Chapter Text
Mingi’s heats have always hit him harder than most.
And, really, it’s fine. Mingi has grown accustomed to the fiery ache that renders his body useless each month, but for some reason, this heat is worse. He’s had to call in to work three times this week. Every time he’s gone to sleep, it’s been under the pretense that, hopefully, when he wakes up, he’ll feel a little better—enough to get out of his damn bed, at least. But he doesn’t.
And that’s how today goes.
Except for now, he’s running out of sick days.
Of course, everyone is given the appropriate amount of time off for ruts and heats each month, but Mingi’s heat is everything but appropriate. Sometimes, it lasts long into the second week, and others, it sends sparks of pain throughout his whole body.
It’s irregular—never the same. His doctor told him it’s a rare condition that can be caused when an omega’s home life is unstable growing up—that his body craves love more than most because he’s never had it given to him before. But all things considered, the conscious, rational part of Mingi doesn’t care. His parents were shitty, so what?
Why can’t his body and mind ever agree?
It’s a sour pendulum he’s sadly gotten used to, swinging between his body and his mind.
Right now, Mingi doesn’t want to miss work. But he literally can’t move, and the closest thing he has to a mate is his seventy year old neighbor who sometimes brings him dinner.
That’s another thing.
Mingi doesn’t have many ways to offer himself relief. Being an omega at this size is practically a life sentence to abstinence, and the suppressants he’s tried in the past just don’t make him feel like himself. He gets irritable easily and is less in tune with his emotions.
So, he has to make up for the lack of a partner in… other ways.
One of those being a knotted dildo, and the other being an old heating pad he’s had since he presented. It’s frayed at the edges and worn down, but Mingi doesn’t have it in himself to shove something up his ass this early in the morning. He sends a message to his boss, telling him he won’t be coming in again. It’s embarrassing, but his shame is soon tossed to the side when another wave of pain scorches through his abdomen, making him curl in on himself before he can even process it.
His phone falls to the ground as he winces uncomfortably, biting down a whimper. Something akin to instinct has Mingi reaching for the heating pad that usually resides on his bedside table and plugging it in. The relief isn’t immediate, but cranking the thing to its highest setting and placing it gently onto his stomach already has some of the cramps untangling in his gut. His doctor told him to be careful with the contraption when she recommended it to him years ago, but now, that doctor is long gone, and Mingi is no stranger to abusing the temperatures that the pad can create.
He isn’t proud of it, but it helps.
Mingi just hopes this heat will end soon, and that he’ll be back at work before the week is over.
Waking up a few hours later, the regret that hollows Mingi’s stomach is instant.
Fuck. He fell asleep.
With the heating pad still on.
Mingi curses under his breath and attempts to ignore the faint electrical burning smell, tossing his blanket to the side and carefully lifting the device. This isn’t the first time Mingi’s stupidity has gotten him into this scenario, so he knows to not tug it off too quickly. It burns his fingers as he pries it from his skin, and the sight that meets him makes Mingi internally kick himself.
This will hurt for days.
Just unplugging the damn thing from the wall has the bed sheets shifting uncomfortably against his now raw skin, and the cool air that curls around the fresh wound doesn’t offer any solace. He does his best to sit up-right, because he needs to put some antiseptic on this, but the cramps are still alive and utterly agonizing.
The best he can do is grab his phone from the ground. Even that action alone renders him shaky and near tears.
It’s noon now, meaning the heating pad was frying his skin for a good four hours or so. He chews on his lip, hoping that if he bites down hard enough, the pain there will distract from the pain haunting his midsection.
But it doesn’t.
And he soon notices a message from Yunho decorating his screen, sent about thirty minutes ago.
still on for dinner tonight?
i miss you ;(
Fuck.
Dinner.
Mingi completely forgot.
are you gonna hate me if i take a rain check?
oh
how come?
not feeling too great
think i got sick
It’s the closest thing to the truth that Mingi can manage. He’d sooner be found dead than have Yunho see him like this. Sweaty and disheveled. Not to mention, the thought of swallowing down food right now has nausea pooling in his gut.
nooo
are you okay?
yeah dw
i should be feeling better in the next few days
can we get dinner then?
of course
you need anything?
i’m going to the store later so i don’t mind to stop and get you some medicine
i’m alright !
promise :)
Yunho is too kind for his own good sometimes.
That’s how they met, after all—their senior year of high school. Mingi sat down on a piece of gum in psychology, and after dramatically declaring that his life sucked, the alpha looked up at him with nothing but genuine eyes and offered to trade pants with him.
It’s ridiculous.
But Yunho has been by his side ever since, even through the multitude of spirals Mingi had in college. And now, Mingi is repaying him by taking a rain check on dinner. This thought alone nearly has tears pricking his eyes.
He almost messages the man again—tells him fuck it, he’ll be there—but Yunho would take one whiff of him and be able to tell that, no, he’s not sick. He’s in heat.
Curling back in on himself, the ache is ever-present. Mingi chooses to go back to sleep.
It’s late into the evening when there is a knock on his door.
Mingi isn’t expecting anyone, so he tries his best to nestle his head back into the small nest he’s created and fall back to sleep.
But then, they knock again.
And again.
He all but groans at the prospect of leaving his bed, but looking at the time on his phone once more, he realizes it’s almost six. Sleeping the day away was not what Mingi had in mind. Nevertheless, he finds the multitude of pain is now mainly located where the burns remain, instead of deep within his body, so he’s able to at least stand from his bed—walk a little—which is a major improvement from the days prior.
He hopes he doesn’t look absolutely appalling when he answers the door. Maybe, though, if he does, the person on the other side will turn tail and leave him alone.
But they don’t.
Yunho doesn’t.
He stands there, brows slowly furrowing, as he takes in the sight of Mingi.
Mingi is close to slamming the door shut before Yunho can breathe in too much of his scent, but by the time he realizes this isn’t just his neighbor or something—that it’s Yunho— it’s too late.
Yunho inhales, then exhales. And he puts the pieces together immediately.
“Hey…” he starts awkwardly, glancing at his feet. “I brought you some soup.”
Mingi runs his hands down his face. He doesn’t know why he tries hiding things from Yunho anymore. It’s never worked—the man has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to Mingi, and he’s always able to see straight through him. Especially now, given the way Mingi is sure he reeks.
This isn’t the first time Yunho has caught him red-handed, burrowing himself deeper into the agony that is his heat.
Yunho knows they’re not easy on him. Just a few months ago, the man expressed his pity.
But Mingi doesn’t need pity. He just wants to be left alone.
“Thanks,” he replies, clearing his throat.
All Yunho does is shake his head. “You could have told me, you know? I would have understood.”
Of course, Yunho makes it sound like the idea of being open and horny out of his mind is an easy task. Mingi huffs and turns away, leaving the door ajar. He knows Yunho would never let him close it on him anyway, so there is no use in trying. “I know.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
Yunho’s already releasing his scent as he steps through the door, probably trying to cover up the odor that is Mingi’s own. Usually, Mingi’s scent is fine. Nothing to write home about, but it’s alright. Wooyoung tells him he smells like rain—that it’s comforting and reminds him of spring.
But during his heat, he’s not quite sure what he smells like. He’s only ever spent the period with another person once, and he was so dissatisfied that he kicked the alpha out shortly after. All he knows is that Yunho replaces whatever smell he’s left behind with a fresh mint. Not like the artificial kind in chewing gum, but the herb.
His body preens at the smell, all but doubling over. Some of the knots in his stomach unfurl.
“I don’t tell anyone. Don’t take it personally.”
Just as Mingi is about to tidy up his living area some, his hoodie brushes aggressively against the raw flesh of his stomach. He must not hide the grimace very well because Yunho is sighing, coming up behind him and placing a gentle hand on his back. “You don’t have to clean up for me. Lay down.”
“I’m fine—”
“Minnie, just let me help you.” It’s said pleadingly, with tilt of his head and an unwavering stare. “You’re gonna make it worse.”
Really, it doesn’t take much convincing. The light touch on his spine is enough to render him useless, and he lets Yunho guide him to the couch slowly. Yunho could mold him however he wanted, Mingi thinks. He’s never been able to argue with him.
“I take it you haven’t eaten?”
Mingi’s answer is a wordless shake of his head.
“Okay.” He looks around. Mingi isn’t sure what for, but then Yunho finds a few pillows and blankets, and lays them gently on the ground for Mingi to arrange into a nest however he likes. Mingi is sure he is nothing but a puddled mess; even moreso when Yunho scents his wrist. “I’ll be right back.”
With that, it doesn’t take long for the buzz of the microwave to permeate the air. Mingi twists and turns as carefully as he can so as to not disturb his skin and forms a makeshift nest on his couch, placing each pillow around him like a sort of cocoon.
He much prefers the one in his bedroom—the one with a few of Yunho’s shirts that the man has left in his apartment over the years.
But this’ll do.
“Here,” Yunho gently speaks, delivering a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup to the coffee table after several minutes. “Do you need anything else?”
Mingi slowly finds his resolve crumbling down at the sight of Yunho, who probably has better things to do, willfully handling Mingi with care. His stomach cramps up again. “Can you stay for a bit?”
God. He sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
But, “Duh,” Yunho answers, scruffling the hair on Mingi’s head.
So, Mingi watches some dumb television show Yunho picks out while he presses the ceramic of the hot bowl into his abdomen. Pure reflex. The sensation nauseates him, but he finds himself hungry enough to stomach most of the serving.
He ignores the eyes on him. Mostly.
It’s hard to ignore Yunho’s gaze for too long, though, and eventually, he turns his head to find the man sideways on the chair opposite him, long legs dangling over the arm of it. Mingi wishes he wasn’t so far away.
More bile sits on the bed of his tongue. He shivers. “Do you think I’m gonna disappear if you look away?” he asks him, to diffuse the tension.
Yunho just sighs. “I need to know you’re okay.”
“I am,” Mingi tries.
“You’re not, though.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Yun. I’ve been dealing with this for years. I can handle it.”
Yunho finally averts his stare, choosing to bite at his nail instead. “I know you can, but you don’t have to do it alone.”
Mingi, unfortunately, very much so has to do it alone. If there was another option, he’d have taken it by now.
He knows what he looks like—how big he is. No alpha in their right mind would ever give Mingi the time of day—not with how he carries himself, his awkward limbs, the scars on his stomach from years spent by himself. At this point, Mingi has accepted it. And the singular alpha that did was a lousy lay at best, and treated Mingi like the dirt on his shoe at worst.
“I’m always here,” Yunho goes on. “Anything you need, I’ll take care of it.”
But they both know that’s not true.
Mingi needs more than Yunho can give him. Needs more of Yunho.
He’s lived with the feelings long enough that they’ve turned into a dormant lull in the back of his mind. Always there, but easier to manage than when they first met.
Another cramp ties his stomach into a tight knot. He hates that he can’t hold the whimper in—that it falls into the wordless space between them and tarnishes it—and he grips the edge of the couch cushion like a vice.
Yunho is about to say something, probably taking a breath to wish him a few awkward what the fuck ’s, as Mingi throws the blanket from his body.
Everything is just too hot. He feels like he’s being burned alive from the inside.
But Yunho’s mouth promptly shuts. And his gaze shifts to Mingi’s middle.
His stomach.
Fuck.
Mingi is quick to pull the hem of his shirt back down from where it must have ridden up, exposing the bare of his belly. Red and bruised.
Yunho pulls his bottom lip to rest defiantly between his teeth before their eyes meet again. The alpha runs a hand through his hair, and yeah, Mingi may puke. “What did you do to yourself?” The words are spoken through something thick in the back of Yunho’s throat. “Jesus, Min.”
Mingi can’t answer. He knows from past experiences that what Yunho saw wasn’t pretty, and all he can do is try to force the lump in the back of his throat down, swallowing around it like something painful. “Nothing.”
Yunho looks up at the ceiling, like he’s attempting to keep his composure and failing. It doesn’t take long for the alpha to stand from the chair and round the coffee table. “That’s not nothing.” He sits at Mingi’s side. “Let me see.”
Mingi may truly cry. He shakes his head.
“Mingi.”
“I–I can’t, Yunnie.”
Yunho was never supposed to see him like this—to see this part of Mingi at all.
The ugly part.
The part that has left scars all over his skin and continues to do so. A permanent reminder forged into his body that he craves too much. That he needs, and needs, and needs.
“Please,” Yunho whispers.
Mingi shakes with a deep breath. He fiddles with the hem and avoids Yunho’s eyes like they’ll sear holes into his skin if he meets them.
Of course, they don’t. Mingi latches onto Yunho’s gaze and only sees the same kindness he originally found years ago. It only takes a second or two for Mingi to give in to the way Yunho is staring at him, and when his hands tremble at the mere idea of revealing his biggest insecurity, Yunho anchors him with the very scent that always seems to calm him down.
Mingi pulls up his shirt, and the urge to curl in on himself consumes him.
Yunho’s lips tremble at the sight he’s met with, and it seems as if the alpha is struggling to keep his hands from grazing the sore blisters. Mingi can feel the heat of them anyway, even as they hover above him, centimeters away from breaching contact.
“I’m sorry,” Mingi chokes, because he’s not sure what else will ease the crease between Yunho’s brows. “I–I—”
“What did you do?” Yunho asks again.
Mingi finally looks down at his own body, humiliation flooding him as he does. He never applied any ointment or bandages to the wounds, so they look the worst they ever have. They’ll definitely scar. Sitting with the acknowledgement of that fact alone has the dam finally breaking, a hitched breath wracking his frame. “I didn’t mean to.”
Yunho studies the movement, and rests his hand on Mingi’s waist to soothe him where the burns don’t quite reach. The contact eases his breathing momentarily, but it doesn’t stop the tear that escapes.
“I just—I don’t know—it hurts so bad, Yun-ah, and I wanted it to stop.” He tugs his shirt back down, figuring Yunho’s seen enough. “But it wouldn’t.”
Yunho lets Mingi hide away this time, but his palm finds a home on Mingi’s waist again. Just where it had been before, but now with a barrier of fabric between them. “Are they burns?”
Mingi nods, sniffling. “From my heating pad. Usually it helps, but sometimes I turn it up too high.”
“This has happened before?” Yunho asks. His eyes widen upon the realization, and his hand falls away from Mingi’s body entirely.
Disgust, Mingi thinks. Yunho’s disgusted with him.
Upon his silence, Yunho gazes at his stomach, even though the scars are now concealed. “How many times?”
Honestly, Mingi can’t count them. He shrugs.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? I could’ve helped, Mingi-yah—”
Mingi huffs at this. “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing I can do, either.”
“It doesn’t stop hurting when you…” Yunho flushes, but regains composure quickly. “Having someone help you through a heat doesn’t make it better?”
Swallowing, Mingi wishes he had an answer for that. His doctor used to tell him that only a mate could satisfy the longing his body has built up. The hookup was shitty, yeah—didn’t help in the slightest bit, if he’s honest—but he’s too inexperienced to answer definitively. “Dunno. No one really… wants to. Not with me. There was this guy once who tried, but he was an asshole. Made it worse.”
Yunho makes a face so incredulous, Mingi is sure he’d find it funny any other time. Now, it feels mocking, and he tries to avoid it despite being stuck between Yunho’s body and the bend of the couch. “Just the one?”
“Is it that hard to believe?” Mingi asks, scoffing humorlessly. “I mean, look at me, Yunho. I don’t exactly scream omega.”
“Stop that.” The response is immediate. Distraught. “You’re beautiful.”
Mingi thinks of what's lying dormant between them, the bruised skin that Yunho was utterly horrified by. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not just saying it. Any alpha would be lucky to have you.”
Mingi hums. “And yet, here I am. Alpha-less,” he tries to joke.
Yunho doesn’t laugh. Especially as Mingi shudders around another tic of his muscles. “I’m here.”
And Mingi appreciates the sentiment, really. But Yunho calling him beautiful didn’t dull the cramps. If anything, the words only intensified them.
Mingi nods anyway, just in an attempt to remove the ever-worsening frown from Yunho’s face.
“You’re right. Sorry.”
Yunho doesn’t speak much for the rest of the night. Even when he helps him up from the couch and guides him to the bathroom to find Mingi’s first-aid kit, the air between them is heavy. The only words murmured are a quiet request for Mingi to remove his shirt again, and Mingi tries to pretend that standing here with his body on display for Yunho to rake his eyes over doesn’t absolutely terrify him.
Yunho is gentle. Sweet.
He applies antiseptic to a paper towel and does his best to keep the rough texture from bothering Mingi too much, with a steadying hand on his hip from where he’s kneeled on the ground. The sight is dreadful. Yunho on his knees in front of him, inches away from the ache that torments him.
When the raw welts are finally wrapped up in some gauze, Yunho raises himself to his feet.
“Thank you,” Mingi says, because he’s not quite sure what else will break the tension between them.
The alpha doesn’t seem upset, but there is something tugging at the corners of his lips, threatening to shift into a pout that Mingi knows all too well. “You don’t have to thank me.”
Mingi turns just enough to find their reflection in the mirror over his sink. The sight he’s met with nearly has tears springing to his eyes again as he studies the discoloration of his skin—how Yunho is staring at him, too. He instinctively wraps his arms around his middle and turns his back on himself.
“Stop hiding from me, will you?” Yunho whispers in response to the action. “Let yourself be taken care of.”
Unraveling his arms leaves Mingi anxious. He starts cleaning up the mess left on the counter as he nods and clears his throat.
But Yunho stops him with a soft hand on his back again. “You’re not listening. Go lie down.”
Shamefully, all of this touching has heightened his cramps to a piercing throb. Yunho scenting him is what finally has his will crumbling, leaving the mess for the alpha to deal with. His nest is just how he left it when he steps through the threshold of his bedroom. The heating pad stares at him tauntingly from the ground, like it knows its done nothing but humiliate him all evening.
Mingi sighs and wraps the long cord around it several times before shoving it into the drawer of his bedside table.
It’s getting late. Despite sleeping the entire day away, Mingi can’t help but melt into his pillows, and by the time Yunho returns with an iced glass of water, there is only so much he can do to keep the drowsiness at bay.
Yunho sits on the edge of the bed, adjusting the covers at Mingi’s chin. “Do you want me to stay tonight?”
Mingi frowns, shaking his head. “I’ll be alright.”
It surprises Mingi when the man doesn’t fight him on it—just nods with a seriousness in his eyes that Mingi isn’t used to. “Okay. I have to work tomorrow, but if you need anything at any point, call me. Please.”
“I told you, there’s nothing you can do—”
“Come on, Min,” Yunho interrupts. “I’m an alpha, you’re an omega. I’m sure we could figure something out.” He pauses, and while Mingi tries to compute what the man is suggesting, he takes a deep breath. “Just… don’t resort to hurting yourself. I’d do anything for you, and it kills me seeing you like this.”
All Mingi can do is nod around a squeaky sound that rises from the back of his throat.
At least, the noise pulls the seriousness from Yunho’s eyes. He huffs, smiling. “I’ll see you soon, yeah? You still owe me dinner.”
Mingi still can’t seem to put his thoughts into words—not that he’s thinking much of anything that wouldn’t be incriminating to speak out loud. When Yunho leans down to hug him, scenting him one last time, the thoughts only get worse. Something stirs in the pit of his belly, and he almost fucking whimpers into Yunho’s shoulder.
The following minutes happen in a blur. Yunho rounds the bed with one last fleeting touch to his foot, grabbing his big toe teasingly over the covers and wishing Mingi a good night, and the second he hears the door to his apartment softly close, Mingi lets the pent up sensations consume him.
I’m an alpha, you’re an omega. I’m sure we could figure something out.
His hand is slipping into his pants before he can stop himself—before he lets the shame of what he’s about to do creep into his mind and ruin the moment—and his breath hitches upon the realization that his dick is already flying half-mast.
You’re beautiful, he hears Yunho saying in the back of his mind. I’m here.
Mingi imagines it as the ache in his gut intensifies, his hand wrapping dutifully around his cock to pump it the rest of the way to life. Yunho. Here, in his bed. Calling him beautiful and all the things Mingi has never thought about himself. He reaches blindly for a t-shirt that he knows has to be strewn somewhere, a reminder of Yunho’s scent, and quickly presses the fabric to his nose.
Mingi chokes out a moan as he breathes in the smell, letting it coax his cramps into a state of surrender.
It’s embarrassing, how fast he comes.
He’s barely ran his thumb over the slit of his cock before he’s spilling into his boxers, ignoring the slick that beads around his entrance.
Mingi pants at the momentary relief and lets himself feel it—the satisfaction—before his body catches up with the fact that, no, Yunho isn’t actually here. And he’d probably be horrified at the fact that Mingi still has one of his old shirts pressed to his mouth and nose.
The relief doesn’t last for long, and the wave of pain that follows has him biting down on the fabric to keep himself quiet.
He removes his hand from his pants and wipes the ropes of milky white onto his bedsheets, under the guise that tomorrow is the day he will finally be able to shower and change his bedding like a functioning adult. It’s disgusting, but he doesn’t care.
Mingi figures this will only add onto the mountain of things he has to be ashamed of. At this point, there isn’t much else he can do but turn onto his side and bring his knees to his chest.
He clutches onto Yunho’s shirt like a lifeline and pretends his eyes don’t sting with embarrassment as he closes them and attempts to go to sleep.
-
Luckily, Mingi is able to go to work the next day.
His body still aches something feverish, but the pain has died down enough that the thought of a shower doesn’t weigh on him like a ton of bricks. And, there is still cum dried onto his skin—the gauze Yunho so carefully applied, too.
He needs a shower. Whether he likes it or not.
And, well, figuring Yunho would kill Mingi on sight if he caught wind of the heating pad aiding him any further, Mingi decides taking a scalding hot shower doesn’t exactly breach that restriction. The welts on his skin itch painfully now. It’s a struggle to not scratch them raw again as he guides a palm covered in soap over the expanse of his stomach.
But the shower helps unwind the knots there.
The rest of his day is spent squeezing his legs together in his office chair with a peel-off scent blocker pressed to his scent gland. Yunho texts him here and there, ensuring Mingi doesn’t need anything. It’s sweet, and makes his dick hard.
When he gets home, though, he doesn’t relieve himself of the strain this time. Last night doesn’t have to mean anything, neither do the frail promises Yunho made—something he probably only said because he’d found Mingi in such a fragile state. An alpha like Yunho would never want to be with an omega like Mingi, and that’s fine. Mingi made peace with that a long time ago.
So, he wills his boner away and finally changes his sheets. He’ll be less likely to give into his desires without his bedding already soiled.
-
That next week, Mingi finally feels normal enough to cash in his rain check.
Yunho takes him to a diner they’ve been to many times before, watches Mingi house his meal like a man starved. “Hungry?” the alpha jokes, but his eyes betray him and bleed concern onto the table between them.
Mingi swallows down a bite of his burger gruffly. He’s sure the sight is unpleasant, but he doesn’t think he’s had a real meal since his heat began—too nauseated to eat anything besides a few bowls of warm broth—and he’s lost a good five pounds or so at this point. “Mm.”
Huffing a quiet laugh, Yunho nudges his glass of water toward him. “Well, slow down. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”
Yunho is probably right, which is the unfortunate part. He swears the man knows more about Mingi’s body—what he can handle—than he does himself. But he’s always been like that. That’s just the kind of person he is. Mingi chooses to answer by slowing down the motion of his jaw, taking the time to actually taste the food on his tongue, and follows the action with a few gulps of water.
“How’re you holding up?” Yunho then asks, lifting a singular fry into his mouth.
“Couldn’t eat much,” Mingi tells him. He thinks it’s quite funny, really, how Yunho is able to tell that him shoving his face with a burger is somehow correlated to how he spent his last week. “Feel better now.”
Yunho smiles, pretty and genuine. “Good. I hate it when you’re sad.”
“Mm.” Mingi swallows down another bite of his burger. “Is that why you offered what you did?”
He expects there to be confusion written on Yunho’s face—expects him to have forgotten about it by now—but Yunho just rolls his eyes. “No.”
“Why then?”
The demeanor Yunho has held so easily cracks, if only a little bit. He shrugs, prodding the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Just needed you to know I would do that for you. No questions asked.”
For you.
Mingi sits with the answer as he takes another sip of his water. Even if he knew deep down that this wasn’t something Yunho craved, it still hurts to hear the confirmation fall from the man’s lips.
He nods in response and grabs the dessert menu—hopes that if he distracts himself, the wave of longing will fizzle out into a small puddle.
“I’d rather help you through it than find out you’ve burned yourself again trying to make it stop.”
“I’m not a charity case,” he replies, skimming his eyes over a serving of Oreo cheesecake that looks delicious.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
He does know. But it doesn’t stop Mingi from feeling like one all the same. Sighing, he passes the menu over to Yunho and asks if he needs something sweet, maybe a milkshake.
The distraction doesn’t work. “If not me,” Yunho continues, accepting the menu but not looking at it, “Then someone else? It’s not worth it, Minnie.”
Mingi deserves a Nobel Prize, he thinks, given the fact that he’s able to refrain from rolling his eyes at the suggestion. It’s not like he hasn’t tried. He’s gone out with Wooyoung and Hongjoong on multiple occasions with that very idea in mind and alphas don’t spare him a second glance—not with two smaller omegas at his side, who have the looks to stun any straight man gay.
And besides, he’d always hoped that… Yunho would somehow return the feelings harbored in every inch of Mingi’s being—that eventually, they would find their ways into bed, and not under the guise of helping out a friend. It would be slow and soft, and Yunho would tell him everything he loves about him all the while relieving him of the ache he’s felt for far too long.
Mingi just struggles to let that idea slip from his fingertips.
He tries to let go of it completely when he looks at him as softly as he can and agrees. Yunho is right.
It’s not worth it anymore.
And maybe, just maybe, his doctor was wrong. That stranger that led him to bed, touched him where nobody else ever has, might’ve just been a one-off thing. Maybe there is a way for this pain to go away without being mated, and without Yunho being the one to bite down into his neck and mark him as his.
Maybe begins to feel like denial.
-
Wooyoung is everything Mingi isn’t.
He’s smart, whitty, has the pliancy to drive any alpha within a mile radius mad but never lets himself get walked all over. He’s small. And pretty, too.
Usually, these things don’t bother Mingi. They’ve been friends for a while now, bordering on two years, so when the pang of jealousy hits—brash and foreign—he can’t help but be consumed by guilt.
Mingi shouldn’t be jealous over one of his closest friends’ successes, but he just can’t get a handle on his emotions these days.
Maybe, it’s because he’s had a few too many beers. Even his drink choice has bile coating the back of his tongue—because of course, Wooyoung is drinking a glass of white wine. Something sophisticated, despite the reason for drinking being nothing more than to let loose, to catch up with each other.
All of these things, the way they’re practically polar opposites, makes the words that just spilled from Wooyoung's mouth all the more agonizingly mortifying.
“You need a heat partner,” he had said, sloshing back the last of his wine. “Yunho used to get me through mine. He really helped.”
It sends something viscous and mean down his spine.
Wooyoung’s heats aren’t bad; Mingi has been informed of this on multiple occasions. They last two to three days at max, and the worst his cramps have ever been simply made his toes curl.
Which means something must have happened between them organically. Yunho has never mentioned holding a crush on the omega, but he can’t imagine Wooyoung receiving the offer on the same terms Mingi did—with his stomach in knots and bruises coloring his skin.
No, it must have been natural—instinct.
Maybe it’s because he’s intoxicated—or maybe it’s the feeling of betrayal, even when Yunho didn’t do anything definitively wrong—that has Mingi clearing his throat awkwardly and dismissing himself to the bathroom.
He pulls his phone from his pocket.
why dindt you tell me?
?
about what?
you and woo
helpin g him with hsi heats
oh
Yunho types out a few answers before apparently deciding they’re not fitting enough. Dread consumes him, and he thinks this is worse than any cramp he’s ever had—figuring out the person he’s in love with may have feelings for one of his best friends. One of his best friends who’s perfectly desirable. Hell, perfect in every sense of the word.
Even his bathroom smells good.
Mingi bites down on his tongue when Yunho’s typing bubble reappears.
i didn’t think it was important
sure
it’d not important
is this just somethign you do then
fuck omegas through their heats
??
what?
His screen lights up with Yunho’s contact, an incoming call. He declines it, and the urge to delete the messages is ever-present.
of course not minnie
are you drunk?
does it matter
yeah it does actually
Mingi sighs at the curl of nausea in his gut. He thinks, here, in his perfect friend’s perfect bathroom, he may vomit.
idc
why didnt you tell me
why can’t you anwser that
did woo tell you why we stopped??
no
Yunho doesn’t respond after that. The breath Mingi takes has the flesh of his arms coated in goosebumps, and splashing a bit of tap water onto his face does nothing to help the sour conclusion forming in Mingi’s mind.
God. His head hurts.
Wooyoung offers to let him stay the night when he eventually stumbles out of the bathroom, but telling by the wrinkle of his nose, Mingi figures the foul scent exuding from his body in waves isn’t something anyone would want to be around for an extended period.
“Hwa’s still out. Do you want me to see if he’ll give you a ride?” Wooyoung asks, in response to Mingi’s mentions of feeling sick.
His phone buzzes against his thigh. “I can get an Uber or something. It’s okay.”
“Are you sure? I don’t think Seonghwa would mind—”
“I’m sure,” Mingi interrupts, rubbing at his face. He just wants to go home. To curl up in his bed and sleep until he doesn’t remember anything.
Yunho is probably mad at him. Mingi is being a brat at best and invasive at worst. Their sex life is none of his business, and the realization that they have a fucking sex life in general is what has him reaching for his phone once more and ordering an Uber—sitting outside until it arrives.
There are several more messages awaiting him, Yunho finally having responded.
He ignores them, and the ride home makes him all the more sick. The driver doesn’t exactly take it easy on the turns, almost like he wants Mingi to turn the backseat into his own personal vomit bag, and Mingi thinks it’s a miracle that he doesn’t take advantage of that fact. He’d probably get banned from Uber for life.
Luckily, he makes it to his apartment complex without anything dire surging another round of nausea. He stumbles up the stairs to the best of his ability, nearly falling backward a few times, and tells himself he’s fine—that he just got too drunk, and that the jealousy looming over him like a storm cloud is nothing but a figment of his imagination. It’ll be gone by morning. The storm cloud, and everything else he learned tonight.
But forgetting the anxious weight on his chest feels impossible, especially as he finally climbs the last few steps to his floor and finds someone leaning patiently against the hardwood of his front door.
Yunho.
With his lanky legs folded in front of him and the crown of his head sinking into the entrance.
Mingi would laugh if he didn’t feel seconds away from throwing up all of the alcohol in his body. There’s a key under the mat.
“What’re you doing?” are his first words, hoping they aren’t slurred together in a way that’s discernable.
Yunho is quick to turn his head. His eyes lock onto Mingi’s figure as he approaches slowly, only stumbling over his feet a little. “You weren’t answering.” He stands. “I got worried.”
Mingi sighs and pulls his keys from his pocket. He fumbles with them for an awkward amount of time because his stupid fingers won’t stop shaking, and of course, Yunho has no qualms in gently laying his hand over Mingi’s own to steal the keys from him. His heart hammers against the cage of his chest as Yunho presses the key into the slot on his first try—the very key that has a purple cap over it, purchased by none other than Jeong Yunho, because Mingi could never remember which one belonged to his front door.
It’s stupid, that something so simple is what breaks him. He sniffles, and Yunho guides him inside with a warmth that reminds him of the heating pad tucked away in the other room.
“Come on, what’s the matter, Jagi?”
And this makes Mingi sob. Something painful and broken. “Nothing.” It comes out before he can stop himself, around a tremor in his throat. “Everything.”
Yunho’s touch hurts. But he touches him, and he touches him, until Mingi is being pulled into a hug that feels something like home. “Is this about me and Wooyoung?” he asks quietly.
Yes. “No.”
Mingi is soon drenched in Yunho’s scent, and he wishes it wasn’t so effective in calming the rapid rhythm of his heart. “Then what is it?”
Pulling back, Mingi rubs at his eyes, wet and tired. There is a lingering image in his mind that he just can’t shake, no matter the trembling of his fingers, and it’s vile and unwavering. Yunho and Wooyoung. He can feel the color draining from his face—the hot saliva pooling under his tongue.
Yunho and Wooyoung.
“I think ‘m gonna be sick,” he whispers, hand slowly raising to shield his mouth out of instinct.
Yunho’s eyes widen momentarily, but he’s graceful with the information, quick to muster out a meek, “Fuck,” and take advantage of their close proximity to guide Mingi to the bathroom, holding him up by his waist so he doesn’t fall to the tile.
Mingi isn’t as graceful. And he all but violates his poor toilet as the nausea gets the better of him.
Yunho leaves a fleeting touch to the field of Mingi’s back, but his skin is just so sensitive, and all he can do in response is continue to throw up the remnants of his dinner. The dinner that Wooyoung made for him.
He’s going to be here for a while. At least, Yunho brushes his bangs from his forehead and keeps the fine hairs from mottling into the sweat there. “You don’t have to stay,” he says anyway, as his stomach lurches into his throat.
“Shh,” is Yunho’s response, a plea. “Don’t talk. It’s okay.”
Mingi doesn’t think it’s okay. It’s disgusting, quite frankly, and it hurts, and his fingers are digging into the porcelain so fiercely that he’s sure it's going to give way soon and crumble into his palm. But Yunho keeps his hair out of his face. That’s something.
Eventually, there isn’t much left in Mingi’s stomach to deposit into the toilet besides spite and bile, but his body is still convinced there is—that if he keeps gagging, something is bound to come up. “Hurts,” he says, choking on a breath. He claws at the skin of his stomach with tears in his eyes, like it’ll help. Like if he punishes his body, it’ll take the hint.
“Hey,” Yunho starts gently, concern threaded into every inch of his face—his stupid, beautiful face, “Don’t do that. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
Mingi does his best to bite the gags down and presses his hands flatly against his thighs. “Sorry.”
Yunho doesn’t say much else, only gestures for Mingi to lean back a little so he can flush his stomach’s contents down the toilet. Mingi wipes at his mouth with the collar of his shirt, and for a fleeting second, hates that Yunho is here—that he always manages to see the worst of Mingi—but that’s all it is. Fleeting. Because Yunho wets a washcloth and smooths it over the corners of Mingi’s lips, like it’s what he was put on this earth to do.
With a promise of water, Mingi sniffles and squeezes the cloth left in his grasp like a vice, as his abdomen continues to falter and jerk. The tile digs uncomfortably into his knees, too.
He retches again when the image of Yunho on his knees, on this very tile, arises in his mind—the fact that the man put up with the discomfort and allowed the hard floor to maybe even bruise him, just to disinfect Mingi’s stomach. Just to make Mingi feel a little better.
Yunho returns with a cold bottle of water, and the first thing Mingi does with it is hold it against his forehead, then the swell of his cheeks. He’s hot enough, he thinks, that he’d almost slip it beneath his shirt if it weren’t for Yunho’s eyes on him, studying his every move diligently. “You should drink it,” he comments, which Mingi expected.
But Mingi is just now progressing enough for the gags to fade out into a few sparse hiccups, so no, he won’t be drinking anything. Not right now, at least. “I’m hot,” he voices instead, the vibration against his throat tense and scratchy.
Yunho’s answer is to join Mingi on the floor, folding his knees until he’s sitting cross-legged near the sink. The pretense in his gaze shifts into something else, something hesitant. “How much did you drink?”
“I don’t know.” Mingi surrenders to the floor, too, but unlike Yunho, he lays completely flat with his long legs protruding into the hallway. The tile is cold, and it feels good against the crown of his head, slowly seeps through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “Just a few beers.”
“Mm.” Yunho scoots closer, letting the answer die between them, and pries the bottle from Mingi’s fist. He cards his hand through Mingi’s hair as he holds the water against his forehead dutifully.
Mingi closes his eyes. It feels nice, and somehow Yunho knows just when to move the bottle to a different part of his face. “Sorry for being such a mess,” he eventually whispers. He keeps his eyes shut, though, because he doesn’t think he would be able to muster the apology with Yunho’s stare piercing holes through him. The familiar scent curling through his airways grounds him, though. Sobers him up a little. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” The bottle is pressed to the side of Mingi’s neck, just below his jaw. “I should be the one apologizing.”
Mingi frowns, finally fluttering his eyelids open with a questioning sound in the back of his throat. Yunho’s head blocks the fluorescent light on the ceiling.
“For not telling you. About me and Wooyoung.”
Oh. Right.
“We just… I don’t know, it just worked out that way, I guess. Our cycles lined up, so we thought we’d give it a try. It didn’t last for very long because I kept…” He clears his throat, clenching his jaw just slightly. “Let’s just say I had other things on my mind that he wasn’t too happy about.”
Mingi nods to the best of his ability, which is just a slight jostle of his head given the way he’s pinned against the tile, but averts his eyes. “Do you have feelings for him?”
“What?”
The question was stupid, he figures out belatedly, his mind still swimming just enough to have his mouth moving before his brain. He shrugs, tries to damage control. “It’s okay if you do. You can trust me with stuff like this, y’know? You don’t have to hide it.” And really, if Yunho had informed Mingi of this arrangement the day it started, he’s sure he would have had the time now to stomp on the painful bloom of hope in his gut each time the alpha simply looked at him. Or did things like this. Took care of him.
“Mingi, that’s not…” he sighs, and Mingi pouts when he sets the bottle down beside his shoulder. “It’s nothing like that. We stopped because I didn’t feel anything for him. Like, at all. I couldn’t even…—look, it’s not important. And it has nothing to do with our trust, okay? I’m sorry I ever made you question that.”
“Oh.” Selfishly, a wave of relief has his eyes closing again. Or drowsiness, he’s not sure. All he’s sure about is the way Yunho still has his fingers buried in the strands of his hair. “It’s okay.”
“We can talk more when you’re sober, yeah? You should probably go to bed.”
This makes Mingi groan. He’d love nothing more than to go to sleep right here. A blanket would be nice, sure, but he could make due. Yunho would never allow that, though, and it’s a reality Mingi has to cope with, because the alpha is already standing from the floor and stepping over Mingi like he’s nothing but a carcass. “Come on,” he says at Mingi’s feet, reaching out a palm for him to latch onto, “Up.”
Without Yunho’s big head blocking the light, it’s harder to keep his eyes open. He flips onto his side and ignores him petulantly.
“Min.”
“Mm. I can’t move.”
The hand that circles his ankle makes him yelp.
“Hey—”
“I’ll drag you to bed, Mingi-yah.”
“You’re so weird—stop! Just give me a second—” Mingi finds drunk giggles bubbling up his chest as he tries (and fails) to kick the man off.
Stupid.
Safe to say, Yunho gets Mingi in bed whether he wants to be there or not. And judging by the way he instinctively sinks further into his sheets—curls a soft blanket under his chin—he most certainly does. The floor doesn’t compare, and once again, Yunho was right.
“I’ll get you a bowl in case you wake up sick again,” Yunho states, with a softness to his voice that he reserves only for the latest nights. “It’s late, so I’m gonna set up camp on your couch, alright?”
Mingi hums, closes his eyes around a yawn. His brain is too mushy. “Couch isn’t comfy. You can sleep here.”
The silence that follows Mingi’s slip up almost goes on for too long—almost makes him peek an eye open to see what the hold up is. But Yunho huffs. “Says the one who was gonna sleep on the floor. I’ll be fine.”
If it weren’t for the fatigue melding his brain into a quiet fuzz, Mingi is sure he’d be embarrassed. Right now, he doesn’t care. “Your loss,” is the last thing he processes saying, flipping onto his stomach ungracefully.
“Mm. Maybe.”
Mingi’s out before Yunho ever returns with a bowl.
-
It’s a throbbing in Mingi’s skull that finally wakes him.
He groans, running a hand over his face like the mere action has the power to will the hangover away. There isn’t the slightest memory of even getting into bed, and when he hears a brief movement from the other side of the wall, Mingi startles at the recollection of, oh yeah, that’s right. Yunho’s here.
The alpha creaks Mingi’s door open quietly, poking an eyeball inside his bedroom.
“I’m alive,” Mingi replies to Yunho’s floating head, voice too deep from the embers of sleep stuck in his throat. “Unfortunately.”
Yunho scoffs. “That’s a relief. It’s, like, three.”
Mingi musters the courage to sit up at this, but his head pounds as he does. He winces.
“I left you some painkillers on your night stand. I assume you don’t feel too great.”
That’s the understatement of the year. “Thanks.”
Yunho left a bottle of water, too. At the sight of it, Mingi flushes a deep red as images of the alpha pressing it to his hot skin consume him, and a bit of shame trickles down his spine. He pops the lid open and downs the two pills.
It’s only after guzzling half of the bottle and placing it back onto the table that he fights off a shiver.
Because, oh. He has no shirt on.
He must have gotten too hot throughout the night because his covers are kicked to the foot of the bed as well. Glancing down, he’s met with the pink of his stomach—the scabs there, that are still healing.
Yunho is looking, too.
Fuck.
“It looks better,” Yunho tries quietly, even if the only light permeating them is through Mingi’s curtains, taking an awkward step forward. “Does it hurt?”
Mingi shakes his head, debating on whether he should stand and throw his shirt back on or curl his knees to his chest. In the end, Yunho sits beside him, and Mingi does nothing at all.
“Can I turn this on?” Yunho asks, gesturing to Mingi’s bedside lamp. The thought terrifies him momentarily—brightening the space around them just so Yunho can see his flaws more clearly. But his head pounds. And his throat hurts.
“I guess,” he whispers. Because he doesn’t have the energy to disagree—to be the cause of any frown lines Yunho may bare. “It’s not pretty, though.”
Yunho tsks. “I don’t care about that.” The light that bathes the pair of them is unkind. Mingi looks down at himself and hates how the warm bulb highlights the unevenness of his skin, how bruised it still is. Yunho inhales deeply. For a second, Mingi doesn’t know if it’s because his scent glands are producing something he can’t smell himself, or if the reaction is in distaste of what he sees.
He does his best to not cower away.
“You’re upset,” Yunho comments. Must be his scent, then. “I’m not gonna judge you.”
“I know. Still embarrassing.”
Yunho touches his lower stomach, runs his thumb over the edge of one of the more harsh burns. They don’t hurt anymore—he can’t feel them at all, really—but the contact sets his skin alight. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m just glad it’s healing well.”
Mingi hums. He allows the contact to ease the tension held in his core. The alpha looks pleased at the response.
He chuckles. “You forget it’s just me, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Mingi replies weakly, through a breath that has him wondering if it would be so bad if he just let himself melt into Yunho’s hand completely. Maybe it’s that urge, more than anything else, that makes him ask a stupid question. “Do you think… I mean, these’ll scar, y’know? I’m scared that if I somehow find someone to help me through my heat, they’ll take one look at” —he gestures vaguely to his stomach— “this, and change their mind.”
Yunho listens patiently, even as a worry sets deep into the curl of his lip. He looks confused. “They’re not worth the time, then.”
“Yeah, but I can’t keep—” Mingi cuts himself off with a chill, just imagining the familiar pain in his abdomen. “I can’t keep living like this. It’s so bad, Yunnie, and I’m afraid that I’ll never find anyone who’ll put up with it.”
“I already told you I’d help—”
“No, it’s not… I mean, having sex won’t just fix it. My body’s stupid.”
“What does your body want?” Yunho asks, the exasperation in his voice foreign. “What do you need? Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“That’s not how it works, I…” His head is still pounding. “My heats won’t get better until someone mates me, Yunho. And loves me. And puts up with all of my bullshit. I appreciate the offer, really, but I don’t think that’s something you’d be open to.”
It’s as if there’s a stark clarity with the hangover—like it’s easier to admit that his doctor was probably right. And that Yunho will never take him as his mate.
Yunho seems to be at a loss for words by the time Mingi finally spits the admission out, dirtying the air around them and leaving him utterly humiliated. There’s a beat, and then Yunho is removing the very touch that’s kept him grounded this whole time. He looks at his own lap, fiddling with his fingers. “You don’t listen,” he says quietly. “How many times have I said anything? Anything you need, I’ll give you?”
There’s a second where Mingi thinks he must still be drunk. Or maybe Yunho’s drunk.
Because does he even know what he’s saying?
Mating is not something to be taken lightly—it’s not just something a friend does for a friend. They’d be binding their souls together forever, and as much as the idea of spending forever with Yunho eases the anxiety creeping up his chest, he can’t help but wonder why.
Why does Yunho want to help so badly?
The alpha looks lightyears away from pleased, but he graces Mingi’s bare knee with something like finality.
“Any alpha would be lucky to have you,” is what he says, just as he had claimed during Mingi’s last heat, calmly standing from the mattress. “Including me.”
Mingi can’t let out anything more than a hitched breath before the man is taking the few steps to his bedroom door. His presence being gone leaves him cold. Confused.
Yunho leaves, and Mingi is forced to sit with the weight of what just happened alone.