a few times before, him leaving extra in the fridge with a note that just says eat this, or spooning a bowl of stew and wordlessly balancing it on the arm of the couch. Just recently he bartered chili for Minghao’s silence during his hangover.
The food is always spectacular. That’s not the issue. Mingyu is an above-average chef who knows how to season and plate, and sometimes, he’ll leave Iron Chef or Great British Baking Show looped on Netflix while he cooks. He obviously knows what he’s doing.
The issue is Minghao can’t figure out why he bothers.
They’re not friends. He’s under no obligation to feed Minghao. It would be one thing if he ordered takeout every night and just asked Minghao what he wanted—that would be impersonal, understandable, civil. But on those nights he deliberately makes extra of his home-cooked meals just for Minghao, it feels kind. And they don’t really do kind. Not in this apartment. It’s just a weird thing that keeps happening that he can’t fully explain.
“We’re going to fail the test,” Minghao says at the exact time Mingyu says, “You need to move into my bedroom.”
Minghao cringes. The realities of fooling an Immigration officer rush inwards and he starts to panic. Sharing a bed is not his favorite thing in the world. He’s tall, thanks very much, and Mingyu even taller. They’ll barely fit.
“Yeah,” he sighs, setting down his fork. “Okay, hold on.”
Even though it hurts his soul, Minghap rips two blank pages from his photography notebook and slides one across the table. He tosses over a pen, too, and says, “Don’t lose that. Let’s just get this over with. I’ll search for a cheat sheet online—When’s your birthday?”
Mingyu looks surprised. His surprised face is very close to his stupid-comment-incoming face. He’s still wearing a pastel pink apron, which might have something to do with that.
“April 6th, we’re the same age.”
Minghao writes it down. “Mine is November 7th.”
“I know.” Mingyu shoves a piece of beef into his mouth. “Junhui told me.”
And you bothered to remember? Minghao wants to ask, but doesn’t.
So they hash out the fine print of their lives. They exchange photos of family members and hometown friends. Mingyu has one sister, he’s allergic to pollen, he hates mushrooms and he loves dogs. Minghao writes the Chinese characters for his parents’ names and then for his own. He likes cats and he’s a Scorpio and he hates ice cream and—
“What’s your job?” Minghao blurts out. “I mean...” He doesn’t want Mingyu to realize how little he knows. “Where do you work?”
He’s too obvious. Mingyu squints a little. “Did Junhui not mention it?”
“I was busy moving my whole life to another country.”
“I’m a teacher.”
Minghao almost drops his pen. Of all the odd careers he’s imagined over the past two months—delivery boy, drug runner, nude model—it’s weirdly disappointing to have such a mundane answer. A teacher. He can almost picture it, with Mingyu’s cool-toned jackets and stylish fake specs. Sometimes he looks like a dweeb underneath all those dumb hot boy vibes, though he’s never shown the intellect for it. That does explain the long hours and early mornings.
Then Minghao realizes he’s overthinking this and hurriedly writes it down. “What subject?”
“A little of everything.” Mingyu almost smiles. “I teach grade one.”
“Cool,” Minghao says, without thinking about it, because that’s super cool, he loves kids.
Hesitant, Mingyu nods. The meat is nearly gone but he shoves the final chunks into his mouth, chewing loudly and looking anywhere but across the table. The mood is awkward again. Apparently they’ve got too much baggage between them already to act civil face-to-face. If they’re called to do an interview together, they’ll be caught instantly.
“Anyway.” Minghao clears his throat. “I don’t know if this is enough to pass. But we can quiz each other tomorrow, I guess?”
“Sure.”
“And…”
The idea of sharing a bed is not attractive, but Mingyu was right. They need to make this life believable. That includes projecting the image of a couple who happily cuddle under a single blanket, fall asleep in each other’s arms, fuck on the regular… Oh, god.
Minghao rubs his palms over his eyes and doesn’t bother finishing his sentence. He shuts down his train of thought to keep everything PG. It feels unwelcome to picture anything like that with Mingyu when they’re still mostly strangers who don’t like each other. He can’t decide if the idea of getting physical together makes him queasy or nervous or excited or guilty. Probably all of the above.
“Let’s not share the bed yet. Tomorrow.” Mingyu stacks the plates and makes a beeline for the kitchen sink, effectively ending the conversation.
That sounds just fine to Minghao.
He actually does study the Husband Manifesto—as he’s taken to calling it—in between meetings at work the following day. But one of the other three photographers has fallen ill and Minghao is tasked with taking over her monthly spread, so he’s busy scrambling to pick up her scattered threads and weave a cohesive scene on top of his own work. It’s exciting to have so much responsibility, but the pressure feels like a physical weight hanging around his shoulders.
Seungcheol even claps him on the back after a grueling three-hour meeting and says, “Take it easy, kid. You’re doing good work. Don’t burn out on us yet.”
Minghao almost falls asleep on the bus home. His head actually hits the window so hard he jerks backward and hisses. The elderly lady behind him snickers.
Exhausted but hungry, he stops by the corner grocery and buys ingredients for simple hot pot with sliced beef and extra enoki mushrooms. The apartment is quiet when he lets himself in, all the lights turned off, and he sees why when he stops by the couch—the balcony door is cracked open, Mingyu leaning against the railing with a cigarette in his fingers. He cuts a sharp outline against the evening sky in a pastel shirt and jeans.
It would make a stunning photo.
Bested by his artistic eye, Minghao tugs out his camera and snaps a picture of Mingyu’s back, admiring the dark lines of his figure.
Distantly, a phone begins buzzing, and he considers knocking on the door to tell Mingyu someone is trying to reach him. But as he watches, Mingyu takes a long drag of the cigarette and scuffs his shoes against the bottom rung of the railing. There’s an intensity to his profile that’s both familiar and unfamiliar. Doesn’t look like he wants to be disturbed.
Minghao puts in his earbuds and starts cooking. He’s so tired his actions feel robotic. Pot, stove, broth, meat, vegetables. Stolen bits of kimchi when he’s sure Mingyu isn’t looking. He only cooks half the meat, leaving leftovers for grilling tomorrow, but he’s interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.
Mingyu is still a statue on the balcony.
Great. No problem. Minghao will just stop eating and get the door. It’s probably a pizza delivery man. Sighing, he turns off the stove, wipes smoke and sweat from his forehead, and shuffles over to the door. He probably smells like meat and bus plastic.
“Hi,” Minghao says.
It’s not pizza delivery. A guy with handsome upturned lips and a beanie stands in the hallway, eyes wide behind circular glasses, holding a pink binder. At first he seems like a telemarketer. He looks shocked to see Minghao and hurries into a polite bow.
“Hi,” the man says, and his voice is deeper than expected. “Sorry, is Mingyu home?”
Not a telemarketer. Minghao returns the polite bow but turns away, leaving the door hanging open and hollering, “Mingyu, the door.”
So much for not bothering Mingyu when he’s in balcony mode.
It’s almost funny how quickly Mingyu whips around. He heard that yell, but not the knocking?
He drops his cigarette altogether and bursts into the apartment, one hand raking through his hair, eyes panicking between Minghao and the stranger at the door who is obviously someone comfortable enough to stop by unannounced—but based on Mingyu’s incredibly awkward smile, he isn’t entirely welcome.
Interesting. Minghao fades back against the wall to watch.
Mingyu jerks the front door halfway closed, obscuring most of the apartment from view, and leans like he thinks he’s being casual.
“Hey, Wonwoo.”
“Hey, sorry. I called, but...” Wonwoo’s eyes drift back to the corner where Minghao is pretending to inspect his own cuticles. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything. You left your lesson plans and I know you need them.”
Though Minghao can’t see Mingyu’s face from this angle, he can see how his shoulders rise through his shirt. How his knuckles clench on the doorframe. There’s an undeniably tense atmosphere and Minghao gives up pretending not to pay attention, suddenly afraid he’ll have to break up an argument.
Beanie-guy is tall with intimidating cheekbones—but lean. As long as he doesn’t have martial arts training, Minghao can take him. Probably in under a minute.
“That’s—thanks.” Mingyu takes the binder. “You didn’t have to.”
Wonwoo shrugs. “It’s no problem.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Mingyu slowly starts closing the door. “Um, thanks again.”
“See you.” Wonwoo does a cute little wave.
The door shuts. Mingyu leans his forehead against it for a moment, just breathing, all the tension leaving his body in a long exhale. Watching him process that unexpected visitor is somehow more intimate than running into each other bleary and half-asleep in the living room on Saturday mornings.
Minghao is dying of curiosity. No one has ever come to the apartment before—which, now that he thinks about it, is definitely strange. Mingyu has friends. Through eavesdropping, Minghao has even learned a few of their names, though he’s never heard a Wonwoo before. Maybe they’re just coworkers. Maybe they’re coworkers who dated.
Well that would explain the weird tension.
Mingyu strides across the room to toss the binder on the table. Minghao follows, innocently returning to his half-eaten meat, watching his husband from the corner of his eye. “So,” he says, one chopstick pressed thoughtfully against his lips. “Who was that?"
“No one.” Mingyu opens the binder and stares blankly at the first page. “Um, one of the other teachers.”
“He seems nice.”
Mingyu rolls his eyes. Color returns to his cheeks and he actually flips through the binder this time, stopping at a page littered with glossy snowflakes. “Can you let me answer the door next time?”
“Why?”
“Because no one knows you live here, and you look like—” Mingyu cuts himself off abruptly.
“I look like what?” Minghao asks flatly.
He’s wearing a totally normal outfit. Shredded jeans, an extra long trench coat half black gingham and half beige, a dangling infinity earring, and a Gucci top from last winter’s collection. He even hung his beret on the coat rack before stepping into the kitchen. Maybe the leather shoes were overkill earlier. But he looks nice, what’s the problem?
The first half of Mingyu’s statement sinks in.
“Wait.” Minghao sets down his chopsticks and leans over the table. “What do you mean, no one knows I live here?”
Mingyu stares stubbornly at the lesson plans and clenches his fingers around the pages. His mouth is twisted, in regret or embarrassment it’s unclear, but he hesitates to respond and something cold tickles down Minghao’s spine. The room feels hostile again.
“I haven’t told anyone yet.”
“It’s been a month.”
“I said I needed to fumigate for bugs. So they wouldn’t come over.”
A thought hits Minghao like a train. “What if Immigration wants to speak to our mutual friends? See pictures of us hanging out? You’re supposed to be telling people so this relationship looks real.”
Mingyu looks up. “They wouldn’t interview my friends, that’s too much to ask… right?”
Marriage fraud is a felony for which the punishment is 10 years in prison and immediate deportation, respectively. Nothing sounds like too much to ask. Minghao feels like they’ve just looked up through parted clouds to see the long mountainous hike ahead—full of harsh cliffsides and slippery ground all the way to the top.
Why did he agree to this in the first place? He’s such an idiot.
“I don’t know.” Minghao laces his fingers together and presses both thumbs into his forehead. "Fuck, I’ll call Junhui.”
Whatever stress Mingyu was feeling before, whatever sent him onto the balcony with a cigarette in the first place, is clearly not done filtering through his body, because he looks freaked to the max. He slams the binder closed. He stares at the couch, where Minghao’s entire life is stacked neatly, then at the bedroom door, then back again. Like a tortuously slow ping-pong.
It’s a little pitiful.
“You should move into my bedroom now.” Mingyu chews on his lower lip. “And we can take a bunch of fake photos tomorrow? If you’re not busy?”
Minghao’s first thought is hell fucking no, because why would he waste a second of free time actively hanging out with Mingyu—but he bites his tongue because, unfortunately, Mingyu is right. Tomorrow is Saturday. God knows Minghao hasn’t made a single friend since moving to Korea, so it’s not like he has plans. They need to do this sooner rather than later.
Begrudgingly, he nods. “That’s fine.”
“What…” Mingyu blinks rapidly. “...do you want to do?”
Black out for the entire day. “Um.”
“Have you been to Namsan tower?”
(Minghao has a vivid flashback of Jeonghan at his desk, sipping from an extra large Americano, eyes wide behind his side-swept hair and asking, “Your sexy husband’s never taken you to Namsan tower? I’m personally offended. He doesn’t have a single romantic bone in that sexy body.”
He had covered his face with both hands and regretted ever showing Mingyu’s Instagram to his coworkers. “Please don’t call him sexy.”
“Workplace etiquette,” Seungcheol had said, not looking up from his laptop. “Don’t try empathizing with new guy, Jeonghan.”)
Minghao swallows hard. He knows Namsan tower is an excellent choice, popular with couples and apparently a must-do in Seoul, thanks to Jeonghan’s exuberant small talk. So he grits his teeth and says, “No, I haven’t been yet. That’s a good idea.”
“Okay, we’ll go.”
“Great.”
“Great.” Mingyu sighs and gathers the binder into his hands. “Let’s try not to argue the entire time.”
He disappears into the bedroom, so he can’t see the way Minghao rolls his eyes. Fat chance.
After cleaning up the kitchen and shoving Mingyu’s homemade kimchi stew to the bottom shelf to make room for his leftover meat, Minghao stands in front of the couch and surveys his life’s possessions. Most of his clothes are already in the bedroom closet or the coat rack. His toiletries are stacked neatly in the bathroom. As usual, the apartment is pristine and clean.
Logistically, it’s not hard to “move into” the bedroom with Mingyu, the only real change will be his sleeping space.
Easy. He folds the sheets and tosses his pillow on Mingyu’s bed. Thank god it’s a queen and they won’t struggle too hard to fit.
When Mingyu emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of steam follows. He’s got a towel around his waist and nothing else. He ignores Minghao sitting on a corner of the bed. Minghao tries to ignore him, too, by flicking idly through his emails, but the flexing of Mingyu’s back draws his eyes.
The universe is truly unfair to gift Kim Asshole Mingyu with that face and that body. Worse, Minghao hates himself for looking. He does not have permission. He does not want to see shoulders and waist on full display, because it makes him think of how they’re supposed to be getting freaky, which rolls his stomach unpleasantly.
Intimacy, as a concept, is ridiculous.
Mingyu pulls on a soft gray shirt and sweatpants. He turns around and rubs the towel over his damp hair, chasing droplets down his neck to the junction of his collarbones, where Minghao is most definitely not looking.
“I’ll take the left side.” Mingyu tosses the towel onto a wicker hamper and crawls into bed.
His weight makes the mattress dip and Minghao nearly falls over. “Fine.”
Minghao showers, does not think about his husband’s ass in those sweatpants, and prays to a dozen different deities that he and Mingyu don’t murder each other before the Immigration officers even arrive. It’s a monumental task, he thinks, sliding under the sheets beside Mingyu with damp hair. He doesn’t normally sleep in long pants and a shirt, but tonight he will.
The bedroom looks different in the dark—intimidating and quiet—punctuated by Mingyu’s steady breathing. He’s either asleep or pretending, which Minghao appreciates, because he’s incredibly uncomfortable sleeping in someone else’s space. He can feel the warmth from Mingyu’s body only inches away from his own. Their feet almost accidentally brush and Minghao recoils.
He gingerly turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling.
The worst part is, the bed’s comfortable. Smells nice. Like fresh laundry and florals. Minghao wouldn’t mind sleeping here under different circumstances. Alone, specifically. He chances a sideways glance at Mingyu—a lump under the covers—and sighs.
“Stop thinking so damn loud,” Mingyu mumbles. “Go to sleep.”
Any tranquility is shattered. Minghao calls him an asshole in Mandarin. Mingyu kicks his knee and says, “Oops.”
They fall asleep as far from each other as possible. Minghao’s arm dangles over the side of the bed, face turned towards the window.
He doesn’t realize how the couch has been impacting his sleep quality until he wakes up. It happens slowly, a feeling of warm refreshment gathering on his skin. Sunlight streams through the curtains, dribbling gold across the carpet and spearing into his eyes, and Minghao is mindlessly comfortable.
Then he feels the arm around his waist.
He’s being spooned. There’s steady, warm breathing on the back of his neck. Mingyu is honest to fuck cuddling him right now.
Minghao’s body tenses up so fast he almost jolts off the edge of the bed. His heart hammers in his chest. Gently, hoping he won’t wake the octopus behind him, he extracts himself from Mingyu’s arm. He slides free of the sheets. Mingyu readjusts, slipping his hand up to cradle the pillow instead, but his eyelashes don’t even twitch.
Mission success. Minghao exhales heavily and resists the urge to slam Mingyu in the face with a pillow.
He flees to the bathroom. Full-body adrenaline causes him to start sweating already, despite the early hour and comfortable sheets, and he feels gross on several levels.
How awkward—and even more awkward that Mingyu doesn’t know they woke up in such an uncompromising position. Should he have woken him up, yelled, caused a scene? Because now the cuddling feels like a dirty secret Minghao has to keep when the situation wasn’t even his fault. He’s definitely not the spooning type. Not that he usually stays the night to find out. That was all Mingyu.
Minghao wills away the blush on his cheeks and spends extra time on his hair. Whatever, he won’t let the same mistake happen again tomorrow morning. He’ll build a barricade out of pillows and dislike and personal space.
When Minghao emerges from the bathroom, in fresh clothes with a fresh face, Mingyu is humming away in the kitchen. The balcony door is thrown open, inviting in cool air and the smell of dew. A thrill-seeking snail moseys across the balcony railing. Springtime on the palette.
“Hey.” Mingyu flips a pancake.
“Hey.” Minghao fills the kettle.
The morning is calm and domestic. They sit at the table and don’t argue. Mingyu offers a pancake, Minghao accepts and queues up a piano playlist. They eat in peace.
Until Mingyu eyes his plate and says, “Have the last pancake.”
Minghao shrugs. He drains the tea and carries his dishes to the sink. “No thanks.”
“I’m serious, I don’t want it.”
“Neither do I.”
He jumps when Mingyu comes up behind him. Suddenly they’re standing close, both bent over the sink, up to their wrists in suds, washing dishes together. Mingyu’s hair falls in his eyes, making him look disheveled and soft and distracting. He doesn’t seem to notice how they brush elbows.
Mingyu shuts off the water and looks Minghao up and down—waist to chest to face and back. He raises his eyebrows. “You should eat more. You’re really skinny.”
Hot under the collar, Minghao turns and grabs a towel. He takes his time drying each finger, thinking of what to say. It’s true he doesn’t eat enough, his mom was always yelling at him for it, and he’s lost a bit of weight from the stress of moving, but so what? He’s still healthy enough to dance every once in a while. He feels fine.
Anyway, it’s not Mingyu’s place to judge.
“That’s rude,” he mumbles. “Don’t comment on someone else’s body like that.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” Mingyu brushes past him and exits the kitchen in a huff. “Nevermind, just starve.”
Minghao flinches a little. He folds the towel into a neat square and hangs it above the sink. Those harsh words were probably deserved, but it makes his resentment boil hotter, thinking of Mingyu’s sharp temper and complete lack of tact. He started it. They’d almost had a nice morning together.
Thirty minutes later, the camera is packed with full batteries and an empty SD card. Minghao has a bag of miscellaneous accessories—two berets, two scarves, a collared shirt, and three jackets—thrown over one shoulder, for the purpose of creating different dates that appear to take place over time.
Mingyu cleans up nicely in a black turtleneck and denim jacket. He walks into the living room with the Husband Manifesto in one hand, eyes flying over the page. His tongue peeks out, a tic that Minghao’s come to associate with thoughtfulness, and he mouths something from the paper.
“I’ll drive.” Mingyu pushes the page at his chest. “Test me on the way.”
And so they date.
This is the first time Minghao has seen his husband outside the apartment, interacting with the world, since he first arrived on that snow-bitten evening. A weird sort of energy fills the car. Today the sun is shining weakly over the city. It’s chilly but not unbearable. Mingyu answers every question well and even pronounces his parent’s names with the correct intonation, scribbling the characters on a napkin at a red light to prove he can.
They switch papers. Minghao knows all the answers.
“We might actually pull this off,” he says, an invisible pressure lifting infinitesimally from his chest.
Mingyu glances over from the driver’s seat. “We might.”
“Let’s review our relationship. We met on HelloTalk a year and a half ago, when I started studying Korean again, and you were vaguely interested in Chinese. Except I picked up Korean quick and your Chinese was ass so we moved to Kakaotalk—”
“That’s not part of the story!”
Mingyu is apparently so agitated that he almost runs a late yellow light. He pushes on the brake with a heavy foot and they both wince when the seatbelts cut into their chests with a jerk. Mingyu has the audacity to look sheepish and mumble an apology.
But he immediately continues with, “I can understand some, at least. Don’t make me sound stupid.”
“You can understand me right now?” Minghao folds the Husband Manifesto between his palms and switches to his native language. The words roll around in the car, exciting and turbulent, like Minghao’s just thrown peppercorn into the conversation pot.
Mingyu turns into a parking structure and answers in confident Mandarin. “Yes, I can.”
So Minghao takes a deep breath and says, quick as if he were talking to Junhui, “You’re right then, you’re definitely better at speaking Mandarin than I am at speaking Korean. We should totally change the story and move to Anshan since you’re so fluent. My bad, babe.”
The sarcastic endearment—babe—slips out without Minghao thinking about it. It’s weirdly satisfying, to know Mingyu can’t understand the sarcastic barb, and not something he has the courage to repeat in Korean where he could be misunderstood for fond.
Absolute silence reigns in the car. Mingyu bites his lower lip and furrows his brows, processing, eyes roaming over the empty parking spots. He pulls into one and sighs. His fingers drum on the steering wheel. The ring on his left hand catches the light and Minghao stares almost against his will.
Mingyu nods his head and admits defeat. “Fine. I need to study more.”
Minghao shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to learn Chinese.”
“We’re married. Won’t they think it’s suspicious? If I’m not trying to learn your native language?”
“No offense.” Minghao gets out of the car and checks his camera bag. He waits until Mingyu gets out to shut his door and add, “But it’s not exactly easy.”
And Mingyu, despite being an elementary school teacher, doesn’t seem like the type to study in his free time. Academics are easy to spot—the visitor from last week, Wonwoo, he was definitely the academic type, but not pretty-boy Mingyu. Jock, maybe. One of the popular kids in high school, one of the playboys in college. You know the type.
A queue snakes out of the Namsan Tower welcome building, full of people in thin coats enjoying the dawning spring, and tentative buds emerge from the cherry blossom trees dotting the sidewalk. Minghao’s mood lifts just admiring the scene. He regrets not spending more time on tourist destinations—sometimes they’re worth the hype.
He fiddles with the camera while they wait in line. This lens is smaller, perfect for close-up portraits, and he takes a few test shots of Mingyu frowning at his phone.
“Wait, I wasn’t ready,” he objects, pocketing the phone.
“Give me a pose, then.”
Mingyu in front of a camera is a rabid creature. He runs a hand through his hair twice, checks his smile in the lens reflection, runs teeth over his lips for a color effect, and breaks into the world’s cheesiest grin. The man knows his angles—he tilts his neck a little so his sharp eyebrows curve pleasantly towards the camera, smolder on full display.
If Minghao were anything less than a professional, he would’ve fumbled the camera. But he is. Very professional. So he takes a dozen photos of Mingyu in different poses, one where he’s pretending to eat a brown leaf and the girl behind him watches with distant disgust.
“Okay, both of us,” Minghao says as they approach the loading deck. “Selfie time.”
“Cheese.”
“Don’t blink.”
It’s awkward. Of course. They press their faces close together, Mingyu leaning down, and he smells like his bed—fresh and floral and cool. Which is extremely intimate and not something Minghao particularly wants to think about right now, because he feels his smile falter and cheeks flush.
But the resulting photo is acceptable. He lets the camera hang loose around his neck as they step up to the desk and buy two tickets for the cable car. Mingyu pays, and Minghao doesn’t realize until after they’re loaded into the cable car that he probably should’ve offered to pay for his own ticket. This isn’t a real date.
Too late. He focuses his attention on staring out the window and wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. Heights are a little nerve-wracking.
“Wow,” he says as they climb into the sky. “Wow, it’s—”
Gorgeous. Seoul unfurls below them in a hazy, monochrome beauty, looking three-dimensional as they rise above the skyscrapers. It takes his breath away. He’s never lived in a city quite like this, sprawling and well-organized all at once, speckled with trees and modern architecture. Everything crafted in silver and white.
Glancing across at Mingyu, he’s expecting to see a similar reaction. But Mingyu is staring at his phone, lower lip caught between his teeth, paying no attention to the stunning landscape below.
Minghao isn’t disappointed. He’s unpleasantly surprised—sure, Mingyu has proven himself to be rude and inconsiderate, but come on. This is beautiful. And he’s not even appreciative. Is he frightened of heights? No, he would've mentioned something like that. Right?
Abruptly Minghao crosses onto the opposite bench, squeezing in beside Mingyu, who’s so startled he nearly drops his phone and shoves it into his jacket pocket. Very suspicious. Their knees jostle in the small space and suddenly they’re pressed together at the hip and thigh.
“What—“ Mingyu starts. His eyes fall on the camera. “Oh. Selfie again?”
“Yeah.” Minghao angles the camera so it will capture the skyline behind them. “Look happy.”
When he flips through these photos later, he’ll understand why Junhui suggested Mingyu of all people for this immense con job. Mingyu beams at the camera in every shot, even with his cheeks pressed against Minghao’s, in a genuine expression of joy. His dark eyes curve into crescents. He looks bashful and happy.
If nothing else, Mingyu is an excellent actor.
They reach the top and are released into a semi-crowded viewing room with an attached gift shop. Minghao buys an ugly green magnet and shakes it at Mingyu. “For our refrigerator.”
Mingyu’s frown of disapproval almost makes him laugh.
After several more teeth-clenching selfies, they ask a foreign couple to take a proper portrait of them on the viewing platform. The man is tall and blonde and handles Minghao’s camera with little finesse—he clenches his fist to keep from snatching it back, fearing the worst. That camera is his livelihood. He’s got two others at home, and a small collection of lenses, but this one is his favorite.
If some dolt smashes it during this fake date, he’ll… he’ll just...
Mingyu notices his discomfort, if the way he purses his lips is any indication. His eyes dart between the blonde guy and Minghao, back and forth, before he throws his arm around Minghao’s shoulder and melts into one of those hundred-watt smiles.
Click. Click. Click.
The first picture is probably terrible because Minghao made a snooty face when Mingyu touched him—he could feel it crawl across his mouth and crinkle his nose before he schooled himself into a semblance of happiness. Lovey-dovey shit. Sure, easy.
“Thank you,” Minghao mumbles in English when he takes the camera back unscathed.
“Let’s hit the road.” Mingyu glances at his watch. “It’s almost noon, are you hungry?”
No, he’s not. Minghao busies himself checking the lens for scratches. An elderly woman squeezes by on her way to the restroom and forces him to cozy up to Mingyu’s side. The denim of his jacket presses against Minghao’s shoulder uncomfortably.
The viewing deck is growing more crowded by the minute and it’s hard to hear each other over the excited tourists’ chatterings.
Leaving is a great idea. Taking date-like pictures at a cute restaurant is a great idea. He won’t argue—even though putting food in his mouth might make him hurl today. It’s just one of those days.
“Sure,” Minghao says, stepping away and reestablishing his personal bubble. “You choose a place.”
Mingyu’s face goes blank. “I don’t know any Chinese restaurants around here.”
“We don’t have to eat Chinese.”
“Yeah, but. You hate Korean food.”
Hot shame creeps up Minghao’s neck. That spur-of-the-moment lie keeps coming back to haunt him, and Mingyu’s actually trying to be accommodating, which makes him feel even guiltier. What a petty thing he said. What a dumb, childish lie.
But he can’t admit to it now, can he? Weeks have passed and he’s done even dumber, even more childish things since then. Minghao supposes it doesn’t matter. He won’t eat much wherever they go.
He shrugs and mumbles, “Anywhere is fine.”
Mingyu leads them back to the cable cars, where no one is waiting to descend and they board immediately. The small space suddenly feels too small sitting across from each other.
Minghao allows himself to stare out the windows and imagine he’s in a different situation. On a real date, with someone who actually likes him, who isn’t rude or nagging, and would hold his hand between their thick jackets to keep him warm. The weather is perfect for hot milk tea and strolling through a park with matching caps. If he were in a different situation…
This is the root of his problem. This is part of the reason why he can’t relax around Mingyu—besides the lingering, shy scars from his last relationship—because Minghao is a full-blown romantic. Staring at the man sitting across from him just reminds him of every dream he killed for this job.
He’s stuck in this fake relationship for at least two years, probably longer. With no prospect of wine-and-dining. No flowers, no dozing off on the couch together, no goodbye kisses, no dancing in the living room. None of the softness that Minghao craves. He’s got a hungry heart, after all. Awkward spooning with his not-husband doesn’t make the cut.
Minghao chose his career over love. For that, he may never forgive himself. He may never forgive Mingyu either.
They exit the cable car in silence and trek back to the car. Excited couples pass, headed in the opposite direction, falling over each other in giggles and blushing cheeks. Quite the opposite of this married couple. Minghao pulls his coat tighter around himself, self-conscious and desperately lonely.
He feels pathetic. Come on. Shake it off.
Mingyu pulls up directions to a nearby soondubu restaurant and starts driving. He rolls down the windows so a heavy breeze whips their hair into a happy frenzy. For lack of anything better to do, Minghao takes a few cell phone shots of his hands on the steering wheel, his side profile brooding over traffic.
When Mingyu notices he starts posing. Brows furrowed, lips pouted, full-on model mode activated. Afternoon sun through the window sets his skin to a warm, deep tan. He looks hot, but Minghao snorts and lowers his phone.
“No, keep going.” Mingyu drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “I might as well get a photoshoot out of this.”
“My fee is 100,000 won per portrait session.”
Mingyu whistles. “You don’t come cheap.” He seems to realize the innuendo too late, his own words echoing back, and his eyes bug out. “I mean.”
But Minghao giggles. Mostly at the terrified look on Mingyu’s face—he’ll treasure that one for sure—but also because the fresh air is boosting his mood. He hangs an elbow out the window like a young hotshot, like he might’ve done driving his car back in Anshan, on the way to a club with friends and ready to dance.
He tilts his neck back to better feel the sun. His left earring, a pearl on a chain, dangles against his neck and the sensation is heightened by the harsh press of wind. Skyscrapers fly by as they pass through the business district. Minghao feels alive.
Mingyu relaxes after that. He turns up the radio a bit. They pull into a parking structure and this time Minghao gets his card on the dashboard in time to pay for the ticket. The restaurant is located in the bowels of a shopping mall, semi-crowded and beside a fresh-scented Nature Republic. They’re seated immediately.
Passing over the menu, Mingyu points to several dishes. “This soup isn’t kimchi-based, maybe you’d like it. Is seafood okay? Pajeon is really good, nice and mild.”
Minghao bites his lip. “About that.”
“What?”
The way Mingyu is looking at him now—wide eyes, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes even though he pushed it back thirty seconds ago—just makes Minghao want to drown himself. He shouldn’t confess. It will only cause problems. But he’s tired of pretending, and it’s not even a big deal, and if he wants the next two years to be civil, then he needs to buck up and try a little harder.
“I lied about not liking Korean food.” Minghao picks at the menu’s laminated edge. “I love it. I eat your kimchi out of the fridge when you’re not around.”
Mingyu snorts. A range of expressions pass over his face too quickly to read. “Why’d you lie?”
“I don’t know.”
The waitress comes by to take their drink orders. They both order water quickly and she leaves. Nearby conversations set the atmosphere abuzz with a comfortable lull, and Minghao feels his muscles relax, relieved at admitting his prior sins. Tension slides out of his knees and hips.
He’s not ready for Mingyu to say, “You’re really bad at this fake marriage.”
Minghao’s eyes fly wide. He drops the menu. "I’m bad at this? So are you."
“I cook dinner.” Mingyu starts slapping out fingers, counting his good deeds. “I have your picture as my wallpaper. I clean up after you—“
That explains the food. It’s performative. Of course. Mingyu is one hell of a method actor. But Minghao crosses his arms and tries to remember the last time he left a mess, aside from the disastrous honey-filled morning, and can’t recall.
“When?”
“You leave the bathroom soaking wet. You hide my stuff. You leave your dishes out sometimes,” Mingyu says. “And that one time I washed your jeans, remember?”
“The laundry was an accident. Besides, you eat my takeout and your friends don’t even know I exist.”
“Not my fault no one’s asked about the ring yet.”
The waitress clears her throat. She drops off two glasses of ice water and it’s only then Minghao realizes they’d started leaning across the table, elbows propped up, like arguing magnets. He sits back and takes a long sip, hoping to cool his sparking temper. Is he angry? Annoyed?
There’s a part of him enjoying sniping with Mingyu—they’re both satisfyingly good at it. A great way to relieve the tension between them without blowing their cover. Real married couples fight, he saw it all the time growing up.
“Do you know what you want to order?” Mingyu’s face is back to being clear and unpassionate. His voice, neutral.
Minghao mumbles, “A kimchijjigae please.”
Rolling his eyes, Mingyu passes the menu back to the waiter. “Two kimchijjigae please. Make the second one extra spicy.”
She smiles, scribbled on her notepad, and walks away.
Mingyu is chewing on his lower lip. It’s morbidly fascinating because he has nice lips, but apparently no qualms about destroying them. Minghao fidgets with his phone. Smooths a hangnail. Makes accidental eye contact with a baby at the next table.
Mingyu blurts out, “Hey, I’m sorry.” He exhales and stacks his arms neatly on the table. “About the petty stuff I’ve been doing. I was acting like an asshole—I still am, kinda, but I don’t want you to think I’m a terrible person. I’ll stop.”
I don’t think you’re a terrible person, is Minghao’s first thought, but he’s too surprised to speak at first. That apology was obviously spur-of-the-moment, but based on Mingyu’s awkward body language, he’s being genuine. Remorse fills him like an empty cup. Again he thinks of his own childish behavior—the lying, the refusing the speak, the bathroom floor oceans.
He’s embarrassed. How did they get to this point? Because Mingyu treated him like an annoying child when Minghao was having a medical emergency that he didn’t know about? Because Minghao is upset about living in a cage of his own design?
All at once he realizes how pointless it is. Their stupid rivalry, their stupid nasty comments. Minghao can assert his own independence through other means, can’t he?
“I’m sorry too,” he says, after what is probably too long a pause. Mingyu’s eyes lift to his. “For being rude for no reason. I won’t do it anymore.”
“It’s okay,” Mingyu says immediately.
Silence falls over their table, but it’s less stifling than this morning. He doesn’t know what to say next, if there’s anything to say next at all. Minghao fiddles with his phone before sneaking a few candids of Mingyu chewing his thumbnail and looking over the crowded tables.
He gets this look on his face sometimes like he’s thinking of something in a galaxy far, far away… like his thoughts have rocket-blasted away from their surroundings. It’s in contrast to the way Mingyu has a conversation: sharp, present, usually fired up and opinionated.
Minghao manages to photograph the space cadet look before Mingyu notices.
“So this isn’t your first time in Korea, right?”
The change of topic feels like a fresh breeze.
“No.” He shoves his phone into a pocket. “I took a trip to Jeju once with my parents. And I did a summer abroad during high school. That’s when I started learning Korean.”
Mingyu nods. “I’ve never left the country. Barely left the city.”
“Why did you study Chinese?” Not that you’re very good, Mingyu. But he knows more than nothing, which is in some way comforting.
“Elective in college. Foreign languages were required for education majors.”
“Oh.” Minghao fiddles with the straw in his water. Condensation collects around the bottom rim and he drags a fingertip through it, relishing the cold, thinking back to his own short-lived college career. Another thing they don’t have in common.
“What did you study at university? Photography?”
Minghao shakes his head. Bangs fall in his face and he wastes time arranging the hair to artfully frame his forehead, considering his answer and reminding himself not to lie. There’s no need to lie. He doesn’t care what this man thinks of him. He doesn’t.
He takes a long drink of water and says, “Nothing. I dropped out after a semester.”
The waitress interrupts their abrupt return to awkward silence. She deposits two steaming bowls of stew, two bowls of rice, and a plethora of side dishes that make Minghao’s mouth water. Pickled radish, potato salad, fish cake. Some of his favorite banchan. At least they’re getting a good meal out of this date.
Mingyu reaches for his chopsticks.
“Wait!” Minghao whips out the camera. “Food photo.”
“Oh nooooo.” Mingyu settles back against the booth. “You’re one of those people? Kill me.”
“With pleasure.”
Mingyu’s sigh is audible even against the crowded restaurant. After several photos have been taken, of the food and Mingyu staring into the distance above the food, Minghao picks up his chopsticks and flicks a grain of rice across the table. It lands on Mingyu’s neck and sticks.
He slaps a hand over it and glares at Minghao, but there’s no heat behind it. The rice is flicked away and Minghao tries not to snicker; he’s truly feeling like the wicked witch of Anshan today.
They dig into the food with gusto. Mingyu eats in a neat rotation, moving from stew to rice to side dishes and back with rhythm, not unlike the judge of a cooking show taking small, careful bites of each dish.
Minghao doesn’t know why he’s paying such close attention. It’s just kind of a weird way to eat, isn’t it? He ought to think of a question. They’re meant to be getting to know each other today. Watching Mingyu measure out careful spoonfuls of stew, for some reason, makes him remember their conversation over dinner several nights ago.
“What did Junhui tell you about me?” Minghao asks suddenly, chopsticks sliding through a cube of tofu. “Before we met.”
To his shock, Mingyu looks embarrassed. His lips pull up into a pressed, uncomfortable smile, and his face turns a funny shade of pink underneath that golden tan. Stubborn as ever, he sticks a scoop of rice into his mouth and chews before answering.
“Not much. Basic information. He showed me pictures of your work.”
That’s a very safe answer. “And that was enough to agree to—” He flutters a hand at the table. “All this.”
Mingyu shrugs. “I need the money.”
Why? The question almost leaps from Minghao’s mouth. It sits restless on his lips, he’s dying to know. What does a grade one teacher who looks like a model need with an extra 800,000 won a month? Need so badly that he’s willing to risk jail time for it?
But no. He won’t ask, not now. They’re just starting to feel each other out the right way, they haven’t seriously argued all morning, and boundaries are important. He already accidentally blurted out that question the day they met. It was uncomfortable and probably contributed to their initial antagonism that’s now taking genuine effort to deconstruct. Right now they’re united under the same quest and Minghao won’t get in the way of that.
Mingyu’s shoulders relax when he realizes Minghao isn’t going to hound him with questions. He stretches for the last slice of fishcake and says, “What did Junhui tell you about me?"
“Absolutely nothing.”
“No way.”
“Your name.” Minghao sips his water. It’s been a while since he had so much kimchi, and it’s great, but it burns a little. “That’s it.”
Mingyu sets down his spoon in disbelief. His lips are faintly swollen from the extra spicy stew, and shiny from the water he keeps chugging. He looks like he’s on a proper date now, too involved in the conversation to fix his hair every five seconds and endearing in his disarray. Semi-distracting.
“I could’ve been a serial killer,” Mingyu muses. “And Junhui would’ve sent you off to your death.”
Minghao shrugs and finishes the dregs of his stew. “I was desperate. Honestly I didn’t expect you to be so—” He struggles to think of the best way to say this. “Young? I figured Junhui would find some old widowed Chinese woman.”
He doesn’t mention the terrible things he feared she would make him do. He doesn’t mention that a part of him still recoils when Mingyu gets too close because that fear hasn’t entirely gone away. Minghao sold his hand to a stranger, it’s only logical they’d think they have a right to his body. The memory of waking up being cuddled in Mingyu’s bed flashes across his mind’s eye.
No, that’s different. He can prevent that. He can take care of himself and Mingyu’s not like that—he can hardly stand Minghao most of the time, he doesn’t want that from him. No one’s taking advantage of Minghao or forcing him into anything. Husband or not. He takes a deep breath.
The trajectory of his thoughts must show on his face because Mingyu’s eyes widen. He searches Minghao’s face, looking for who knows what, before scraping his rice bowl clean and setting down his utensils carefully. “Which would you have preferred?”
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Neither.”
Minghao manages to snatch the bill from the waitress and slip his card inside. Mingyu looks like he’s gearing to fight him for it, jaw clenched and ready for rebuttal, but Minghao wags the bill and says, “You paid for the Tower.”
Mission success. Mingyu slumps back and nods.
“Where to next?”
“The Sky Rose Garden is close.” Mingyu checks his phone. “That’s another really cliche date spot. We can leave the car here and walk.”
A walk sounds pleasant. While waiting for the waitress to return with his card, Minghao swiftly looks up pictures of the so-called Sky Garden. This early into spring, there won’t be many blooms, but the views seem nice. Relaxing. Like a place he might bring himself to drink wine and decompress after a long week.
To his surprise, the waitress hands his card back and says shyly, “You two make a handsome couple. Come by again.”
She walks away quickly, one hand over her giggling mouth. Mingyu stares. Minghao stares. Their stares meet in the middle and they exchange a conciliatory we did it! glance. Their arguments, apologies, and stilted conversation shouldn’t have presented the image of a couple, but somehow, they did. Maybe it’s the matching aesthetics.
That reminds Minghao. As they stroll down half-empty afternoon streets, he rustles through his bag for a discreet change of clothes. Mingyu leads the charge down wide sidewalks under evergreen trees with needles underfoot, idly kicking pebbles and humming like he does in the shower. The atmosphere between them has relaxed. They’ve buried the misshapen hatchet.
Minghao exchanges his jacket for a cardigan buttoned all the way up and throws on a beret. New outfit for a new date. He holds out a plain black cap to Mingyu, who puts it on wordlessly. With his hair pushed back under the hat, his forehead is on full display, along with his perfect brows and mischievous eye-smile.
Unfortunately that’s a great look.
Even more unfortunately, Mingyu knows it. He adjusts the hat as they enter the first floor movie theater, skirt the smelly concessions stand, and slip into the elevator. Winking at his reflection in the glass walls, Mingyu presses the LOFT button and says, “This suits me, doesn’t it?”
“I hope that was a rhetorical question.”
“I should wear it to school this week. My coworkers might ask and give me a perfect opportunity to say oh yeah, my long distance partner gave me this hat—”
“I didn’t.” Minghao rolls his eyes as the elevator arrives at the top floor. He won’t feed Mingyu’s ego and he hates sharing clothes. “Give you the hat, I mean.”
Mingyu snaps his fingers. “You’re right, it’s way more romantic if I stole it from your side of the closet.”
“I don’t let people borrow my clothes unless it’s an emergency.”
“Even better. I’ll be your exception.”
They step into a wonderland. Sky Garden is an enormous rooftop botanical art scene, bookended by a coffeeshop meets bar, decorated with snowflake fairy lights and comfortably empty. Skyscrapers rise in front of their eyes. A flock of early sparrows wing towards a spiny tree just beginning to grow back its leaves.
The place is gorgeous. Minghao nearly forgets why he’s here, who he’s here with, what’s happening—he just stops in the entryway and takes it all in. He realizes his lips are parted and he’s been staring silently for several moments.
Mingyu presses his mouth into a smug smile. He shoves his hands into his pockets and says, “So you like it?”
“Um.” Minghao lays both worshipful hands on his camera. "Yeah."
What a perfect place for a shoot. The area rearranges itself in Minghao’s head, accounting for the lighting and composition, so that several key spots jump out. Thoughtlessly he grabs Mingyu’s arm and drags him toward a perfect backdrop, a bush shaped like an ocean wave.
Mingyu tugs his arm back when they arrive. There’s something unhappy about his face under the shadows of leaves and Minghao almost apologizes. He shouldn’t have grabbed him—it was rude—but it’s too late to take back the motion now. He spares a thought to how awkward they must look together physically, afraid to touch one another, jerking back from accidental elbows brushing and now this.
Minghao just points to the plant. “Stand here.”
“Fine.” Mingyu settles in front obediently and strikes a serious pose.
Click. Click.
Mingyu drops the pose, stands straight, and throws him a curveball in the shape of a question. “What was your childhood nickname?”
Minghao lowers the camera. “What?”
“That wasn’t on the cheat sheet, but—it’s something a husband would know.”
It’s incredibly embarrassing to translate. Minghao holds the word in his mouth for a second, sucking it between his teeth, hoping to strip some of the intimacy away. But Mingyu is standing there, watching him with an energy close to eagerness. He’s going to laugh. And Minghao’s going to let him.
“Little froggy,” he finally says. “But it sounds better in Chinese, I promise.”
Mingyu doesn’t laugh. But he does drum his fingers on the bush and watch the leaves tremble. “We should have nicknames for each other.”
“No thanks.”
“I’m serious, that can be…” Mingyu trails off. His fingers stop moving. “An important part of a relationship.”
Minghao recalls earlier that morning, when he sarcastically slipped and called Mingyu babe in Mandarin, how good it felt to mock him with no concern of getting caught. He crosses his arms and makes the conscious effort not to be petty. Time for a new leaf.
“Fine. But I’ll only sweet-talk you in Mandarin.”
When you can’t understand if I slip up and insult you… just in case.
“Deal. What should I call you? Honey? Sweetie? Cutie pie pumpkin—”
Minghao pretends to gag. He turns and walks quickly away, focusing on the lights and statues down the path, torn between laughter and disgust. The first thing Mingyu ever said to him, after striding into the clerk’s office, was Sorry, am I late? Let’s do this, babe.
Babe is fine. Anything is fine. He wouldn’t mind a pet name if it were genuine. His friends call him Xiao Hao. Something endearing, something sweet…
But this feels very forced. Mingyu doesn’t love him, he shouldn’t have the privilege of a pet name. Not much he can do about it—can’t fight Mingyu’s logic—but that’s how Minghao feels anyway.
Mingyu’s footsteps thunder along the rocky path. Minghao is hyper-aware of being followed, pursued like a rabbit running from a mountain lion. When a marble statue of Aphrodite comes into view, he stops. Takes a photo. Allows himself to be caught.
Mingyu catches up to stand indignant at his side, cap off-kilter.
“You’re a pain in the ass, honestly.” Mingyu sets his hands on his hips and raises both eyebrows.
Minghao snorts darkly. “Just call me that.”
“What?”
It was a joke, but the idea takes shape in Minghao’s mind. He lets the camera fall loose around his neck and turns to inspect Mingyu—head to toe, ignoring his nervous hands fidgeting with the baseball cap—in the strong afternoon sunlight. As usual, he looks boyish and charming. Attractive enough to know it with an ego the size of the Milky Way.
“No, it’s perfect,” Minghao realizes. “We can’t fool them into thinking we’re a lovey-dovey, sweet couple because we’re so far from that. Let’s play off our strengths.”
Mingyu catches on immediately. “So you’ll be the tsundere ice queen who never shows affection, and I’ll be the charming heartthrob who swept you off your feet against all odds. I can say a bunch of cheesy nonsense, complain about you, yadda yadda, while you answer everything straightforward and deadpan.”
“Or you could be the annoying, persistent, conceited loser who wouldn’t leave me alone,” Minghao counters, but he’s smiling. “Sounds great.”
Mingyu paces an excited circle around the path and completely ignores the insults. “We’re in control of the narrative. We can spin this dynamic however we want.”
“As long as the lawyer believes it.”
“Right.”
As it turns out, Kim Mingyu with a project is a formidable beast. He revisits the Husband Manifestos and thinks of ways to tell certain stories, creates fake inside jokes, spins a tale of unlikely love built out of two personalities that mirror their own. For the first time Minghao can see the teacher in this man.
It’s easier to pretend they’re simply playing two characters—Mingyu and Myungho, long distance lovers finally brought together—rather than living their lives.
For his own sanity, he has to shut down some of Mingyu’s more exuberant ideas. They reach the end of the Sky Garden, where it tapers into a glass wall overlooking a street corner leading downtown, and they pause to watch cars scurry like bugs down below.
“We did not bond over shitty Western baking shows. I refuse.”
“But it’s perfect.” Mingyu’s eyes are wide and emphatic. He leans against the railing and his hair nearly brushes the glass. “I’m a sucker for pretty frosting, and it can be your rare indulgence in my hobbies.”
“How about we bonded over you cooking me Chinese food?” Minghao tosses it out like a joke but can hear the tension in his own voice.
Because that would be the ultimate way to woo him.
Mingyu raises his eyebrows. He stares thoughtfully out the window, tongue barely poking past his teeth like he has a suggestion on the brink of escape, then nods resolutely.
“That could work.”
“Great.” Minghao pulls the camera off his neck. “Come here, selfie time.”
They pose in front of the city view. In front of the bonsai. Beside the arrangement of bottles filled with fairy lights. A half a dozen smiling photos before Mingyu gets bored and starts sticking out his tongue. Minghao switches out his own jacket and moves them into the cafe for a few more photos.
Mingyu peers around a fern to read the menu. “Do you want coffee?”
“Sure.” Minghao hands over a bill. “I’ll buy.”
“Thanks, dear. What do you want?”
The term of endearment rolls off Mingyu’s tongue in some horrific mix of genuine and sarcastic that makes them both laugh and cringe. Experimentation failed. Minghao wrinkles his nose into a deep stank face—he can’t help it. “God, that was bad.” He folds the camera strap and putting equipment away. “Just a black tea, please.”
“Milk or honey?”
"No." The refusal is emphatic. “I’m allergic to honey.”
Mingyu is still scanning the menu, but his eyes widen. He starts walking towards the cashier but turns over one shoulder, brows furrowed, to reply. “There’s honey in our cupboard that isn’t labeled. I’ll point it out to you later.”
Oh, if only you knew.
Minghao still doesn’t know the word for anaphylactic shock. He still doesn’t know how to explain that at his most vulnerable, Mingyu had nudged him with his foot and told him to clean up a mess. That wasn’t Mingyu’s fault, but it still hurt, and the reminder makes an irrational anger tap against his skull.
No. They’ve made progress today. Not only did they apologize, they joked with each other. Minghao won’t screw that up by bringing up their below-the-surface issues—he’ll continue repressing and compartmentalizing, thanks very much. As for Mingyu, ignorance is bliss. It’s simply better this way.
Mingyu returns fumbling with change and two to-go cups. He passes over what belongs to Minghao and they begin an amiable walk back to the elevator. The tea is scorching hot against his lips and tongue and Minghao regrets his own impatience.
“Any other allergies I should know about?” Mingyu asks conversationally.
“No, how about you?”
“Nope. What about things you hate? I know your favorite foods and things, but we should know what we’d rant about.” Mingyu sips his iced latte. “I hate cucumbers, I don’t like beer but sometimes I drink it anyway. My pet peeves are loud chewing and movies without a happy ending.”
The elevator dings and they walk once again through the movie theater foyer. Minghao blows on his tea and tries not to laugh. That might come across as insensitive. But seriously, movies without a happy ending? Mingyu is soft.
“That’s most movies,” is all he says.
“I know. Mostly romance movies without a happy ending. Like The Notebook, that’s so sad, and everybody loves it but I just don’t get it.”
Mingyu opens the door for him. They walk side-by-side back to the car as the city darkens. In the dim light of dusk, lights from restaurants and bars begin flickering to neon life, and they pass groups of young people headed for mischief. It makes Minghao feel, suddenly, very old.
“I agree,” Minghao says, and realizes it’s true. “That romances should have happy endings.”
That’s his bleeding goddamn heart talking, but no one is the wiser. Mingyu throws a warm smile at him, and it’s so real and unexpected that Minghao almost stops walking. What a knockout smile. His heart lurches.
“Right? Thank you!” Mingyu uses his hands to emphasize his point. “I don’t like misery porn. None of that angsty stuff.”
“I hate cheese on my ramen and I don’t eat sweets. Ignorance makes me angry. I hate those stupid plaid shoes that kids think are trendy now, have you seen them? Fucking ugly.”
Mingyu throws his head back and laughs. “Okay, give me more, come on.”
“Alcohol is gross and anyone who tells you differently is a masochist. Unless they’re talking about wine, that’s okay.” Minghao starts listing things on his fingers. There’s a lot he hates, he doesn’t want to lose track. “I hate baroque paintings, I hate people who send six texts in a row when you only need one. Unless it's Junhui, he gets a free pass. And—oh my god—naengmyeon is the worst."
“I thought you liked Korean food.”
“I do! This is just one dish I can’t… I can’t even think about eating.”
Minghao doesn’t even notice they’ve arrived at the car until it beeps to signal it’s unlocked. He gets in the passenger seat, fastens his seatbelt, and feels lighter than he has in weeks. Maybe he needed a mini complaining session, hah. How cathartic.
He’s on such a roll, but he doesn’t want to dampen the mood and stray into more serious complaints, of which he has many, like how annoying workplace honorifics can be. Mingyu looks almost cheerful. His face is relaxed when he turns the key and the car whooshes to life.
“Got it,” Mingyu says, craning his neck back to check the street before they depart. “No naengmyeon in the summer, don’t double-text, wine only.”
“Now you know my deepest secrets,” Minghao says, and he’s smiling, but it doesn’t feel bitter. It doesn’t feel combative. He’s just talking to Mingyu in the car. Reluctant, married allies against the world.
On the drive home he hangs one arm out the side window and lets the night envelop them both.
Stress at Seventeen magazine builds like a tsunami after an earthquake—that is, with little forewarning and major damage. Although they’re one of the most widely-read publications in the country, their team is small and overworked and appropriately brilliant. Minghao struggles to keep up on his best days. The days leading up to the Immigration interview are, naturally, not his best days.
Seungcheol meets him in Studio 2 with a coffee after the Monday morning shoot. Their client today was an up-and-coming baseball pitcher who wants to break out of athletics and pitch a line of sustainable jockstraps. Admirable work, honestly, but the man refused half of Minghao’s wardrobe options before insulting the assistant stylist, then waxed poetic about talk radio for ten minutes instead of posing with the turf and blue lights like he was told to do.
Long morning.
Because Seungcheol has been in this line of work a little longer, he sees all this and more on Minghao’s face. The coffee is plain and almost too bitter to take; it feels like battery acid going down. But Minghao sips gratefully.
“Thanks.” He sets the coffee on a prop table and leans heavily against the wall. “Is this the part where you tell me to suck it up?”
Seungcheol squeezes his shoulder in a friendly way. He’s tired, too, if the eyebags are any indication, but he’s still got a lopsided smile and impeccable suit.
“Unfortunately this is the part where I tell you Jeonghan’s out sick this week.”
Minghao feels the ground tremble under his feet and wonders, briefly, if he’s about to be sucked down into hell. Or if he’s already there.
He rubs both eyes. “No. Oh no. Is he okay? Did he finish the—“
“He’s fine, but no.”
“Isn’t that due—“
“Yes.”
This is how Minghao finds himself the only lead photographer at Seventeen magazine less than two months after his hire. For one week, anyway. The responsibility makes him nauseated just thinking about it. Or maybe that’s the coffee.
Regardless, it means he has to run home during his lunch break to grab the SD card with his shots from last week, which he hasn’t finished editing and didn’t plan to bring to the office yet, because Seungcheol is flipping the schedule and needs to meet with the editorial department this afternoon.
Absolute chaos.
Minghao jiggles his knee for the whole bus ride. He’ll have enough time to run in, grab the SD card, inhale his leftover fried rice from last night, and run out. At his stop he jumps from the second step and lands with both boots on the sidewalk. The driver tips his yellowing hat and says, “See you later, boy.”
Surprised, Minghao turns back to wave, but the door is already closing. That driver must be the same one he catches on the 5:15pm route. Being recognized does something funny to his heart—he feels seen, acknowledged, looked after. How nice. He’s probably memorable, dressed in high fashion on the public bus system alongside elderly ladies and uptight businessmen.
The flowerpots lined up along his apartment building’s foyer are starting to bud. Minghao zooms past, takes the stairs up two at a time, shoves his key into the door, and bursts into his apartment.
Which is full of people.
Minghao freezes. Two guys are sitting on his couch. A girl in long braids is standing on the balcony. Another guy is sitting at the table, phone in hand, looking as comfortable as can be. Mingyu is frozen in the kitchen holding a casserole. His face says oh fuck but his voice says, in a strange and high tone, “You’re home.”
There’s a certain flavor of fear Minghao has come to associate with being thrown into a room of foreign strangers unexpectedly. It’s not quite anxiety, not quite embarrassment, but somewhere on that spectrum of acid-reflux, and he feels it now filling up his guts. All the words he knows in Korean are blown out from his ears like dandelion seeds.
Then Mingyu clears his throat and adds, “Babe.”
Minghao snaps back to himself. He’s Seo Myungho in the apartment he shares with his husband. On autopilot he shuts the door behind him and takes off his shoes. All the people in his apartment are staring like he’s the stranger who showed up uninvited.
“I just… came to grab…” He points his thumb towards the bedroom. Probably incriminating himself even further.
The guy sitting at the table drops his phone. It clatters against the floor. “Wait, babe? Is this your secret boyfriend?”
“Not how I wanted you guys to meet,” Mingyu says between gritted teeth. He hasn’t looked away from Minghao. “But Myungho, these are my friends.”
There is no place to escape. Embarrassment burns across his cheeks and Minghao kinda sorta wants to melt through the floor. It’s hard to tell if Mingyu is angry or not—but that doesn’t even matter right now. By opening the front door, Minghao just inadvertently threw down a pop quiz they’re required to pass.
The guy sitting at the table jumps up and grabs Minghao’s hand to shake. He’s wearing head-to-toe athleisure and floppy blonde hair falls in his face when he beams.
“I fucking knew it! Hi, I’m Soonyoung.” He jabs a finger at the guys sitting on the couch. “And you owe me 20,000 won.”
Mingyu makes a confused uhhh noise and sets down the casserole on the table. He’s wearing his pink apron again and he looks endearingly at ease surrounded by friends; some invisible tension loosened around his spine. His hair is neat and there’s a smudge of pink marker on his jaw.
Several things happen at once: the girl on the balcony starts laughing and comes inside, Minghao’s phone rings, and the shorter man on the couch catapults to his feet and says, “Nononono I never agreed to your bet! We all knew Mingyu was acting shady.”
“Hey,” Mingyu protests weakly, but no one is paying him any attention.
“I’m Seungkwan!” The aforementioned couch-dweller shakes Minghao’s hand just as energetically as Soonyoung. He has friendly pink cheeks and is wearing a pastel peach shirt tucked into dad jeans. A warm face to match a warm aesthetic. “Nice to meet you.”
Everyone is smiling except Mingyu, who looks like he’s eaten a lemon by surprise. The colors, the unfamiliar faces, the rapidfire Korean, the shock—it’s overwhelming for Minghao. Sensory overload feels like a heart attack. He reacts without thinking and darts into the bedroom, slamming the door between himself and the chaos of the living room, leaving behind a shout of “Nicetomeetyoubye!”
Through the door he can hear laughter and shuffling feet, muffled words and Mingyu’s distinctive voice soothing the situation. Minghao presses his back against the door and lets his socked feet slide until his ass hits the floor. Shit. He probably shouldn’t have run. That was suspicious, right? As Mingyu’s partner, he should be ecstatic to meet the friends he’s heard so much about.
Except he doesn’t know much beyond their names. Soonyoung and Seungkwan. The second guy on the couch must’ve been Hansol, and the girl probably Yoohyeon, based on the phone conversations he’s overhead these past few weeks.
His phone is still ringing.
Numbly, Minghao fishes his phone from his bag and answers without looking at the screen. “Hello?”
“You’re answering in Korean already,” his mom says. “Wow, I’m impressed. Are you at work?”
“No, I…” He tumbles with relief into Mandarin. “I just came home to grab lunch. How are you?”
“I’m okay. The tomato plant started budding this morning, so your father’s excited.”
Her warm voice fills the dark bedroom. Minghao closes his eyes and sinks into the conversation like a fluffy blanket. As usual, she has perfect timing—he didn’t realize he was so homesick until right this minute.
They exchange pleasantries until his mother says, “Alright, I don’t want to take up your lunch break. Eat well. Don’t skip meals for work, okay?”
“Yes, mom,” he says. “Miss you.”
“I miss you. I’ll call you later.”
He grips the edge of the dresser and pulls himself to his feet. “Bye.”
Minghao takes a deep breath. His backup camera bag is tossed haphazardly on the windowsill and he fishes out the necessary SD card before taking stock of the situation. From here, he can just see a corner of the balcony, where the girl is no longer standing. Everyone must be in the living room, probably eating Mingyu’s casserole and laughing at Minghao’s flight response.
He leans his forehead against the glass, warmed by the sun. He doesn’t want to go back out there. What an embarrassment he is. Minghao can imagine how he comes off to strangers: awkward, cold, unfriendly. That’s how he comes off to people who know him, too. Maybe that’s just who he is.
A cloud of miserable humiliation settles over him. Minghao resigns himself to fumbling through the next twenty minutes in order to eat his leftovers and just hopes that Mingyu comes up with enough excuses for his weird behavior later.
He tells himself he’s just playing the role of dutiful but cold husband Seo Myungho. Following the script written by Mingyu. Doing his best. Then he pockets the SD card and opens the bedroom door.
He was right—everyone is seated around the table eating casserole. Seungkwan and his couch friend, the unverified Hansol, are polite enough not to stare. Yoohyeon is in deep conversation with Mingyu.
But Soonyoung turns and flaps a hand in the air and says, “Myungho, come join us!”
“Thanks, but I have leftovers in the fridge.” Minghao bypasses the table and starts arranging his fried rice for the microwave. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
“There’s enough food,” Mingyu says quietly. An olive branch.
“I like your boots.” A third voice, unfamiliar, echoes from the table.
Minghao glances back to see the unverified Hansol—it has to be Hansol, right? Mingyu doesn’t have that many friends—who is wearing an obnoxious yellow hoodie and bandana. At first glance, he’s striking and handsome. At second glance, he doesn’t quite look Korean, and Minghao almost drops his bowl removing it from the microwave.
The chair between Mingyu and Hansol is empty. Minghao tentatively sits with his fried rice and says, “Thanks. They’re vegan leather.”
“Sweet.” Hansol nods.
Soonyoung dabs his mouth and leans forward with both elbows on the table. “Mingyu says you work for a magazine?”
“Yeah, Seventeen.”
“My sister loves that magazine.” Hansol takes a bite of casserole. “She spends half her allowance on the online subscription.”
Minghao discreetly turns to face him a little more. He likes Hansol’s straightforward and easygoing attitude. They strike up a semi-awkward conversation about last month’s Seventeen release and behind-the-scenes fun facts about Jeonghan’s interview with a prominent actor. He eats as quickly as possible without being rude.
He keeps accidentally making eye contact with Mingyu. Minghao can’t even tell who’s looking first—he knows Mingyu is eavesdropping even as Yoohyeon continues their separate conversation—but he finds himself looking over for reassurance every few minutes. A familiar face goes a long way in these situations and Mingyu’s tiny smiles are encouraging.
At one point, after Soonyoung and Seungkwan hijack their conversation to ask about Chinese food, Minghao starts to feel overwhelmed. He’s only a couple bites from freedom so he starts choking down the rice in lieu of answering their onslaught of questions about mapo tofu and malatang. His ducks his head and hides behind his bangs.
Subtly Mingyu drapes an arm over the back of Minghao’s chair. Minghao sits up straight and feels a palm rest along the back of his neck, a warm anchor. He’s probably doing it for show. It still feels nice.
When the fried rice is gone, Minghao excuses himself and flees to the kitchen, abandoning his Tupperware in the sink. He washes his hands and accidentally uses too much soap, then displaces the hand towel and knocks a poor purple succulent off the windowsill. He rights the plant and guiltily flees the kitchen before he causes more destruction. Typically he’s not the clumsy one in this apartment, but he’s distracted and overwhelmed and nervous.
“Here, don’t forget your bag,” Mingyu calls after him unnecessarily. He follows Minghao into the bedroom and shuts the door behind them, creating a much-needed space for them to talk freely. Obnoxious giggles are audible from the living room.
Minghao turns his back on his husband and shoves a hand into his bag to double-check that he has the SD card. He takes a deep breath and screw his eyes shut, hoping he didn’t fuck everything up. “Sorry for interrupting. If I knew I wouldn’t have come back.”
“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.” Mingyu pushes his hair back from his face and rests both palms on his head like a sprinter recovering from a race.
“I hope they aren’t suspicious.”
“I’ve been dropping hints. And before—there was a situation—” He frowns and settles for a quick explanation. “They’ve been expecting a reveal like this, they weren’t too surprised. Just excited. You did fine.”
Minghao is a little doubtful, but Mingyu certainly knows his own friends better. His words are reassuring. Things could’ve gone worse. Minghao only stuttered a couple times, and Seungkwan in particular looked endeared by his flustered answers.
Hansol was definitely cool. Someone Minghao might like to photograph, given the opportunity, which is a strange thought to have. But the more he considers it the more he likes the idea. Bringing more diversity to Seventeen is one of his major goals, and Hansol has the face to warrant a short-term modeling contract, if Minghao can convince Seungcheol to bring the suggestion to their higher-ups.
A loud wolf-whistle interrupts his thoughts. A voice shouts, “We’re still out here guys, give it a rest!”
“Oh god,” Mingyu mutters.
He drops his arms and sighs. Though Mingyu is taller, broader, and overall just a larger person than Minghao, he has a funny habit of making himself seem small. He does that now—shoulders hunched, chin down, wrists crossed in front of him. He’s embarrassed again.
Realization hits Minghao like a train. “They think—”
“Yeah.”
“Uh.”
Mingyu bites his lip and starts shoving words into the space between them. “We should probably act like we’ve been making out. To avoid suspicion. That’s definitely what Soonyoung thinks. If you’re, um. Okay with that.”
Minghao thinks dejectedly of the hairspray in his bangs. He runs an experimental hand through it and winces when the product clings to his fingers like a film. “Fine, but do me a favor and mess up my hair. I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”
“Figures,” Mingyu says, but he’s smiling.
He approaches Minghao tentatively, hands raised, like he’s waiting to see if the demand will be rescinded. It’s nice how cautious he is. The floorboards make an unhappy creaking noise as he shuffles ever closer. Sleeping habits aside, Mingyu is deeply respectful of Minghao’s space.
His hands are gentle. They card through the hair rhythmically at first, disrupting the base spray, and Minghao closes his eyes to avoid eye contact. Also because the hands in his hair feel good. No one’s touched him like this in months.
No one’s touched him like this since—
Mingyu makes a quiet, surprised noise. “Your hair’s really soft.”
“Of course it is.”
“Now do mine.”
Minghao opens his eyes. The hands fall away from his hair and for one long, suspended heartbeat, he misses their comforting touch. Mingyu is staring at him. Awkwardly Minghao looks away, hoping the longing on his face is not legible, and nods. “Lean down a little.”
He returns the favor and, unsurprisingly, Mingyu’s hair is also soft. Vaguely he smells like his fancy coconut shampoo. His hair is a solid brown, has been dyed since they met, though black roots are starting to peek through. Minghao runs a hand over his scalp. No product. Smooth hair flows between his fingers.
When he stops, Mingyu’s hair is sticking straight up in a truly inspiring defamation of gravity.
“Um,” Minghao steps back and bites his lip to keep from laughing. “You’re good. You do have—”
He thumbs at the blotch of pink marker on Mingyu’s jaw.
“What?”
“Something pink.”
Mingyu snorts. “Oh. The kids were coloring animals today.”
Mingyu rubs at the spot absent-mindedly and tosses his apron on the bed. He unbuttons the first three buttons on his shirt, pauses, then re-buttons the lowest. He bites his lips until they’re pink and Minghao does the same, trying not to stare, because he has the sudden urge to giggle. They’re play-acting like teenagers and it’s ridiculous, but it’s also fun.
“I really have to go,” Minghao says. “I’m gonna be late back to work.”
“Just run out the door. Act super embarrassed. I’ll handle it.”
“Okay.” Minghao feels a giggle rise to the surface. He claps a hand over his mouth and mumbles, “Thanks.”
He grabs his bag and bursts out of the bedroom. There’s no doubt he looks a mess—hair disheveled, lips distressed, shirt untucked, still blushing from the skin-to-hair contact. He spares a glance for the startled guests and says very quickly, “I have to go but it was so nice to meet you all see you again soon bye!”
Minghao rushes out the front door. He makes it down a whole flight of stairs before the grin overtakes him and he laughs a little, breathlessly, not even sure what’s funny at this point but knowing he feels some type of way.
They were like children sneaking cookies out of the jar, and against all odds, they succeeded.
As he jogs to the bus stop, the amusement fades. He remembers the comfortable way Mingyu’s friends moved around his apartment. Their apartment. Minghao knew his husband had friends, had even met one of his coworkers, but watching them interact is a little different.
When the adrenaline ebbs, he’s left with a empty sort of jealousy.
Mingyu has friends who miss him when he lies about fumigating for bugs, who lounge on his couch and complain about work, who are aggressively kind to the weird foreign kid taking up space in his life, even if they don’t understand how. Mingyu has friends who love him. That was incredibly obvious after only half an hour in their shared presence.
Minghao thinks of his coworkers—snarky, fun Jeonghan, steadfast and inspiring Seungcheol, the bright light that is Joshua’s laugh—and wishes he could say the same. He thinks of Junhui’s absentminded phone calls, his when-I-remember texts, how he hasn’t been able to see his oldest friend despite living in the same city again for the first time in three years.
No one is to blame. Life’s busy and tough sometimes. But the weird half-happy and half-jealous feeling lingers all day. Through exhausting meetings with corporate and a full inbox of new schedules to manage, the feeling lingers.
When they go to bed that night, Mingyu apologizes again for the incident with his friends. He used to host biweekly Friday lunches, before, and they cornered him this morning via groupchat until Mingyu ran out of excuses.
Minghao isn’t really listening. He wants to ask, Have you ever been so lonely you could die of it?
This bed is their compromise. If he’s going to crack open his heart and let the light in, he’s going to do it here with Mingyu’s head on the opposite pillow. He bites his lip and Mingyu’s eyes follow the movement.
But what Minghao says is, “You can invite them back.”
“My friends?”
“They were nice. Just warn me first.”
When Mingyu nods, his hair drags against the pillow. He’s a dark shape in a darker room but Minghao can imagine his details anyway—sharp cheekbones, gentle sloping shoulder, one hand tangled under the pillow before it traitorously seeks him out in the trench of sleep.
He can’t bridge the distance between them, and part of him—most of him—doesn’t want to, but Minghao closes his eyes anyway so he doesn’t have to look at what he’ll never have.
He almost misses Mingyu’s quiet reply.
“Thanks,” he whispers, and Minghao plummets into sleep.