The Art of Coming Undone

by violetundertide

Summary:

“Jeong Yunho prides himself on being a good man. He’s a good son to his parents; calls them every day without fail. A good friend, too. Always there when Wooyoung asks, even if it means going out clubbing when he’s far too tired to appreciate the strobe lights. He’s good at his job. Reliable, polite, the kind of colleague people trust.

Still, when he looks at Mingi’s face, when he studies the pale hollow at his throat as he writes, Yunho’s thoughts refuse the proper shape. They go somewhere darker. He thinks about pressing a fingertip there. He thinks about leaving a mark, a small bruise that would be private and visible only to them both. It’s obscene and intoxicating all at once.

Perhaps Yunho isn’t that good of a man.Because, upon looking at Mingi in that crowded room, when he should be focused on careful note-taking and quick thinking, the only thing he can think about is how much he wants to ruin the younger man, just a little.”

 
AKA, A dull relationship, a new office, and a colleague who makes Mingi question everything he thought he wanted. Maybe it’s not order he’s been craving all along; but the freedom to come undone.

Chapter 1: Fresh Air

Notes:

Hi! Thank you so much for clicking on this story! I’m super excited to share it. It’s my first time writing an ATEEZ fic, and I couldn’t be happier to start with my dearest Yungi. It should be a short slow burn (around 8-10 chapters most likely).

A quick PSA: I don’t know much about Japanese work culture; it’s only used here as a setting and a backdrop for the plot to unfold. Please forgive any inaccuracies, and I hope you enjoy the story!

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.

There’s a slight tremble in Mingi’s right forearm when the muscle flexes, a fine vibration that crawls up to his shoulder. It grows sharper each time he pulls the weight back against his chest.

Twenty-nine.

A dull ache blooms across the chafed skin of his palm. It burns now; hot, raw, and a little wet with sweat. The metal feels rough, biting into the tender crease beneath his thumb. Mingi grunts, the sound low and irritated.

Thirty.

He lets the weights fall to either side of the bench with a muffled thud. His arms hang there, grazing the coarse carpet, heavy and slow to answer him. The fibers scratch at his knuckles. He drags in a breath and feels it snag somewhere behind his ribs.

The air doesn’t flow quite right. That must be why he’s been so shitty with the exercises today. His breathing has been off since the first minute he stepped inside the gym; or maybe since he woke up this morning, earlier than he was supposed to, because of Eunah’s snoring.

He did move to the couch to try and finish his night, but couldn’t get back to sleep. Eunah had said it was because he was too stressed about the new job when she eventually woke up. Mingi replied with a half-groan that he wasn’t stressed—he wasn’t the type to be. No, Mingi is strong and reliable. Has to be. Not weak. Never.

Still, he has to admit that his throat feels too tight, the air too thick, and maybe he’s been sweating more than usual for the mild October weather.

He has no reason to feel apprehensive, he tells himself. It’s not even exactly a new job. He’s still in the same boring office worker position, still in the finance team, still in the same company he doesn’t really care for. He’s just transferring from the Seoul office to the Tokyo one because his boss needed him there.

It was surprisingly easy for Mingi to accept the offer. He had never particularly fancied living abroad before, but neither had he been particularly attached to his homeland. He hadn’t cried when his mother hugged him goodbye in the airport lobby.

Eunah often says he should care more about it all; his country, his family, traditions, and long-term planning. She’s probably right. And it’s surely one of the reasons that led Mingi to propose to her after three years of tranquil and uneventful dating. Building something. A good life. That, and the fact that Eunah is a nice girl. Very pretty, too. She can be a little irritating at times—too assertive, perhaps—but she’s smart and reliable, and when Mingi said he wanted to move to Tokyo, she agreed without a single question.

There’s a vague fondness when he looks at the silver ring on his finger.

 

It’s just past noon when Mingi adjusts the edge of his suit for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. He’s followed his morning schedule with the utmost precision: managed to exercise for a good while—although it hasn’t helped relax his shoulders or slow down his racing heartbeat as much as he’d hoped—went back home for a shower, ate the boxed lunch Eunah had prepared with such care the day before, and got himself ready.

And now he’s staring at himself, utterly disliking what he sees in the mirror, without exactly knowing why. His suit is neat enough. It fits a bit snugly over his shoulders, since he’s been getting more muscular lately, but it’s still nice. The deep navy suits his skin tone well, he thinks. His new glasses look very serious, too. He looks reliable. And nothing’s wrong. Still, like every time he looks too long at his reflection, his heart clenches. There’s just something ugly that he sometimes feels is seeping out of his body.

Stupid.
That’s definitely not the right time to sink into those kinds of thoughts.
Be a man.
Keep yourself together.

He forces his eyes away from the mirror and grabs his coat.

There’s a soft ache in his chest as he reads the small note, dark ink on yellowish paper, taped to the backside of the front door. Clumsy letters—Eunah’s handwriting has always been messy, which is part of her charm, Mingi thinks—spelling out: “You’re gonna rock it!”

For a brief moment, Mingi wonders where she is right now. She probably told him; she always does, but he’s often too far lost in his thoughts to catch her words. The thought makes him feel a little guilty as he steps out of the house.

 

 

“Here’s the communication cubicle,” Mr. Park says, gesturing toward two rows of computers. A few faces turn around, curious, greeting Mingi with polite nods before returning to their screens.

The office looks nice, too bright, perhaps, like all these open spaces, but not unpleasant. It’s crowded with desks and monitors, a vague hum of conversation and keyboards filling the air. A few potted plants soften the corners, their leaves glossy under the fluorescent light. That, Mingi thinks, is nice.

His own department is tucked away in a quieter corner of the thirteenth floor. The view from the large window is unexpectedly good. He can glimpse the Hama Rikyu Garden, a much welcome stretch of green against the ocean of concrete and glass.

Mr. Park, his new supervisor, has been showing him around for nearly thirty minutes now, guiding him through departments and introducing him to an endless list of names Mingi knows he won’t remember. He nods, smiles, murmurs the right words when prompted. Still, his attention keeps drifting. His palms are sweaty. He’s distracted by the small piece of something caught at the corner of Mr. Park’s mouth. A bit of vegetable, maybe. It’s impossible not to notice. It makes Mingi vaguely uncomfortable; he can’t stop his eyes from flicking toward it again and again.

“And that’s the public relations service,” Mr. Park announces as they arrive at the very back of that floor. “Ah—there’s someone you should meet.”

The older man walks over to one of the desks. A figure sits there, back straight, a mop of dark hair falling over the top of the computer screen.

“Mr. Jeong?”

The man turns, and Mingi follows Mr. Park’s lead, stepping closer.

“Here’s Song Mingi,” Mr. Park says to the other man. “He just transferred from Seoul, so you might have met already?” He turns to Mingi, “Mr Jeong transferred from the Seoul office four years ago.”

The other young man’s eyes meet Mingi’s. Then they flick downward, scanning his face with brief, polite curiosity before returning to his gaze.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says finally, standing up to bow. “Nice to meet you,” he adds, switching to Korean, “I’m Jeong Yunho.”

For a brief moment, Mingi simply looks at him. Yunho’s taller than he expected; just an inch more, but it makes a difference. His hair is dark and a little tousled. His eyes are warm. He has a kind face, Mingi notices. There is something a little feline in the way his lips curl, Mingi notices too.

He’s handsome, Mingi thinks. The thought makes something tighten in his chest. Envy, probably.

Mingi feels the urge to bow deeper, although he isn’t sure if the other man is older than him.

“Song Mingi,” he says, quieter than he had intended. “From finance.”

When he straightens, Yunho’s smile has deepened. There’s something warm in his expression. Mingi feels a faint heat bloom at the back of his neck before he can stop it.

“Well, Mr. Song,” Yunho replies, voice smooth and even, “feel free to come to me if you need anything. Settling into a new city can be challenging. I’d be happy to help.”

Mingi mumbles a quick thanks, eyes briefly catching Yunho’s again before he turns away to follow his supervisor. The rest of the tour blurs into indistinct corridors and polite small talk. 

 

Mingi doesn’t talk much with Eunah when he comes home. She’s already in her nightgown, sitting cross-legged on the couch, a mug of tea cooling beside her.

“How was it?” she asks as he takes off his coat.

There’s a brief silence during which he wonders himself. How was it? Good, mostly. The people seemed nice. The work will be the same as always. Nothing to complain about.

“It was alright,” he says finally. “Nothing extraordinary.”

Eunah smiles, faintly. “That’s good,” she murmurs, and returns her attention to the television. The light flickers across her face, washing her features in dull blue.

Mingi watches her for a moment, then turns away. The day was long. He moves through the small apartment quietly, aligning his shoes near the door, brushing his teeth, folding his shirt. Everything in its place.

Later that night, as he lies beside Eunah and the room hums with the rhythm of her breathing, his mind drifts back to the office. To the brightness of the thirteenth floor. To the countless new faces he’s already forgotten. And also to the curve of lips, very pink, feline, smiling at him.

He turns on his side, facing the wall, and exhales slowly.

Sleep takes him soon enough.

 

Mingi’s heartbeat isn’t much calmer when he wakes up for his second day at the office. But the workday passes by smoothly enough.

He greets his team with a bow, sits down, opens the files that were left on his desk. Numbers, invoices, standard forms. Tasks that require no thought beyond habit. Things move calmly.

By mid-morning, his shoulders have started to relax a bit. The others in his section keep to themselves, polite and efficient. He likes that. No one asks unnecessary questions.

At noon he opens the lunch box Eunah prepared. Rice, a bit of meat, vegetables. Everything neatly arranged. He eats while checking an email. The food tastes fine. He sends Eunah a short message to say lunch was good. She replies with a heart.

It’s all perfectly quiet and alright until mid-afternoon, when Yunho suddenly appears in his line of sight. He walks through the room holding a folder, talking with another man who Mingi cannot seem to remember. The light from the windows hits his shirt, pale against his skin. When he notices Mingi, he smiles and changes direction.

Mingi feels the air tighten. He straightens in his chair. Nothing weird in that, he tells himself. He’s new here. Wants to make a good impression.

“Hey,” Yunho says as he reaches his desk. His tone is easy. His voice is low. “How’s the first day going?”

“Second,” Mingi says automatically.

Yunho laughs. “Right. Second. How is it so far?”

“It’s fine. Just getting used to everything.”

“You're settling in okay? Liking Tokyo?”

“It’s good. Everybody's nice.” The words come out clipped. Mingi hopes it doesn’t sound rude. He’s just a little nervous. Never been too good with new people. Never been too good with people all together.

Yunho nods, still smiling. His sleeves are rolled up. The movement of his forearms catches Mingi’s attention. The fabric of his shirt stretches lightly when he crosses his arms. His hair is more controlled today, brushed back with a bit of product. It reveals his forehead and the clear line of his brow. It suits him. Mingi makes a mental note that he should try doing his own hair that way.

He realizes he’s been looking too long. He forces his eyes back to the computer screen.

“Well,” Yunho says, “if you need help with anything, don’t hesitate. You know where to find me.”

“Thank you,” Mingi replies. He curses at himself for his sudden lack of eloquence, but finds it impossibly difficult to find anything else to way with Yunho towering over his desk.

Yunho’s gaze lingers a second longer. Mingi feels his heartbeat against his collar. Then the other man nods again and turns away.

Mingi stares at the numbers on his monitor, and finds it a little difficult to get back to work.

 

On the third day, Mingi wakes up before his alarm rings.

He arrives at work a little early. He walks through the building he’s starting to know a little, makes his strut as confident as possible –fake it till you make it, they say-. When he passes by the public relations service, he can’t help himself but glance at one particular desk. Yunho isn’t there. His chair is empty, a neat stack of papers left on the corner.

A small thought crosses Mingi’s mind—disappointment, maybe—but he dismisses it. He’s just getting used to seeing familiar faces. He’s been alone in a new city for less than a week. Anyone would want company.

Work is steady. He finishes a few reports, checks totals, sends confirmations. The tasks demand enough focus to keep him still. Around noon he joins two coworkers in the break room, eats the lunch box Eunah prepared once more. They talk briefly about the weather. He doesn’t bother smiling too much.

By mid-afternoon his eyes burn from the screen. He stands up, walks to the corridor for a coffee. The vending machine hums softly. He presses the button, waits for the paper cup to drop, watches the thin stream of liquid fill it. The smell is faint and bitter.

When he turns around, Yunho is there.
Mingi startles slightly.

“Taking a cigarette break,” Yunho smiles. “Care to join?”

Mingi hasn’t smoked in years. He opens his mouth to decline but hears himself say yes instead. His voice sounds too quick.

They walk together down the hall, into the elevator. The silence between floors is not uncomfortable. Yunho checks his phone; Mingi keeps his eyes on the numbers above the door.

The rooftop air is cool. The sky is pale, the sun leaning low behind the nearby buildings. The light spreads thinly across the concrete, soft and gold. The city noise reaches them faintly, filtered by the height. A few employees stand near the railing, smoking in pairs. Yunho greets them with a nod but heads toward the opposite side of the roof. Mingi feels a sense of relief at that choice. Or pride, maybe. Yunho wants to smoke with him.

The taller man offers him the cigarette. Mingi takes it, a little shy, though he tries to look composed. He tells himself to keep his shoulders straight, to look at ease. He has to be cool to fit in with Yunho. To be standing next to him, and for it to make sense.

Yunho lights his own first. The flame flares between his hands. His wrist moves with precision, steady, skin pale where the cuff of his sleeve has slid back. Mingi watches the lighter tilt, the small reflection in Yunho’s eyes. His hands are beautiful. His fingers are long and elegant. Neat. There’s a prominent vein at the back of the right one.

When Yunho leans forward slightly, the light touches his mouth. His lips close around the cigarette, soft, the corner of his mouth curving faintly as he inhales.

Mingi realizes he’s staring.
Shit.

He looks away, down at the cigarette still unlit between his fingers. For a second he can’t remember what he’s supposed to do. He hasn’t smoked since college. Never been a fan. Still, he brings it to his mouth, flicks the lighter. The flame wavers. He inhales too quickly. The smoke hits his throat hard. He coughs once, then again, rough and too loud.

His cheeks heat. He half expects Yunho to laugh, but he doesn’t. The other man only glances sideways, the same quiet smile on his face. His eyes return almost immediately to the skyline.

The sun is low, spreading pale gold on the buildings. Mingi focuses on breathing normally again. He’s glad Yunho isn’t watching him. And for some reason it makes him a little disappointed too.

There’s a soft woody fragrance mixing with the cigarette smoke, Mingi notices. Yunho’s cologne, probably. It smells good and soothing. A little dangerous too.

They stand in silence for a while. The wind moves lightly across their clothes. Yunho’s hand rises, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling upward. The veins on his wrist shift faintly as he moves. Mingi’s eyes follow them again without meaning to.

Yunho breaks the silence. “Where are you living?”

“Minato,” Mingi says, voice as steady as he can.

“I like that area,” Yunho answers. “Quiet, clean. Close to the bay.”

Mingi nods. The smoke tastes bitter. He lets it fall from his mouth slowly, trying not to cough again.

He wants to say something back. “Do you miss Korea?”

Yunho shrugs. “Not really.” His tone stays bright, but there’s something thinner beneath it. “I like it here.”

Another short pause. Yunho takes another drag, then lowers his hand. “You moved here alone?”

Mingi hesitates. The question lands awkwardly in his chest. He feels a quick urge to lie, to say yes, to keep the moment simple. Eunah’s name wouldn’t make sense in this conversation. It’s simply better to keep her out of workplace stuff. Logical.

But Yunho’s gaze shifts toward his hand, to the silver ring around his finger. Before Mingi can answer, Yunho continues. “Fiancée?” he asks.

Mingi nods once. “Yeah.”

“Lucky.” Yunho smiles as he looks away.

Mingi looks down at his own hand. The ring catches the soft autumn light. It feels heavy. He glances at Yunho’s again—long fingers, neat nails, no ring.

“What about you?” he asks.

“No fiancée,” Yunho says with a short laugh. “I actually haven’t had a boyfriend in years.” His voice is light, unbothered.

Mingi feels his head spin a little.

He didn’t expect Yunho to be so open. Especially while having that type of lifestyle. It isn’t exactly the most accepted thing. But Yunho doesn’t seem to care. Which makes sense, Mingi thinks. Yunho looks like the kind of man everyone likes. Him being a homosexual probably doesn’t change that.

Mingi decides it doesn’t change the way he sees Yunho. He’s always been rather open minded. Doesn’t judge people who are different. Everybody deserves to find love after all, right? The sudden weight in his chest isn’t discomfort. He’s almost certain.

Before he can stop himself, he wonders what Yunho’s last boyfriend looked like. Wonders what kind of man Yunho might like.

His hands suddenly feel shakier. The cigarette slips from his fingers into the tray. The ember fades, smoke carried off by the wind.

When his eyes lift again, Yunho is looking at him. Dark eyes, open, steady. They feel too direct. Mingi has the strange sense Yunho is seeing more than he should. He prays he isn’t. It feels disarming.

Mingi’s chest stays tight as they head back inside. He follows Yunho through the door, down the corridor. His gaze keeps catching on the man’s shoulders, the easy way he moves. At the back of his neck too. There’s a small cluster of moles there, scattered like points on a map.

He looks away, jaw tight.

 

The fourth day is a Friday. The office air still feels heavy.

By mid-afternoon, Mr. Park stops by his desk. “We’re going out after work,” he says with a polite smile. “Izakaya near Shimbashi. You’ll come, right?”

Mingi doesn’t want to come. That whole socializing thing is the worst part of his office job. Has always been. But it doesn’t sound like a question. He forces a nod. “Of course.”

When Mr Park leaves, he sends Eunah a quick text. I’ll be home late. Work thing.  

 

The izakaya is loud and warm. The walls glow with amber light, everything tinted with that comforting dull orange. Too warm. The air smells of grilled meat, smoke, soy sauce, perfume. Conversations overlap. People laugh too loud.

Mingi sits at a table near the back. He doesn’t know anyone there. Mr. Park is with the other managers, already deep into some discussion. Mingi nods when someone offers him a menu. Orders a highball.

It tastes good, cold, easy. He orders another.

The people around him talk about wives and children, about golf, about the next business trip. He smiles when it feels appropriate, eats what’s passed to him, tries to look relaxed.

Halfway through his second drink, he looks up. Across the room, Yunho is sitting at another table. There’s a small smile when their eyes meet—barely there. Mingi looks away too quickly. Then looks back again.

He notices a man sitting next to Yunho. Shorter, sharp nose, animated face. Handsome. Or pretty, rather. Mingi has seen him before around the office. He laughs loudly, hand brushing Yunho’s arm as he leans in. Yunho grins, head tilted slightly toward him. Something inside Mingi tightens. He wonders who that man is.

Someone stands and suggests moving to a bar nearby. The group cheers. Mingi nods automatically, before his mind can weigh the choice.

 

By the time they reach the bar, the night air is cool, soft. Mingi’s steps feel lighter, less certain. One of his colleagues, a woman from HR, talks to him the entire walk. She’s kind, a little older, and she keeps touching his arm when she laughs. Her hand lingers a moment too long each time. There’s a ring on her finger. Mingi notices it and feels an uneasiness creep in. He’s never been the unfaithful type. Not much of a womanizer anyways. He tries to put a little distance between the two of them.

The standing bar is smaller, darker. Wooden counter, walls covered in posters. The light buzzes faintly. Someone orders a round for everyone. The drinks come quickly.

Mingi sips. He starts to laugh at something he doesn’t really hear. The alcohol has warmed him. His heartbeat feels almost quiet for the first time this week maybe.

He finds himself pulled into a group conversation with people he doesn’t know, or doesn’t remember. They probably don’t know him either, but nobody asks. There’s that short man he’s seen with Yunho earlier in the group, chirping about a story Mingi doesn’t understand. He talks quickly, bright and loud. He gestures with his hands, voice full of energy. Charming and easy.

At some point, he turns to Mingi fully. Scans his face. Nods lightly.

“I’m Wooyoung,” he smiles. “You’re the new guy, right? From Seoul?”

“Yeah,” Mingi answers. “Song Mingi.”

“Right, right. Yunho told me.”

“Oh.” Mingi doesn’t know what else to say.

Wooyoung laughs again, the sound open and contagious. Mingi watches him talk, notices the curve of his wrist, the light bouncing off his hair. There’s something enviable in the way he exists—so sure of himself, so bright. Mingi could never be like that. It looks easy for him. Something close to envy blooms in Mingi’s chest. Because Wooyoung is too much, and there’s something a little too feminine in the way he carries himself, yet nobody seems to care.

He wonders if that’s why Yunho seems to like him so much.

His throat feels dry. He takes another drink.

 

No matter how many people he talks to, Mingi’s eyes seem to always find their way back to Yunho. The brunette is standing near the bar, tie gone, shirt slightly open at the collar. His hair is still slicked back, though a few strands fall forward now. He’s smoking again. The cigarette glows in the dim light, smoke rising around him.

Mingi looks away. Then back again. Yunho’s name sits at the back of his mind, repeating itself without sound. He knows he shouldn’t indulge in it too much. Still can’t help it. Yunho

Yunho. Yunho.

Their eyes meet once, twice. Yunho doesn’t look away. Mingi’s chest tightens. He goes to the counter to order another drink.

“Are you okay?” a voice says behind him.

He turns too fast. Yunho is right there. Closer than expected. His face open, eyes steady.

“You look a little lost,” Yunho adds, tone soft.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Mingi says, maybe too sharply. He can’t place the edge in his voice. He’s angry, somehow—at Yunho for not talking to him sooner, maybe for noticing him now. For finding him lost and pathetic, apparently.

Yunho’s smile doesn’t waver. “It’s normal. You should’ve seen me when I started here. Got lost in the building three times my first week.”

Mingi lets out a small laugh despite himself.

Yunho nods at the bartender before Mingi can react. Pays for his drink.

“You don’t have to—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Something loosens in Mingi’s chest. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Want to get some air?” Yunho asks.

 

Outside, the street is cooler. The city hums. Yunho leans against the wall, pulls a cigarette from his pack. He doesn’t offer one to Mingi, and Mingi feels both relieved and grateful. He frankly hopes he never has to live the humiliation of choking in front of Yunho again.

The smoke curls upward, fading quickly into the dark. Yunho watches the traffic, then glances back at him, waiting. For Mingi to speak, probably.

Mingi wants to find something to say. He wants to please Yunho, he realizes. Needs to. But his mind feels soft and slow and a little hazy.

He steps a little closer, without knowing why. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to catch the faint scent of Yunho’s cologne again. Wood, smoke, something clean underneath. He hates that he notices it.

“Rough week?” Yunho asks.

Mingi nods. “I guess. Just… new things.”

“It gets easier.”

Mingi feels pathetic. He looks pathetic too, probably. Yunho smiles. His eyes are calm, kind. The noise from inside the bar filters through the door—laughter, glasses clinking. Out here it feels distant, muffled.

Mingi’s balance shifts slightly; the alcohol is heavy in his limbs. He stumbles half a step. Yunho’s hand catches his shoulder, steadying him.

“Careful,” he says.

The touch is light, but entirely too much at the same time. Mingi feels something stir in his chest—something too big, too undefined. He wants to melt in that soft contact. Wishes it could be more. A hand on his waist, maybe.

Shit.

What the hell is wrong with him?

“You’re really drunk, aren’t you?” Yunho says, still gentle.

Mingi nods. “A bit.”

“Oh Mingi, look at you,” Yunho coos, and Mingi feels like crying.

Does Yunho thinks he looks pathetic? Messy? He certainly feels like he is.

Does Yunho thinks he looks pretty at least? Mingi hopes he does.

“Let’s get you home, okay?” Yunho asks gently, although it doesn’t really sound like a question.

Mingi shakes his head faintly, words stuck somewhere in his throat. He doesn’t want to go yet. Doesn’t want this to end. He wants to stay here, with Yunho. Or needs Yunho to come with him, because he thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t get to continue talking with him, breathing his air, staring at the oh-so-soft curve of his smile.

Shit.

Eunah wouldn’t want him bringing a friend over so late. And Yunho isn’t even a friend. And Mingi wouldn’t like Eunah to see Yunho anyways. Wouldn’t feel right. And above all perhaps Mingi only wants to be with Yunho.

Yunho Yunho Yunho.

But the taller man is already pulling his phone out, calling a cab. 

The world moves around them, neon signs flickering, the low hum of passing cars. Mingi watches Yunho’s face lit by the screen, eyes focused, the quiet line of his mouth.

When the cab arrives, Yunho guides him forward, a hand still on his shoulder. Mingi feels himself sway under it.

“What’s your address?” Yunho asks.

Mingi mumbles it, barely hearing his own voice.

Yunho repeats it to the driver, then presses some bills into his hand before Mingi can react.

A small part of him wants to argue that he can pay for himself. That Yunho owes him nothing. But he also feels strangely warm at the sight. It feels good to feel taken care of.

The car door closes. Yunho’s face fades behind the glass, and Mingi already mourns his traits.

 

The ride is quiet. Tokyo passes by in fragments; lights, signs, faces, all blurred. Mingi leans his head against the window. His fingers rise to his shoulder, to the place where Yunho’s hand had been. He presses lightly, as if he could still feel the warmth there.

His chest feels too full.

Now that he’s back to silence, he realizes just how much he fucked up. He knows he’ll be embarrassed tomorrow. He knows he indulged in thoughts he has no right to form. He’ll probably have to hide away from Yunho forever.

But tonight, he lets himself sink into the memory of that touch. That innocent, soft touch. Into the comfort of being seen and steadied.

He closes his eyes.

Yunho’s name sits quietly at the back of his mind, steady as his pulse.

Notes:

Hi loves! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter :3 The next one should be posted later this week!

Feel free to share your thoughts in comments <3
And I'll see u soon

Chapter 2: Inhalation

Jeong Yunho prides himself on being a good man. He’s a good son to his parents; calls them every day without fail. A good friend, too. Always there when Wooyoung asks, even if it means going out clubbing when he’s far too tired to appreciate the strobe lights. He’s good at his job. Reliable, polite, the kind of colleague people trust.

Sure, his life isn’t exactly put together. At twenty-six, he’s still far from marriage, and his long list of one-night stands isn’t something his neighbours seem to approve of—judging by the looks Mrs. Chan gives him whenever she sees him in the elevator with yet another pretty boy. Still, he’s not ashamed of it. He’s never been one for commitment, but he treats people well.

So yes, overall, Yunho likes to think he’s a good man.

But for the past few days, he’s been feeling like a terrible person.

He knows it isn’t entirely his fault, and that the reason is absurd. Foolish, even. Still, the shame sits heavy when he walks into the elevator on a quiet Monday morning and finds himself facing Song Mingi.

He forces a small smile, mumbles a “Good morning,” and fixes his eyes on his phone. Thank God Mingi isn’t the type to chat before nine. Not really the type to chat all together, to be fair. The ride is silent.

Yunho doesn’t look up. He doesn’t dare to, because they are still images flashing through his mind that he’d rather forget.

It happened three nights ago, after he went back home from that night out with his colleagues. He had fallen asleep quickly, as he always does after a drink. Had fallen asleep in a good mood, too. The evening had been nice and easy. It had all been fine, before he woke up too early, a little bit disoriented, at the feeling of something wet between his thighs.

It had taken him a full minute to realize what had happened. He had come in his sleep, probably after rutting against his pillows in his sleep like a goddamn teenager. That was quite embarrassing on its own; but it wasn’t the worst part. No, the real issue was that he woke up with his mind still filled with images from the pleasant dream that had brought him to his situation. Lewd images. A body under his own. Not any body. His young colleague's. Mingi’s.

Mingi’s tall, broad body, naked under his own. His pale skin littered with love bites. His lips half parted upon a moan. His eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, and some pain too, perhaps.

The realization had made Yunho jump upright in his bed, a shiver of shame crawling up his spine.
What the fuck?

Yunho has always been a rather sexual person. He’s not ashamed of that. An erotic dream on itself isn’t an issue. Far from being his current problem, at least. No, the issue is Mingi.

Sure, Yunho has eyes. And yes, it’s no surprise he could be attracted to a man as strikingly beautiful as Song Mingi. But Yunho isn’t an animal. He has respect—for other people, for engaged couples, for men who are clearly straight and clearly not interested in him.

He still remembers too vividly how it felt back in high school, after he came out. The way classmates started walking on eggshells around him. The jokes about how he should “try not to fall in love with everyone.” It had been torturous to explain that liking men didn’t make him a predator. That being gay didn’t mean he was desperate. That he was long past the pathetic habit of falling for straight guys, thank you very much.

So yes, he did feel like shit after waking from a dream where he’d kissed Mingi’s pale skin, leaving dark marks along his throat. He felt like shit because it all tasted a little like betrayal.

Part of him knows it probably has to do with how open Mingi had been that Friday evening. Just a little, a little more than his usual composed and quiet self, but enough to show the cracks. He had been more vulnerable than he let on, drunk and struggling with his words, mumbling about how lonely everything felt since moving here. His lips had formed this small pout, his voice gone soft. And on the spot, Yunho had felt only the urge to protect him, to be someone warm and steady. A good friend, perhaps. Entirely innocent, he was certain.

It's only during the night that his thoughts shifted to something less noble. A little cruel, even.  

Hence came the dream. It made everything feel dirty. Like Yunho had taken that brief, vague moment of trust and twisted it into something selfish. It felt ugly.

He spent the entire weekend trying to push down the images that lingered. Chase them away. But they happen to be surprisingly stubborn. 

 

No wonder the elevator ride feels so unbearable.

Yunho glances sideways, quietly, and a hesitant alarm rises in his chest when he realizes Mingi looks tense too. Too tense.

Shit.

Does Mingi know?

Could he have somehow read through Yunho’s awful, awful thoughts?

He can’t have. That’s impossible. Isn’t it?

Still, the sight of Mingi’s posture makes Yunho's stomach twist. Though the younger man stands straight, it’s as if he’s curling into himself, wanting to disappear. He’s shifted subtly to the right, keeping even more space between them than usual. His eyes are fixed on the elevator’s ceiling, unblinking. He’s chewing at his bottom lip.

Fuck.

Why is Mingi behaving like that?

When the doors open, Mingi practically jumps out, walking to his cubicle with quick, clipped steps. Too fast, even for someone apparently as reserved as him. Yunho stays frozen for a second before stepping out. He feels awful.

 

Okay; rationally, he knows there’s no way Mingi could have read his mind. He doesn't possibly know what Yunho had dreamed about. It’s impossible. But the younger man's discomfort is still very much real, Yunho's certain.

Maybe it’s something else, he figures. Maybe Yunho has simply been too friendly, too insistent. And perhaps Mingi doesn’t want more friends, which would be perfectly fine. Yunho can be a lot to handle, he’s been told plenty of times. That would explain why Mingi’s been avoiding him.

Yunho only hopes that it’s just that. That there isn’t something uglier in there, like Mingi noticing how, perhaps, Yunho’s eyes had lingered a little too long on his lips. The thought makes Yunho cringe badly. He really didn’t mean to. He only had tried to be friendly. Sue him for still thinking the younger man looked awfully cute. In a fully platonic way, obviously.

It sucks, because Yunho genuinely likes him. And he’d hoped that they really might become friends.

He’d known he liked Mingi right away, that first day. The moment Mingi had introduced himself, bowing slightly, his voice low and polite. Yunho had felt something stir—a sort of curiosity, maybe.

He’s not sure what it is exactly, and at first he hadn’t bothered to think too deeply about it. “A very open boy”, his mom used to call him. But he was forced to admit the liking he took to Mingi was different. Stronger.

It wasn’t just that Mingi was handsome—though he is. Almost distractingly so. But Yunho isn’t the type to objectify someone just because he finds them attractive. Especially a straight man. A straight, engaged man. Yunho doesn’t think that way. He is a good, respectful man. So it has to be something else.

Maybe it’s the way Mingi had stumbled through the office on his first day, looking every bit the picture of composure and yet awkward at every turn. Neat suit, clear voice, broad shoulders and proud posture—but the nervousness lingered underneath, in the way he hesitated before speaking, in the stiffness of those shoulders, in how he’d gripped the strap of his bag a little too tight.

There was immediately something in that contrast that Yunho had found impossible not to notice. Not to care for. That sad paradox between confidence and self-doubt. The obvious impression of someone trying very hard, way too hard, to appear at ease. It was strangely endearing. It made Yunho want to know more.

So he continued watching.

And he discovered that perhaps there are also other layers in Mingi that he can’t name yet. Something delicate and rough at once. Mingi gives off the feeling of a man who’s never quite settled into himself. It’s a little sad, and also awfully intriguing.

No one could blame Yunho for being curious about that. Maybe even a little fascinated.

But none of that matters now. Because Mingi looks uncomfortable around him. And Yunho has to respect that.

He feels like he deserves that distance, that discomfort. After that shameful dream, it’s the least he can do. And that’s fine, he tells himself. Better for everybody. And Yunho can live with it.

He leads a good life—a fulfilled, well-rounded one. He has friends, work, people who care about him. He doesn’t need to chase after someone who clearly doesn’t want to be close.

 

That very same day, he decides dinner with his friends should help. A distraction. Something to keep his thoughts from circling back to that stupid elevator ride and the shame curling in his chest.

He meets them after work, at the apartment his long-term best friend and colleague Wooyoung shares with his boyfriend. The familiar hallway always smells clean and floral, San’s doing. Yunho feels lighter as soon as the door opens.

“Yuyu!” Wooyoung basically screams as he pulls the taller man into a hug; hyper, although that’s not much of a surprise. He always makes it seems like the two of them haven’t spent the entire day sitting four desks apart.

His hair is tied up messily and he’s wearing an oversized shirt that certainly doesn’t belong to him. The contrast with the pristine suits he wears at the office never fails to make Yunho smile. He looks like the very picture of domesticity. “You’re late again. I was two seconds away from eating your share.”

“Hi to you too,” Yunho says, stepping inside with the same smile he always has upon entering this safe place of his. He slips off his shoes and follows Wooyoung who’s already run back to the kitchen.

Yunho finds his friend unsurprisingly curled around the back of his boyfriend, head nuzzled into his neck in that horribly sweet way of his.

San turns from the stove, his whole face lighting up. “You finally made it,” he says, voice warm as always. “I was starting to worry he’d eaten everything.”

“I was about to,” the shorter man adds, reaching to stir the pot before San gently swats his hand away.

“Don’t touch my stew, jagiya,” San warns, soft but firm. “It’s almost done.”

The air here always feels comfortable. Yunho drops into a chair at the small kitchen table and exhales slowly. He likes being here. The apartment feels alive in a way his own doesn’t – the perks of domestic love, he guesses - plants crowding the window, books stacked on the floor, a cat sleeping on the sofa’s armrest. Their love is everywhere, woven into the small things. It’s sweet. Almost upsettingly sweet.

He’s not envious, and seeing Wooyoung happy is all he could ever wish for, but it’s still always a bit much to witness so much love.

Yunho’s not a relationship person, and that’s fine. He’s never been. He tells himself it’s because he hasn’t met the right person, though sometimes he suspects it’s something else. Maybe commitment just doesn’t fit him right. Wooyoung says so all the time—usually while teasing.

“You’re hopeless,” Wooyoung had told him once, “you’ll flirt your way through life until you’re old and alone.”

“Funny,” Yunho had answered, “that’s what you used to willingly say about yourself, before San came along.”

San, who once was just a name in stories Wooyoung told—until one day he became real. Yunho remembers how skeptical he’d been when he first heard about him. Wooyoung had come to their shared dorm room breathless, eyes shining, saying he’d met the most gorgeous, divine, “scrumptulicious Greek god” at the convenience store.

Apparently, the man had handed him a can from a high shelf and asked him out right after. It had sounded ridiculous. Too good to be true. But then Yunho met San—and realized some people really were that lucky.

San is just one of those guys everyone likes immediately. Warm eyes, soft dimples, easy smile. Yunho had been wary at first, protective of his best friend. But San’s sincerity had disarmed him. Now, years later, Yunho can’t imagine Wooyoung without him. They make love make sense, in more than one way.

“Smells amazing,” Yunho says as San ladles stew into bowls.

San smiles. “Your favourite.”

Dinner with the couple is always lively. Wooyoung talks the most, of course, hands waving as he tells stories about work and the latest gossips of his and Yunho’s office. San listens patiently, nodding, with so much love in his eyes it’s a little ridiculous. Yunho loves to tease them about it. But tonight, he feels mostly content in simply eating and enjoying the slow fading of the tension that had birthed in his shoulders in the morning.

Then San brings up Friday night.

“So,” he says with a grin, “how was the big office night out?”

Yunho is quite certain Wooyoung has already covered the topic, probably just as soon as he came home back from the bar. Yunho knows his friends well enough to know both are always more than eager for that type of gossip – even San, although most people don’t assume it at first when looking at his angelic face.

“It was fun, I think.” Yunho offers while he continues to stir his bowl, “Same drunk idiots.”

“Oh, but there’s that new guy too,” Wooyoung says, spoon hallway to his mouth, “The one you told me about, hyung.”

Yunho tenses slightly.

San hums. “Oh. And?”

“He’s a little odd, don’t you think?” Wooyoung says, turning to Yunho.

Yunho shrugs, forcing a casual tone. “I think he’s just shy.”

“Shy?” Wooyoung scoffs. “He seems more like an ass. Snobby and all. Probably a bit full of himself.”

“Wooyoung-ah,” San chides gently, “don’t be so bitchy. You said that about every one of my friends before you got to know them.”

“That’s different,” Wooyoung protests. “I don’t know. There’s something off about him.”

San looks at Yunho. “What do you think, Yunho-ah?”

Yunho swallows. “I think he’s nice. But… I’m not sure he likes me much.”

“See?” Wooyoung says, triumphant. “He’s an asshole. How can someone not adore my Yuyu?”

Yunho laughs quietly. “No, I think it’s my fault. Maybe I made him uncomfortable somehow. I might’ve been too eager to be friendly.”

“That’s just you being polite,” Wooyoung says immediately. “If you hadn’t talked to me on the first day of high school, I’d still be hiding behind the vending machines. And look what a stunning swan the world would have missed.”

San smiles at that. “Still the cutest story. I’m a little jealous. Your very first friend.”

“The first one who didn’t think I was annoying,” Wooyoung says, nudging Yunho with his foot. “He’s too nice for his own good.”

The comments do make Yunho smile for a brief second, but Wooyoung goes back too soon to the topic he’d like to avoid.

“Maybe he’s homophobic,” the shorter man mutters. “It’s odd that he’s being rude with the two openly gay guys in the office. Very suspicious, if you ask me.”

The words hang in the air. San sighs. “Wooyoung.”

“What?” Wooyoung says, defensive. “It’s not like I’m wrong. It is weird.”

Yunho says nothing. He stares at his bowl, at the shimmer of oil on the broth’s surface. Something tightens in his chest.

He’s used to this kind of worries. To ignorance and the quiet sting that comes with being who he is. Things are better now, sure, but not always. Some people still make the same assumptions, still pull away when they learn too much.

Maybe Mingi’s one of them. Maybe Yunho had been stupid to think otherwise.

He shouldn’t have been so open. Shouldn’t have mentioned anything about his dating life that day on the roof. The word boyfriend had come out too easily, like a reflex. He hadn’t thought twice about it. But maybe Mingi had. Maybe that was the moment the distance started.

He pushes the thought away, but it lingers. The memory of Mingi’s startled eyes, the polite nod, the silence that followed.

“Yunho?” San’s soft-spoken words pull him back. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly.

Wooyoung eyes him for a second, then grins. “Don’t think too hard about that guy. He’s surely just an asshole.”

Yunho forces a smile.

 

The following days, Yunho does manage not to think about it all too much. He has work, friends, a small life that runs on routine and good coffee. He will not let one awkward elevator ride, one shameful dream, or one clumsy rooftop moment derail him. Yunho’s better than that.

The next night he meets a guy from Grindr. It does help a little. The guy is a few years older, sharp-jawed, and attractive. Yunho brings him back to his flat, and he does feel more relaxed when he fucks him into the sheets. Always a good solution.

In the morning their exchange is brief small talk and a shared cup of coffee, and the discomfort that has lodged behind Yunho’s ribs eases yet again by a fraction. Physical proximity without history, a small human warmth that leaves no claims. It helps.

At the office, he carefully keeps his distance. When Mingi passes by and their eyes meet, Yunho nods. Brief. Polite. That’s all. He keeps conversations at the coffee machine short. He does not linger by the finance cubicle.

It seems to work, mostly. From across the room, it even appears like Mingi is less taut than he had the week before. He moves with fewer sharp edges. Yunho tells himself that is proof the right thing to do is to keep the distance steady.

The week slides by in the rhythm of reports and emails. Small satisfactions arrive—an approving comment in a meeting, the right file arriving on time, laughs with Wooyoung when they take breaks. Life seems to resume its modest orbit.

 

Then Thursday arrives with an important meeting: a new project, important client, all hands. The room is reserved, the table set, the folders stamped with the client’s logo. Mr. Park arrives already tense, fingers tapping the mahogany as he greets them. There are people from three departments. Yunho has prepared. He knows his slides, his numbers, the parts he must present. He can do his job with his eyes closed.

Confidence has always been his strong side.

What he doesn’t expect is to see Mingi sitting in the conference room too.

Yunho does try, for a few minutes, not to look at him. Not to stare, at least. But he’s never been so long so close, in the same room, facing him from across the table, with nothing to do but look. And he quickly realizes that it’s pointless to even try ignoring his presence. Yunho is forced to admit Mingi looks too infuriatingly pretty to be ignored.

The thin glasses that he wears when he focuses sit slightly low on his tall nose, the rims delicate against his skin. The lenses catch the light when he looks down. His cheekbones are high and precise, cleanly cut; they give his face an angle that Yunho feels like he could study for a long, long time. His overgrown locks frame his face beautifully. There is a small freckle at the base of his left ear Yunho has noticed once before, and a faint indentation where the pen rests when he writes.

His lips rest in their usual, infuriating pout.

Mingi sits with a pad in front of him, a pen poised. He writes notes in a careful hand—neat characters, measured spacing. The sight of it is banal, and it is not.

Yunho’s eyes keep finding those small movements: how the younger man adjusts his glasses, the shift of his throat when he swallows, the way his fingers tap a rhythm against the paper before he begins to write. He sees the shadow beneath his eyes, the tightness at the corners that eases when he is concentrating. There is once again vulnerability in that concentration, an openness that is not for show. Yunho wants to peel back every layer.

Yunho does try, desperately, to focus on the meeting. He should be able to. He’s good at his job. Focused, always.

He reads through the agenda, prepares his first point, counts the topics he must introduce. Speaking would anchor him; speech would banish the orbiting thoughts. He opens his mouth, begins to explain the timeline for deliverables, the steps the team must take. His words are clean, practiced. He watches the room respond—heads nodding, pens moving—yet his attention keeps skimming over to Mingi.

He is too aware of the selfishness of his own gaze. He has been careful all week, but suddenly he feels like there is no modesty in the attention. It gathers heat and refuses to be put out. He feels a line crossing, the sensation of losing polite reserve and sliding toward something more acute. He chastises himself. He is not prey to a passing fancy; he is a grown man, responsible, with colleagues who trust him.

Yet the thought returns with a new intensity: when Mingi leans forward to write a note, the thin line of his neck becomes exposed, a pale tendon shifting. Yunho imagines resting his own hand there, pressing, smoothing. He wants to be the reason Mingi relaxes, he wants to be the steadying pressure that holds him. That urge is not noble. It is not distance. It is not friendship. It is sharper, more selfish. It sits in the gut like a stone.

Jeong Yunho prides himself in being a good man. He prides himself on decency—on calling his parents, on being someone guests trust, on the small courtesies that make life possible. He is a good friend to Wooyoung and San, a reliable colleague; he keeps his word in the office and respects boundaries. He takes pride in his steadiness. He works hard to be careful with people.

But as he watches Mingi lift his pen and write, the truth under his pride feels thin. He has never wanted to hurt anyone. He respects their limits, their lives. He would not be the kind of man to step over a line and not apologize for it. He wants to be better than his baser impulses.

Still, when he looks at the younger man’s face, when he studies the pale hollow at Mingi’s throat as he writes, his thoughts refuse the proper shape. They go somewhere darker and more intimate. He thinks about pressing a fingertip there. He thinks about leaving a mark, a small bruise that would be private and visible only to them both. The image shocks him with its clarity. The idea of marking Mingi—of leaving something that reads like ownership or proof—feels obscene and intoxicating at once.

It terrifies him a little. But it’s not enough to keep himself from indulging in it.

The thought of disrupting Mingi’s fragile shell, of unsettling him a little—of leaving a mark whether literal or otherwise—sends a cold little thrill through him. It is an admission that shocks him into shame.

Perhaps it had never been just about that dream.

Perhaps Yunho isn’t that good of a man.

Because, upon looking at Mingi in that crowded room—when he should be focused on careful note-taking and quick thinking—the only thing he can think about is how much he wants to ruin the younger man, just a little.

Notes:

Hi guys! I hope you’ve enjoyed this second chapter. It was rather short, as it is merely an expository chapter, but do not fear, I’ll be back on Saturday with a more plot-heavy chapter, back to our dearest Mingi’s pov.

Thank you for the support, and I'll see you soon <3

Chapter 3: Toxin

As a teenager, if you’d asked Mingi, he’d have told you he was a very normal guy. He had a normal life. Did okay at school, got average grades. He played baseball and liked video games. A few girls offered him chocolates on Pepero Day. He dressed casually and had enough friends for everything to be considered perfectly fine and normal.

Now, if one could pull apart Song Mingi’s heart, dissect it, and peel back the endless layers of protective gauze, they would find that at the bottom of that fragile heart, he knew there was something undeniably and infuriatingly wrong with him. Abnormal. Dirty and dangerous.

He didn’t know when that dreadful realization had first settled into the marrow of his bones. He used to be mostly fine as a child. Fine and normal, with a mind free of dreadful worries. Then, sometime between the tender age of boyhood and the uncomfortable growth into a body too big for itself, something had turned sour. Halfway through middle school, something had shifted overnight—something he couldn’t name or pinpoint—that made everything a little bit more unbearable.

That was when the perpetual weight in his chest had first appeared. It didn’t feel exactly as if it had been born out of nowhere. It felt more like something that had always been there had finally surfaced, revealed its danger, and pulled Mingi under.

He found it impossible to identify what exactly was so wrong about him. He only knew the shame of vaguely understanding that he didn’t want what he should want, and that sometimes he felt like his body didn’t belong to him. He doesn’t remember much of those years—only that it had been painful to realize he wasn’t as interested as other boys were in girls and what was under their clothes, and that perhaps he cared a little too much about his best friend.

At least that part hadn’t lasted long, because apparently, his friends started to pick up on the fact that there was something a little off about him. Too meek. Too sensitive. Not man enough. They’d ask him a few times, laugh at him, taking childish and cruel pleasure in seeing his eyes widen in fear whenever they asked, “Why are you so weird?” Kids could see so much and understand so little. Mingi wished he could have answered them.

They didn’t stay friends for long.

After that, Mingi didn’t really have friends anymore. He mostly had acquaintances. Which was fine. And average. And normal. He didn’t get along with boys too well anyway.

High school was somewhat better. After his first year, he went through another growth spurt and put on some weight that made his weak shoulders fill out a little. That helped with baseball. He joined the school team. He decided it would be a fresh start. Tried to change his demeanour a bit. Became deliberately rougher around the edges. It kept people away, which was a good way to avoid uncomfortable questions and cruel gazes.

In short, Mingi decided he’d become a man. And for the most part, it worked.

Life still wasn’t easy. High school remained an endless series of days under constant scrutiny. He grew more confident, but it still made his stomach clench horribly to spend hours in a room full of cruel eyes searching for excuses to break him down.

He tried to adopt strategies that would secure him a more comfortable social position. Almost got close to the popular kids—many of whom were his baseball teammates—but he couldn’t manage to feel comfortable with their locker-room talk.

The fear, the ugliness, still loomed over him like a spectre. A spectre he couldn’t name. And his worst fear was probably being able to name it.

University made things slightly easier. More freedom. Less scrutiny.

That’s when he met Eunah—the first girl he’d ever felt ready to date. Things had seemed easy when she’d walked up to him, slid her number across his library desk. She didn’t seem to find anything wrong with him—at first, at least. Dating her had been easy too. It relieved a lot of the pressure he had associated with the idea of relationships. Sure, love wasn’t as passionate as in the movies, but it could exist, even for Mingi.

And it had to be love—that feeling of gratitude so big he wanted to cry when she held his hand and made him feel normal. It had to be love, hadn’t it?

He understood quickly that Eunah liked the idea of him a lot. She liked his broad shoulders, liked feeling small when they walked hand in hand across the university lawn. She liked his deep voice and his clumsy manners, which made him seem manlier, she’d say. And it felt good to know he was good enough. He didn’t believe her at first. But over time, the fear became lighter, more distant. Somewhere along the way, when he truly entered adulthood, he managed to think that maybe things would end up okay.

The engagement felt like a confirmation of that. Of everything he had prayed for.

His hands had been shaking the entire day leading up to his proposal—over a dinner fancier than he could afford. He’d felt so nervous he thought he might throw up, and until the very last second, half of him believed he wouldn’t go through with it. Still, he did. And he began building something tangible. A happy ending he once thought he could never reach.

Sure, life isn’t cloudless. And his relationship isn’t perfect. But then again, no relationship is, right? His parents had never been completely happy, and they’d done well enough for themselves. Some conflict was okay. Some distance too.

There were tensions between him and Eunah, of course. Small, mostly. Silly conflicts, like when Mingi dropped and shattered her grandmother’s porcelain tea set. Or when he hesitated too long to make plans for their holidays. And deeper ones too, though he told himself they weren’t worrying.

Part of him knew that Eunah had grown disappointed over time—discovering he wasn’t as perfect or reliable as she’d first thought. She’d told him so, almost straightforwardly, during their second year together, when he’d felt teary-eyed watching the end of Princess Mononoke. He’d tried to hide it, but she noticed. Eunah was good at noticing.

“It’s odd,” she’d said, half-teasing, “I wouldn’t have expected the tough guy from math class to be such a softie.”

She’d said it lightly, with a small laugh, but it wasn’t difficult to hear the faint, accusatory tone behind her words.

And so, the fear stayed. Always there, lingering somewhere beneath the surface. The fear of being seen. Recognized. Peeled apart.

 It woke him up sometimes, folded over himself, clutching his pillow so tight his fingers turned white. The awful thought that the ugliness would always be there. Always come back. Always lurk beneath the surface. And that one day, the whole world would see it.

 

Tonight is one of those nights.

Mingi wakes up in a tremor, jaw tense, skin prickled with goosebumps. He doesn’t exactly remember the dream, but the outline still lingers — eyes, so many eyes watching him. His breath feels trapped somewhere in his lungs, and for a moment he’s sure he’s drowning. It doesn’t shock him much; it’s not rare for him to wake up like this.

He reaches for his phone. 4:00 a.m.

Turning his head to the right side of the bed, he finds it empty. Not much of a surprise. It’s frequent for Eunah to go sleep on the couch. She says he snores too loudly, or moves too much in his sleep.

Bottom line is, there’s always a reason for Eunah to leave.

He doesn’t really mind. If anything, he’s a little grateful. They’re not the kind of couple who naturally curl into each other at night. On the rare nights they fall asleep wrapped around one another, Mingi tends to find it uncomfortable. Heavy. As if he can’t breathe right. She must feel it too. And that’s okay, he always tells himself. Plenty of couples sleep separately. He’s even read online that it can improve rest, prevent co-dependency, and help preserve the spark.

They have a good excuse tonight, anyway. In a few hours, he has to wake up for his work trip — the whole Tokyo branch is heading to Okinawa for a few days. Team building, they called it. Mingi is supposed to be in good shape for that. Energized. Ready to bond.

It’s probably better that he has the bed to himself before then. The smart thing to do, really. Because it’s going to be a lot.

Even though it pains him to admit it, he’s slightly apprehensive. He’s never been one to enjoy socializing at work. And although there’s nothing wrong with his job or his team, he doesn’t feel entirely at ease with his colleagues.

It’s been three weeks already since he started, and despite all his efforts, his heartbeat still spikes every morning as soon as he steps into the office. Which is fine, he reassures himself. He’s never been the most sociable person. It’s okay if he doesn’t thrive in his social environment.

He tries not to think about the other reason it feels so serious — so much heavier than it should. Another person he carefully avoids thinking about, especially in these tender, half-awake hours of the night.

Mingi turns onto his stomach and groans into his pillow. He already knows he won’t fall back asleep.

 

The airport is too bright. Too loud. Mingi squints against the fluorescent light and regrets not sleeping even more than he already does. His whole body feels rough, dry, unsteady. The collar of his shirt itches, the jacket of his suit is creased beyond saving, and the fabric pulls at his shoulders every time he moves. He tugs at it anyway, trying to smooth it down. It doesn’t help, but it gives his hands something to do.

He arrived too early. Couldn’t bear waiting in the dark apartment any longer, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of the city waking up. So he left. Took the first train. Now he’s here, sitting by Gate 14 with the supervisors, who nod politely before returning to their phones.

It’s awkward.

It’s not like he’s waiting for anyone, either. There’s no one he’s close enough to wait for. Three weeks into this job, and he hasn’t managed to connect with anyone. They’re older, mostly. Closed off. Polite but distant. And that’s fine. Expected, even.

There had been Yunho, for a moment — a start of something that could’ve turned into friendship. But that had been cut short, mercifully, before Mingi could make too much of a fool of himself. He’s not going to complain about that.

He sits with The Picture of Dorian Gray open in his lap. He’s read it before, but it’s oddly comforting; the rhythm of the sentences, the familiar moral decay that feels safer when confined to someone else’s story. He turns a page, though he’s not sure he’s really reading.

More people arrive. Familiar faces, a few polite greetings. The noise rises — luggage wheels dragging, someone’s laughter echoing too loud. Mingi tries to reassure himself. He tells himself the weekend doesn’t have to be unbearable. He doesn’t care much about these people anyway. He’ll keep to himself. It’s only two days.

He’s definitely not waiting for anyone.

But then he feels it. That quiet, unwelcome prickle at the back of his neck. His body always knows first. He looks up, against his better judgment, and spots him. Yunho, of course.

He arrives among the last of the group. Hair tousled, eyes still a little sleepy. Mingi’s throat goes dry. He hates that he always notices him first. That his body seems to look for him before he can control it — the sudden rush of heat under his skin, the quickening pulse. It’s ridiculous.

Yunho looks like he’s just rolled out of bed, cheeks still flushed with warmth. His usual crisp shirt and tie are gone, replaced by jeans and a soft blue sweater that looks comfortable. Mingi suddenly feels stupid for wearing a full suit. He glances around — he’s one of the only ones, aside from the supervisors, who dressed up. It would have made sense to dress down for a 7 a.m. flight.

Yunho isn’t alone. He rarely is. Mingi spots the usual shorter figure walking beside him. Wooyoung. They’re talking, laughing. It irritates him.

He shouldn’t care, but the sight still makes his chest twist.

They’re both wearing blue sweaters, he realizes. Matching. Maybe by accident. Maybe not. The thought makes something bitter rise in his throat, and he scoffs quietly to himself before he can stop it.

They move together through the crowd, Yunho tilting his head down slightly to hear Wooyoung better. The height difference catches Mingi’s eye, not for the first time. Wooyoung looks small beside Yunho, fragile almost. Mingi remembers how he had felt that night outside the bar, when the air had smelled of smoke and cheap beer and Yunho was close enough that Mingi could smell his cologne. He remembers feeling small, somehow, which was an alien but much welcomed feeling.

He misses that odd feeling. The gentleness. He hates that he misses it.

Then Yunho turns — scanning the crowd — and his gaze lands on Mingi.

It happens so fast it feels a bit like a physical blow. Mingi freezes, and in the split second before he can think, Yunho smiles. Kind. Polite, always.

Mingi’s blood runs cold. His first instinct is escape — to look away before he has to return it. And he does. He doesn’t smile back. Eyes down, throat tight. His pulse thrums violently under his skin.

He feels awful for it. Yunho had only been nice. Again. Always so open, so effortlessly decent. Mingi could have at least acknowledged it. But now it’s too late. Looking back would be strange. Forced.

It’s safer this way.

It’s what he’s been aiming for — distance. Ever since that night at the bar that made everything too uncomfortable. He’d been drunk, too drunk, and though the details blur at the edges, he remembers enough to want to hide forever.

He remembers wanting to get close. To be beside Yunho and stay. He remembers the dangerous warmth in his chest, the pull toward him that felt too heavy. He remembers his thoughts wandering where they shouldn’t. The guilt that followed, instant and suffocating. The desperate urge to run before anyone could see it.

When he saw Yunho again, the shame was so strong it almost made him sick. He decided then that he’d never look him in the eye again.

To Yunho’s credit, he hadn’t forced anything. He hadn’t made it worse. He hadn’t laughed, or questioned Mingi’s quietness. He just stepped back quietly, giving Mingi space. Of course, as expected, he had behaved like the perfect, respectful colleague he had been since the very first day.

Since then, Mingi’s done everything to maintain that distance. Avoiding Yunho’s desk, eating lunch alone, never going for another smoke break. It’s better that way. Safer.

Because Yunho feels too dangerous. Sometimes the older man’s eyes find him, as if pulled by gravity, and Mingi feels something deep in his chest shift, break open, demand to be felt. And it scares him to the bone.

 

The hotel is beautiful; a stretch of pale concrete lined with palms, the sea spreading endlessly behind it. The building is modern and quiet, all beige stone and glass.

His room overlooks the bay. The window stretches from wall to wall. The ocean lies below, calm and wide, waves breaking in soft folds against the sand. For a brief moment, Mingi thinks maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe, away from the office and the constant noise of Tokyo, he’ll manage to breathe a little easier.

The relief doesn’t last long enough.

The first morning activity is some kind of “get-to-know-you” game. They’re split into small tables in the main conference hall, each group of four handed a stack of cards printed with meaningless icebreakers. Guess something about your partner. Share a fun fact. Find one thing you have in common. It’s all forced smiles and corporate laughter.

Mingi sits with three people whose names he doesn’t remember. One of them is from accounting, maybe. Another might be from HR. He tries to follow, nods when someone talks, but his chest feels too tight again, his throat dry from the air conditioning.

The HR woman is there too — the same one who had flirted with him after a few drinks on their first team outing. She sits across from him, her nails a glossy pink. She laughs too loudly, touches her hair too often. He feels uneasy. Her attention still makes his skin crawl with the kind of tension he can’t explain.

By lunch, he’s already exhausted. The company chatter grates on his nerves.

When they announce the afternoon activity — “team games on the beach, everyone!” — Mingi knows he can’t do it. The words alone are enough to make him tense. Games mean shouting, touching, attention. He doesn’t want to run around pretending to have fun in the sun.

He excuses himself quietly, tells the team lead he’s got a headache from the flight. She gives him a sympathetic smile; says she hopes he feels better soon.

He goes back to his room.

The moment the door closes, his shoulders drop. He doesn’t even bother taking off his shoes — just walks straight to the balcony, slides the glass door open, and steps out into the warm air.

The sea breeze hits him, soft and heavy with salt. Below, the rest of the team gathers on the sand. He can hear their voices. Something tells him he shouldn’t look, but he does anyways.

The beach is dotted with bright umbrellas and folding chairs. The HR woman is down there, waving her arms at someone Mingi can’t identify. A group is already tossing a volleyball back and forth, the sound of it hitting hands rhythmic and steady.

Mingi’s eyes linger on the volleyball game. On one of the players.

Yunho, of course.

He’s wearing black shorts and a loose white shirt rolled up to the elbows. His hair is damp from the sea breeze, pushed back to reveal his forehead, skin bright under the bright sun. He’s moving easily, fluidly, laughing when someone misses a pass. His shirt sticks a little to his chest, from the wind, and probably the sweat, the thin fabric clinging when he bends to pick up the ball.

Mingi simply can’t take his eyes off of the other man. His chest feels too tight again.

He slips his sunglasses on. It doesn’t help much, but it gives him the illusion of cover. The shame burns anyway. He feels like he’s sixteen again, standing in the locker room after baseball practice, pretending not to look, pretending not to see. The same unease, the same guilt that presses deep into his stomach. The same ugliness he could never quite name.

Below, Yunho throws his head back, laughing at something Wooyoung says. The sound of it barely carries up to the balcony, but Mingi hears it anyways. Like anything about Yunho, it manages to find him, no matter how far Mingi hides. He forces himself to step back inside the room.

He sits down on the edge of the bed again, runs both hands over his face. His pulse is still quick, his body still humming with something that feels too close to panic.

 

Mingi doesn’t leave his room all afternoon. He orders coffee from room service and drinks it lukewarm by the window, watching the shadows shift over the water. He tries to read again, but the words keep slipping away.

When the group chat pings in the evening, calling everyone down for dinner, he stares at the notification too long before answering. There’s no avoiding it. Attendance isn’t technically mandatory, but it might as well be. Plus, he has to eat, at some point. He sighs, puts on a clean shirt, and leaves his room.

The hotel restaurant is bright, with glass walls opening onto the terrace and the darkening sea beyond. Round tables are set in careful lines, each one with neat little name cards. It’s all part of the company’s great idea of “team bonding.” For efficiency, they say. For harmony. For the illusion of family.

He finds his name quickly, printed in neat black letters. His stomach drops when he reads the others. Amongst names he can’t quite recognize:

Wooyoung.
Yunho.

Of course. The “youngsters of the team”, Mr Park had said.

He stops mid-step, frozen halfway between walking in and turning back. The table is round. No way to hide behind anyone, no excuse to look away. For a second, he thinks about heading straight back to his room — claiming sickness, or pretending he fell asleep before dinner. But the thought barely forms before he sees Wooyoung walk in, waving at someone behind him. Too late.

Mingi takes a slow breath. He’s a grown man. He’s not afraid of talking to people. He repeats it a few times under his breath as he walks to his seat, trying to steady his breathing. It doesn’t help much. He’s thinking of desperate ways to make sitting alone on a table with Wooyoung less uncomfortable when something else catches his eyes.

Yunho’s arriving too.

Hair still damp from a shower, the collar of his shirt slightly darkened where water must’ve dripped. His skin is flushed pink from the sun, a faint line of warmth along his neck. He looks relaxed, fresh, alive. Mingi’s stomach twists painfully. He looks down at the tablecloth before Yunho can meet his eyes.

Dinner starts slow. Everyone’s polite, a little stiff. Mingi’s grateful that no one expects him to lead the conversation. They all seem to have accepted, by now, that he’s the quiet type. Wooyoung talks enough for all of them anyway. He fills every silence with something bright and unserious, spinning stories that make people laugh.

Mingi nods along, sips his water, keeps his eyes mostly on the tablecloth. But every few minutes, they drift up, and he catches something small — the way Yunho holds his fork, the faint dimple in his cheek, the curve of his wrist when he lifts his glass. It’s been weeks since they’ve been this close. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the sight of him until now. The two moles beneath Yunho’s eyes are still there.

Yunho doesn’t speak much either. That surprises Mingi. The Yunho that has been haunting his mind for days is different — the type to fill the room with his voice. But here, Yunho seems content to listen. He smiles when others talk, adds small comments, laughs softly. Even so, he draws Mingi’s eyes.

When the wine comes, Mingi tells himself he won’t drink. Then Yunho’s hand reaches for the bottle, long fingers curling gracefully around the glass, and Mingi’s throat goes dry. Yunho tilts the bottle toward him, a silent offer. Mingi hesitates only a second before nodding. It would be rude to refuse.

He watches the red swirl into his glass. Just one, he decides. He’ll be careful.

The dinner stretches on. Laughter grows louder as the bottles empty. The bosses at the next table are clearly drunk already, their voices echoing across the room. Mingi feels a bit lighter himself, though he’s barely had half a glass. The other men of his table, on the other hand, are already at their third.

He risks another glance at Yunho. The brunette’s cheeks have turned a soft shade of red now, and he looks different like this. Unguarded. His shoulders no longer held so perfectly straight, his eyes a little slower, his smiles longer.

Wooyoung leans forward, elbows on the table, grinning as he launches into another story.
“—and then, Yunho-hyung shows up to this date, right? Total disaster. The guy was like—”

He doesn’t get to finish. Yunho’s hand shoots out, covers Wooyoung’s mouth before the words can spill. “Don’t,” he says, smiling through a flush of embarrassment.

The gesture is playful, harmless. But Mingi feels something shift in his stomach. The sight — Yunho’s hand over Wooyoung’s mouth, his fingers against that skin, steady, controlled —  does something to his stomach. There’s something too intimate in the touch, that he feels like he’s the only one noticing. Something rough and desirable too, perhaps. Mingi feels something dangerously close to envy curling in his chest. Fuck.

Why are his hands so pretty?

 

The table slowly empties as people leave for bed or for the bar downstairs. Someone suggests going for another drink by the beach, and Yunho agrees easily, pushing his chair back with a grin. Mingi should excuse himself, should go. But when the others rise, he finds himself following instead.

Outside, the air is cooler, carrying the salt of the sea. The hotel’s beach bar glows faintly under string lights. The season’s almost over, so it’s quiet, just a handful of guests scattered across wooden stools.

 

The group thins as the night goes on. Laughter fades, the circle narrows, and soon enough it’s just the three of them — Yunho, Wooyoung, and Mingi — sitting at the edge of the beach bar, half-empty glasses reflecting the low orange of the lanterns.

Mingi realizes, dimly, that he should go. He’s been trying for weeks to avoid Yunho’s attention, to make himself invisible whenever he’s near. But now that it’s only the three of them, something restless blooms inside his chest. An absurd kind of competitiveness. A pull. A need to not disappear.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

But also, Yunho is different tonight.

Maybe it’s the heat of the island air, the salt sticking to his skin, or the quiet hum of alcohol warming his voice, but everything about him feels amplified. He’s leaning back on a sunbed now, legs parted slightly, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The lamplight catches on the pale stretch of his forearms as he props himself on his hands. His head tilts lazily toward the sound of the waves. His eyes are heavy-lidded, slow when they shift between Wooyoung and Mingi.

He’s not smiling as much as usual. That makes him even harder to look at.

Mingi finds him more magnetic than he’s ever been.

Wooyoung’s voice fills the silence. He’s telling another story, and Mingi has decided he finds him insufferable. The younger man’s confidence, his closeness to Yunho, the easy way his shoulder brushes Yunho’s when he leans in; it all burns under Mingi’s skin.

At some point, Wooyoung turns to Mingi: “And how is your fiancée handling you leaving for this trip, uh? Entire days without you, you must not be the most useful boyfriend, if she can live without you seamlessly.”

It’s rude for no reason, although Mingi has begun to understand that it’s just the younger man’s humour. But it still irritates him more than it should. He doesn’t even remember mentioning Eunah to Wooyoung. And her name feels wrong, brought up in that instant.

Yunho scolds his friend gently, and Mingi feels small. It sends a shiver down his spine.

He doesn’t know why he’s still here. Why he’s bickering, why he’s answering. Why it feels like losing every time Wooyoung makes Yunho laugh.

And then, mercifully, Wooyoung’s phone buzzes. He glances down, and his face softens. “It’s San,” he says, standing. “So that’s when I’m leaving. Night night, guys.”

Yunho rolls his eyes with an affectionate groan. “Tell him his love is disgustingly sweet and to stop bragging in front of poor old me.”

Wooyoung only grins wider before stepping away, his voice already soft as he answers the call.

And suddenly it’s just the two of them. Mingi barely has time to take in the new –much welcome information- of the existence of Wooyoung’s boyfriend, before he feels his throat tighten as he lets his situation sink it.

The air is thick. He can’t look up. Yunho’s gaze is on him, he feels it like pressure all over his skin.

What the hell is he doing? Why did he stay? Why does the idea of being alone with Yunho make his chest ache and his hands shake?

He exhales slowly and dares to look up; only to find Yunho’s eyes not on his own, but lower. Fixed somewhere near the base of his neck. The realization makes Mingi’s breath catch.

Is Yunho flirting with him?

The thought is small, dangerous, instantly spreading through his veins.

It would make sense, wouldn’t it? Yunho’s queer. Maybe that’s what this tension is. Maybe Mingi’s just not used to being the one someone like Yunho looks at like that. It’s natural he’d feel nervous, unsettled. Shy. That’s all it is. Nothing weird on his side. He’s not the one engaging in any of this. He doesn’t feel anything weird at all.

But then Yunho speaks, low and warm. “Are you having fun, Mingi?”

The question melts something inside him. His voice comes out meeker than he means: “Yeah. I am.”

Yunho smiles faintly, then stands. The sudden height difference makes Mingi’s pulse trip. Yunho is too close. Looking down at him, eyes hooded, expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, Mingi forgets to breathe.

“I want to go to the water,” Yunho says. “Come.”

It’s not a request.

Any other time, with anybody else, Mingi would bristle at that tone, would get irritated or refuse just to prove he could. But right now, something in him just obeys. He stands. His legs feel unsteady. He’d follow Yunho anywhere, he realizes painfully. He’d do anything to please him.

The sand is wet underfoot as they walk toward the shoreline. The moon’s pale light cuts a path over the waves. When Yunho stops, he pulls his shirt over his head without hesitation, tosses it onto the sand, takes off his shoes, and steps into the water.

Mingi startles. The sight of bare skin under the moonlight freezes him in place. He watches Yunho dive and reappear, hair slicked back, droplets glinting on his shoulders.

“It’s warm,” Yunho calls softly. “Not bad.”

Mingi hesitates, then steps forward. The surf laps at his ankles, cold at first, then soothing.

“You don’t have to,” Yunho adds.

“I want to,” Mingi answers before thinking.

He wades in until the water soaks through his clothes, heavy and clinging. When he stops, Yunho’s only a few feet away. The older man’s collarbones catch the moonlight, gleaming pale and sharp above the dark surface. Mingi’s eyes linger too long.

“Is everything okay between us?” Yunho asks suddenly.

The words break whatever trance Mingi was in. His mouth falls open. “It is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he lies again, barely audible.

“Then what’s wrong at the office? I feel like_” Yunho’s voice dips lower. “You’re avoiding me.”

Mingi’s pulse slams in his throat. He can’t answer. His thoughts scatter — words, excuses, nothing fits. His eyes betray him, sliding back to the shimmer of water over Yunho’s skin.

“Do you want me to tell you what I think is happening, Mingi?”

The tone makes him shudder. Everything inside him trembles.

He glances down at his own hand breaking the surface of the sea. The ring on his finger catches the light — silver, bright, wrong. It doesn’t belong here. He wants to rip it off, throw it into the deep. At the bottom of the ocean. If Yunho told him to, he would.

Is Yunho going to say it? Is he going to name the thing Mingi’s spent years running from?

Part of him hopes so. It would be easier that way — if Yunho could see it, point it out, expose the rot. Then maybe Mingi could stop pretending. Stop hiding.

He looks up. Yunho’s gaze is steady, his lips parted slightly. And suddenly it’s so clear.

Mingi wants to kiss him.

The thought hits like a blow. He wants to taste the salt on Yunho’s lips, the warmth of his breath. It’s wrong — impossibly, unforgivably wrong — Mingi knows there’s no going back. But for the first time, he doesn’t care. Not when Yunho looks at him like that. Heavy-lidded, dangerous, soft and hard and confusing and entirely consuming. Mingi almost believes it will all be okay.

“Tell me,” Mingi whispers. His voice breaks. It sounds like he’s begging. Perhaps he is, deep down. His eyes flutter close. He’s bracing for the impact.

Yunho’s voice is soft when he finally speaks up. “I think you’re very lonely,” he says. “I think you’re lonely and you’re scared to let people close.”

Mingi’s eyes snap open.

The world tilts. That’s not what he expected.

Yunho’s voice is steady, kind, unbearably kind.

“I think you’re lonely,” he repeats, “and that’s fine. But I’d like to be your friend, if you’ll allow me.”

The words land with gentle finality.

Mingi feels something inside him collapse — relief, betrayal, heartbreak, shame, all tangled together. He wants to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. His chest hurts. He wants to cry.

Yunho must see it, because his face changes again, softens even more. And then he steps forward, closing the space between them, and pulls Mingi into a hug.

It’s brief, chaste, but warm. Yunho’s bare skin is damp against his soaked shirt. The world narrows to heartbeat and waves.

Mingi presses his forehead to Yunho’s shoulder and prays the older man can’t hear how violently his own heart is beating — loud enough, it feels, to tear him open.

Notes:

Hi guys!

I’m super happy to share this new chapter with you! I’ve been having so much fun with this story, and I hope you’re enjoying it too. I’m really thankful for all the kudos and subscription, your support means the world to me! <3

Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments along the way; it’s such a huge motivation for me to keep writing.

The updates might be a bit slower next week since I’ve got a couple of exams, but I should still be able to post one or two chapters nonetheless.

Super excited to see you soon, lots of love! xx

Chapter 4: Haze

It’s past ten, and Yunho knows he should’ve been out of bed a long time ago. Ten was when they were all supposed to meet for a “team-building breakfast in the garden.” But the group chat has stayed quiet—or at least Yunho hasn’t heard it. There’s no sound filtering through the half-open window that looks out onto said garden either, so he figures it isn’t too bad. And above all, his head is aching with the unpleasant haze of a brutal hangover.

It’s not rare that he drinks—he usually knows his limit—but he guesses he underestimated the vitality of the coconut punch he’d had a few glasses of to end the evening. And so, the comfort of his bed still feels like something he’s not ready to give up. Even with Wooyoung’s smaller frame shifting around on the other half of the mattress, making too much noise with the bag of whatever snack he’s eagerly shoving into his mouth.

“Can you at least close your mouth when you chew?” Yunho groans, pushing his head deeper into the pillows.

“Sorry, hyung, but you should try them. Best shrimp crackers I’ve ever had.”

“Shrimp crackers at ten in the morning? God, you have the palate of a feral animal.”

“Hey, don’t come at me right now, I’m having severe San withdrawal.”

The younger raises the volume of the cartoon playing on TV now that he’s got confirmation his friend isn’t asleep anymore. Yunho had planned to sleep a little longer, but apparently, Wooyoung has decided otherwise.

“Well, I’m having severe sleep withdrawal, so you’d better stop squirming around before I send you back to your room.”

“Shut up, hyung. I’m too irresistible for you to pass on my company.”

It’s true that Yunho hadn’t complained when he’d first been woken by the sound of his own door opening—his best friend naturally knowing even his hotel passcode—to reveal a grumpy Wooyoung wrapped in a blanket and a fluffy sweater far too warm for the Okinawa weather.

He hadn’t protested when Wooyoung settled into the bed, turned on the TV, and grumbled about how his room neighbour was an asshole who snored too loudly for him to sleep, and how he wished San were here so he could cuddle instead of lying awake uselessly.

Yunho wasn’t fazed anymore by his friend’s disgustingly sweet relationship, and he knew that in those rare moments of distance, his company was a relief for the younger man. And he had to admit—it didn’t feel like such a bad idea not to be alone. Because although Yunho isn’t an anxious person, he’s very much a proper one who hates remembering his post-hangover behaviour.

And from the first moment his eyes fluttered open this morning, there’s been only one thing on his mind: Mingi.

 

Yunho hasn’t given up on being a good man. Overall, he’s been doing okay. Life flows as usual, and the only stain on the past few weeks has been his little, discreet, definitely not obsessive, infatuation with Song Mingi.

Accepting the fact that he was attracted to him hadn’t been too difficult. Accepting that the thoughts were a little stubborner than a vague attraction had been more annoying.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time Yunho had been drawn to someone who couldn’t possibly reciprocate his wants. But he usually managed to navigate those situations just fine. After a few days, or another hookup, the feelings easily flew out the window and left him laughing at his own intensity.

But it’s been weeks, and he’s forced to admit that the situation with his colleague is a bit more complex than that. He’s come to terms with the fact that there’s something about Song Mingi that keeps catching his attention — pulling him in slowly and in an utterly dangerous way.

That in itself could have been fine, as long as he stayed at a distance. Which is what he did. Until yesterday.

Until he had the blessing, or the curse, to be seated at the younger man’s table — to have an entire evening to take in the details of the face he’d been trying so hard not to stare at. And perhaps he’d indulged in that pleasure a bit too much, a bit too carelessly, because for once it was justified to look at him, and it was so easy, with a few drinks making his blood run slow.

And how pretty Mingi had been, under the soft restaurant lights — pouty lips curling just a little when he caught the tail end of a joke he clearly wasn’t sure was meant for him. As usual, he didn’t say much. Didn’t say enough, if you asked Yunho. But he’d laughed a few times, and Yunho had immediately decided it was one of the prettiest sounds he’d ever heard.

He tried to justify the staring to himself: it wasn’t so much uncontrolled lust spilling through — no, it was curiosity. Because there was still something odd in the younger man’s ways. That night too, he stood proud when he walked, but when they sat on the beach’s sunbeds, he had seemed so unsure under Yunho’s eyes. Curling in on himself, hands fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. And no one could blame Yunho for finding that utterly adorable. So he kept on looking.

And as the evening unfolded, something new seemed to seep out of the cracks in the other man’s composure — something fragile, maybe even sad. A little lonely, too.

His replies to Wooyoung’s jabs were clipped — and frankly, sometimes rude, though it’s not like the shorter man hadn’t been asking for it — and he’d seemed disoriented. A lost puppy, Yunho thought again. It made it difficult not to feel the urge to take his hand and guide him through the night.

And that’s where Yunho had fucked up. Because when he should have said goodnight and gone back to his room — maintaining a clever distance and all that — he had given in to curiosity.

He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction when Wooyoung excused himself and left him alone with Mingi.

He couldn’t help but feel euphoric when he noticed some of the tension in Mingi’s shoulders begin to ease just then. With the alcohol running through his veins, the uglier thoughts had swum back to the surface — how difficult they were to resist when the younger man’s eyes kept catching on his own, holding something lost and tender.

He thought about how beautiful it would be to break Mingi open, just to build him back together.

And the most dangerous part was that, in the haze of his drunken mind, he had almost started to believe — for a minute — that Mingi’s gaze bore something darker too. Because just as Yunho’s eyes couldn’t stay away from the curve of Mingi’s neck, it seemed like the younger man’s eyes lingered a little too long on Yunho’s own, or the stretch of his hands.

He hadn’t thought much before deciding to go for a midnight dive. The air around him had felt too hot, and he thought the saltwater might rinse his loud thoughts away. Mingi hadn’t asked questions; he had just followed. And the rush of euphoria that gave Yunho is something he’d rather not think about too much. Perhaps Mingi truly was just lost, looking for someone to guide him. Perhaps that’s what he was seeing in Yunho — and the shy flutter of his eyelashes was not a mirror of Yunho’s own lust, but the startled behaviour of prey caught in a headlight.

Yunho didn’t want to be the predator biting at his neck. It was difficult to think at all, faced with the younger man’s oddly innocent beauty; the sight of his wet silhouette half-submerged in the sea, the cling of his soaked shirt against the defined muscles of his chest. It was difficult to think at all. But Yunho is still a good man. And although it took all of his willpower, he silenced the selfishness of his thoughts and instead focused on the pained curve of the younger man’s eyebrows. He looked like he was about to cry.

The water wasn’t even remotely cold, yet his body was trembling softly.

Mingi needed something. That much was obvious. Something far from Yunho’s unspoken desires. But something that, perhaps, Yunho could still give him.

“I’d like to be your friend, if you’ll allow me,” he’d said then.

He meant it. He truly did. Of course, he meant other things too. Like the fact that he wanted to kiss him, to bite the curve of his neck, and to hear the pretty sounds spilling from his lips, and vanishing in the secrecy of the sea. But Mingi didn’t need that. Mingi didn’t want that. So Yunho had kept it to himself, and only focused on the right thing.

Friendship. Perhaps friendship could work.

It had seemed like a good idea in the moment. At least he could be close to Mingi. At least he could stop maintaining that infuriating distance that made no sense at all. And eventually, his desire would fade.

It had seemed like a good idea as he walked the younger man back to his room. Mingi was still shaking more than the warm air could justify.

It had seemed a good idea when Mingi turned back to him before closing his door, a small smile on his face. Yunho’s heart had swelled painfully when he heard the other man’s voice, soft and hesitant.

 “I had fun tonight. Thank you, hyung.”

And Yunho only understood that it wasn’t that great of an idea when he fucked his own fist at the memory of these words, and the curve of the younger man’s smile when he’d said them.

 

The realization that offering friendship might have been a terrible idea only hits harder with the morning light. It’s all Yunho can think about now, head buzzing with too many thoughts and the sharp ache of a hangover.

He decides to do what he always does when he’s in such a mess: tell his friend. Only this time, it’s worse. More embarrassing than his usual stories, more difficult to explain to Wooyoung why he’s losing his mind over their new colleague.

Yunho buries his face deeper into the pillow, as if the clean smell of hotel detergent could give him courage. Then he tries:

“Woo…” His voice comes out muffled.

“I can’t hear anything, hyung. What are you rambling about?”

Yunho lets out a frustrated groan into the fabric before turning onto his back, eyes darting toward the ceiling. It’s easier to say it when he’s not looking at his friend.

“I think I like Mingi.”

Wooyoung scoffs — not unexpected — and continues munching on his shrimp crackers. “Yeah, and?”

“You don’t get it, Woo. I really like him. I mean, like like.”

“Yeah, I mean, you spent half of yesterday’s dinner eye-fucking him, so it’s not exactly a shocker.”

Yunho bolts upright at that, turning toward him. Wooyoung’s arm stops halfway to his mouth, fingers stained orange with shrimp and spice powder. Somehow, the sight makes Yunho relax a little. If this chaotic little man manages to survive life unbothered, maybe he can too.

“How can you pretend that’s normal? This isn’t good news!” Yunho laments. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Well, first of all, stop eye-fucking him. He’s a douche. And the straightest guy I’ve ever seen. Have you seen his shoes? No man who likes dick would walk out wearing those.”

“Shut up, Woo. I’m serious,” Yunho mutters, pinching his friend’s shoulder. “This is not good. Not good at all. I’m actually freaking out over here.”

“Wow, relax, hyung.” Wooyoung’s tone softens, sincerity peeking through the teasing. “You probably just need to get it out of your system. I get it — pent-up frustration, an entire hotel full of hot dudes, your poor, single self. But that’s fine. You’ll just find somebody else to fuck and poof, it’ll all be better.”

Yunho refrains from pointing out that most of the “hot dudes” are middle-aged office workers Wooyoung himself refers to as “grandpas.”

“I don’t think it’s just that…” he admits, voice low. “I’ve been feeling something for a long time. Like, weeks. And I am not sexually frustrated, thank you very much.”

“Calm down, big boy, I know you get dick. I just meant it’s not the first time you’ve had a crush on someone out of reach, and you’ve always managed fine. Come on — you’re Yunho. Non-commitment Yunho. The guy who swore off serious relationships and still somehow still gets laid every Saturday night.”

Yunho lets the words sink in, silent for a few seconds. Maybe Wooyoung’s right. It’s true that he’s not the type to pine after someone; much less after someone who’s clearly unavailable. He’s never been into the whole hard-to-get thing. He prefers things easy, light; people who melt under his touch, who want him without thinking twice.

But instead of comfort, the thought brings something heavier.

Maybe this isn’t just lust. Maybe it’s not just about wanting. Maybe he’s intrigued too, in a way he never lets himself be. And that’s terrifying.

He’s not a man who chases romance, and he’s definitely not going to break that rule for a guy he actually has no chance with.

“I don’t get it,” he says finally, voice tight with frustration. “Why can’t I just get him out of my head?”

Wooyoung frowns. “Well, I don’t get it either. I know you’ve got a thing for pretty jocks who look like they’d cry when they come, but he’s still kind of an ass.”

Yunho hates how quickly he feels the need to defend him. “Don’t say that. We had fun yesterday, didn’t we?”

Wooyoung shrugs. “Sure. So what — do you want to try and fuck him ?”

“Woo!” Yunho exclaims, “He’s engaged!”

“Wow, calm down, Virgin Mary. I’m just trying to understand the situation. You’re not helping. So what’s your plan then?”

That silences Yunho. What is his plan?

He isn’t sure. He wants to be friends, apparently. That’s what he told Mingi last night.

Friends could work. Friends could make it easier.

Yunho’s never been attracted to his friends — that’s a line he doesn’t cross. Never once been interested in Wooyoung, no matter how many times San teased that he must’ve had a crush when they met in school as the only two openly gay boys around.

So yes, maybe friendship could fix it. He’ll satisfy his curiosity. He’ll discover Mingi’s little quirks, his annoying habits, his bad sides. He’ll meet the fiancée. He’ll see the reality of the man he’s been idealizing, and maybe it’ll all fade. And Mingi does look like he would need a good friend.

Yunho could be that friend, he decides. He’d love to bring Mingi to the restaurant, with Wooyoung and San perhaps. He’d love to see what lies underneath that shell of his. He’d love to see Mingi laugh more often, like he had a few times the night before. That would be beautiful. And Yunho is a good friend, after all.

“I think I want to be friends with him,” he says at last, voice steadier. “I think it could work. And no matter what you say, I really think he’s a good guy, Woo. He deserves a chance. Everyone does.”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away. He studies Yunho’s face, searching for something. When he finally speaks, his voice has lost its usual bite.

“Still,” he says quietly, “be careful, hyung. We’re both too old for the whole pining over married guys thing.”

 

The following days of the trip go surprisingly smoothly for Yunho.

That morning, he ends up falling back asleep again, and wakes up even later than planned, to a room still smelling faintly of shrimp crackers and artificial sea breeze from the air conditioning. Wooyoung is still half-buried under the sheets too, hair sticking out like a haystack, soft snores escaping him.

When they finally make it downstairs –late and apologetic-, the project reunion is already in motion. The wide conference room buzzes, chairs scraping against the marble floor. Someone’s fiddling with a microphone near the stage, and the logo of their department flashes lazily on the screen.

Yunho spots Mingi almost immediately—front row, posture straight, notebook open in front of him like the model employee he seems to be. Yunho finds himself staring for a second too long. Their eyes don’t meet, and he’s is thankful for that. It gives him the chance to turn away, to remind himself that friendship doesn’t start with longing stares across rows of chairs.

He and Wooyoung slip into the back like guilty students, whispering apologies to no one in particular.

 

The evening is nicer. Dinner is set up in the hotel garden, tables dressed with white linen and glass lanterns that sway in the sea breeze. There’s a low jazz band playing somewhere near the bar.

Yunho’s already seated with Wooyoung and two of the younger PR guys when he sees Mingi approach. The younger man hesitates a few steps away from the table, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes flickering between faces as if asking for permission. Yunho catches that silent question and before he can open his mouth, Wooyoung beats him to it.

“Take a seat,” Wooyoung says lightly, scooting his chair over.

Yunho’s grateful his friend is making an effort -for him, he knows-. His heart warms at the thought. Mingi nods, a small thanks on his lips, and slides into the seat.

The food comes out steaming; perfectly cooked beef, tender enough to melt against their tongues. No one orders alcohol tonight, just tall glasses of sparkling water catching the candlelight. The conversation flows between easy jokes and half-hearted work complaints. Mingi doesn’t talk much, but when he does, his voice is calm, calmer than usual, it seems to Yunho. No false bravado. His laughter comes shyly at first, then freer.

At some point, Yunho finds himself telling a story about Mr. Park — “He once made us all stay until 2 a.m. because he couldn’t decide if the report should be ‘Strategic Vision’ or ‘Visionary Strategy,’” Yunho says, half-laughing at the memory. “And then he changed it back the next morning.”

Mingi laughs at that too. And Yunho can’t help but looking over without meaning to, watching the curve of Mingi’s mouth as he hides his smile behind a hand. One of his front tooth is slightly longer than the other, the imperfection making the whole picture gentler.

Cute, Yunho thinks.

If it also makes him think about how adorable Mingi would be, squirming beneath his touch, crying as Yunho would make him feel so, so good, then it’s nobody’s business. These thoughts will die away, eventually, he tries to convince himself.

 

The next morning, Yunho does wake up on time for the seminar. It’s one of those sessions about productivity and emotional intelligence. By the time he arrives, the room is half full already, soft chatter bouncing off the high ceiling.

He spots Mingi again, one of the front rows, because that’s his thing, apparently. Oddly endearing. Glasses perched on his nose, a pen twirling between his fingers. Yunho hesitates for a second, then decides to take the empty seat beside him. If they’re going to be friends, this is how it starts.

Mingi looks up as he sits, a brief glance over the rim of his glasses. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice low but not cold.

“Slept well?” Yunho asks quietly.

Mingi shakes his head. “Not that well.”

“Insomniac?”

A small nod. The gesture looks tired. 

“Ah,” Yunho says softly. There’s more he’d like to say—how he wishes Mingi had knocked on his door instead, how they could have talked until the morning instead of him lying awake alone. That’s what friends do. That’s the type of friend Yunho is. But it’s too soon. Too much. He stays silent.

The seminar speaker is an odd man—short, loud, too proud of his own voice. He waves his hands dramatically at every bullet point, saying things like ‘communication is a mirror of the soul’. Yunho feels Mingi shift slightly beside him, and then, in a small, hesitant motion, the younger man leans a little closer.

“Does he realize his shirt’s see-through under the lights?” Mingi whispers, eyes still on the stage.

Yunho’s snort escapes before he can stop it and the people in front of them turn briefly. Mingi hides a laugh behind his hand, and Yunho can feel the ghost of it brushing his skin.

The scent of Mingi’s detergent is floral, clean and soft. Probably his fiancée’s, Yunho reminds himself.

When the seminar ends, Mingi turns to him with a quiet smile. It’s brief, barely there, but Yunho feels it linger long after.

Wooyoung passes by them on the way out, raising an eyebrow that clearly says, Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Yunho ignores it. He’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Still, that day too, he decides it’s better not to drink.

 

The final day of the trip arrives quietly. Most of it is spent working: review sessions, short meetings, a blur of polite small talk.

The evening, though, is dedicated to celebration. The menu is all about grilled seafood, and that goes along with wine too well for anybody to pass on the occasion. There’s even a karaoke machine brought up, and Yunho knows at the very sight of it that the night will be memorable.

Mr. Park insists on singing first; old city pop classics, performed with an alarming –and frankly exaggerated- level of confidence. The crowd cheers him on.

Wooyoung elbows Yunho at some point, whispering, “If you don’t perform Backstreet Boys with me, you’re never coming over for diner again.” And so Yunho does. “I Want It That Way.” He belts it out dramatically, voice deep and a little off-key, Wooyoung harmonizing beside him. Everyone laughs, and even Mingi’s grin stretches wide enough that his eyes crinkle.

For the first time since they’ve met, Yunho realizes he hasn’t seen Mingi frown all day. There’s something peaceful in that—watching him relaxed, shoulders uncurled, eyes brighter. It fills Yunho with a sense of pride, though he can’t explain why. Maybe because friendship can do that too—make someone’s weight feel a little lighter.

 

Later, the party moves to the pool bar. The last few lingerers remain, voices softer now, music fading into background hum. The night air is thick with warmth. Lanterns float lazily above the water, their reflections trembling with every ripple. The palms whisper in the wind. 

Yunho finds himself sitting by the edge of the pool with Wooyoung and Mingi. Their feet dangle in the cool water, trousers rolled up. Wooyoung sits in the middle, still finishing a glass of wine, humming whatever song they’d last sung. Yunho’s grateful for the small distance between himself and Mingi. It keeps things safe.

Mingi looks handsome, tonight. His hair’s slightly tousled from the heat, his linen shirt loose at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s something easier than usual about him; his posture, his smile. He asks Wooyoung questions about their old school years, about how they all met.

Yunho feels strangely proud watching the two of them talk. The progress is small, but real.

Then, Wooyoung’s phone buzzes. He smiles checking at the name, and Yunho knows who it is on the spot. “Oh, that’s my sign to go to bed.” But the younger man pauses before he leaves. His gaze flicks between them—Yunho and Mingi—and something wordless passes through it. A question. A warning. Is this fine? Should I stay?

Yunho smiles and nods gently. He wishes he could just say it; that things will be okay. That this doesn’t have to be pathetic. That he’s enjoying this, and that perhaps, if he stays at a distance for long enough, he could eventually stop thinking about the delicate curve of Mingi’s lips.

Wooyoung hesitates, then smiles and steps away, phone pressed to his ear. His chirping voice fades into the dark.

The silence that follows is gentle, only broken when Mingi starts lightly batting his legs in the water, sending ripples across the pool’s surface. A moth circles one of the lanterns, wings trembling in the light.

Mingi shifts, moving slightly closer, where Wooyoung had been sitting. Yunho tries hard not to stare at where the younger man’s thighs peek out from his rolled up pants. Beautiful thighs, Yunho notices. Nice and thick, and maybe he does want to squeeze their flesh a little. He’s not too far, so he actually could, he realizes. But that wouldn’t be good.

He forces his eyes back on the water. The blue light from the pool casts strange shadows all over.

Mingi’s voice is lower when it rises again, tinged with a sort of shyness again, it seems. “You and Wooyoung,” he says after a pause. “You guys have a beautiful friendship.”

Yunho smiles at that. “Yeah. He can be a handful sometimes, but he and San are probably the best friends I could ever ask for.”

Mingi nods slowly. “How long have they been together?”

“Five years,” Yunho says.

“Wow.”

It’s quiet again, just the sound of the night stretching around them.

Then Mingi moves slightly, leaning back on his hands. His right lands just next to Yunho’s. Brushes it. Stays there. A small touch—light enough that it could be nothing. Could be an accident. Yunho tells himself not to think too much of it.

But Mingi doesn’t move it away. His fingers stay, just there, barely touching.

Yunho’s heartbeat jumps. Is it intentional? He doesn’t know.

It wouldn’t make sense. It would go against all the resolve that he’s been building over the week. Still, something restless stirs inside him, and before he can stop himself, he shifts just enough for his own fingers to graze Mingi’s hand. Same thing. Innocent. Barely a touch. Almost nothing.

Mingi still doesn’t move, and Yunho’s throat feels fry.

Maybe Mingi’s ignoring it. Maybe he’s being polite.

But then the younger man’s thumb moves. Just slightly. Presses down against Yunho’s skin—one small, but this time unmistakably deliberate motion.

At that, Yunho’s mind goes utterly blank.

It is intentional.

And it destroys every bit of certainty he’s tried to build these past few days.

Has something shifted? Was it always there? What does it mean?

Mingi’s gaze stays on the pool, pretending to be detached. But Yunho spots the way the younger man’s breathing has turned just a little more hectic.

He wants to move closer. Wants to ask questions. Does he realize how hard this is for him? How Yunho’s fighting every instinct, every quiet urge to just lean in and take. Lean in and ravish.

How easy it would be to make Mingi fall apart under his tongue.

So many thoughts rise, bloom, and wither before they can reach his mouth. He keeps them buried, where they belong for now. Instead, he stays still. He lets the younger man’s hand rest beneath his own, unmoving.

He tries not to think too much about the way the cool silver of Mingi’s ring clashes against the warmth of his skin.

At least now he has the certitude: he is going to devour Mingi whole.

Notes:

Hi loves! Hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter! as always, feel free to share your thoughts in the comment section! your support means the world to me <3

Also, I am aware that Mingi’s silly little front tooth was just fixed. I am, however, choosing to ignore that for this story’s sake, because if I am obsessed with his tooth, then so will be Yunho (and mostly because this chapter was written BEFORE the news came out heh)

Things are progressing rather slowly for now, but don’t worry; we’re still at the very beginning of this story (which will definitely be longer than I expected, lol). We’ll officially be entering the heart of the fic in the next chapter (probably coming on Thursday).

See you soon for the next chapter, which will pick up right where we left our dear Yungi, but this time, from Mingi’s POV! <3

Chapter 5: Freefall

Notes:

This is the first long chapter, as we’re finally getting into the heart of this story! I hope you guys are still enjoying the process; I very much still am!

ALSO, from now on, we’re getting into the explicit sexual content, so PLEASE do not read if you’re uncomfortable with that type of content, and do read the tags carefully.

Mingi’s quite sure he’s dying.

He isn’t the most adventurous person, but he has found himself in risky situations before.

There was that time when he was fourteen, vacationing in the mountains with his family, and decided it would be a good idea to go off-piste skiing; only to stop barely at the edge of a cliff, his legs trembling with fear, exhaustion, and the certainty that he had almost fallen.

Then there was the first time he had a panic attack, before his first baseball game in high school. He hadn’t understood what was happening when his breathing started to quicken and grow erratic as he was putting on his jersey. He’d excused himself and gone out for air, too shy to fall apart in front of his teammates. He ended up folded in half under the bleachers, chest heaving, throat constricting over his own spit—and for a minute, he truly thought he would pass out and die there, under the echoing sound of the crowd that had gathered to cheer them on.

And there was the time he came back from work very late, back in Seoul, arguing with Eunah over the phone. He had crossed the street carelessly, without looking twice. A car appeared from behind a parked truck and braked so brutally, so loudly, that Mingi’s ears rang with the echo of it.

But somehow, suddenly, all those moments feel like light work compared to the touch of Yunho’s hand against his own.

Yunho’s skin is soft. Softer than expected. Yet again, it shouldn’t be so surprising—Yunho is full of contradictions. The softest eyes, paired with a dangerous gaze. The gentlest gestures, that somehow take the shape of something obscene in Mingi’s poor, restless brain.

Yunho’s skin is cooler than his own, sending shivers erupting over Mingi’s arms and down his spine. Or perhaps it’s not the temperature at all, perhaps it’s just the older man’s presence that does that to his body.

Mingi can’t even begin to grasp how he dared reach out. How he dared place his trembling hand so close to Yunho’s. How he hasn’t died already; out of shame, panic, guilt, and every other emotion known to mankind.

It makes no sense, because he’d been doing so well. The past few days have been a steady progress of building something nice and innocent. A friendship, the older man had said.

After Yunho had said he wanted to be his friend, Mingi had thought it could all fall together and make sense. Of course, it had hurt a little —felt a little like rejection— to have him offer such a proper, innocent solution, just as Mingi’s mind was starting to accept that he’d been dying to kiss the older man, kiss him until his lungs were empty and his mind blank. But it had also seemed like the best thing to do, because these thoughts in themselves were madness.

Insanity.

Not Mingi’s. Couldn’t possibly be.

Mingi isn’t into Yunho. Mingi isn’t into guys. Mingi is soon to be married, and in love with his fiancée, although they haven’t really called this week.

And his drunken, lost thoughts don’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things.

Being Yunho’s friend for a few days has felt good. Mingi did have fun. Yunho is funny and kind and easy to be around. He talks easily and makes the days feel shorter. It’s not so intimidating, facing all these unfamiliar faces with Yunho beside him. It’s easier to talk to other people too, when Yunho’s seated close, watching over him with that endlessly kind smile of his.

But Mingi also wishes he didn’t have to talk to all those people. Every time he’s found himself seated next to the taller man this week, he’s thought of nothing more than the urge to just be with him. Alone. Nobody else. To have Yunho’s eyes on his own, because they always feel so clever, so lucid, unlike his. Perhaps Yunho could clear his fogginess. Help him through the mist. Guide him.

Maybe if Mingi told him about all these tangled thoughts in his brain, Yunho could help. He looks like he wants to help.

And sometimes, Mingi thinks maybe the older man shares some of these thoughts. He doesn’t look hazy or overwhelmed by them, but his eyes linger. They linger too long on the curve of Mingi’s throat, and that makes him shiver, because it feels a little like Yunho is about to devour him whole.

So in the end, though he feels like dying, Mingi thinks it was inevitable that things would end up like this. Hand over hand. Skin burning with too many things. Maybe he’d been doomed to fall from the very first time his eyes caught on the spark in the older man’s gaze.

What does he do, next? Mingi wonders.

He doesn’t dare look at Yunho. That would probably kill him for good.

He can only sit there, pray, and hope the older man doesn’t notice how badly he’s shaking; so much that the water ripples slightly around his legs.

Yunho’s hand feels so steady under his own. Veined, too. Mingi can feel the faint ridges under the skin, delicately mapped, luring him closer. He wants to kiss them. Take them inside his mouth.

What would Yunho do, then?

It would make sense for Yunho to do something. Because Yunho is attracted to him, isn’t he?

He has to be; otherwise he would have slipped his hand away. Gently, of course, because he’d never want to hurt Mingi. Yunho’s sweet like that. But he would have done something. Not just stayed there, composed as always. It’s a little infuriating, how fine Yunho seems with all this. Sure, he had startled a little when Mingi’s hand fell upon his own, but his shoulders —beautiful shoulders— had almost immediately relaxed, and his breathing has been steady ever since.

Mingi wants to nuzzle against his beautiful shoulders. Crazy thoughts. Thoughts he never has with Eunah. He chases her name away with a flick of his mind.

He startles slightly when Yunho breaks the silence.

“How are you?” Yunho asks, voice low yet gentle.

How could Mingi possibly answer that?

He’s dying, he thinks. Craving more. What exactly, he isn’t sure.

But Yunho knows, doesn’t he? Why is he asking? How cruel of him. How lovely, too. Does he want Mingi to say it all? To spell it out? That his mind is fuzzy and useless and filled with nothing but him—how badly he’s been wanting him?

“Are you drunk?” Yunho clarifies, as if he can read his mind.

Mingi finds himself giggling, suddenly feeling stupid for having his heart race like that, panicking over the thought of Yunho asking him to confess his most secret desires. But Yunho isn’t asking for any of that, he realizes. Yunho is making things easy. Easy for him. Always does. The thought makes his head spin a little.

He nods.

There’s a pinch in his chest when Yunho’s hand slips away from his own.

“Let’s get you to sleep then, okay? We’re waking up early for the flight tomorrow.”

Mingi doesn’t dare look up at the other man’s face. His heart bleeds a little as the moment crumbles, but he also feels infinitely grateful that Yunho is doing this, letting his thoughts settle down, not asking too much, even though Mingi knows he could.

He takes Yunho’s hand when the taller man offers it, gently easing up to his feet.

There’s a respectful distance between them –too big for Mingi’s liking– as they walk back inside the hotel.

The hallways are empty, and the main lights have been turned off, leaving only small wall lamps casting a soft orange hue along the walls. It’s so quiet that Mingi can only focus on the sound of his steps, muffled by the carpet. Yunho’s too. He hears his own breathing as well, too loud, too uneven. It doesn’t surprise him.

Yunho walks him to his bedroom door and stops there, a meter away. Far enough not to see inside when Mingi punches in his code and opens the door clumsily. His heart tightens again when he turns back to Yunho.

The older man looks so handsome in the gentle orange light. His button-up is untucked from his pants, a little wet from the pool at the hem. His hair is messy from how many times he’s pushed it away from his forehead in that smooth motion of his. His lips are curled. His eyes look heavy, but the spark in them still shines. What a gaze. Mingi feels himself shiver under it.

Curious. Distant enough to set a boundary Mingi knows he won’t cross. Knowing.

Yunho knows, he realizes.

And Mingi knows too, he’s certain of it now. He knows what he wants. He wants Yunho. Just a taste. Just once, perhaps. Not now, though. Yunho has made that clear.

Yunho knows too. He knows, and he looks at peace with it. Content. Playful, even.

Devastating.

Mingi should be terrified with all that lays underneath. All the things he had never dared to name. But somehow he can’t stop smiling. His mind feels fuzzy. All because of Yunho’s eyes.

“Good night, Mingi,” Yunho whispers into the quiet, with a small nod.

He turns before Mingi can reply, disappearing around the corner of the corridor.

Mingi’s heart is thumping in his chest as he closes the door behind him. His hands tremble as he takes off his shirt, folding it carefully on top of his suitcase. The suitcase is ready to be closed. Ready to take off. Tomorrow. Tomorrow this strange escapade will be over.

Mingi doesn’t want it to be.

Tomorrow he’ll freak out and panic and realize that none of this is fine.

Tonight, though, he slips under the covers, eyes heavy with the memory of Yunho’s burning gaze.

 

Mingi wakes up late.

For a few minutes, there’s no space for thoughts. Just the blurred panic of the alarm he’s already snoozed twice, the suitcase, the dry throat that still tastes of alcohol. He’s rushing —shower, shirt, passport, room key check— and it’s almost a relief that his brain doesn’t have the time to catch up.

The crushing weight of everything that happened, or almost happened, doesn’t hit him until they’re at the airport. Until, in the middle of the moving crowd and the sterile smell of coffee and disinfectant, he spots Yunho for the first time that morning.

Yunho is smiling. Talking with Wooyoung and a few others, shoulders relaxed. He greets Mingi, his tone easy, friendly, nothing strange about it. Something in Mingi’s chest twists hard.

The ease. The ease in Yunho’s posture, Yunho’s eyes, Yunho’s air. The ease of a man who has nothing to hide. Nothing to be ashamed of. Which only makes sense: Yunho didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t do anything besides being nice and kind and polite, and perhaps looking at Mingi with those damned eyes that made the younger man lose his mind.

All of that only leads Mingi to a conclusion: the mess in his head is his very own. All the trembling, the heat under his skin, the breath that refuses to even out, it’s all his doing. Shame crawls in, sour and suffocating. He’s the one who wanted it. The one who reached out.

Yunho knows. Yunho probably wants it too. But he doesn’t have to be ashamed of it. It just seems to make sense, for him, to fall in place like a perfectly rhythmed machine. Mingi’s own soul is more of an endless domino.

Because he isn’t like this, normally. Attracted to men. Or a cheater, for what it’s worth.

He’s been telling himself for the whole week, but it doesn’t seem like his body is willing to register any of it.

He’s officially losing his damn mind.

They end up standing in the same small circle of coworkers, waiting for boarding to begin. Mingi barely hears the conversation. His gaze keeps pulling toward Yunho’s face, searching for a sign, a crack in that polite expression. Nothing. Yunho’s smiling, pretty and composed, expression bearing no trace of fatigue. Entirely quiet and normal.

For a brief moment, Mingi starts to wonder if he’s not truly going insane. If he hasn’t hallucinated the past evening, because there’s no way that Yunho’s just standing here like that, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, after ruining Mingi’s soul a little.

There’s no way he doesn’t want more.

No way he doesn’t feel the same hunger and chaos and desperation that Mingi’s drowning into.

Mingi’s starting to think he really dreamed the whole thing, until their eyes meet once more.

For just a second, Yunho’s gaze darkens, the curve of his mouth twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile. It goes straight to Mingi’s spine, crawls inside him, and digs a hole in his chest, burning but sweet, molten lave.

That split moment is enough to let him know. Yunho knows. Yunho remembers.

Yunho has no regrets.

Mingi thinks he doesn’t really either.

 

On the plane, Yunho offers for Mingi to sit with them. The younger man accepts, naturally.

Wooyoung hurries to claim the window seat. Mingi doesn’t argue. He lets Yunho take the middle seat, and settles with much gratitude for the aisle one. Anything else would feel too dangerous anyways. He can’t be caged in. Needs an escape, from all the danger of Yunho’s eyes and his movements and his honeyed voice. Mingi’s melting already under the weight of it.

Yunho adjusts his posture besides him, long legs folding into the narrow space with a half groan. The younger man deliberately choses to ignore the shivers that the sound sends down his spine. The brush of Yunho’s knee against Mingi’s thigh feels deliberate even though it probably isn’t. Probably. Hopefully. Because anything else would mean that Yunho’s playing with him, and that would mean the death of him. Mingi’s pulse flares all the same.

His phone chimes just before departure. A message from Eunah: Safe flight!

He stares at it for a few seconds before locking his screen without answering. Can’t think of her right now. Not yet. The trip isn’t over yet, and reality doesn’t exist for now.

 

Wooyoung falls asleep just after take-off, head tilted against the window, soft snores drowned by the hum of the engines. Mingi is thankful for the small mercy of it: at least no one will notice the quiet chaos simmering under his skin.

He takes out his book. Every few seconds, his eyes flick to the side, catching the movement of Yunho’s leg shifting, the brief flex of his hand against his knee, against the newspaper he’s reading. Beautiful hands. Hands that were touching his own under the moonlight, mere hours ago. Mingi reads the same line five times and still can’t make sense of it.

It takes him about twenty minutes to decide that he’ll have to confront it all, eventually. And that this flight is probably his last chance to do so. After the flight, he’ll he back to life. The office. The rules. Eunah. Going home to a shared apartment, instead of the cocoon of his hotel room. This is the last moment suspended outside of it all.

Part of him knows it would be easier to let it pass by, because reality will mean the temptation dying out, or at least being deafened out by the burning weight of responsibilities. Perhaps if Mingi just continues to pretend nothing has happened, to pretend he’s reading his book, to pretend his entire body isn’t aching for more, everything can still go back to normal.

Only normalcy doesn’t seem so sweet anymore. No matter how awful it is to accept it, Mingi wants it. Wants more. Wants something tangible to happen.

Something he knows could ruin him forever. Or maybe cure him. Maybe after trying, just once, he’ll be quenched. Maybe it’s just one of these things everybody needs to experience once in a lifetime.

It’s too late to know anyways. He just knows he has to take the jump.

He has to talk to Yunho.

He drops his book onto his lap carefully, clears his throat, once, then again. He dares looking at the other man.

Yunho is reading the in-flight newspaper. He doesn’t look up. Mingi’s eyes linger on the line of his throat, the soft movement of it as he swallows.

The younger man clears his throat again, this time louder.

Yunho glances at him briefly, that same faint, knowing smile flickering across his lips before he looks back down at the page again.

The audacity.

“Yunho,” Mingi says finally, his voice low, barely audible over the engines.

“Yes?” Yunho turns to him, calm as ever. His lips are still curled. There’s something dangerous in the false innocence of it. Something feline.

“I…” Mingi starts, then stops. His mouth is dry. His heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts.

Yunho’s smile deepens, still small, amused, but not unkind. “Do you need something?”

Mingi refrains a groan. Yes, he wants to say. You know what I need. But the words stick to the back of his tongue, sour with frustration and shame. How can Yunho look so composed, so unbothered, when Mingi feels like he’s coming undone just sitting next to him?

Does he think this is all very amusing?

Fuck him.

“Forget it,” Mingi mutters, the edge of defeat bitter in his voice.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and stands up too quickly, clumsily making his way to the bathroom. The aisle feels too long, every step too aware. He just wants to hide away as quickly as possible.

Inside the cramped airplane bathroom, he splashes cold water on his face, breathing hard. His reflection looks wrong, pale, unfocused, pupils wide like he’s still somehow half-drunk.

He grips the sink, leans closer to the mirror. “Get your shit together,” he mutters under his breath.

A soft knock at the door startles him.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, turning off the tap. “One minute.”

Another knock. Louder this time.

He opens the door with a frown, irritation halfway to his lips, and stops dead.

Yunho’s standing there.

For a few heartbeats, neither of them speaks. Mingi steps back automatically, his body moving before his mind can even catch up. Yunho steps inside, closes the door quietly behind him. The tiny space feels even smaller now. The older man’s woody cologne fills the air between them. Mingi feels himself getting drunk on it instantly.

Yunho remains silent for some seconds, eyes boring into the younger man’s. A feline about to jump on its prey, Mingi thinks.

The older man’s first movement is slow, and deliberate, as if he wants to let Mingi realize. Give him a chance to refuse, run away. Still, his hand lifts, fingers brushing against Mingi’s jaw. Not quite a touch, just enough to make Mingi freeze. His eyes flutter close.

He knows that there’s no going back.

 “Is this what you needed?” Yunho asks, voice soft, although it still bears some of that previous playfulness.

Mingi wants to swear at him. Insult him for thinking this is all very funny, when Mingi feels like his soul is crumbling apart. He wants to yell, to ask how Yunho has dared to poison him like that. But his knees feel weak and his throat is closed up. His pulse is deafening.

He nods.

The hand appears again against his jaw, firmer this time, followed by another palm cupping at his cheek. Yunho’s fingers feel cold against his burning skin, they’re cold and soft and grounding, yet they send Mingi flying away in the sky, much much higher still, far above the clouds and the plane and the atmosphere. For a brief instant of anticipations, eyes still pressed shut, he’s amongst the stars, and they shine so brightly all around him.

And then Yunho is kissing him. And suddenly, just like that, Mingi’s back inside the plane.

It’s odd, being kissed from above. It feels different to receive a kiss falling from up top, like soft summer rain, instead of having to lean in and press a kiss himself. This is easier. Effortless. Impossibly gentler. It’s so beautiful, not having to lead—just falling and receiving. He doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to think at all, he realizes, just as all his thoughts melt away into a warm, white fuzziness.

There’s just sensations remaining.

Yunho’s lips, pressed against his, soft and unmoving. They taste sweet, somehow. Mingi’s own lips part out of instinct, surrendering, offering themselves to the other man.

Yunho’s mouth moves, gentle, still, he presses another skin, deeper. And another. Just lips. Then a tongue, parting Mingi’s lips further, slipping inside, licking at the smoothness of his gums.

A hand, then, slipping from his jaw to the nape of his neck, careful yet firm. Slipping slower, down his spine, to the small of his back.

Shivers all over, and a free fall. Now he’s dropping —far, far below— falling so dangerously fast. But he can’t possibly worry about the crash, not when the fall is so dizzying. So he keeps on falling, falling and falling and falling, into the touch and the taste.

Yunho’s cologne is all around him, inside his air too, it seems. It’s filling his lungs, seeping into his blood, slowing down the rhythm his heart.

Slowly, Yunho’s lips detach themselves, but his left hand is still there, cupping Mingi’s waist.

“Mingi,” the older man’s voice calls gently.

Mingi isn’t ready to land. He wants —he needs— to keep on falling. The fall is too sweet. It makes the air finally breathable. Can’t let thoughts come back. When the fall is over, he’ll crash and burn, and life will go back to how it usually is, heavy on his chest.

“Mingi,” Yunho calls again, warm and low. Firm, too.

Mingi’s eyes flutter open to face another gaze, closer than he’d expected. Close enough to be a proof that all of it really happened. That the ghost still lingering inside Mingi’s mouth, lodged under his tongue, between his teeth, isn’t a mirage.

He blinks, then again, and again, and Yunho’s face is still there.

“Is this okay?” Yunho asks.

He’s so close, so handsome even under the harsh neon light. The two moles under his right eye are still there. His hand slips away from Mingi’s back, and drops back to his side.

Now that they’ve parted, Mingi’s landing. Back to that too small room. Yunho’s body isn’t so close anymore, and the warm wood of his cologne has been replaced by the ambient and pungent chlorine.

“Mingi?” Yunho asks again, bringing him further back to reality, carefully, though.

Mingi’s throat is still tight and dry. He nods. The other man lets out a small giggle at that, it’s cute and unbearable and once again Mingi doesn’t know how Yunho doesn’t look devastated right now.

“You’re not very good at using your words, are you?” he adds in a mocking tone.

“Shut up,” it comes out of Mingi’s lips as a groan, more pathetic than he’d been aiming for.

Yunho’s eyebrows rise at that, and his expression turns into something a little sly. He takes a step back, his gaze traveling down Mingi’s body, taking him in. Mingi realizes he’s shaking. He needs to hide. Hide away, quickly.

“Was that all you needed?” Yunho asks.

Mingi feels the urge to punch that satisfied smile off of his pretty face. But the urge to melt under his gaze is stronger, still.

His thoughts are back to racing. Racing and racing and racing. He’s landed back on earth, he realizes. And he’s fallen far too deep into a crater.

“Yeah,” he mutters, aiming for something confidence. It comes out a little too meek.

“And how was that?” Yunho asks, eyes blinking back into something innocent. Mingi doesn’t believe any of that, though.

He shrugs. “Fine.” Life-changing, he omits.

Yunho doesn’t seem upset by his clipped reply, though. “Okay,” his smile grows bigger. “I guess I’ll leave you then.”

Mingi nods again. Can’t take the risk to speak. Can’t take the risk to let out anything.

Yunho leaves the room with an air of carelessness that Mingi can’t begin to comprehend. He closes the door without turning back, leaving the younger man alone with his reflection staring right back at him.

The mirror has grown a little foggy with their air, but he can still see enough to decipher the vague shape of his silhouette. His hair is a little messy, he doesn’t know when that happened, and his face is flushed red. He tries his best to ignore the very obvious bulge in his pants; can’t address that now.

By the time he gets back to his seat, Yunho’s eyes are closed, and he looks like he’s sleeping. He looks almost angelic, dark eyelashes fanning over pale skin. Mingi could almost believe that he truly is an angel, if not for the feline smile that lingers on his lips.

 

“Is it overcooked?” Eunah asks, eyes furrowed in what seems more like annoyance than concern.

“No, not at all. It’s perfect. Thank you,” Mingi replies, poking at one of the caramelized pork slices that lay on his plate.

“Well, you don’t seem to like it that much,” she adds, her tone clearly upset now.

It’s rare for Eunah, to still care so much, Mingi thinks. She used to be very stubborn about it all. When she would see something that wasn’t exactly how she wanted it —isn’t exactly right, as she put it— she wanted to talk about it. Mingi felt like a coward for preferring to avoid conflict. Perhaps in the end he wasn’t so wrong, because it seems like she too, has given up, over time. But today out of all days, for some reason, there’s that clever perception in her again.

It feels like she’s seeing right through his every movement. Right through his guilt-heavy eyes.

 “I do, honey. I really do. I’m just tired. It was a long week.”

“Well, it was a long week for me too,” she says, dropping her chopsticks at the edge of her plate. Her pretty features are curled in a small frown. She looks angry, but Mingi knows it’s more hurt than anything else.

She’s not going to eat anymore now, Mingi knows that already. He knows it’s his fault too. And it does make his chest heavier. He should reach out, cup her soft cheek. She likes contact; she’s always liked it. He should tell her she’s amazing for cooking for him when she doesn’t even like cooking. She rarely does it, and they’re fine with takeout and instant food most of the time. She truly did her best, and the food is good.

It’s just that Mingi’s throat feels too dry still, and he thinks he’ll throw up if anything enters his stomach.

It’s too late anyway. Now Eunah’s upset, and it’s just going to be one of those nights.

She will wait for a comfort Mingi doesn’t know how to give her. She’ll be quiet for the rest of the evening, and since Mingi isn’t much of a talker anyway, the house will just remain silent. Quiet and motionless, perhaps for one day or two. And then, it will get back to normal. And normal is fine.

That last part doesn’t feel so tangible anymore, though.

Mingi isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to go back to normal.

He probably won’t be able to look Eunah in the eyes ever again. That will make her sad, he knows. But he can’t take that risk. If she looks, she’ll see it; the stain. The stain on his lips, on his waist, on his soul.

“Just put what you don’t eat back in the fridge. I’ll go shower.” She stands up swiftly, her footsteps quiet on the carpeted floor.

Mingi puts his entire plate back in the fridge.

 

Mingi can’t sleep.

It’s well past two in the morning, and the ceiling above him looks almost luminous in the dark; a ghostly white that only comes from the streetlight outside filtering through the blinds. The air feels thick. The clock on the bedside table ticks too loudly, its rhythm syncing with his heart and then faltering.

Eunah isn’t there, at least. He couldn’t face her right now. She’s asleep on the couch, at a safe distance. She had fallen asleep there before he even got out of the shower, her body curled under the throw blanket, her hair fanned across the cushion. Mingi had stood there for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall, wondering how something so familiar could suddenly feel so far away. He’d thought about carrying her back to bed, but his arms wouldn’t move. He was scared that if he touched her, something inside him would start screaming.

So now he’s lying alone in bed. The sheets feel foreign. The pillow smells faintly like her shampoo. It makes him sad.

He kissed a man.

The words repeat in his head like a pulse. He kissed a man. He kissed Yunho.

And even though the thought makes his throat tighten, he can’t seem to feel any regret. None. He’s tried to summon it, to feel the horror he knows he should —for Eunah, for everything they’ve built, for what it means— but all that comes is this soft, dizzy ache that sits right under his ribs. Guilt, yes. Crushing, all-consuming guilt. But no regret.

Because in a split second before his brain caught up, before the world existed again, it had felt like breathing.

Like he’d stumbled upon the truth he’d always been searching for, the ugly rot he never could name.

And now that it has a name, it’s burning through him.

Dirty.
Dirty and wrong.

His chest hurts.

His breathing is shallow and short. Harsh inhales that can’t seem to reach his lungs.

He sits up, pressing a hand to his sternum as if he could push the panic back inside, but it doesn’t work. The room tilts and the shadows seem to close in, closer and closer again.

He opens his mouth desperately, but the air refuses him. There’s the ghost of lips instead. The ghost of a tongue, invading his mouth, stealing his air away. Poisoning him with the sweetest poison. He swallows and it catches.

His fingers tremble. He stares at them.

The first thought is that he’s dying. It always feels that way.
Heart too fast, too loud.
Ears ringing.
Vision speckled with white.

He forces himself off the bed, stumbling to the window. Opens it. Cold air rushes in, cutting against his skin. He gasps it in greedily, but it’s still not enough.

He presses his forehead to the glass, and it’s cool, mercifully so.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to cry but can’t. Wants to disappear but can’t.

He slides down to the floor, palms pressed flat against the hardwood. Feel something real. Focus on it.

Count.
One.
Two.
Three.

His heart is bleeding out.

It hurts, it hurts too much.

If this is what his truth is, then he doesn’t want it. He can’t have it. Can’t face it. Can’t live it. There’s no place for it in the life he’s built, no air for it to breathe.

So he tells himself he’ll have to bottle it down, seal it tight somewhere deep, where no one can see.

He slipped once. Gave in to the part of himself he’s always tried to ignore—the restless, aching, desperate part. But that moment is gone now. It has to be. He has to erase it, bury it beneath all the other things he’s learned to forget.

Otherwise, he’ll keep on drowning. Keep breaking, and breaking again, until there’s nothing left of him to rebuild.

There’s no other way. He just has to swallow it all down. Forget.

When he wakes in the morning, Eunah has moved back into the bed. She’s curled up against his side, her head resting lightly on his shoulder, her breath steady and warm against his skin. His heart bleeds a little more.

 

Mingi knows he’s lost the very second he sees Yunho again.

It all happens so quickly; the tall figure walks into the office with that familiar, gentle confidence. Yunho passes by his desk, offers him a small, easy smile; warm, knowing, irresistible, and Mingi feels the sharp prickle run up his spine.

That’s all it takes. One look, one smile, and he knows. It’s no use pretending. He’s already gone. There’s no regret. No going back.

Still, a pathetic, despaired, honest part of him tries.

For the entire day, he clings to the illusion of control, forces himself to stare at spreadsheets that blur into nonsense, answers emails without reading them twice. His hands jitter every time footsteps approach, heart kicking up at every sound of Yunho’s voice across the room. All he can think of is Yunho — Yunho’s smile, Yunho’s hands, Yunho’s mouth. It’s maddening.

He tells himself he can manage this. If Yunho’s okay with pretending nothing has ever happened, so can he. He’s the one who ended it before it even began in the first place, isn’t he? He should be able to live with that. It’s the best solution anyways.

But when the day ends, and the office starts emptying out, his body betrays him. His feet walk him to Yunho’s desk before his mind even registers the decision.

Yunho looks up, unsurprised. He’s back in his usual attire; crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, tie a little loose around his neck. He looks calm. Steady. Like nothing at all is wrong.

“Can I help you?” Yunho asks, his tone even, polite.

“I… I think we need to talk,” Mingi says, surprised by how steady his voice sounds.

“Okay,” Yunho nods. “Sure. That would be good.”

There’s a pause, heavy and awkward. Mingi stands there like an idiot, eyes darting anywhere but the man in front of him. He’s grateful when Yunho speaks again.

“Are you free for dinner, maybe?”

 

The restaurant is small and quiet. A beautiful place, confidential. Well-picked. Thoughtfully so, like everything about Yunho, apparently.

Mingi’s grateful for it.

“So,” Yunho says after the waiter leaves them with two glasses of water. “You wanted to talk?”

His voice is careful; steady, but gentle. Mingi recognizes the kindness in his tone with a growing gratitude. Yunho is giving him space, letting him choose the tempo, the boundaries. He’s being kind again, and it makes Mingi want to scream.

“I’m… I’m engaged,” he says finally, feeling stupid the moment the words leave his mouth.

Yunho snorts softly, amused. “Well, yeah, I know that.”

Mingi stares at him. The curve of Yunho’s lips isn’t mocking; not this time. There’s curiosity there, and something else, quieter. He’s studying Mingi’s face, maybe trying to understand where this is all going. He doesn’t look as in control as Mingi had always thought. He might be a little lost too.

“I’m sorry,” Mingi mutters. His throat feels dry. His words sound clumsy, childish. Yunho always does this to him, strips away the part of him that knows how to act, how to hide.

“Look, Mingi,” Yunho says softly. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? You’re not the first married guy—” Mingi winces at the word, but Yunho doesn’t pause. “—who slips and messes up. I get it. I’m not judging you. I like you —you know I do— but I don’t expect anything from you.”

The words are warm and sincere. Too kind. They melt something inside Mingi. He had expected this to be the hardest thing he’d ever have to face, but suddenly, it doesn’t feel so unbearable. It’s warm, even. Maybe it’s the soft flicker of the candles between them. Maybe it’s just Yunho.

“I loved kissing you,” Yunho says after a beat, his voice lower now. “I’ve been wanting to, very much, for a very long time. And I think you wanted it too. That’s why I did it.”

Mingi feels his neck burn. His pulse in his ears. He can’t even deny it, so he just nods, slow and wordless.

“But I don’t want to cause you any trouble,” Yunho adds, quietly. “And as far as I’m concerned, this can stop here.”

The words are spoken soft, but they fall horridly harshly on Mingi’s ears.

That’s what Mingi wanted, wasn’t it? The clean solution. The way out. Yunho’s giving him the door, wide open, all he has to do is step through.

But suddenly, it feels like stepping off a cliff. He can’t lose it. Not now. Not just after he’s finally found something so bright and dark and intoxicating.

“I…” he starts, but the words crumble before they form. His throat tightens.

He hopes Yunho can’t read the panic in his eyes. Can’t see how pathetic he is.

“But you don’t want that, do you?” Yunho asks gently, his hand brushing over Mingi’s on the table.

The touch is feather-light, but Mingi feels it everywhere.

“No,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “I don’t.” He swallows hard, staring at where their hands connect.

 

Mingi’s mind is fuzzy again, slipping away.

He doesn’t exactly remember the chain of event that brought him to this bed, in a seedy love hotel with a lingering smell that he’d hate and obsess over in any other context. What he knows is that as soon as he admitted to Yunho that he wasn’t ready to let him go, his entire body turned back to fire.

It’s been growing and growing over the dinner, threatening to consume him entirely, pushing him to the very edge, until this very moment. It’s been getting louder and louder and so loud he couldn’t focus on Yunho’s words anymore, and suddenly, it’s all quiet again.

He’s seated on Yunho’s lap, facing him in a way that would be horribly embarrassing if he could think at all. But that’s not the case for now, so he just takes in the light of the other man’s gaze. He bathes in the taller man’s dark eyes, heavy-lidded and hooded with desire.

Those eyes. Mingi should have known he was doomed the very first time he saw them.

He doesn’t find himself bitter for any of it.

Not with Yunho’s hands over him. All over. The left one is cupping at his waist, holding him steady, caressing soft movements down his hip, and to the edge of his asscheeks. The right one is on Mingi’s dick, curled around it’s length carefully.

Yunho’s hand feels so good against his shaft. So big, strong yet precise. It moves in the exact right way. It knows everything Mingi needs. It’s slow, slower than Mingi would have ever chosen for himself, yet in this moment it just feels so right.

It’s nothing he’s never felt before. He’s far from being a virgin, has had a rather fulfilled sexual life until then, but this, this is somehow something new entirely. It’s not just the touch, not just the steady movement, it’s Yunho’s overwhelming presence, all around, over, and inside his lungs.

Yunho’s still clothed, entirely. Mingi is far too aware of it. His hands grasp at the fabric of the older man’s shirt, aiming for balance, something to keep him down to earth. The fabric’s soft under his hands, but he still finds himself hating it. It’s Yunho’s skin he wants to touch.

His own shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his chest, red with prickling heat. His pants are pushed halfway down, just enough to free his crotch and his thighs. Yunho touches at the flesh of his thighs a lot. Gentle, strong movements. Pressing and groping and praising.

“You’re so pretty Mingi,” Yunho whispers, pressing a kiss against the younger man’s cheekbone. Mingi’s eyes flutter close under the praise. More shivers, everywhere.

Pretty. He’s never been told he’s pretty.

Handsome, yes, but never pretty. It’s new. He likes it. Likes feeling pretty.

Yunho’s palm grows slightly tighter, adding an additional pressure at the base of the other man’s shaft, in a way that makes him let out a half-choked moan, his voice so fucked out he feels himself blush further, if that’s even possible. He can’t open his eyes, can’t risk looking at the devastating warmth of Yunho’s eyes, or at the pinkness of his own skin, flushed all over with need and desire and shame.

There’s an unmistakable hardness under him, rubbing against the back of his thigh, the curve of his ass, every time he squirms slightly.

Between two shivers, he has the urge to reach out and touch. To feel it. To feel Yunho. It’s a dangerous idea, a little too real, perhaps. He doesn’t reach out anyways, too lost in the momentum, too lost in Yunho’s perfect touch. He doesn’t have to. Doesn’t have to do anything.

It’s a little odd, receiving so much. Not doing anything else than receiving. Than melting under another’s touch. It’s so different from anything he’s ever felt before. If his mind was any clearer, he’d probably feel useless. Although Yunho’s never ending flow of praises might counter that anyways.

“Doing so good, so good for me,” the older man murmurs, moving his left hand up to find the back of Mingi’s neck, and then the length of his locks. He grabs his hair, holds him, tight and still. Powerful. Mingi gives in further.

His brain is soft like peach pulp. His body is melting away.

It makes him teary-eyed a little. He wants more, needs more, and also only needs exactly what he’s given.

He tries to speak; to thank him. “Yunghhhhhh,” comes instead.

Yunho giggles against the crown of his head, where he’s pressing fluttering kisses. “Does it feel good?” he asks, voice tinted with that mocking tone Mingi’s started to hate so dearly.

“Yeah, hyung” he manages to reply between two choked moans.

He tosses his hair back, baring his throat, offering it to Yunho and silently praying the older man will pick on the invitation. He does, unsurprisingly. Devours him with more kisses. Yunho knows everything he needs.

Mingi’s orgasm builds slowly. The familiar tightening seems to appear from much deeper inside his body than usual, a warm, warm, and every-growing pressure, a bursting light.

When it finally wins him over, it’s so vibrant his entire body trembles. It seems to last forever, pleasure curling and stretching and burning him whole. He doesn’t realize when exactly he spills into Yunho’s palm. He just hears the older man’s voice, thick with lust, a little hazy too:

“There you go,” Yunho whispers into the crook of his ear, “Did so well, Mingi, so good for me.”

He feels floaty, small, stupid. But Yunho’s there, cradling him. His big hand rubs small circles over Mingi’s back, tethering him back to earth. It feels safe. Yunho pulls him closer, chest against chest.

Mingi lets out a half groan, trying to warn the other man about his own cum that’s already smudged over his pants, and now on Yunho’s shirt, apparently, but Yunho shushes him, guiding the younger man’s head to lay on his shoulder gently.

“That’s enough for now, right?” he coos, and Mingi hates the way it makes him feel. “Breathe in, for me. Deep and long. Good.”

Peach fuzz. Cotton candy. Nothing but softness, and Yunho’s steady heartbeat against his own.

Notes:

We’re finally entering spicy territory :3

Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments, your support truly means the world <3
And I’ll see u soon with another one!

Chapter 6: Venom

Notes:

I’m back with this monstrosity of a chapter. It’s over 10k words long, so please brace yourself, grab a nice cup of tea, and enjoy!

Also, I apologize for any mistakes, English isn’t my first language, and I’m writing this during exam season, sleep-deprived and completely overwhelmed. :D

Quick PSA: like for Chapter 5, this one contains explicit and detailed sexual content, so please do not read if you’re uncomfortable with any of that. (I mean, it’s all disclosed in the story’s tags and descriptions, so I’m not sure why you’d be reading this if you weren’t already interested, but better safe than sorry.)

And finally, as the tags imply, this story is not a guide to proper or moral conduct in any way, shape, or form. Please do not read if topics such as cheating or morally questionable actions make you uncomfortable or cause you distress. Your safety and mental well-being come first. 😊

It’s a long, long meeting, and Mingi’s patience has already shattered long before the first hour is over.

Mr. Park is riding one of his tempests, one that makes the whole room shrink into itself, eyes lowered, lungs tight, each person quietly begging to stay invisible. He stalks across the linoleum in jagged strides, shoes cracking against the floor, his voice cutting through the air with a grating edge. And apparently, today’s catastrophe belongs to everyone. Everyone but him, naturally.

Mingi’s not sure what’s worse; the volume, or the spit that occasionally lands on the glass table as Mr. Park gestures violently. The flesh of his arms giggles with each movement. Mingi had been warned by his colleagues that their supervisor gets like this under pressure, but witnessing it first-hand is a different kind of ordeal. The man looks one heartbeat away from a breakdown.

Mingi had hoped, when he was called into this impromptu cross-department meeting, that there’d at least be one silver lining: maybe Yunho would be there. PR had been summoned, after all. And every occasion to see Yunho is a good occasion. But, of course, Mr. Park chose Wooyoung instead.

At first, Mingi had been disappointed. But now, as he sits through the chaos, he finds himself grateful for Wooyoung’s presence across the table. A familiar face, at least.

Wooyoung looks utterly unbothered. He isn’t laughing, but his lips twitch at the corners every so often, his brows arching with the kind of bratty amusement that somehow he seems to be the only to get away with. Watching him is both grounding and vaguely surreal. Sometimes Mingi wonders what Wooyoung is doing here at all, in this bland office, with his sharp eyes, dyed hair, and sly smirk. He looks like he belongs somewhere else entirely, in fashionable stores or packed concert halls maybe.

“Mingi,” Mr. Park’s voice snaps through his daydream, sharp, “You’re up. Present the financial breakdown for the quarter.”

“Ah, yes—yes, sir,” Mingi stammers, scrambling to open the file on his laptop. His hands feel clumsy. “Um, the— the quarterly report shows, uh, a consistent growth rate, despite—”

“Speak up,” Mr. Park cuts him off. “Stop mumbling.”

Well, here goes the tough guy agenda. Good job, Mingi.

“Right, sorry— the, uh, the figures indicate that—”

Mingi’s chest is tight with the sudden rush of anxiety. His eyes feel a little glassy, his glasses a little foggy, and it’s difficult to read anything on the screen.

“Forget it—at this rate, we’ll still be here tomorrow. Just send me the data,” Mr. Park snaps, his face still flushed red. “God, sometimes I wonder how this company is even still afloat with such morons.”

Mingi’s throat turns drier with the humiliation.

“Sorry,” he manages to let out with a bow.

Across the table, he catches the tiny shift in Wooyoung’s expression, eyebrows pinching, mouth softening into something uncomfortably close to sympathy. Instead of easing the sting, it only sharpens it. Mingi doesn’t want pity, least of all from Wooyoung. He’s felt pathetic enough these days without anyone confirming it.

So he straightens his spine, squares his shoulders. He is a proud man. Maybe he can’t talk back —his job is too hard-won, too necessary to gamble on a moment of recklessness— but he can at least meet the humiliation with some semblance of dignity. Keep his eyes lowered, yes, but his jaw tight. His breathing even. Composed.

And truthfully, Mr. Park isn’t entirely wrong. Mingi has been distracted. Terribly so. His focus slips through his fingers these days. Numbers blur; meetings dissolve into white noise. His thoughts drift and drift, always circling back to that night.

 

It’s been a week since the dinner Yunho and him have shared. The dinner that ended up with him coming undone under the other man’s expert hands, in the secrecy of a cheap love hotel.

It’s been a week, and not a day goes by without Mingi’s thoughts being entirely filled with the memory of Yunho’s touch all over him.

It hadn’t been anything so extravagant, in the grand scheme of things. Mingi repeats it to himself as often as he can, hoping the words will quiet his racing thoughts. He has received a handjob –a very good one, he’ll admit that-, which is something that has happened countless times in the past, even before Eunah entered the picture.

The fact that Yunho is a man does change the picture a bit, but that’s another issue entirely.

Bottom line is: a handjob isn’t so shocking, and he hasn’t done anything else. Nothing too weird. Nothing too queer. He hasn’t even reciprocated the favour to the older man, although he’d badly craved it on the spot. It was Yunho himself who had gently denied when Mingi had offered.

“I don’t need it, Mingi, don’t worry,” he had replied, peppering soft kisses into the brunette’s hair. “I can see this is already a lot for you, isn’t it? Let’s not rush things.”

The gentleness of it all had prevented Mingi from pushing further. Yunho knows best, after all. He seems to know everything Mingi needs more than himself. And so Mingi accepted the easiness of just being cared for, for as long as he remained on the pleasant, fluttery cloud of his high.

It took him longer than usual to come down. Maybe because it had been a long time since he had been with someone –him and Eunah aren’t that close, these days-. But also maybe because of how different and easy it felt to be held like that, heartbeat against heartbeat.

Still, the aftermath had been a little awkward.

As the warm fuzziness seeped out of Mingi’s exhausted body, his thoughts began to take shape again, and they weren’t so pretty.

Yunho must have felt the way his body started to tense up again, because he was the one to pull away first, gently, putting just enough distance between them to be able to look at Mingi’s face.

Mingi couldn’t bring himself to meet his gaze. His eyes remained on the top button of Yunho’s shirt. Stubbornly closed. A cruel reminder of his own opened shirt, of how much of his own skin was exposed. Of being the only one who had fallen apart completely.

He moved to button up his shirt, his fingers a little clumsy.

“Are you okay?” Yunho had asked, a faint apprehension tainting his voice.

Mingi had nodded, suddenly feeling awful for making the other man worry. The other man who had been nothing but kind and gentle with him.

“Yeah,” he had added as an afterthought, still a little out of breath.

He knew he had to say more. He knew they had to speak, but it was difficult to sort out the mess of his thoughts.

He slipped out of the other man’s lap, sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his pants up. The silence felt awkward around him. He could somehow feel Yunho’s eyes burning into him.

“I…” he began, unsure of what he was trying to say. “I don’t think…” The words were suddenly too thick to push out.

He startled at the feel of Yunho’s big, gentle hand settling on his shoulder. An innocent touch, not too intimate. Nothing like what it had felt like a few minutes earlier.

“Hey, don’t freak out on me, Mingi.” the older man began, his voice smooth, though the slight edge of anxiety was unmistakable. “What I said before still applies. You don’t owe me anything. This doesn’t have to be anything.”

Mingi closed his eyes, trying to focus on the warmth of the contact on his shoulders, on the lingering smell of Yunho’s cologne on his own clothes, his own skin. For something so intoxicating, it felt strangely comforting.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I know, it’s just…” His voice came out raw. The hand on his shoulder pressed gently, just once. “It’s a lot. And I don’t really know where I stand, and…”

He broke off mid-sentence at the sudden feel of Yunho’s hand tracing slow circles across his shoulder. Soft, deliberate, barely there. The touch unravelled something tight in his chest, and Mingi felt a surge of quiet, aching gratitude.

“But it’s going to be okay,” Mingi murmured, voice dipped low. “And… And this was really good.”

The hand slipped away, leaving a brief ghost of warmth. But before Mingi could mourn the loss, something else replaced it. The soft press of Yunho’s lips against the fabric of his shirt, light as breath and gone just as quickly.

Mingi found himself missing Yunho’s mouth already. Missing the shape of it, the memory of it against his own.

 “I know. I liked it too.” Yunho added. “So much.”

Mingi turned at the sound of Yunho rising, watching him scoop his jacket up from where it had been discarded on the floor. The sight made Mingi’s pulse spike—irrational, sharp fear gripping him at the thought that Yunho might simply walk out and vanish into the night.

But then Yunho stepped back toward him, closing the distance without hesitation, coming to stand in front of where Mingi sat on the edge of the bed.

Mingi suddenly felt small again, with the other man towering over him, looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes. A shiver ran down his spine again as the hunger flared up almost instantly, his body aching for more.

Yunho’s left hand found the curve of Mingi’s jaw, and rested there for a brief moment, locking their gaze into one another.

“I insist, Mingi, this doesn’t have to go anywhere. No expectations. No strings attached. But if you find yourself wanting more, you know where to find me, right?”

His voice sounded so honest, so kind it its sincerity, in spite of the danger that laid within, that Mingi could only smile.

He thought, distantly, that if he had to fall for a man, Yunho wasn’t the worst choice.

He nodded, and kept his eyes into the other man’s, bathing for just a little longer in their warm light.

“What about you?” he asked, unable to resist the urge to bite at his lower lips a little.

He would have felt ridiculous, in any other situation, but Yunho’s kind words lingered in him just enough to make it make sense. Pretty, Yunho had said. He probably still thought it, judging from the way his eyes darted to Mingi’s mouth.

“What about me?” Yunho mirrored, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Well, what if you want more?”

Yunho smiled wider, his hand moving from the other man’s jaw to his bottom lip, running a smooth finger over it.

“Oh Mingi, I’ll always want more.”

His finger pushed forward gently, parting Mingi’s lips, and pressing down on his tongue.

The gesture sent more shivers down Mingi’s spine, and he briefly thought he wished he hadn’t dressed back up so quickly.

 

It should have quieted his worries. Knowing Yunho didn’t expect anything from him —he had stepped back almost respectfully, well, as respectfully as their situation allowed— and given Mingi the time and space to choose for himself. To decide what to do with this trembling, burning thing between them.

It could have eased his anxiety, if only it hadn’t placed the weight of choice squarely in his own hands. His much too shaky hands. It had been so easy to let Yunho steer, to let the older man guide him through the chaos of his thoughts, to surrender to someone steadier than he felt.

But now, standing on his own again feels utterly terrifying. There is too much to face. Too many fears twisting together and gathering into something large and dark, a looming shadow that threatens to swallow him whole, and ruin all of what he thought he knew about himself.

The first matter being the crumbling certitude that Mingi isn’t gay.

As a teenager, he’d had a few thoughts, here and there, about the handsome charm of a new actor everyone adored, or the strong, easy confidence of a baseball player on TV. His heart sometimes fluttered, embarrassingly so, when the male lead of that drama his mom watched every Wednesday walked into the frame with his aloof gaze and perfect suit. Mingi told himself it was admiration. Fascination. A confused mix of wanting to be that kind of man, and being drawn to the worlds they lived in.

Then he did notice that he cared a little too much about Jiyong, his childhood best friend. Jiyong was clever and cool and kind. They’d see each other at school, then again in the park behind it, and then again the next day. Mingi used to get unbearably upset whenever anyone was mean to the other boy, until Jiyong himself started teasing him and asked why he kept looking at him like that.

But that was another lifetime, when Mingi was young and soft and confused about everything, including himself. When he didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t even know what questions he was supposed to ask.

That version of him had been buried long ago. Since then, Mingi has grown up, gotten stronger, steadier. He’s been with girls. He’s met Eunah. And those ugly, confused thoughts went away, or went silent, at least.

Mingi is a strong, proper man, now. A man meant to live a normal life, with normal milestones and normal joys: sharing anniversaries, buying Valentine’s gifts, raising children in a home filled with framed school photos. Mingi can have that.

He is not what the other boys used to whisper about in middle school. He is not weak either. Not wrong.

But then again, Yunho likes men. And Yunho doesn’t seem weak. Doesn’t seem wrong either. If anything, Yunho seems stronger. Better.

Maybe Yunho’s simply built differently, Mingi thinks. Maybe he’s someone who got his life under control enough to live honestly. Someone who can walk across an office without shame dragging at his heels. Someone who can meet his coworkers’ eyes without flinching.

Mingi does like that in him. The way Yunho carries himself, unapologetically.

Mingi does like Yunho, quite a lot, he realizes. There are a hundred and more intertwined layers, mixing up in a beautiful mess of fascination and admiration.

Maybe Mingi doesn’t like men, but he simply likes Yunho. That would be okay, probably.

Only there’s a second problem—less existential but infinitely heavier.

Mingi can’t like Yunho, because Mingi loves Eunah.

Perhaps love isn’t the exact word he’d choose to describe their bond. It’s more akin to a gentle, steady and reliable companionship that has developed over the years. A partnership rooted in trust and mutual respect. And he’s been betraying that in every imaginable way.

With that storm swirling inside him, the office feels like the lesser evil. Even under Mr. Park’s unpredictable temper, even with the constant fear of meeting Yunho’s eyes and crumbling right there in the hallway, daytime feels like mercy compared to what waits at home.

Facing Eunah is just something he can’t quite manage.

Things have gone back to normalcy quickly, on Eunah’s side, after Mingi’s return from Okinawa. The hostility she’d shown toward his distance evaporated easily, replaced by the same dull indifference that has become their quiet equilibrium over the years.

It’s not apathy, not exactly. Eunah still packs his lunch every morning, cutting the fruit neatly the way she knows he likes. She still asks about his projects, nodding earnestly through the boring details. And Mingi cares too: he asks about her new job as a cosmetics sales assistant; she keeps insisting it isn’t “serious work,” though she’s thriving. He asks about her flower arrangement class, about her parents. He does most of the cleaning, tends to the plants, makes sure the apartment stays comfortable.

They function. They execute their roles perfectly. They care.

But when all that is done, neither reaches for the other’s arms. They share the space but not the warmth. Sometimes Mingi feels like they’re coworkers rather than lovers —an irony not lost on him— and yet he never thought to complain. For the longest time, he believed that this was simply the way he loved: quietly, calmly, without hunger or desperation. Without obsession. Without fire. That equilibrium felt like safety. Like the right structure for someone like him. A life without surprises, without risks, without shadows.

Until Yunho.

Until Yunho’s lips that gave him a taste of what euphoria could be like. Until the world cracked open and something bright and unbearable slipped through.

During the day, the thoughts scare him because of what they imply about himself, about the part of him he has spent years smothering.

During the night, the thoughts scare him because of what they mean for Eunah and him. For the life they built. For the fragile scaffolding of normalcy they have been standing on.

He hasn’t given in again since last week. He’s been good, or at least he’s been trying. But the craving sits in him, pulsing louder every day. And he knows —deep down, with terrifying clarity— that it’s only a matter of time before he falls again, just to feel that life-shaking relief. That breath he didn’t know he’d been holding for years. The clock is already ticking.

The quiet certitude doesn’t prevent him from hating himself every time one of these thoughts comes back to the surface while he’s under the same roof as Eunah.

It hurts so much, when he looks at her from across the table, eating peacefully, unpassed by her fiancé’s silence. She’s used to it. She probably doesn’t think there’s anything to be particularly worried about. There never was any reason to doubt, she’d seen it in university when Mingi didn’t look twice at the countless girls that gave him daring looks.

He hates himself for having those thoughts while sitting at the same dinner table as Eunah. It feels cruel. Rotten. Wrong.

It hurts the most when, one rare occasions, Eunah seems to be the one doubting the distance. On some nights, Mingi goes to sleep by himself, on the bed or the couch, only to find her upon waking up, curled by his side, small and fragile under the pale morning light.

She’s always been a strong woman. Strong and independent, and that’s what he’d liked about her. He secretly dared to think that, in some ways, she was always the one protecting him. He’d never said it out loud, but it felt nice to think about it. Only on these mornings, she looks so breakable it hurts.

He wonders if she sleeps better, on these nights. Wonders if it’s because she feels lonely that she chooses to come to him, or if maybe, a part of her really does love him like love is supposed to feel. Maybe in the quiet of the night, she thinks that things might change, eventually. That they might become what she had once hoped for. A romantic story, like in the dramas, she used to say. A powerful couple, surviving life through the strength of their bond.

He wishes he could give her that. She deserves that. He just isn’t the right man for it, and has never been, far before Yunho even entered the picture.

In those vulnerable moments, Mingi can’t help but think of his mother. Of the evenings she spent curled on the couch with him, running gentle fingers through his hair, pretending not to care that his father came home late again. Too late.

He remembers the way her serious and modest face cracked open the day she learned that his father had been spending those nights at his young and pretty secretary’s apartment.

Shame wraps around his ribs. Guilt burns through his lungs, chases him through restless nights and into the cold, aching hours of early morning. It sticks to him through every spreadsheet, every meeting, more searing than any insult Mr. Park ever spat. And tangled within all the fear, all the self-loathing, sits one quiet, inevitable question, one that never stops whispering: when is he going to fall again?

 

Mingi steps out of the meeting room feeling like someone has shoved a fist into his chest and twisted, slow and deliberate. His pulse is jittery, his breath shallow in that familiar, irritating way.

He closes the door behind him and the sudden quiet of the open space only amplifies the restless hum under his skin. The fluorescent lights buzz. His tie feels too tight. He wants to go home and lie down and never move again, but home isn’t a refuge right now; home is Eunah and silence and pretending.

So he walks and keeps walking, without thinking too much. He lets his feet choose for him, and they choose Yunho.

It’s become a pattern, since last week. A rhythm. During breaks they talk; just talk. Light things. Work things. A few personal things, carefully measured, carefully held. He hadn’t thought that would be possible, hadn’t thought he’d want that, or feel comfortable with that proximity. But always, always, Yunho makes it easy. Makes it feel okay to be a little unsteady. A little unsure.

By the time Mingi reaches the PR service, he’s not surprised to find that his hands are trembling a little.

Wooyoung is there too, having slipped out of the meeting just minutes before him. He looks up first, eyes sharp like a curious cat. Mingi ignores that look, and walks closer to Yunho’s desk. The older man looks up at the exact moment Mingi stops.

“Hey,” Yunho greets, warm. His hair is messier than usual. Not slicked back, today.

Mingi swallows. “Do you want to go for a cigarette break?”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows jump for a second. Yunho doesn’t react much, he just closes his laptop, slips into his coat with fluid, unhurried movements.

“Sure,” he says. “Let’s go.”

 

The rooftop wind hits them, sharp and biting. December has crept in quietly. Mingi’s grateful for that: he would probably combust under the July sun.

Yunho flicks his lighter, the flame catching with a soft snap. He takes a cigarette, then offers the pack toward Mingi, who shakes his head.

“No, thanks,” he mutters.

He’s surprised not to be embarrassed admitting it was never about smoking. It would be absurd to pretend otherwise anyways. Yunho knows.

“Good,” Yunho says simply, placing the pack back in his coat and lighting his own. “Bad habit.”

He takes a drag, exhales a thin trail of smoke into the air. Mingi watches it dissipate. The sight reminds him of how his own thoughts disappeared, when Yunho was touching him.

“Tough meeting?” Yunho asks gently.

“Yeah.” Mingi rubs at the back of his neck, feeling the knots there. “Park’s being terrible.”

“I know. It’s not your fault, though.”

“Still feels like shit.”

Yunho nods, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “You know, I think you should aim higher, at the office.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Yunho continues, “You’re smart. Much smarter than most people around here. You know how to drive a project, when you actually try. I’ve seen that during the seminars. Idiots like Park shouldn’t be the ones above you.”

Mingi lets out a short, incredulous laugh, flustered. Compliments always land a little strangely in him, awkward and heavy, never quite fitting.

“Yeah, right,” he mutters.

“I mean that,” Yunho says simply, raising a brow. “I see someone capable. Someone sharp. Someone who might overthink a bit, but still does the job better than about everybody in this building.”

Mingi snorts, “I’m sure the company needs a mess like me right now.”

“Oh, come on,” Yunho adds, flicking ash into the wind. “You might be a little lost when it comes to your… personal life.” His tone softens. “But that has nothing to do with your work ethic. You get nervous, sure, but you still see things clearly. You’re quick. That already puts you above most.”

Mingi’s throat tightens.

“I think you’re meant to lead,” Yunho finishes. “I’d be lucky to be on a team led by a man like you.”

The words land gently, and they make Mingi a little euphoric. It’s odd, and nice, knowing that Yunho thinks those things about him. He already knew that Yunho found him hot, and pretty too, apparently. That he liked his laugh and his dry humour. But respecting him professionally? That’s something else.

It’s weird knowing that someone like Yunho, the very picture of the perfect employee, feels that way about him.

It’s weird knowing that Yunho doesn’t think he’s weak, despite clearly being the one guiding him through the mist. Despite Mingi coming undone before him.

This —this gentle encouragement— wasn’t exactly what he expected when Yunho had said, Come to me if you want more. But it’s good. It’s grounding. It makes the shame sting less.

Mingi smiles, and he thinks, with a quiet clarity, that he’d love to Kiss Yunho right now.

He knows it will happen, eventually. He knows it’s just a matter of time. Of the right occasion. And Yunho knows it too, Mingi’s sure of it.

Right now, they’re not alone, though, and he can’t possibly take the risk. A couple of employees huddle on the opposite side of the rooftop, smoking and chatting quietly.

So instead of a kiss, Mingi reaches out and plucks the cigarette from between Yunho’s lips, the faintest brush of contact making Yunho’s eyes flick up to him in surprise. Mingi brings it to his own mouth, ignoring the distant knowledge that he’ll probably cough at the taste.

Who cares?

The ghost of Yunho’s warmth on the filter is all he can think about for now.

 

It’s Friday, and the week has crawled and sprinted at the same time. By the time five-thirty hits, everyone decides they need a drink. Mr. Park doesn’t try to initiate the usual “team-building” outing; he’s been stuck in that terrible mood all week. But tradition is tradition, and the older employees cling to rituals. Someone suggests the usual izakaya, and there’s no further debate.

Mingi goes because everyone goes, and mostly because Yunho goes, of course.

It feels right when they’re gathered in the warm, noisy chaos of that place. Beer glasses sweating, the table cluttered with half-empty dishes, the smell of grilled meat floating around them.

Mingi isn’t nearly as nervous as he had been the first time he came with this team. But he still falls into a familiar trap; every time he tries to follow the general conversation, his eyes drift toward Yunho. Yunho looks devastating tonight. Sleeves rolled, hair falling just slightly over his forehead. There’s a soft glow from the lantern above them that makes his skin look warm, his eyes darker. Mingi hates how easy it is to stare. And this time, he doesn’t have to stare from afar. He’s sitting right beside him.

There’s a ridiculous sense of pride in that, misplaced, childish, but stubbornly present. I’m here. Next to him. Close enough that their shoulders brush every now and then. It sends shivers down Mingi’s spine.

It’s not like he’s planned anything, tonight. But he also knows that he wants something to happen. He’s been thinking about it, apprehensively and excitedly, ever since the idea of going for drinks was brought up. It’s a perfect occasion. Eunah knows he’ll be home late. He can have a few drinks to make himself a little bolder, and Yunho is right there, so close. He’s been waiting, half secretly, for an occasion like this one, since that night at the love hotel.

What makes it worse —or better— is that Yunho seems to only have eyes for him too.

He hides it well enough that no one else should notice. But Mingi sees it. Every time he speaks, Yunho’s gaze lingers on him an extra second. When someone cracks a joke, Yunho’s laugh turns toward him first. When Mingi shifts in his seat, Yunho shifts too, as if instinctively drawn closer.

It’s a little exhilarating, knowing that everybody can see them, yet no one can know.

Almost no one.

Wooyoung sits across from them, unusually quiet. His eyes bounce between the two of them, confusion —or something sharper— pulling at his expression. Mingi tries to act normal, but he can’t tell if he’s imagining the slight frown or if it’s really there.

The chatter around them fades as the table’s attention drifts to the waitress, who’s bringing new trays of grilled meat. The party’s loud enough that no one hears when Yunho leans slightly toward him.

“You look tired,” Yunho murmurs, pretending to adjust his glass. “Long week?”

Mingi huffs. “That obvious?”

“To me,” Yunho replies, and there’s that sly smile of his tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can read you quite well, you know?”

“Great. Just what I need. You analyzing my face on top of Park yelling in it.”

“I don’t analyze,” Yunho counters gently. “I observe.”

The warmth in his voice makes something flip in Mingi’s stomach. He’s grateful the room is dim; it makes hiding his flustered expression a bit easier.

He dares a whisper back, barely audible over the chatter: “You’re staring a lot, you know. I could take that the wrong way.”

“I could say the same about you,” Yunho murmurs, eyes still politely tilted toward the main conversation as if nothing is happening at all. “But you can’t blame me anyways, you look far too good tonight.”

Mingi bites the inside of his cheek to keep his face straight. “You’re terrible.”

Their knees brush under the table, an accident, probably. Mingi’s not sure. He can never know, with Yunho. It’s infuriating, how someone so proper can be so cruelly obscene too.

Wooyoung’s eyes flick toward them again, sharper this time. He’s angry, it’s obvious. He’s bearing the look of a man —a man happy in his relationship—  judging Mingi for so shamelessly messing up his own. Committing blasphemy. Mingi can’t blame him.

But also, his mind is already too far gone to care. He’s slightly tipsy, and mostly intoxicated on Yunho. If anything, Wooyoung’s anger only pushes him closer to the older man. Because Wooyoung isn’t teaching him anything new: Mingi knows exactly how awful he’s being. He knows that eventually, he’ll face the miserable consequences of all this. But maybe that’s precisely why he needs to take the jump. Because it feels like karma is the only force that might finally drag his mind back on track.

 

The table clears when everyone decides they’re heading to that standing bar they like two blocks away. Mingi follows, of course. He walks beside Yunho, just a little behind the rest of the group.

Yunho’s face is tinged pink from the drinks, and Mingi finds it adorable—though adorable isn’t exactly a fitting word for the obscene thoughts that have been plaguing him all night.

The streetlights throw flattering shadows across Yunho’s shirt, highlighting the broadness of his shoulders and the veins along his hand as he lifts a cigarette to his mouth. Somehow, even the smell of smoke —something Mingi’s always hated—makes him warm and fuzzy these days.

He knows he’s staring. And he knows Yunho knows too, judging from the slow curl of his lips.

“Is there something you want to ask?” the older man says, smoke dissolving into the night.

Damn him for always pushing Mingi to say it. For making him speak his wants out loud. Mingi can never tell if Yunho does it to make sure they’re on the same page, or if he simply enjoys watching him unravel.

“Do you want to go?” Mingi asks. His voice comes out steadier than expected.

 “Where?”

“The bar,” he clarifies.

“Are we not going right now?”

“Well, maybe we don’t have to.”

Yunho stops walking, finally turning fully toward him. And Mingi realizes he’s been waiting for that —craving it— ever since they left the izakaya. He always craves Yunho’s gaze. It’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

He’s never had much talent for drawing, but sometimes he wishes he could learn just to be able to sketch those eyes. Their gentle curve. The deep, calm black of their irises. The soft curl of lashes that fan prettily over pale skin when he blinks. The straight line of his brows.

Like everything about Yunho, they’re dangerous precisely because they look harmless. He has that fawn-like innocence in daylight, blinking rapidly against sun or neon. But Mingi knows what they can do at night. He knows the way they turn dark and shameless in later hours, how they strip him of every defence.

“Don’t you want to go?” Yunho asks, voice low and confidential.

 “I’m not sure.”

“What do you want, then?”

Fuck him. Again. For making Mingi say it aloud.

“Maybe… maybe we could leave,” Mingi manages, voice level. “Go somewhere else. Together”

Yunho smiles, something slow, warm, almost proud.

 “Do you want to go to another bar, just the two of us?”

The idea is nice. Just not what Mingi means. He shakes his head.

“Do you want to go to my place, then?” Yunho asks.

The answer comes easier than he expected. It’s always like that with Yunho: the anticipation is terrifying, mortifyingly so. But the falling —actually surrendering— is so, so cruelly simple.

 “Yeah,” he breathes.

Now that they’ve stopped walking, the others have drifted far ahead, too far to notice when Yunho lifts a hand to cradle Mingi’s cheek. Mingi melts into the touch like a cat leaning into warmth. It’s not much. Just fingertips against his skin. But it’s the most he’s received since that night. It’s already so, so warm.

“I’ll make it so good for you,” Yunho murmurs into the night.

 

Mingi’s back hits the wall half a second after Yunho closes the door behind them. The taxi ride felt endless, with the frustrating, maddening touch of the older man’s fingertips on his knee.

He doesn’t have time to register his surroundings, doesn’t have time to care about the fact that he’s discovering Yunho’s apartment, Yunho’s personal life, for the very first time. He’s too gone to think at all. He just feels Yunho’s hand all over him, untucking his button-up from his pants, peeling the buttons apart, and taking off his top in smooth motions.

Yunho’s so good at this, he distantly thinks. It somehow makes him feel awkwardly inexperienced. Sex, for him, has never been like that. It’s always been practical. Logical. Practiced gestures executed one after the other. Never a storm of sensations falling into place on their own, naturally.

Yunho’s lips find his own, and Mingi melts just like the very first time. The other man’s mouth falls upon his, delicate yet commanding. It guides his own, parts his lips slightly, overwhelms him with the taste of smoke and liquor.

When their faces part, Mingi is stunned by the warm crinkle of Yunho’s eyes. Yunho’s smiling, and it makes Mingi feel so warm inside.

“You have the prettiest lips I’ve ever seen,” Yunho whispers so low, only for him to hear.

It’s only the two of them, Mingi realizes in a haze. They’ve never been so isolated, so free from strangers’ curious eyes. It’s quieter than the love hotel too, and somehow the silence doesn’t make it awkward at all. Mingi is just grateful he can hear Yunho’s laboured breathing. A faint proof that he’s not the only one being so affected by this all.

It’s Mingi who reaches out first for another kiss. He doesn’t startle when Yunho bites at his lower lips, but he does let out a soft moan that make his own ears heat up.

Yunho’s hands find his lower back, the dip just beneath his ribs, press there. A groan spills from the older man’s lips. “That waist of yours is going to kill me”

The hands travel lower, holding Mingi’s hips, stroking at the clothed curve of his hipbone, then finding his thighs, and gripping at their flesh. “And those fucking thighs. God, you can’t imagine how insane they drive me.”

Yunho’s filthy words are music to Mingi’s ears, and instead of making him shier, they render him bolder. He giggles against the other man’s lips, throws his head back against the wall to bare his neck. Yunho’s mouth find his skin immediately and showers it in delicate, fluttering kisses.

“More,” Mingi’s lips spill out without him even realizing. “More, please.”

Yunho’s hand get rougher everywhere they touch. They smack gently at the curve of his waist.

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you?”

“Your fault,” he breathes back, “Bedroom, please?” he adds, too shameless to care about his pathetic eagerness.

Yunho doesn’t seem to care either, judging from the quiet chuckle he lets out as he turns and takes Mingi’s hand. He guides him through the dark corridor without bothering to turn on the light, and pushes open the last door.

Before Mingi realizes, he’s thrown into the bed, pinned back on the firm mattress, with a taller body over his own. Mingi isn’t a small guy by any mean, but Yunho somehow always manages to make him feel smaller.

The older man strips him off of his clothes hurriedly, ripping the shirt from his shoulders, and unbuckling his belt in a swift movement. Mingi had expected to feel a little insecure, being handled like this again, but he doesn’t. Not even when Yunho pulls his pants off, leaving him bare aside from his boxer briefs.

Yunho’s eyes feel burning as they take him in, up and down, slowly, slower than any of his movements.

“Look how pretty you are, all over,” he purrs.

Mingi’s always overwhelmed when Yunho praises him. He’s always been the one doing the praising with Eunah; not out of any real urge, but because it felt like the expected thing, the necessary thing. That’s what guys did to their girlfriends, in the porn he’d watch to understand it all.

He had never thought of his body as something to be looked upon with adoring eyes.

Yunho’s own body is a work of art, that much he is certain of. There’s something simply hypnotic in the way Yunho moves; something in the slender line of his hips, the elegant stretch of his forearm. He isn’t particularly built, and that somehow makes him all the more fascinating. Mingi is proud of his own body; he works hard for it, spending hours at the gym each week to maintain the strength in his shoulders. Yunho doesn’t need any of that. And still, he looks —and feels— overwhelmingly powerful.

Mingi realizes he’s never seen all of it. He’s felt the older man’s chest, pressed against his own, but he’s never seen the delicate skin of it. The urge is sudden and all-consuming. And perhaps part of him is also slightly intimidated, being the only one so exposed. He pushes back into another kiss, then straightens himself up on his elbows.

“Take it off,” he asks when their lips part, eyes lowering onto the other man’s shirt.

Yunho’s right brow raises.

“Please,” Mingi adds.

That seems to satisfy the brunette, who slips out of the bed to stand up, just at the edge of it. His eyes remain on Mingi’s silhouette as he unbuttons his shirt, slowly. Too slow for Mingi’s liking. But he doesn’t dare protest, and he’s far too busy devouring the sight anyway. Yunho’s torso is pale, like the rest of him. Flawlessly crafted, flawlessly cut, like the rest of him. Mingi represses the urge to kiss at every detail, attention remaining focused on his goal.

“More?” he asks, eyes pleading. Pleading seems to work well, on Yunho. He’s taken note of that.

The sight of Yunho’s beautiful, beautiful hands unbuckling his belt sends shivers down his spine. What he doesn’t expect is for the other man to pull down his pants and his boxer briefs in one go, leaving him entirely naked and perfect in the dim light of the room.

Technically, Mingi has already seen other men bare before. But never, ever, did he look at one quite like this.

Yunho’s superb. Which he had expected. Which he had thought about, more than once. There’s so much of his pale, smooth skin, and Mingi feels dizzy on it. Greedy, too. He wants to kiss at it. All of it. His dick is big and hard and flushed red, curling against his lower stomach. It’s perfect, like the rest of him. Mingi’s mind is hazy as he realizes what he wants. What he needs, so urgently.

Seemingly reading Mingi’s every trait as openly as always, Yunho seems to realize he needs something. Or perhaps it’s the sight of his lips, half-parted, a little drooling, that betrays him.

“What do you want?” Yunho asks as he wraps a hand around his length, pumping slowly.

Mingi feels like he’ll die if he needs to ask. But he’ll die too if he doesn’t get the chance to feel it, right now. No, actually yesterday.

His throat feels dry. “You,” he manages to let out, “Please.”

Yunho chuckles and Mingi does want to punch him a little but the urge to kiss him is bigger still.

“You’ll have to be a little more precise,” the older man purrs as he lowers himself back onto the bed, crawling forward to position himself on top of Mingi, who is still lying on his back.

 “Do you want me to suck you off?”, Yunho adds as his hands find the hem of the younger man’s underwear, and peel it down.

That surely would be nice. Mingi’s always loved getting head. But it isn’t what he needs right now—not the itch that’s begging to be scratched.

He shakes his head weakly.

Yunho’s hands are all over him again. One’s tracing the line of his jaw, his throat, the stretch of his clavicles, while the other is already teasing at his length. Yunho’s gaze is planted into his own. His face is so pretty, towering over Mingi’s, so close and so dangerous. His pretty hair fans out around his gentle features.

Mingi could cry. Maybe he already is, judging from the stream of unfiltered whimpers that continuously spill from his lips. He’s wound up too tight already. The fluttering touch of the older man’s fingers is more overwhelming than any of the fantasies he’s had. It feels right, too. Not so brutal of a fall anymore.

He feels safe, he realizes. Safe to be loud and expressive, and slightly pathetic. Squirming and moaning at the faintest touch. Pathetic, but it feels alright, because of how adoring and pleased Yunho’s eyes are.

“What do you need, then?”

Mingi knows what he needs. Everything he’s been missing on. Everything he never dares to think about, yet sometimes sees in his most shameful dreams. Saying it is an entire different ordeal. He tries. He tries to find the words, but his mind feels empty.

Clumsily, he grabs Yunho’s hand, and brings it to his backside. Secures it on his right asscheek, with a little more strength. He holds the other man’s eyes, trying not to falter.

Yunho’s smile turns wider as his palm grabs at the flesh. “Oh, you want me to touch you there?”

Mingi nods.

“Do you want me to finger you open?”

He nods again.

“Words, Mingi. I need to be sure you’re okay with everything we’re doing.”

“Yeah,” he lets out, weakly.

“Of course, then. Anything you ask for.”

There is a moment of awkward apprehension as Yunho turns to the bedside table and rummages through the drawer. It’s not so long, but it’s enough for Mingi’s racing thoughts to have nothing to fix on, besides the sight of his own body, flushed pink with the heat of it all.

He wants it. He’s sure he does. He’s made his decisions days ago. Weeks ago, maybe. It doesn’t make it any less intimidating. He feels cold, suddenly. A little shy and ridiculous too.

When Yunho turns back to him, with those warm eyes of his, it gets ever so slightly better. There’s a bottle of cherry flavoured lube in his right hand.

“How do you want this?”, he asks.

Mingi isn’t sure. Everything feels too exposed anyways. Sex doesn’t feel like that, usually. Eunah doesn’t feel dangerous. But then again it never feels so good either. He curses at himself for thinking about her right now, making his heartbeat pulse up. It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong. He knows he won’t change his mind.

Maybe if he doesn’t look into Yunho’s eyes, then it won’t feel like cheating. It won’t be as bad of a betrayal.

“From behind,” he answers, assured, at least outwardly.

Having to take decisions doesn’t feel good right now. He can’t let himself think. He feels himself shaking as puts himself in position, lying face-down on the bed. He’s grateful Yunho can’t see his eyes right now; he wouldn’t want the older man to see straight through him, the way he always does.

“Relax,” Yunho whispers from behind, much closer to Mingi’s ears than he had expected.

Easier said than done, Mingi thinks. But then Yunho’s hand is back on his spine, smoothing down his skin, and that does feel slightly relaxing.

“Have you ever fingered yourself before?”

He hopes his ears aren’t turning red as he replies, a little out of breath: “Yeah.”

“Cute.” Yunho purrs as he straddles the back of Mingi’s thighs. “Tell me if anything doesn’t feel right, okay? Let’s make this good for you.”

Mingi flinches when he feels big hands parting his cheeks, and a finger finding his hole. It feels cold, and not particularly pleasant as the older man smears lube all over his entrance, teasing lightly.

Then a finger pushes in, and Mingi bites at the pillow. It’s not exactly painful, but it feels odd, and still not necessarily enjoyable. He’s familiar with this, though, from the few times he’s experimented on his own, when Eunah wasn’t at home, of course.

Yunho’s other hand is grabbing at the flesh of his ass though, and that does feel quite good.

“Your butt is so…” Yunho positively groans before he presses a kiss to Mingi’s hair, finger slowly and carefully moving in and out of his hole. “Do you even know how crazy you drive me, just walking around in your pretty little pants?”

Well, that feels good too.

 It gets better when Yunho eases another finger in. There’s the faintest burn, but the stretch is pleasant too. The knuckles catch slightly on his rim with each movement, ripping small gasps from Mingi’s throat at every thrust.

“Good,” he whimpers.

The weight of Yunho’s body on the back of his own thighs feels heavy but so good. He can feel the older man’s length, pressing against his skin. Big, big and warm and so hard, and a little wet.

He needs it inside.

“Do you want to… Can you fuck me?” he asks, too hazy to care about his own bluntness.

“There’s nothing I want more right now, but we’re not there yet.” Yunho replies, his free hand finding the back of Mingi’s scalp and running a soothing hand through his sweat-damp locks. “We’re going to need to stretch you more than that, okay? Can you take it?”

“Yeah. Yes, hyung.” Mingi replies hurriedly, melting into the touch.

There’s a third finger finding his rim immediately, and then the cold feeling of more lube dripping onto him. When Yunho pushes in again, the sting is harsher, but the sensation is infinitely better. Mingi feels himself clenching down on the intrusion.

It’s good. It’s big and it’s good. It’s Yunho’s fingers, Mingi realizes. Those beautiful fingers that have distracted him for so many meetings. Long and slender and delicate and so good. They feel heavy and perfect inside him, deep, and deeper.

And then they curl into the perfect spot, and Mingi lets out a shameless moan.

“There you go,” the older man purrs as he pushes into Mingi’s prostate again.

The feeling is entirely overpowering, and Mingi’s mind is already slipping away. It’s more intense than anything he’s experienced by himself. Yunho’s fingers go so much deeper than his own. They feel so much better. Better, for him. Yunho is better for him.

Perfect.

The angle is precise and right, it makes Mingi’s back arch, shivers running everywhere on his skin.

Yunho’s movements have grown rougher, gently jostling the younger man’s body up and down with every motion. It’s wet and messy. Mingi feels a familiar heat building into his stomach, and he has to speak up before it’s too late, before he spills into the sheets.

“Yunho,” another thrust, another gasp. Mingi’s arm twists to grab Yunho’s wrist, stopping his movements. “Stop. I’m ready. Please. I’m so, so ready.” His mind spins and he doesn’t care about how erratic he sounds. “I need you inside, now. Please.”

He can’t see Yunho’s face, but he hears the smile in his voice: “Are you sure?” his fingers curl once more, and Mingi moans louder.

“Yes! Yes- please, hyung.”

That seems enough to convince the other man. Yunho’s fingers pull out, gently.

Mingi feels himself being manhandled onto his back, and suddenly Yunho is right above him, face close. So close. Yunho’s cheeks are flushed pink. His breathing is laboured, more than Mingi could perceive when he was facing away. It makes a weird satisfaction twist in the younger man’s stomach.

 “Can I take you like this?” Yunho asks, hand cupping Mingi’s jaw. “I really want to look at your face, please.”

There’s a hint of desperation in his voice, and that makes Mingi all the way dizzier. Power. It feels like power. And also like surrendering.

“Yes.” Yes, of course yes. He wants to see Yunho too. Needs to see his lips. His eyes. Need to feel that gaze on him. Would be such a waste not to have it. He’s spent long enough dreaming about it.

Yunho goes to the drawer again, and pulls out a condom pack. He rips it open in a swift motion, and rolls it slowly onto his length. Mingi doesn’t know where to look. He needs to see it all. Yunho’s forearm flexing with each of his movements. His cock, covered by a thin layer of latex, his face, slightly sweaty and handsome as ever.

Yunho smiles, but something dangerous flashes in his eyes. Enough to remind Mingi of just how vulnerable he is under the other man’s touch. It doesn’t prevent him from parting his legs, letting Yunho position himself between them; a warm and steady palm on Mingi’s inner thigh, the other circling his dripping length.

 “I’m going to push in now,” Yunho breathes out, and Mingi smiles as he hears a tremble in the older man’s voice. It feels good to know he’s apparently as affected as himself. “Breathe in and relax for me, okay?”

Mingi tries to ignore the way his thighs tremble as he pulls them against his chest. He nods.

Yunho presses their forehead together when he pushes inside. His breath feels warm against Mingi’s forehead. A small mercy.

There’s an immediate pain. Not so sharp as it is deep and diffuse, spreading along his spine, through his entire body, to the very tip of his fingertips. His nails dig into his palms.

He tries to relax the way he knows he’s supposed to, but his thighs are shaking, muscles wound so tight. He tries to breath. Barely manages to. He’s sucking in quick huffs instead. Quick, quicker and half-aborted.

Yunho continues to push in. It feels never ending.

Mingi chokes, “Hyung…” he can’t continue, the words dying in his throat. Doesn’t even know what he wanted to say in the first place. “Big,” he adds, feeling dumb and empty-headed.

“I know.” Yunho coos, “I know.”

Mingi clenches his eyes shut, trying to steady his breathing. There’s a kiss then, gentle, on his forehead. Quickly followed by another, and another on each of his eyelids.

“You can take it, though. I know you can.”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes yes yes. He can. Wants to. There’s nothing in the world he wants more.

“There you go.” Yunho purrs. “Good. So good. Can you feel me? You’re taking me in, sweetheart. All of me.”

It feels like it goes on forever, until it stops, and Mingi feels Yunho’s hips, flush against his own thighs. They stay immobile, just like that, for a brief moment.

Mingi’s lids flutter open, and he has hold back a moan at the sight of Yunho’s face. The older man’s eyes are pressed closed, brows drawn together tightly, mouth half-parted. His hair is messy and his lips are so wet and swollen. Mingi feels like he could come on the spot.

“Does it feel good?” he whispers, surprising himself. He’s never been the talkative type during sex, but apparently there are plenty of things he didn’t know about himself.

Yunho’s eyes snap open at that, and he leans in –the movement making Mingi wince- to give him a kiss.

“So good. So, so, so good. You can’t imagine.” His voice is so low, so low and honeyed and Mingi loves every sound. “Does it feel good for you, baby?”

Baby.

Mingi might be going insane, because the nickname makes something simmer under his skin, and he nods furiously. It’s hard to reply. It hurts a little. It feels entirely too much already. But he’s never been so starved for something. For more of it.

“Good,” he manages to say, “Can you… You can move. Please.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

The first thrust is slow, but it still pushes a gasp out of him. He feels so full he might burst.

The second thrust makes him moan shamelessly.

“You feel so good inside, so hot,” Yunho coos as he starts to build a rhythm, slow, still, and precise. He grinds in, deep and deeper, his face still tight with the sensation. Mingi doesn’t want to think about what his own face might look like.

Yunho’s chest flexes every time he pushes in, the curve of his biceps highlighted by the glow of the beside lamp. He looks perfect. So perfect it makes everything feel like so much more.

Mingi never thought sex could feel like that.

“Faster,” he gasps.

Yunho’s rhythm increases, stronger and harder too. A low, consuming heat crawls across Mingi’s skin, setting every nerve alight.

The older man is grabbing tightly at his waist now, his hands big and warm and powerful, manhandling Mingi back on his cock. It makes Mingi feel so small, so gone. So good. He wants more and more. Whimpers.

He clutches the bedsheet. Tightly. Groans –although it sounds more like a cry, high-pitched and pathetic-. It’s too much. Too much. And not enough. His lips part open, but the words die out before he can even think them. There’s heat, everywhere. So much heat. Burning.

“Does it feel good?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. He would say if he could, but it seems like every punch of Yunho’s hips is melting his brain further. His mind feels far, far away. Useless, for now. Useless forever perhaps after that.

“Hyung,” he only manages to cry out.

Deep. So deep. Yunho’s fingers grab at the back of Mingi’s head, pull a little onto his messy locks, force Mingi to lock his gaze into his own. Yunho’s eyes are heavy-lidded and his forehead is damp with sweat. Mingi wants to lick it clean. Taste the skin. Everywhere.

“Can’t talk, can you?”

Mingi shakes his head furiously. His own hips thrust up, desperately trying to meet the other man’s body. To feel it all, to chase the feeling, the euphoria.

“That’s alright, baby.”

Yunho’s right hand finds his mouth. He rubs his thumb on Mingi’s bottom lip, then tugs down. Mingi doesn’t think, he sucks the other man’s finger into his mouth. Yunho presses down on his tongue, parting his lips further, making him drool. Yunho’s index presses into the inside of his cheek; runs along his gum, pushes deeper into his throat, makes him choke a little.

It makes Mingi’s mind fuzzier. Too overwhelming. Not enough. Perfect. So much at once.

It’s a tidal wave, growing, and growing, and growing still, and Mingi can only desperately try to hold on and breathe and shake under the pressure of it all. His legs are trembling so much. His entire lower body feels like jelly. Yunho seems to notice. He places his palms behind Mingi’s thighs, pushes them back against his chest. The stretch stings, but it allows Yunho to go even deeper, hitting the younger man’s prostate with each thrust.

Mingi really thinks he might break. He cries out instead, loud and high-pitched and a little pathetic.

“There you go, just needed to let it go, didn’t you?”

The sound of skin slapping echoes through the room, mixing with choked cries. Mingi feels split open, reduced to an empty-brained, sex-crazed little thing, unable to breathe, to think, just want. Want. Want. Need. More.

“Look at you, taking all of me. So perfectly. So perfect. Perfect. All for me.”

Yunho’s rhythm slows down, grows less regular, but every thrust is stronger, and deeper. His words are getting messy too, incoherent on the edge, or perhaps Mingi’s simply too gone to understand them. Yunho presses a kiss onto his temple.

“Mine,” he whispers.

Mingi’s chest snaps in half. The world ruptures entirely.

A neat break. Clean. Precise, right in the middle of Mingi’s melting body. Pulling him apart, underwater, and then back to the surface. A breath of air, fresh air, the first in long. So long. And longer still–

“Fuck,” Yunho groans. The movement of his hips grows irregular, a little hectic, and it just pushes Mingi farther into the euphoria, prolongs it. His entire body is on fire. “Fuck, fuck, yeah, just- just stay like that, fuck, I’m gonna–.”

Mingi feels Yunho’s fingers tightening in his hair, pulling lightly, as the older man comes, incoherent groans spilling from his lips.

Mingi’s mind is fuzzy again, soft, blind, small and dumb.

He winces when Yunho pulls out and tells him something that he can’t quite understand. He’s exhausted, chest heaving, so much sweat everywhere. His own cum is all over his stomach, but he doesn’t really feel it, aside from a vague, cold sensation on his lower abdomen.

There’s movement around, Yunho leaving his side, disappearing for some time, Mingi doesn’t know how long, then the bed dipping slightly, and the feeling of something warm and wet on his skin. It isn’t unpleasant, but Mingi still winces at the touch. Everything feels like too much.

“I know, I’m sorry. Just let me clean you out, okay? Then you’ll sleep for a bit.”

The words do not register. Mingi is far too gone, drifting into a world that’s very pink and feather-light against his skin, his mind, his heart. He can hear his heartbeat, he realizes, loud and clear. But it’s calm and steady and it feels so safe.

The cold air is replaced by something warm and heavy. There’s an arm pulling him close, then another body, slightly damp too, curling against his own. Yunho.

Yunho, Yunho, Yunho.

It’s the first real thought he’s had in a while—and the last one before he finally slips into sleep.

 

Mingi doesn’t know how long he stays asleep for. But when his eyes flutter open, he’s tucked under a toasty blanket, soft against his skin. Still sensitive, he notices. It doesn’t take more than a second for his mind to remember what happened, where he is, and who is lying next to him, head nuzzled against his neck.

It’s still dark outside, he notices, relieved, before he can even start to panic. It’s still night. Life hasn’t catch up yet. Reality isn’t there yet.

It’s dark, and the room is only lit up by the faint glow of a bedside lamp.

Yunho’s room, Mingi reminds himself.

Now that his mind has cleared a little, his curiosity peaks. He takes in the details of the room. The bedsheets are a dark burgundy, reminding him of Yunho’s ties. Fitting, he thinks. A few posters hang on the wall: a Pink Floyd one, and a Valorant one. The sight makes him snort.

“Oh? You’re awake?” Yunho says at the sound, lifting his head from where it had rested on Mingi’s shoulder. His hair is messy, his eyes heavy with sleep, and his lips still swollen. Mingi represses the urge to kiss him again.

 “Valorant, huh?” he giggles instead, “Didn’t take you for the nerdy type. Now that does break your perfect image,” he adds, eyes travelling to the desk and its large gaming chair.

Endearing, he thinks.

“You sure are real mouthy for someone who was crying out my name–“

Yunho’s cut off by Mingi’s hand on his lips, his words melting into a laugh.

He struggles to peel off Mingi’s hand. Just when he succeeds, Mingi startles him once more by giving him a kiss.

Yunho’s face is brighter when they part.

 “Was it good?” he asks.

Mingi wants to laugh, and cry a little. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he remembers the euphoria that preceded. He probably won’t be able to ever forget it.

“Yes, Yunho, so good.”

Yunho’s smile is so pure and genuine Mingi’s chest melts a little. So inappropriate, for the moment. So inappropriate, for the way their two bodies are still bare and flushed one against another. Yunho tightens his arms around the other man’s frame, pulls him tight, tighter still against his chest, and presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I told you,” he whispers, “I told you I’d make it so good for you.”

 

 

Mingi really wishes it were difficult, after that, to fall into a routine of lust and lies. It had been so difficult to indulge in it for the first time, such a raw torture. But after that first taste, that first fall, he realizes it is an irresistible, inescapable path.

It turns out that sin has an intoxicating smell. An aroma that overpowers any other sense, fog one’s mind until the very possibility of another option seems like it never existed at all.

An accident turns into a common occurrence. Shy gazes turn into explicit proposals, and before he knows it, Mingi finds himself being consumed by Yunho’s touch, somewhere half hidden on the office rooftop, every day of the week.

He gets devoured of kisses at the lunch break. He gets on his knees for the other man in the bathroom over the afternoon. He ends up folded in half over Yunho’s bed in the evening.

It’s all too good. It’s all too much. Every single time, it feels like falling and breathing for the first time all over again.

And it’s so easy too, when they see each other every day anyways. Innocently. It’s so easy to give in when Yunho’s perfect silhouette clad in a perfect suit is the first thing he sees upon entering the office. It’s so easy when there are so many nights, spent with colleagues, drinking in too loud bars. Company culture, after all. He has a thousand excuses and more to always let go.

Mingi knows, just how wrong it is. There is guilt, loud and heavy, every time he comes back home, heart still fluttering with the ghost of Yunho’s touch, to find Eunah, watching a drama, curled on the couch.

“How was your day,” she always asks.

“Good, good.” He always says.

“I’ll have to stay a bit late at the office, tomorrow. For the new project.” He sometimes adds.

Eunah’s reaction is never more than a vague nod, her eyes remaining glued on the flickering television screen. Sometimes Mingi wishes she would react. As much as that would hurt, it would feel right.

He wishes she would look into his eyes, and see how heavy they are with lies. She used to be so good at seeing right through him. Always noticing the flicker of nerve that tensed his shoulders, or the anxious beat of his knees before a stressful day. Always noticing when he bore more dark circles than usual, and she would just know he had a nightmare-filled sleep. She used to care about it all enough to notice every detail. But that was before. Before time passed by. Before Mingi turned disappointing. Before something changed.

He wishes she would still care, even though that would hurt them both. So bad and so deep.

He wishes she would notice the new cologne that’s sticking to most of her husband’s shirts. Not his own. If it was a woman’s, sweeter, more innocent, she would probably notice. She would worry. But she doesn’t, because something woody and masculine isn’t a menace. Because worrying about that isn’t even part of her reality. Because her husband isn’t like that, is normal, isn’t perverted and wrong. The thought makes Mingi a little sick.

And in the darkest, quietest hours of the night, when the empty space on the bed next to him, or the uncomfortable seating of the couch reminds me of what a terrible fiancé he is, he feels all the air escaping his lungs, and being replaced by something ugly and sticky and poisonous.

There is guilt. There is awful, burning, dawning guilt.

But it doesn’t overpower the euphoria of existing beneath Yunho’s hands. Couldn’t possibly.

Sometimes, Mingi believes he’s losing his sanity with it. With the frenzy of it all.

He’s never been a particularly sexual person, yet suddenly sex all he can think about. The taste of it. The weight of it, upon his tired body. The shape that it carves and digs inside his heart.

Yunho’s hands on his waist, on his thighs, inside him. Yunho’s dark, dark gaze when he looks at him from under his pretty eyelashes. Yunho’s smile, when they’re spent and sweaty on the bedsheets of his apartment, as he brushes sticky hair strands out of Mingi’s eyes.

He would feel worse perhaps, if Yunho wasn’t even more insatiable than himself.

If Mingi feels utterly perverted for waking up in his marital bed, plagued with dreams of another man’s touch, it’s apparently nothing compared to the frenzy of Yunho’s passion.

When Mingi had opened the Pandora box, he hadn’t expected the extent of Yunho’s desire. The older man, it seems, just lives lust in ways Mingi hasn’t even begun to think about. It makes sense, in the end. Perhaps Mingi’s always seen it, or the vague shape of it, beneath the polite smiles and careful gestures. Perhaps it is the very thing that had drawn him, so irrepressibly, to the other man’s arms.

But he still hadn’t expected the reality of it all. The lewdness that’s apparently always spinning inside Yunho’s pretty head. Obscene thoughts that he so willingly shares with Mingi, unprompted, at various times of the day.

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he mouths as he drops some papers at Mingi’s desk.

“I’ll think about your pretty body all day long,” he says during an elevator ride.

“You’d look so good, bent over the table, split on my cock,” he whispers just before they enter a conference room.

Every single time, the words make Mingi heat up all the same. Every single time, he finds himself blushing and giggling and melting. And he still wishes for more.

He wants to know every thought; thoughts he still doesn’t dare to name himself.

He wants to be in every of those thoughts.

Always willing for more.

When he’s faced with it all, being devoured by kisses so burning they make his head spin and his reality shift, Mingi can only feel grateful. Absurdly, unreasonably grateful, to have stumbled upon something so big. Something so grand. Something so alive.

He finds himself willingly slipping into the fuzziness, the freefall, the drop. More and more. Deeper and deeper. Deeper still. Down a never-ending pit.

Sometimes, late at night, when the fuzziness is gone and the silence is back and weight is crushing his lungs, he does wonder, just how deep the pit is. Just how long the fall will continue. And when, inevitably, it will reach a breaking point.

Notes:

Hi again! I hope you enjoyed this new part. As always, feel free to leave your thoughts and impressions in the comments, your support is what motivates me the most :3

I know we’re spending quite a long time on the smutty parts for now, but don’t worry, we’re not done at all with the plot. Just setting up their dynamic for future events.

The next chapter will switch back to Yunho’s POV, and we’ll finally get some insight into his own thoughts about this chaotic situation. It’ll probably (hopefully) be published over the weekend. I'll try to keep this rhythm of two chapters a week for as long as I can manage.

Until then, please take care, and I’ll see u soon <3

Chapter 7: Spine

Notes:

Hi! Super happy to be sharing this new chapter with you guys! It’s my personal favourite so far so I really hope you enjoy it. Once again we’ve reached the 10k words count with this one, so I hope you have some time ahead of you hehe :3 Enjoy!

Yunho has always been a man certain of most of his opinions about most things. He isn’t exactly stubborn, but he knows precisely where he stands on most topics. It goes from the simplest things —potato chips are better than shrimp ones, spring is the best season, and, contrary to popular belief, Harry Potter is better than Star Wars— to more serious matters: working too much isn’t for him, youngsters should respect their elders, he despises excessive conservatism, and he disapproves of cheating.

He never strays from these principles, normally. He’s never had to. But then Song Mingi came in, and he ruined his certainties.

It’s not that Yunho’s convictions or morals vanished the second he spotted the younger man’s pretty face. It’s more that Mingi brought new weights to the balance. Because Yunho’s life —with Song Mingi in it— is simply so much better. And suddenly, it becomes harder to care about everything else.

It’s difficult for Yunho to pinpoint exactly what happened to convince him that principles and responsibility could go to hell; and the memories are a little tangled. Maybe part of it comes from the fact that he’d been repressing his thoughts for a while before they finally broke loose. He did try—honest to God—to push them back: the unspoken desires, the dreams. But then Mingi’s hand had grazed against his own, that night by the swimming pool, and he understood Mingi wanted him too.

The game was already lost—or perhaps won—the minute that realization melted his brain.

He had done things right, still. That night, he had wanted so bad to take Mingi back to his room, to fuck him into the sheets and make him cry out. He had wanted it so bad it buzzed behind his eyes. But he was drunk and Mingi was drunk and that just wasn’t right. So he had led Mingi back to his own room, had wished him goodnight, and had jerked off under the warm stream of his shower.

The next day though, nothing had changed. Mingi looked desperate, so desperate. He squirmed around on his seat in the plane, eyes darting between his own lap and Yunho’s profile in a way that was far from discreet. It was very endearing, and also very fucking hot.

At some point, Yunho noticed the pink of Mingi’s mouth melting into a vivid red as the younger man was biting his lower lips, not daring to speak. That’s probably precisely when Yunho decided to throw it all out the window, straight into the surrounding clouds.

He wishes he could say he has been feeling horribly guilty, since then, but truly, there is not so much of that. Because most of it has just been desire and pleasure. Pleasure so bright and so big it makes his heartbeat louder in his chest. Pleasure that’s somehow so much bigger than what he usually feels with his hook ups.

Witnessing Mingi’s unravelling, Mingi’s high, Mingi’s vulnerability, is something so precious it makes Yunho’s throat tighten up. And maybe, another reason for his excitement, is that Mingi looks so alive with it.

A part of Yunho feels like he might be projecting his own happiness onto the younger man’s face. But he also knows some of it has to be real. Undoubtedly real. Mingi smiles more than he did before. He looks slightly less nervous at the office, even when Yunho corners him to spill his dirty thoughts into his ears. He laughs more too. A bright laugh that’s really loud and really pretty.

That doesn’t make everything okay, of course. Mingi still worries. It’s visible on the lines of his pretty face. He still looks gloomy on most Monday mornings. The ring is still there on his finger. Yunho tries not to think about that detail too much, because it allows the unease to creep in.

He knows he’s not technically the one committing the crime. But it doesn’t feel any less of his responsibility. Partly because he knows that if he hadn’t offered, Mingi would have never dared to ask. The poor thing shakes every time Yunho asks him where he wants to be kissed. As tough as he might appear to the untrained eye, Yunho just knows Mingi would have never taken the jump without his help.

So it is, undoubtedly, his fault too. His fault first and foremost maybe.

He still finds himself justifying his actions, though. With the thought that Mingi might really be happier like this. That, of course, Mingi being engaged isn’t the best conditions for self-discovery, but that it was still the right thing to help him uncover this part of him.

It looks like Mingi always had it in him. It’s so obvious, just how needy he is for someone to take him. To take care of him. A woman could do that too, Yunho knows. But Mingi’s fiancée very clearly isn’t. At least not in the way he needs. Yunho is, though. He knows the thought is awfully cruel, but he still can’t repress it. There’s a possessive streak that flares up when he thinks about it for too long; perfectly unjustified and illegitimate, and it makes him feel like an asshole. But it doesn’t die out anyway.

Maybe, Yunho reassures himself, maybe he is helping, in a weird, uncomfortable and twisted way. Maybe he’s allowing Mingi to explore himself.

He hopes that’s the truth. He hopes he isn’t just ravishing him. Steering him away from rightfulness.

No matter what he tells himself, there’s guilt in there. A little bit of shame, too.

That much had been obvious in how long it took him to finally tell Wooyoung about this little situation, as he insists on calling it to soften the blow.

Wooyoung normally knows everything about him. He’s the first to hear when Yunho meets someone new, when he has a hookup, when he discovers a recipe he likes, when his toes feel slightly cold at the office. Wooyoung knows it all—surely more than he needs to, now that Yunho thinks about it. But somehow, telling him about this had felt impossible. Maybe part of him wanted to protect Mingi’s secret, to not betray him.

Still, Yunho had felt relieved when Wooyoung ended up being the one to confront him first, not long after he’d jerked off Mingi in a shitty love hotel room for the first time.

 

“So, spill the beans, you big, fat liar,” Wooyoung had told him that Saturday over lunch.

They were at Wooyoung’s favourite Indian restaurant, with San, naturally. Being in public had made it all the way more intimidating to speak up, but Yunho really had no choice, faced with the serious faces of his two best friends. 

“I’m, uh – I’m not sure what you’re referring too,” he had still tried.

“Oh, you do know what I’m talking about, you sly fox.” Wooyoung had cocked a brow. “What the hell is happening with Mingi?”

It had been embarrassing to tell them the whole thing. Partly because every time Yunho had mentioned his little crush before, he had had a very self-righteous attitude, claiming that he’d never act upon it because Mingi is fucking engaged. Partly because it felt a little different than his usual hook ups too. A little more serious, only because of the whole secrecy of it, surely.

Yunho did not go too far into details, as he usually tends to do with them. He didn’t mention how pretty Mingi’s voice sounds when it breaks. He only told them the most important parts.

Surprisingly, Wooyoung had been the one to disapprove of it the most. Wooyoung, who normally sides with everything that’s fun, chaotic, and possibly amoral. But he had been very sceptical:

“Come on, Yuyu, you know I’d support your every right and wrong. But this is just a shitty situation. I get that the whole forbidden thing can be thrilling for a while, but entertaining it? I can already smell it turning sour.” He said it between two mouthfuls of dahl.

“Either his wife finds out and burns your flat down, or you get tired of him. And then what? What happens when you’re done, and the poor thing ends up alone and confused in the middle of his gay panic? He’s your colleague too. It’s not like you can just stop seeing him.”

Yunho refrained from telling the younger man that he already knew he wouldn’t get tired of it. Couldn’t possibly. There’s something addictive about Mingi, far too addictive. He feels it working on him already.

Mingi being a colleague, though, might be a more serious issue. There is a risk —a certainty, according to Wooyoung, but that’s just Wooyoung being stubborn— that things could turn wrong. And that would make everybody’s job a whole lot more uncomfortable.

“Plus, I still think the guy is an asshole. Not worth your time. Not only is he plain rude, but also a cheater, apparently. And you’re far too good to be his little gay experiment.”

Weirdly enough, San had been more encouraging. It’s not that San isn’t supportive usually —he absolutely is— but he’s usually the righteous one. San is kind. The kindest man Yunho knows, probably. Far too good for this world, as Wooyoung likes to repeat. Still, San had been warm in the way he chose his words.

“I agree that this situation is dangerous,” he’d begun, eyebrows furrowed in focus, “but I’m not sure it’s entirely a bad thing for Yunho.”

He had explained further, already running a soothing hand down his boyfriend’s back, stopping him from interrupting. These two know each other so well; it’s as sweet as it is sickening.

“You’re always so kind to everyone, Yunho,” he continued. “Always so right and so proper. Mingi’s a grown man, with a voice and a choice. If he decides to fuck up his life, that’s his responsibility, not yours. And it’s been a while since I’ve seen you this excited about something. Maybe you do deserve to indulge in it, at least for a little while.”

“Just… just be careful, please. Him getting hurt is his choice. But don’t let him hurt you.” He added after a pause.

 

Yunho does indulge in it. It’s not as if it’s a choice anyway—he’s far too deep in to have any restraint left. One thing is certain: he is positively obsessed with Song Mingi.

He’s always liked the other man, always felt something; an inexplicable pull toward that pouty mouth, that rare but bright and dazzling laugh. And of course, falling into whatever they have going on only sharpened all of that. With every secret, shameful moment they share, Yunho uncovers yet another facet of Mingi.

There’s the sex, of course. Which Yunho can’t possibly get enough of.

He’s always been rather of a sexual person, but lately, he’s been setting back every record. Maybe it’s the anticipation that made it all so intense. Yunho is not much of a patient man. Or maybe it’s the fact that Mingi has fulfilled all of his expectations, and also twisted all of them.

See, Yunho does have a type, and Mingi happens to be exactly it, but also so much more than just that.

Yunho likes his men pretty and pliant, preferably a little feisty too, because it’s a lot more fun to break them in. He likes plump lips and narrow waists. Which, obviously, are part of Mingi’s strong suit. But Mingi isn’t just that.

He’s cute yet handsome, quiet but sharp. He looks so fierce and untouchable when he’s not smiling –and Yunho has seen with amusement the way the waitresses of the izakaya blush looking at that– but then fumbles on his own words when Yunho looks straight into his eyes. He gets mousy when it comes to expressing what he wants, what he needs. He gets pouty when Yunho takes longer than usual to take his clothes off.

Yunho never takes too long, though, because every minute he spends in bed with the younger man is pure bliss, and he’s not willing to waste any of it.

Yunho has had, for more than a few years, a very fulfilling sex life. He’s more than open about it, and considers himself rather of an explorer. There are lots of things he likes, and a long list of things he doesn’t. But he’s tried most of it all. He’s had a considerable list of partners too, Wooyoung always says he looks far too proper for someone who’s such a slut.

Yunho isn’t ashamed of it, though. It’s his experience that has allowed him to discover his own likings. And to discover what kind of partner he enjoys. Experienced too, for the most part. He likes subs that know exactly what they’re getting into, who can be messy, but still practiced enough so that Yunho doesn’t have to hold back.

Mingi isn’t like that, of course. Mingi is still very clearly discovering what it feels like, to be with a man. And he’s been enjoying it, visibly.

It’s not what Yunho usually goes for, but he has enjoyed every second of it, because Mingi is simply something special. He’s curious, eager, incredibly responsive, and so sweet when he squirms under his touch.

It’s so easy to read him. Often, Yunho feels like he knows everything Mingi needs, before the younger man can even think about it. It’s so delicious to see that pretty head of his, always so full with so many thoughts, empty out when Yunho starts touching him. Mingi’s traits relax into the most gorgeous expression of bliss, and then into something raw and tender as he gets increasingly overwhelmed.

Yunho always wants more of that. He wants to give Mingi more, because it feels so good, but also simply because it looks outstandingly pretty.

Yunho adores Mingi’s body. It’s broad, firm, and superb, from the stretch of his well-built shoulders, to that tiny waist of his. He’s all muscle and slenderness, but also so soft. His abs are something obscene, and then there’s the perfect curve of his ass, which is something Yunho doesn’t let himself think about too long, or else he grows too hungry.

But amongst everything, his thighs are probably Yunho’s favourite. They’re thick and plush, pale, but they turn pink so easily.

They turn pink when Mingi sits on them for too long; or not even for so long for that matter. His skin is just sensitive. Sensitive, and oh-so-pretty. It always turns red when Mingi sits on Yunho’s carpeted floor, eating noodles at two in the morning, before he leaves in a cab.

His thighs also turn pink when Yunho grabs at them, sinks his greedy fingers into the plump flesh, slaps at them. That never fails to draw out pretty moans from the other man’s lips.

Yunho likes it when the skin turns pink, even a little red and sore. Perhaps part of it is because he likes to tend at it, afterwards, apologizing as he places warm, soothing towels on the sensitive areas.

Overall, Mingi’s body is pure heaven, but his mind is equally enticing.

He’s still shy with it all. Never dares to be the one spilling dirty words into Yunho’s ears. Rarely initiates anything, although he does look at Yunho with his eyes all big and his eyelashes batting, and Yunho knows what that means by now. But Mingi’s undeniably curious too, eager to know more. To discover. To experiment. And Yunho finds himself dizzy with the perspectives of just everything they could do together.

So yeah, it’s safe to say the sex is good. The best Yunho has had in a long, long time. But there’s also the rest of it. Because Mingi is a colleague, too. And sort of a friend, Yunho sometimes think. They happen to spend a lot of time together, and Yunho enjoys all of it. More facets. Luckily for him, Mingi’s personality, Mingi’s ways, Mingi’s little quirks, are as pleasant as his moans.

There’s so much Yunho has discovered about the younger man, in just a few weeks.

It’s not so easy, peeling Mingi apart. Yunho doesn’t really think he’s managed it yet. But he does see countless layers already; intertwined, clinging to each other in a messy tangle that makes it hard to see where one ends and the next begins.

Defining him isn’t simple. Mingi is clever, for one. Cunning when it comes to work. Quite serious, although he laughs loudly. He isn’t shy as much as he is nervous around people. There’s a streak of childishness in some of his behaviours, something untamed and a little fiery, and he gets sulky when something upsets him. There’s also something so pure, so proper, so absurdly and unmistakably good that it intrigues Yunho far more than he cares to admit. In the end, it’s incredibly difficult for Yunho to get a precise outline of him.

What he does know though, is a non-exhaustive series of endearing habits he’s noticed.

There’s the way Mingi stretches every time he sits down, back tensing as he lets out a brief little grunt that sounds vaguely like an old man’s.

There’s the way he singsongs tiny tunes when he opens his boxed lunch in the break room, an excited grin overtaking his face.

“Chili prawns, chili chili prawns,” he hums one day.

“Bibim—bibim bim bim bim—guksu,” he chants another, spinning his chopsticks between his fingers.

“Tonkatsu, tsu tsu tsu.” He had been particularly excited about that one. The memory makes Yunho feel vaguely fond.

Then there’s the way his face becomes so serious when he’s at the office. Sometimes, Yunho walks by Mingi’s service just to catch a glimpse of him, bent too far over his desk. He looks so handsome and so kissable like that, with his overgrown locks curling at the back of his neck and his glasses sitting just a little too low on his nose. His eyebrows often furrow in that focused expression that never fails to make Yunho smile. His lips are always pouty when he thinks, and that gives Yunho an entirely different set of ideas.

Mingi is also getting more confident in his position, which is nice to witness. He doesn’t mumble the way he used to during his first meetings. He still speaks slightly too fast, but that’s just the speed of his clever, clever thoughts, and everybody seems to understand that now. He looks so solemn and professional when he presents that it’s impossible not to be drawn in. Even Wooyoung would admit it.

He’s so serious about it all, one would think work consumes his entire life. But then they leave that tall concrete-and-glass tower, and Mingi becomes so many other things Yunho is only beginning to trace the outlines of.

He’s a gym addict—that much Yunho had already understood from looking at the plump curve of his chest-.

He’s into music. Hip-hop, especially. He hadn’t said it himself, but Yunho had noticed during a car ride, watching him bop his head absent-mindedly to an old Nas track. Yunho had asked later, and Mingi’s eyes had glowed as he explained the details of his favourite records.

He’s also very much a fashionista, which had been more unexpected. His work suits aren’t the neatest Yunho has seen, and his button-ups tend to cling just a little too snugly across his shoulders—not that Yunho would ever complain about that. But the few times they’ve met outside of office hours, Mingi had been wearing all sorts of intriguing streetwear. Baggy pants look really cute on him. He had gone flustered when Yunho pointed it out. The compliment had been sincere.

Yunho likes all of it. Every scattered detail about Mingi.

Ordinary, casual hook-up things.

Mingi just makes life all the way brighter, infinitely more exciting.

 

Because Yunho isn’t a selfish man, he wants to share that with his best friends, of course.

Wooyoung, San, and he share coinciding opinions on most things. Drinks. Sports. Music, most times. And people.

There have been a few exceptions, most notably the strangers drunk Wooyoung has collected in clubs on hectic nights out and declared his new best friends for the evening—including (not an exhaustive list) a creepy ventriloquist, a closeted German politician, and that one guy who was very clearly a yakuza.

Still, overall, the three men tend to echo one another when it comes to people. Their stamp of approval means something. They had all loved San’s childhood best friend, Yeosang, when he came to visit a year ago. Wooyoung’s shopping bestie Seonghwa has joined them more than once for dinner, and that had been very nice too.

In short, Wooyoung, San and Yunho share everything. They share their people too. So it’s only natural that Yunho wants to share about this new person who’s entered his life.

They don’t all have to become best friends, but he’d like for San to meet him, at least. So he gets to know exactly who Yunho and Wooyoung have been bickering about so often.

He brings up the idea over coffee on an uneventful Sunday afternoon. He suggests having dinner somewhere, the four of them.

“Oh fuck me,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “I’m already tolerating him stealing you away two nights a week. Don’t force me to sit down at his table too.”

“Come on, Woo,” Yunho whines. “Quit being so pissy. He’s cool. You know he is. You can’t lie. You said it yourself by the end of the Okinawa trip. Before—” Yunho cuts himself short.

He can’t say the words, because he knows Wooyoung still disapproves of it all. Yunho can’t blame him. His friend is very clearly being the bigger person here. The rightful, moral one. Yunho knows that; he just chooses not to think too much about it. Mingi’s fiancée is an image he tries to leave as far away as possible from their fun adventure. One would argue he has become exceptionally good at the art of denial in just a couple of weeks.

“Yeah, well excuse me for judging a man who’s having a fucking affair.”

“Jagiya…” San scolds gently, out of habit, before cutting himself off. Yunho realizes San has probably realized there isn’t much he can say in his defence. “We all agree this situation isn’t exactly great. But if Yunho cares about this Mingi guy, then I’d like to meet him.”

Wooyoung crooks an eyebrow at that. “Yeah, well, why do you even care?” he asks, turning back to Yunho. “It’s not like you’re dating or anything, right?”

“Of course not!” Yunho interjects.

Surely not. Yunho doesn’t date. Not his thing. Casual is all he’s ever wanted. Casual is easier. Nothing at all, and just sex is fine too. He’s not too picky. But he doesn’t date. Especially when it comes to engaged men.

He finds it slightly difficult to explain his exact thoughts, probably because of the blurred lines of his situation with Mingi.

They’re not dating, of course. They’re not exactly an item either, have never been established as such. They’re not properly fuck buddies, nor friends exactly. From personal experience, he knows it’s better to establish some boundaries. He’ll have to do it, eventually, he makes the mental note.

They’re just hooking up, which doesn’t seem like enough of a reason to introduce him to his friends. But then again, Mingi already knows Wooyoung anyway, and it just feels right to include San in the privilege of meeting him too. Plus, they’re colleagues and all that. And Mingi’s just a cool person whose company Yunho enjoys. That’s plenty of reason to introduce him to his best friends in the end.

“He’s just… He’s just there in my life. For now. And I’d like for San to know him.”

When Wooyoung doesn’t reply, Yunho knows he’s won. As much as the younger man likes to show teeth, it’s mostly out of protectiveness for his loved ones. When Yunho gets honest and vulnerable, it’s practically impossible for him to resist.

“Well, that’s going to be the most awkward night ever,” Wooyoung still mumbles into his soup bowl.

 

 

It isn’t as awkward as it could be.

Sure, it’s still very much awkward. Not San’s fault, of course. Never. Not Yunho’s either, although he might not be the most impartial judge here. But the two other men keep throwing side-glances at each other, and it sort of looks like two cats rounding their backs and quietly hissing.

They went for a barbecue place, which had seemed like a good idea: having their hands occupied should have, theoretically, prevented the two youngest men from engaging in a silent stare-down contest.

It ended up being more about Wooyoung quietly observing Mingi’s every movement, and scoffing not-so-discreetly when the brunette drops a slice of beef a bit too harshly and oil splatters across the table. That gets Mingi nervous, of course, because Mingi gets so easily nervous.

(It had been an entire ordeal to convince him to come to this dinner. Mingi had found the idea weird and uncomfortable, and he still didn’t love the fact that Wooyoung knew about them. Yunho had had to lie a little and pretend Wooyoung had absolutely nothing against him and was just like that with everybody. What ended up working best was the promise that San was an even bigger gym addict than Mingi, and could give him the best workout advice. Mingi’s knee had still bounced the entire cab ride to the restaurant.)

San, bless his soul, is trying his best. Yunho’s grateful for the way he keeps asking questions, his dimpled smile never faltering as he nods along while Mingi speaks.

“Oh, you like baseball? I do too!” he says excitedly.

“Yeah, I really need to show you the new gym in Ueno, it’s incredible.”

“Yunho said you work in the finance department—isn’t that challenging?”

Mingi seems grateful for it too. He doesn’t smile much, but he replies to each of San’s questions in detail, and his voice doesn’t falter.

They talk, and it’s fine. There is a long list of topics they avoid —Yunho has made sure to remind his friends before they met— like Mingi’s fiancée, of course. Or where he lives, because that would imply thinking about her. Or what he did back in Seoul, because that calls back memories with her too. A master in denial, Yunho knows.

Things get easier after the third round of highballs.

Yunho knows by now that Mingi gets comfortable and giggly after a few drinks. His voice gets louder, and he becomes a little more handsy—though they’re not quite there yet. Wooyoung, on the other hand, gets slightly quieter, and softer too. His attention drifts away from scrutinizing Mingi and back to his cute and perfect boyfriend, whose face has turned very pink and whose words are slower. But he’s still as nice and polite to the newcomer as ever. All in all, it’s a good equilibrium, and Yunho’s satisfied.

The liquor sits nicely in his own body, warming his ears. The apprehension has dissipated, leaving him floating in a pleasant cloud of gratefulness.

He finds himself thinking that it’s all very nice. That he wouldn’t mind this becoming a habit. The four of them. It sounds like a slightly dangerous idea, but not too dangerous when he thinks about it. There’s nothing wrong about four friends meeting up for dinner. Or a couple and two friends—whatever.

Mingi seems happy, cheerful, untroubled. He’s even started laughing brightly at Wooyoung’s jokes. Yunho adores seeing him like this. He does enjoy when Mingi’s a little shy—because, sue him, it’s cute—but there’s something so beautiful about him when he’s relaxed and confident.

When Mingi starts talking about one of his jock stories, back from when he was on his high school baseball team, Yunho just sits back and observes in awe.

Mingi is outstandingly pretty in the warm light of the room. Yunho never gets tired of staring at the precise and sharp lines of his face. A very unique face at that. His facial structure is nothing short of extraordinary; cheekbones high and well-defined, those perfect, strong brows. It’s all so harmonious, so pretty, and so him, down to the soft slope of his nose. And there’s his mouth, of course. Yunho’s favourite. So pink and kissable. So kissable, always, including right now.

He pats himself on the shoulder for having managed to keep his dirty thoughts away for so long, the nervousness, probably. But now that he’s comfortable enough to just observe and appreciate the other man, they come back unfiltered.

He chooses to keep them to himself, for now. They’re not alone, after all. But he doesn’t restrain for indulging in the enchanting images that flood his mind. That pretty man, who’s talking in his deep and low voice, crying out when Yunho’s hands pull at his overgrown locks. The way his pitch goes up so high, in these moments. The way his eyes turn glassy and all fucked out.

Yunho keeps on smiling, nodding along to Mingi’s words. He’s secretly grateful they chose to sit facing one another, and not side by side, because he would have had an incredibly hard time keeping his hands to himself.

The story ends with San laughing to tears, and Wooyoung exploding into that incredibly high-pitched, squeaky laugh of his.

“Yaaah, you’re too good, Mingi-sii,” San chokes out, tearing up as he nearly spills his drink. His face turns an even brighter red.

Mingi isn’t laughing, but a proud smile is plastered on his face, and the sight makes Yunho incredibly fond.

It’s a beautiful evening, he thinks. He was right to plan it.

How could he feel guilty for what they’re doing when Mingi looks so happy—so much happier than when Yunho first met him.

And just as his thoughts have started reverting to something proper and wholesome, he’s taken aback by the sensation of something finding the side of his right ankle, then slowly moving up his leg, higher and higher. Mingi’s foot.

Yunho’s eyes snap to the younger man’s, who’s smiling, innocently. Bold. Delicious. Bolder than he’s ever been, probably.

This isn’t a field they’ve ventured on before.

The sole of Mingi’s foot settles between Yunho’s clothed thighs, and the older man is far too excited to care about the potential dirt on his pristine pants.

He crooks an eyebrow at Mingi. Behave, he hopes to convey. Inside, he prays for the younger man not to listen. It’s a new side of Mingi he’s seeing. A little devil, so innocent-looking with his pretty pout and his blinking eyes. The urge to break him down is sharp.

Mingi’s foot presses down gently on Yunho’s crotch. And Yunho swears he sees a sly smile on the younger man’s face as he must feel him growing hard already.

Fuck.

How is he supposed to resist that?

Maybe caution should stop him, but Yunho’s right hand still drifts under the table, seeking out Mingi’s ankle. San and Wooyoung are probably too drunk to notice anyways. He grabs the ankle, holds it, tight, interrupting Mingi’s movement. His hold is firm enough to keep the younger man there, unable to move away without squirming in a way that would be anything but discreet, yet it still prevents him from going any further — from being a brat.

Mingi’s gaze flicks back onto his own, and there’s something akin to apprehension flashing in his eyes. He looks like a startled prey, which is absurd for the way he was being so daring just seconds ago, before Yunho caught him. Fire prickles under Yunho’s skin.

Oh, how he is going to ravish him tonight.

If Mingi wants to rile him up, to play unfair, then so be it. Yunho’s never been the type to shy away from a challenge.

Yunho lets his eyes run up and down the other man’s silhouette.

He looks delicious in his blue button-up, revealing just a hint of his collarbones. There’s a thin silver chain resting there. Yunho wants to rip it off, because he should be the only thing touching at that perfect neck. He wants to mark it, red and purple. He wishes that was possible.

Mingi simply has no idea what he’s getting himself into.

Yunho turns his attention back to his friends. He smiles wider when, from the corner of his eyes, he spots the way Mingi’s shoulders deflate from the sudden lack of attention.

 

The group greets each other warmly before splitting. Yunho’s hunger is momentarily tempered by the wholesomeness of the moment.

“He’s amazing, Yunho. You were right,” San mumbles, half-slurred, half-distracted by Wooyoung pressing brief kisses to the side of his head.

“I know,” he smiles.

For some reason, he’s grateful that Mingi is too busy squinting up at the streetlights to hear them.

They find a cab easily.

Yunho decides he isn’t patient enough to go all the way to his apartment. They’re in another district, and the cab ride would be far too long. He doesn’t trust himself to wait; it’s already been too long. And Mingi’s apartment isn’t an option, obviously. He directs the driver to a love hotel he knows nearby.

“Be good,” he orders, voice stern in Mingi’s ear, as they settle in the back of the car.

Mingi gives him a wide-eyed, adorable look, which only makes Yunho want to be meaner.

 

 

It’s hard to believe that, only a few weeks ago, Mingi was so shy he didn’t dare to look into Yunho’s eyes.

Of course, he’s still nervous and squirmy under his gaze, especially when they’re like this. But Mingi is also so eager that, when Yunho orders him to strip, he does it without shying away. He lets Yunho watch too, even if that means blushing pink all over.

And when Yunho asks him to get on his knees for him, he does that too.

Yunho thinks that this is his new favourite sight.

Tonight is particularly fun, though, because tonight Mingi has been a little daring and bratty and he seems to know what that entails. He seems to be waiting for it all with burning anticipation, judging by the way his entire body is shaking on the carpeted floor. Bare and pale. So much milky skin. He’s looking at Yunho through batting eyelashes. The sight might already be driving the older man insane.

Yunho towers over him, still entirely dressed-up. There’s a strange thrill that runs through his body at the thought. This is something new, for the two of them. Something a little different. Mingi’s being playful, or rather, he wants to be played with. Yunho can do that.

“You wounded me up so tight tonight. Looked so pretty, in your tight little shirt.” He begins, palming himself over his pants. He’s already hard. Has been for a very, very long time. Almost uncomfortably so.

Mingi licks at his lips.

“But you know that, don’t you? You wanted to toy with me, didn’t you?”

Mingi’s hands clench, gripping at his plump thighs. His eyes falter, looking down and away from Yunho’s.

Can’t allow that.

Yunho places a hand under the younger man’s chin, forces his face upwards, finds his gaze, holds it.

“Oh I’m not mad, don’t worry. Because you’re going to help me with that, right? You want to make me feel good, don’t you?”

Mingi whimpers at the words, cheeks stained pink with arousal and embarrassment.

“Use your words Mingi.” The hold on his chin tightens, Yunho presses at his cheeks, making his lips pout out. “Are you going to be good, or do I need to tie you up?”

Mingi shivers at the words, but he nods. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, hyung, I’ll be good” he breathes out.

Yunho pats his head gently. “Good. Good boy.”

Mingi’s eyes press shut at that, and Yunho can see it on the lines of his face, the way his mind is already slipping. Slipping into something very sweet and obedient and far away. Something Mingi relishes in.

Yunho wants to push him further. To make him melt, faster and stronger. Because he knows just how bad Mingi craves it.

He finds the zipper of his pants and pulls it down, before he takes out his hard and dripping length. Holds it in front of Mingi’s face. In front of his pink, pouty lips.

“Kiss it,” he says.

Mingi’s eyes widen at the words; at their bluntness.

If there’s any trace of something displeased on the younger man’s traits, Yunho will stop it all. They’re tiptoeing in foreign territory, and he needs to stay alert. To make sure Mingi is enjoying this. This is all about him. Mingi knows he can step out at any point, Yunho reassures himself. They have a safe word. They have a system. It’s all fine.

Yunho’s latest doubts vanish away when Mingi straightens up, leans in, and kisses at the tip. Sweet and simple.

“Good.”

Mingi smiles at the words, eyelashes fanning over his flushed skin, and Yunho wonders when he got so lucky.

“Open up.”

Mingi obeys, without a beat of hesitation. His lips part, his tongue lolls out. His eyes remain on Yunho’s.

“Suck,” the older man purrs.

Mingi complies, once more.

The sensation is wet and so warm and Yunho’s eyes immediately roll back into his skull. It’s simply lewd, the way Mingi’s eyes flutter shut as his lips wrap around his length. He looks like he’s savouring it, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Fuck. Yunho knows it’s partly his imagination speaking. But he also knows that Mingi does love to give him head. He’s said it before, eyes shy as he kneeled for Yunho on the dirty floor of the office bathroom.

“Love it, hyung.” He had said, lips still covered in spit, “Love it so much.”

His eagerness had been a pleasant surprise. Sure, he’s still shy with it, and more often than not, after a few curious kitten-like licks and a swirl of his tongue, he stops moving. His eyes dart to Yunho, and the older man can read them. Move, please, they say. Mingi moans when Yunho grabs a hold of his hair, and thrusts in and out between his swollen lips.

Mingi likes it best like this; when he doesn’t have to do anything. Doesn’t have to think, he says.

Yunho is more than happy to help, and he always make sure not to be too rough. To be gentle on Mingi’s curious and inexperienced throat.

Tonight though, that’s not what he’s aiming for. That’s not what Mingi seems to need either.

“I think my pretty baby wanted to get me upset, didn’t he? To get me all angry so I would be rough with him. Didn’t he?”

Mingi makes a sound, muffled by the length inside his mouth. It vibrates around Yunho’s cock, sending pleasure rippling deep in his bone.

“Fuck,” he groans, fingers tangling in the brunette’s hair.

Mingi’s eyes part open when Yunho starts thrusting. Not as gently as usual. A little too deep on purpose, farther than Mingi can comfortably take.

“Good,” Yunho praises.

He pushes, in and out, savouring the sight of Mingi’s upper lip stretching around him. He pushes again, deeper, and Mingi chokes a little. He doesn’t pull off, though. He could. Yunho’s hold isn’t too strong. But he doesn’t, and he just stays there, so good, so pliant for Yunho. A tear catches in his eyelashes, before it rolls down his cheek.

“What would they think, at the office, seeing you like this?”

Yunho pushes Mingi’s head down his cock, deeper still, relishing in the saliva that spills from the younger man’s lips, drools down his chin, drips onto the floor.

“Letting your hyung play with you like this. God, so filthy.”

Mingi whimpers again, the quivering so good against Yunho’s skin. He relaxes his jaw, forces his mouth wider, stays there, perfect and good and so good for Yunho.

“What a pretty thing, though. The fucking prettiest. Fuck, look at me, Mingi.”

Yunho guides the other man’s head off of him, letting him pull off with a choked-up sound. When he looks up, tears are pooling in Mingi’s pretty, pretty eyes. One rolls down his cheek. Then another one.

Mingi is crying. Shit. He’s really crying.

Yunho worries for half a second. He’s used to that type of things, and so are his usual partners. But Mingi isn’t like that. Mingi isn’t familiar with any of it.

“Are you okay?” he asks, running a gentle hand on Mingi’s cheek.

But Mingi’s smiling through the tears. He’s smiling and he’s still crying but a euphoric giggle spills from his lips. “Fuck, how are you always so crude?”

The words are all Yunho needed to be reassured. To be reminded that this is what Mingi wants. Mingi likes to be treated roughly, with just a hint of adoration. He wants to be tossed around, manhandled, put on all fours and fucked until his brain melts away.

Well, Yunho can offer that.

“My baby’s still with me, right?” He asks.

Mingi’s eyes are glassy, but he nods.

“You still know what to do if it gets too much? If I get too rough?”

Mingi nods again.

“Words, baby. Use your words.”

“I…” Mingi blinks a few times, voice strained raw, “I say red. Or I tap your side. Twice.”

“Good.” Yunho presses a kiss to Mingi’s forehead. “Let’s get you ready for me, now,” he says as he goes to sit at the edge of the bed, patting at his thigh in an obvious invitation.

The redness at the back of the younger man’s ears is clearly visible as he crawls onto Yunho’s lap, lying stomach-down. Yunho can feel the way the Mingi’s cock twitches as it brushes against his own, still clothed thigh. He can feel a dampness too. A grin stretches over Yunho’s lips.

“Oh sweetheart,” he hums. “Got so wet just from sucking me off?” He lets his hands caress Mingi’s bare ass, grab at the flesh gently, and part his cheeks. The skin there is pink and tender. A blessing to Yunho’s eyes. “Always so eager. Always so messy. Such a messy, needy thing.”

He doesn’t wait further to take out a little packet of lube –Yunho always keeps one in his pocket, for obvious reasons–, rip it open, and let it drip, straight onto the other man’s hole. He watches, in awe, as the liquid glosses the skin. Yunho’s fingers follow quickly, teasing the rim with slow, gentle circles. Mingi shivers at the cold.

Mingi is always so responsive, under Yunho’s touch. He lets out a quiet mewl that sounds vaguely like “Yunho”.

Yunho always loves the sound of his own name in Mingi’s mouth. He hears the silent plea in that single word, and before Mingi can add anything else, he pushes two fingers past the tight hole.

Mingi gasps. It’s a lot, Yunho knows. But Mingi likes it this way, he’s quickly found out. He wishes he could see Mingi’s face, right now. The younger man always bites his lips, at the beginning, and although Yunho hates the way it quiets down his noises, he can appreciate how pink Mingi’s mouth gets.

He pulls out, then pushes in deeper. And again. Twists his fingers. Finds the perfect angle. Pushes.

He always knows he’s found Mingi’s prostate when the younger man clenches hard and starts gasping harder.

Yunho pushes further, holds his fingers there, moving in small, torturing circles.

Mingi lets out a broken cry, which is the most beautiful music to Yunho’s ears. Sometimes he wonders how he spent that long without Mingi’s sounds in his life. He’s heard other pretty moans, sure, but nothing he has witnessed could ever compare to the angelic, obscene sound of Mingi’s voice when it gets so high and breathy.

“Oh, my poor Mingi,” he coos, “So messy. Trying so hard to be big and tough. But you just want to surrender, don’t you?”

Mingi cries out louder. He tries to say something, but the sound is muffled by the bedsheet, and by his own breathing that’s already grown erratic. Yunho devours the sight, devours the sounds, devours the feeling of Mingi’s tight warmth, like a starved man.

It’s exhilarating, watching his own finger pushing in and out of the other man’s hole.

Mingi is lovely like this, spread on his lap, so vulnerable for him and him only. Yunho wishes he could turn him around, see every tense expression on his gorgeous face, but Mingi tends to prefer it this way. He thinks too much, when Yunho looks into his eyes as he’s not fucking him properly yet.

The squelch of the lube rings in Yunho’s ears.

“What a pretty thing. A pretty doll. The prettiest.” he speaks without thinking. He just lets the words slip out in a constant stream of consciousness. He’s not even sure why he’s doing it; he just has the urge to let Mingi know how perfect he is. Just how badly Yunho wants him. Just how desperate Yunho is for him.

He adds another finger, watching in awe as the younger man accommodates it. So easy. So perfect. Molding perfectly. Perfect for him.

“Does it feel good, Mingi?” Yunho asks, eager to hear more of the younger man’s voice. He needs to hear just how far Mingi already is in that headspace of his. Cloudy and so gone.

“Yes. Yes yes yes yes.” Mingi chokes out. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.” He adds.

So polite. So grateful, Yunho thinks. Such pretty sounds when he begs or thanks him. Already so well-trained. Or maybe it’s just in Mingi’s nature. In his blood. Maybe Mingi was crafted just to be Yunho’s perfect match. It would only make sense. They make sense, together. Yunho fits so perfectly, so snuggly inside Mingi. The thought makes his chest ache with the urge, the sheer need to push his cock past the tightness.

He decides he can’t wait any longer.

Mingi winces when Yunho’s fingers pull out, but he doesn’t complain, and he lets himself be guided to rest higher up on the mattress, on all fours. Shivers erupt all over his milky skin when Yunho runs his index down the younger man’s spine, his back arching beautifully.

He stays right there, obediently, when Yunho moves away for a few seconds, just to undress in swift movements, and to roll a condom over himself. Yunho takes a brief moment to look back at Mingi, who’s still in position. So open and eager. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his back that catches the light beautifully.

Yunho positions himself behind the other man, parting his cheeks with one hand, and teasing his hard length at Mingi’s rim with the other. He represses the urge to run his mouth all over that hole, to cover it in spit. Too late for that now, but he makes the mental note to devour it soon enough.

“Do you want me to fuck you, now?” he asks, voice low and teasing. He has to savour the last remnants of his self-control while he still has any left. He’s so hungry. Starved. His grip tightens on Mingi’s skin.

“Yeah,” Mingi breathes out.

“Ask for it, then.”

“Please,” Mingi’s voice is still raw from earlier, still thick with lust, “Please, fuck me hyung. Need it so bad. Please, pleasepleaseplease-“

Yunho was never too good at resisting begging. He pushes the tip into the maddening tightness of Mingi’s hole, and moans, loud enough for the neighbours to hear. 

It’s always overwhelming, the tightness, the warmth, the way the other man body’s clenches around his own, shying away from the intrusion as much as it is sucking him right in. Hugging everything Yunho gives him.

“Fuck,” Mingi chokes, “’S much.”

So cute. So hot. So endearing. Yunho wants to fill him up even more.

 “Take it,” his own voice is raspy. He doesn’t sound entirely like himself.

He pulls out. Grinds back inside. Repeats the movement a few times, just enjoying the sight of the other man’s pink hole gaping after him. The view is positively intoxicating.

Yunho is obsessed with Mingi’s body. With that cute hole that swallows him so eagerly. With the plushness of his cheeks. With the waist above it. With the broad back, and its muscles flexing, responding at every of Yunho’s move.  He’s out of this world. Sculpted by Gods, Yunho’s sure.

He lets his hands run all over the endless stretch of trembling skin, pinching at the moles, caressing at the curve, gripping at the full muscles. He’s never getting enough of it. He wants more. Always. He wants to live under Mingi’s skin. Wants to settles a part of himself inside Mingi’s cells, just to be there, always.

Mingi’s arms struggle under his own weight. They shake with every thrust, threaten to fall. Poor thing’s so gone he can’t even support himself. Yunho feels hazy with the thought. He decides to help.

He grabs Mingi’s waist with both hands –his pretty, tiny, obscene fucking waist– and pulls harshly, manhandling the other man back on his cock. Another cry spills from Mingi’s lips. He moves Mingi’s body, up and down, and again. Another cry.

He must look so fucked right now.

Yunho feels the urge to see it. He leans in slightly, body caging the other man’s back, lets his hand find the back of Mingi’s head, and take a firm hold onto his hair. Then he tugs, harshly, forcing Mingi’s face to turn his way. His neck twists in a position that can’t possibly be comfortable, but Yunho doesn’t care for that right now. He’s craving the sight too desperately.

It doesn’t disappoint. Mingi’s face is contorted in an expression of bliss tinged with pain. His eyebrows are furrowed, but his eyes are still open, obediently boring into Yunho’s own. They’re glassy, wet and red. Tears are still rolling down his cheeks, staining the delicate skin in streaks of pink. They drip down his pleasured traits, disappear between his parted lips.

Mingi has to be tasting his own tears, Yunho realizes.

He wants it too. Wants to taste them. Wants to eat him. Wants him whole.

So he leans in, and kisses at Mingi’s lips. They taste like salt and spit. Yunho bites at them. He hopes they will get even redder, more swollen, more ruined. He hopes they will bruise, just enough. He prolongs the kiss with a lick up Mingi’s right cheek, savouring the taste of those pretty tears. 

It’s filthy. He wants more.

He leans in again, tongues at Mingi’s cheekbone, at the curve of his jawline, and Mingi moans louder and it’s all part of a perfect puzzle that falls into place naturally. Instinctual. Mingi’s so beautiful, and the sight is as overwhelming as the sensation of his tight body is. It makes Yunho choke on a sob. He leans forward further, buries his face in the nape of Mingi’s neck.

It smells like sweat, and Yunho’s own cologne. It fuels the fire of his desperation. He rocks into the other man’s body more slowly, focusing on the sensation of being so deep.

“Mine,” he mouths at the skin.

It would be so easy to bite here. Not enough to pierce the delicate skin, but enough to leave a mark. It would be so easy and it would feel so good, and just like that, Mingi would be entirely and wholly his, and his only. The thought makes him dizzy.

He forces himself to tear his mouth apart from the skin, too dangerous, much, much too dangerous.

He goes up to the top of Mingi’s head instead, places a kiss there. “Mine,” he groans again as he gives a sharper, stronger hip thrust.

Mingi’s arms buckle beneath him. He falls face first onto the mattress. Stays there.

 Yunho rocks in harder. His snaps are relentless, cruel, even. “Mingi.” “My Mingi.” “My sweet, perfect, delicious Mingi.” he groans, punctuating each sentence with another thrust.

The other man’s words are entirely incoherent now. He babbles disjointed words, mindless. Yunho can’t understand any of it, but the sounds are beautiful enough to push him closer to the edge.

“I’m gonna come soon, baby. And you’re going to come with me, okay?”

Mingi doesn’t reply with words, but his head, still pressed into the pillows, moves in short, furious nods. His mewls are half swallowed by the pillows.

Good. But not good enough. Yunho needs have him closer as he comes undone.

He pulls Mingi’s hair again, forcing his torso up, and holding him there.

“Are you still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, leaning into Mingi’s ear.

“Yeah,” Mingi breathes out.

It’s the only confirmation Yunho needs before his hand wraps around the other man’s throat, and tightens up. Chokes him, gently. The little shriek Mingi lets out is strangled. He falls silent, mouth parted in an airless gasp. The only sound that remains is skin slapping against skin, and Yunho’s own hectic breathing.

“Come for me,” he groans, mouth still so close to Mingi’s ear. “Come for me. Show me you’re mine.”

Mingi’s body goes entirely boneless, and then it tightens up, and Yunho knows he’s coming. The sensation, the overwhelming tightness, the purr of Mingi’s neck squeezed tight beneath his palm, is enough to send Yunho over the edge. After only a few more thrusts, he spills inside his condom.

There’s a brief moment during which his vision goes white and blind and he sees nothing but stars. He hears his heartbeat, pounding inside his ears. He feels the warm flesh of Mingi’s ass, flushed against his crotch. But he sees nothing besides light.

And then, almost as quickly, he comes back to his senses.

The first thing he notices is Mingi’s body, shaking like a leaf.

Yunho pulls out as gently as he can, and lowers Mingi’s body, guiding him onto his back. His heart melts when he sees the younger man’s face. 

Mingi is still crying, real, fat tears slipping from his wet lashes and down his reddened cheeks. He’s crying so much that Yunho might panic, if not for the blissed-out smile lingering on his plush lips. He looks beautiful. He looks utterly ruined.

“Oh baby,” Yunho can’t help but coo.

Mingi lets himself be kissed. He sobs again then, a quiet sob, straight into Yunho’s parted lips. Straight to his heart. He lets himself be cuddled, soft locks fanning over Yunho’s chest, still sniffling.

 

Now is the part Yunho likes the most. When the younger man’s shallow, erratic breathing finally slows —turning deep and heavy— it’s always slightly different, yet somehow always the same. His brows unfurrow, though his eyes stay closed. Yunho sometimes presses soft kisses to their trembling eyelids. Mingi’s lashes keep fluttering for a long, long time. His mouth, bitten pink and wet, stays half-parted. Mingi looks his best like this; entirely open, too tired to be self-conscious.

After his face, it’s his body that unravels. His muscles, clenched tight with pleasure, melt and render him entirely pliable. He doesn’t curl on himself, doesn’t hide away from the light. He remains there, bare, a perfectly still and calm thing, all for Yunho’s eyes to admire. His skin is always tinged pink in the most tender spots. Today, it’s his neck. Yunho was careful, for it not to bruise, but it still might be sore.

It makes Yunho want to kiss it better. But he fights the urge, because he knows Mingi doesn’t like when his body cools down and he remains sticky with sweat and cum. And quite frankly, taking care of Mingi feels like the brightest thing anyways. So he always makes sure to tend at him.

Today’s no exception. Yunho walks to the bathroom, mourning the pretty silhouette he has to look away from for a few minutes. He finds a soft towel in the cabinet, dampens it with warm water —never too hot, or Mingi will flinch and that would break that perfect, peaceful momentum— and wrings it out. Then he returns to the bed, sits carefully on the mattress, and starts wiping at the other man’s sensitive skin. Sometimes Mingi squirms, or mumbles something like “It tickles,” but he always lets himself be cleaned.

And then, finally, Yunho finally slips back under the cover with him, they just stay there, for a long time. It always feels entirely and utterly perfect.

Only today, that doesn’t happen. Just when Yunho slides back into the bed; the younger man’s eyes part open, a little too aware. He straightens up in the bed, wincing at the discomfort he probably feels at his lower back. He lets his long fingers swipe over his brow, push through his messy locks, and with a sigh, he slips out of the bed.

Yunho blinks at him for a few seconds, unsure what to say or what exactly is happening, at least until he sees Mingi bending down to pick up his pants, lying messily on the carpeted floor.

“You’re leaving?”

Mingi stops and turns to him, looking a little like a fawn caught in headlights.

“Uh… yeah,” he says with a smile, though it’s not entirely convincing.

It’s Yunho’s turn to straighten up in the bed.

This is unusual.

Sure, Mingi never stays until the morning; he can’t take the risk, and Yunho’s fine with that. It’s probably for the better anyway; Yunho couldn’t handle the whole waking up together and making pancakes thing. Much too domestic for his style.

But Mingi also never leaves this quickly. He usually lingers for a few hours, limbs tangled with Yunho’s. Those moments are part of what makes it all feel so good. Life softens when Yunho can feel Mingi’s skin under his palms. They don’t talk much when they’re like that. Yunho never sleeps either. He just traces slow circles over Mingi’s ribs, focuses on the younger man’s breathing, on his chest rising, warm against his neck.

His mind wanders to strange places when they lie like this.

He wonders if Mingi feels as blissful as he does, even with the confused guilt Yunho sometimes sees flickering across his face.

He wonders if Mingi has ever imagined being like this with another man. If he’s had crushes, before. What they looked like.

He wonders whether Mingi is this soft, this pliant, with his girlfriend. Yunho always forces that thought away.

He thinks that he’d like to take Mingi to the sea one day, maybe Kamakura. He thinks about watching the seagulls dance and cry in a purple sunset sky. He wonders if Mingi would let him hold his hand.

He wonders if Mingi imagines any of that too.

It’s a little odd, staying still like that for hours. But it feels good, and right. Apparently, though, it’s a luxury he won’t get today.

Did Yunho do something wrong?

Was he a little too rough?

Before the panic can flare up further, he speaks:

“Don’t you want to stay for a while?” Yunho asks, still hopeful.

“Oh…” Mingi is already buttoning his shirt. “I… I can’t really,” he mutters. “It’s… it’s a little complicated with Eunah right now.”

Oh.

Yunho can almost taste something sour rise on his tongue at the name. Right.

Eunah.

He may choose to forget she exists, but Mingi can’t. Probably doesn’t want to, either.

“She’s been… tense,” Mingi continues, eyes avoiding Yunho’s. “She complains that I come home too late. I think… I think she might be suspicious. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Of course Yunho had thought about this happening before. He’s a novice in the department, but even he knows that having an affair with an engaged man comes with complications. He knew she existed, that she had eyes and thoughts and instincts. It was all conceptual—until now. The reality of it lands differently.

“Oh.” He just nods.

What else could he say? There’s so much he wants to say; he feels in catching in his throat, but he doesn’t even know what exactly. And it’s not his place anyway. This isn’t his story, he reminds himself.

This is Mingi’s story. And Eunah’s. He’s just a starring role somewhere off to the side.

“I’m… sorry?” Mingi adds, brows slightly furrowed. It comes out like a question, which makes Yunho snort. Apparently Mingi is just as uneasy as he is about the whole concept of this situation.

“You don’t have to be,” he says, forcing a smile. “That’s always been our deal, wasn’t it? No pressure.”

Those had been his own words, after all. He was the one who’d offered it: no strings attached, nothing owed. It’s not like he could’ve expected anything else from Mingi anyway. Besides, that’s always been Yunho’s thing. He isn’t looking for anything else, anything more. Casual.

Still, when he closes the door on Mingi’s silhouette disappearing down the corridor, a strange hollowness settles in his chest. It stays with him as he pours himself a glass of wine. As he turns on the TV. He already knows he won’t be able to sleep.

It stays with him late into the night, and into the first pale wash of dawn staining the winter sky.

It’s not sharp. Not a burn. More of a dull, unpleasant weight, pressing just below his ribs.

Yunho isn’t sure what it is, but he finds it scary.

Notes:

Guyssss I’m so thankfull for all the support this story has been receiving. Asides from the kudos and incredibly sweet comments (thank you infinitely to every one of you who take their time to leave something, you can’t imagine how happy it makes me when I see one of your names popping in my emails), we’ve reached 70 followers for this story, and that’s such an honour! It feels so overwhelming to know that 70 of you guys considered that this story was worth following, and it makes my writing sessions all the way more cheerful.

Also I’m genuinely so excited about writing this story and I’m happy that I’ve been able to keep up with the twice-a-week updating schedule for now. Normally, the next chapter should be published on Wednesday. It will most definitely be shorter than these past two though.

Ok I’ll stop yapping now :3
Take care and I’ll see u soon for another one!

Chapter 8: Pulse

It all begins as a pleasant, ideal afternoon.

It’s Friday, and to celebrate the new acquisition, Mr. Park has given all the departments he oversees half the day off. Yunho is happy; because it means an early weekend, yes, but more simply because it gives him an occasion to spend the afternoon with Mingi.

It’s not often they get to see each other outside the office during daylight hours. Mingi is usually busy on weekends. Yunho doesn’t really allow himself to wonder what he’s doing—not his business, he reminds himself when his mind wanders. It’s a rare occurrence, these stolen hours, but it’s always nice. Yunho does think that, in some way, they’ve become friends. Friends with benefits? Probably. It’s certainly different from his usual hook-ups. But they’ve never discussed labels; it would make things unbearably awkward, considering Mingi’s situation. And if Mingi doesn’t want to address it, Yunho certainly isn’t going to push.

Today wasn’t planned. Everything simply fell into place; the universe being weirdly kind. They left the office at the same time, drifting into the street side by side, still engaged in their heated debate over the best 7-Eleven sandwich. They walked for quite a while, until they passed Hamarikyu Garden, and Mingi casually mentioned he’d never actually been inside. So they went.

It’s a very cold day, and the first snowfall of December has just begun to settle over the city in a thin white veil. Hamarikyu is one of Yunho’s favourite spots in the city, and during the winter, its beauty is even more striking.

The ponds look like sheets of dark glass, their surfaces trembling faintly with the wind. The pines wear little halos of ice on their branches. Their needles, deep green against the pale sky, catch what little daylight there is.

Yunho guides Mingi through the garden paths. They walk through stretches of faded winter grass, brittle, bending under the frost. Their footsteps crack softly against the icy gravel. It’s so quiet and so lovely, and Yunho doesn’t think about anything in particular; but he looks at Mingi a lot.

They sit on a wooden bench in front of the small lake for a little while, facing an ancient teahouse that seems to hover over the water. Its roof is dusted in white. Mingi tells a story about how, when he was fourteen, he almost died going skiing for the first time. Yunho laughs at that a lot, and Mingi gives him a light shove in the shoulder that only makes him laugh harder.

After that, they continue their walk to the east. They pass Tokyo Tower, and Mingi even allows Yunho to take a picture of him, arms stretched wide, a big smile plastered on his face, the perfect tourist. Yunho can’t help but smile so wide it makes him feel a little stupid.

By the time they reach Roppongi Hills, a few curious snowflakes start to drift lazily through the sky again. Yunho looks at Mingi watching them fall in awe, face turned up to the clouds. It’s cute, and childish too, and just very Mingi. When Mingi looks down, there’s white dusting his hair. Yunho allows himself to reach for the slightly damp locks and ruffle them gently, tossing the snow away.

Mingi thanks him in a mumble, blushing.

Yunho’s chest constricts, and his heart flutters. Thin, delicate butterfly wings flapping between his ribs. So many of them. He does like winter a lot.

He notices a few snowflakes caught on Mingi’s eyelashes too. That, he doesn’t reach for.

Mingi’s nose has turned a lovely shade of pink. It matches the deep burgundy of his jacket. Makes him look very soft; just the way Yunho likes him the most.

Yunho’s skin feels strangely warm against the icy December air. He can’t help but think that this is nice too. That he’d like to have more of these moments. That there are so many facets of Mingi he still doesn’t know, and could discover. Like what weather he likes best, or whether he looks at cherry blossom petals the same way he looks at snow, when hanami comes.

They keep walking, directionless, until they reach Mori Tower, and a voice cuts through their quiet conversation.

“Jagiya!”

Yunho seems to be the first one to hear it. He turns to see a young woman —in her mid-twenties, most probably— walking toward them with purpose. She’s short but slender, long legs clad in a rather elegant pencil skirt. A bit too cold for the weather, Yunho thinks distantly.

It’s only after she says it again, and reaches them, that Mingi seems to register. He turns around, and his face shifts to something much more serious than it had been a few seconds earlier.

Yunho’s eyes move back and forth between their silhouettes, and it takes him a few more seconds to understand who he is facing. His gaze drifts to her hands. They’re covered by baby-blue gloves, but he easily guesses what lies underneath, on one of her fingers. A ring. Matching Mingi’s.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in the office?” she asks as she reaches out to dust some of the snow that’s been accumulating on Mingi’s shoulders.

“Oh. Uh. Mr. Park let us out early. Yeah.” Mingi answers, ears red.

“Lovely.” She says it with a smile. Her eyes travel to Yunho’s silhouette. “I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Kim Eunah,” she says, bowing.

Before Yunho can reply, Mingi speaks for him. “This is Jeong Yunho. He’s a colleague.”

Yunho bows, back tense. “Nice to meet you,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Reciprocally.” She smiles.

Her smile is clever. Mature, like the rest of her traits. The slope of her nose is well-defined. She has a rather unique beauty. Not too soft. Her plum lipstick compliments her complexion nicely. Yunho looks at her lips for a beat too long. He wonders how many times they’ve kissed Mingi’s. Whether she ever leaves plum stains on his skin.

He realizes he never pictured her like this. He had never really considered giving a face to the idea of her, now that he's thinking about it. But, above all, he didn’t expect her to be so striking. She really is beautiful. It’s weird seeing her. It’s weird seeing her hand find the crook of Mingi’s arm, rest on it as if it belongs there. It kind of does, now that he thinks about it.

“Well, I was just going to fetch Mr. Tanaka’s lunch, so I’ll be going. But I’ll see you at home at eight, jagi.”

“Uh, no. Remember. There’s… there’s this office thing tonight?” Mingi replies, voice slightly too breathy. His glasses have fogged with the cold and his heightened breathing.

“Oh, right.” She smiles. “Well, have fun then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, maybe.” She adds it, voice entirely unaffected. “Mr. Jeong, it was a pleasure.”

“Pleasure shared.” He lies.

There’s a minute or two of uncomfortable silence as the two men remain where they are, watching Eunah’s silhouette vanish in the distance. The sound of her heels echoing on the icy pavement lingers a little longer after she turns the corner.

Yunho isn’t sure what he’s feeling. He’s surprised, mostly. Tokyo is a big city. The biggest. And it’s not so common to run into someone by accident. Especially not someone you didn’t really wish to see. It’s just strange, having her existence materialized. Not good for his whole denial thing.

It’s Mingi who breaks the silence first.

“I’m sorry, that was… that was super awkward.” He mutters, ears turning even redder by the minute.

Yunho doesn’t reply, but he starts walking again.

“I should have known,” Mingi continues, following him. “She works in Mori Tower, and she always works on Fridays, and—”

“It’s okay.” Yunho cuts him off, a little sharper than he intended. He just doesn’t want Mingi to keep talking. He doesn’t need to know about Eunah’s routine. Doesn’t need to know that Mingi knows everything about it. Of course he does. She’s his fiancée, for God’s sake.

It doesn’t feel okay, but Yunho doesn’t know why Mingi would be apologizing right now. Mingi should be the one feeling unwell. Not Yunho. He has no reason to. This story isn’t about him; he reminds himself once more. This is Mingi’s story. Mingi and Eunah’s story. Not his own.

Mingi doesn’t reply, and they continue to walk in silence for what seems far too long. Yunho’s thoughts are racing but his throat is dry.

“An office thing tonight, right?” he finally asks. He hates himself for how bitter it comes out. He has no reason to be bitter. Of course Mingi has to make excuses for the quiet evenings they steal away. It just makes sense. But it’s strange, hearing the lies first-hand.

“Yeah,” Mingi mumbles. “I mean, I just… it’s what I say. When… you know. So we can have some time.”

Mingi’s suddenly back to the shy, meek version of himself Yunho had seen during his first days at the office. It feels odd, hearing that part of him peek through the surface again. It doesn’t feel right.

Yunho suddenly finds the cold utterly unpleasant and irritating.

“No, I get it.” He says. “It’s just that—don’t you feel embarrassed, having to lie like this?”

It’s straight-up mean, and he doesn’t even know why he’s being this way. Hurtful. Of course Mingi has to lie. It’s the only thing he can do in their situation. Yunho’s always known that. Has never really had a problem with it. He had been the one to set the conditions for their arrangement, after all.

Mingi falls silent, and when Yunho turns to take a look at him, the younger man’s head is slightly hunched; the content smile he’d worn all afternoon replaced by a worried expression. He looks a little like a scolded child. Yunho feels terrible.

He feels even worse when Mingi speaks again:

“I mean, if you think it’s not a good idea… I can just go home tonight.”

No. Yunho doesn’t want that. A night without Mingi is a wasted night. He wants to keep walking with him. Wants to take him to see the sparkly winter decorations that shine around Tokyo Dome. Wants to bring him to his favourite udon restaurant in Asakusa. Wants to forget the unpleasant sight of Eunah’s hand around his arm.

“Yeah,” he finds himself replying instead. “Maybe it’s a good idea that you go home.”

 

What has begun as a perfect Friday melts into a particularly irritating weekend. Nothing flows quite right.

The neighbours upstairs decide to reenact Stomp. Yunho’s heating system hisses like it’s dying. The snowfall grows too heavy, inconvenient rather than romantic, turning the streets into slick grey sludge. The convenience store runs out of his favourite onigiri. The barista spells his name “Yumbo.” And Mingi doesn’t text.

Yunho isn’t affected by that last part at all, of course. He’s in a terrible mood anyways. Wouldn’t have wanted to see him, or whatever. Or anyone else, for that matters.

He cancels the usual Saturday lunch with his two best friends, even when Wooyoung starts sending him pouty emojis, followed by a dramatic string of knives. All teeth, no bite (although he does bite, sometimes). Normally it would make Yunho laugh and he’d eventually surrender. Today he turns off notifications.

By evening, the irritation has shifted into something heavier. Restlessness, maybe. He decides the best thing to do would be to see someone. Have a quick hook-up. That’s usually how he spends his Saturday nights. A great way to unveil. Take some of the pressure off his tensed shoulders.

The past four weekends, he’d seen Mingi. Before that, countless other men. Men that still exist, somewhere. He scrolls through his contacts, thumb hovering over familiar names.

He could text Haruto. They’d been seeing each other casually before Mingi had come along. Haruto is pretty, easy-going, and probably as much as a pervert as Yunho. Or he could call Jisung. It’s been forever since they’ve linked up, but that has never been a problem before. They’ve been occasional company for one another for more than a year. Jisung is cute, and very kind too. They always take the time to talk a bit, after they fuck. Yunho distantly wonders how Jisung’s mom is doing.

But the more he thinks about it, the more forced it feels. Artificial. Nostalgic in the wrong ways. If he has to see someone he already knows, the truth is painfully clear: it would be Mingi he’d want to see, and no one else. And Mingi is busy existing a life Yunho isn’t part of.

Maybe novelty is a good idea, then. Something fresh and new. Uncomplicated. Exciting. It’s been a month since this whole thing with Mingi began, and in that month, Yunho hasn’t seen anyone else. Far too monogamous for his usual taste. It’s absurd, now that he realizes it. That must be why he’s feeling all wound up and confused. And they have never discussed exclusivity anyways. Well, of course. That would be foolish, knowing that Mingi goes home to his fiancée’s bed every night.

Yunho opens the hook up app he’s neglected for too long.

There are a lot of cute profiles. Plenty of matches he would normally swipe right on without hesitation. But he finds himself searching for something a bit too specific. High cheekbones. Full lips. A tall, elegant nose. He even pauses on a profile just because he spots a slightly crooked front tooth peeking from a wide smile.

Ridiculous. And infuriating.

Irritated with himself, he closes the app. Enough. He should just sleep.

He locks his phone, turns off the light, rolls to his side.

But a few minutes later, he’s reaching for the device again, hand fumbling across the bedside table until he finds it. Screen on. Gallery open. Clicking on the last picture.

Mingi is staring back at him, in front of Tokyo Tower. His smile is wide, his nose red from the cold. His glasses are slightly foggy. Effortlessly, and painfully endearing. His hair is messy and Yunho wants to run a soothing hand in it.

His heart aches.

Mingi doesn’t text on Sunday either.

 

The next week begins in the same unpleasant haze.

By Monday morning, winter has crept into the subway tunnels, sharp and unfriendly. Yunho stands wedged between strangers, shoulders brushing coats, someone’s breath too warm against his neck, and the irritation continues to grow.

But it all melts the moment he reaches the office, pushes open the bathroom door, and nearly walks straight into Mingi. He stops short. His thoughts do too.

Mingi looks off. Not bad —Yunho refuses to think Mingi could ever look bad— but dimmer. The brightness is dulled. There are deep, bluish shadows under his eyes, and he blinks at Yunho like a startled prey. No smile. Not even the small, shy one he gives when he’s unsure. He doesn’t look angry, though. He looks dejected.

It stirs something sad and heavy in Yunho’s chest.

“Hi,” Yunho says, breaking the thick silence.

“Hi.”

After a beat, Mingi slips past him and leaves.

And just like that, Yunho’s irritation dissolves. Not into relief, but into guilt. Thick, sticky guilt.

It’s painfully clear in Mingi’s expression how much Friday’s incident has weighed on him. The argument. Was it even an argument? Not really. Yunho had just been rude. Petty. Hurtful for no good reason.

He realizes, with a wince, that he has behaved like an asshole.

And for what? Because of the awkward feeling of having to face his own guilt? Because he had been taken aback and hadn’t known how to react? Because he had, out of nowhere, felt a flare of absurd possessiveness?

He isn’t sure which reason works best, but he hates it all the same.

 

They don’t talk for the rest of the day. Yunho keeps trying to catch Mingi’s eyes from across the open space, offering small, apologetic glances, but Mingi’s gaze always lands somewhere else; his screen, his notebook, the window. Never Yunho.

It’s not until the next morning that they end up face to face again, arriving at the coffee machine at the exact same time. For a few seconds, there’s just the hum of the machine and the soft whirr of heating coils. Then Mingi takes a short breath in, and turns to Yunho.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” His voice asks, small. His eyes are big and anxious. Yunho’s heart feels like it’s folding in on itself.

“No, of course not. You didn’t do anything wrong. Why would I be mad, sweetheart?”

The petname slips out before Yunho can catch it; a beat too late, he realizes how strange it sounds here, under white fluorescent lights, beside a vending machine. Sweetheart belongs in dark rooms and tangled sheets, not in the office at 9 a.m. But Mingi doesn’t seem to notice. Thank God.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Friday wasn’t… good. And then you didn’t text. And I just— I thought maybe you were upset.”

“It’s not your fault,” Yunho says, honest and tired. “I just… It was weird to see Eu… her. And I felt… I felt guilty, I think.”

“I feel guilty too,” Mingi whispers, looking down at the floor.

Yunho looks down too, at the small space between their shoes. They’re close. Too close for coworkers, for friends, for men avoiding something dangerous. Magnets.

Hearing it said aloud feels strange. Heavy. It’s the first time either of them has mentioned it overtly. The guilt. It doesn’t feel good. It hurts more, seeing Mingi so wound up, so troubled. It feels wrong. Yunho should change that. He wants to joke, to reach out, to steady him with a warm hand and tell him it’ll be alright.

But he doesn’t. Because he hurts too, and he doesn’t know what to do with the pain. Can’t even begin to comprehend it.  

A sad silence settles between them, humming softly above the purr of the coffee machine.

 

The following days, Yunho learns that Mingi’s guilt isn’t great for his own process of mastering denial.

Mercifully, the silence doesn’t stretch any longer between them. On Wednesday, Mingi kisses him again discreetly on the rooftop, and Yunho’s grateful to see it doesn’t feel any different. The fire hasn’t died out—far from it. They make out again a little later in the day, in the last-floor bathroom, because nobody ever uses that one. Mingi replaces one of Yunho’s wild locks when they take the elevator back down. That makes Yunho think that things are going to melt back into normalcy.

But what even does normal mean, for a situation like theirs?

Things are almost normal, or back to what they had been before the past Friday, at least. It feels normal, when Mingi comes to his flat on Thursday evening, and Yunho eats him out until Mingi comes twice and falls asleep on the spot. Only, when Yunho watches over the other man’s peaceful figure as he’s resting for a little while, freshly clean and looking like a prince with his hair fanning out in a halo, Yunho can’t help but feel that weird, strange, and inescapable melancholy creeping back into his belly.

It gets worse when Mingi wakes up; and, after a short chat and a cup of tea, he inevitably has to go back to his own place.

 

Yunho doesn’t get why it feels so weird and shitty. Seeing Eunah had been unpleasant, sure, because Yunho had feared that it would change something for Mingi, that maybe he’d realize the danger of their situation and stop it all. But Mingi seems mostly alright with the whole thing, and he does not mention Eunah again. He doesn’t mention her worries any further either, which should make Yunho feel better.

Still, Yunho feels weirdly unwell, and that is unlike him.

Yunho isn’t, and has never been, an anxious man. He doesn’t worry. He does not overthink from dusk till dawn. When he has a problem, he solves it quietly. When something hurts, he cries it out and moves on. When he has doubts about something, he talks it out. But somehow none of that feels like the appropriate thing right now, probably because it’s so difficult to pinpoint exactly what is provoking his sour moods.

It’s not apprehension, not really anger or bitterness either; just a strange shape of dull and diffuse sadness.

He tries to be methodical about the whole thing. Scribbles down on paper to solve his riddle. Brings it down to simple words. Still finds it difficult to identify the pain.

After intense brainstorming, he decides that the most rational explanation has to be that he’s worried, deep down, about Mingi wanting to stop their little arrangement. Because let’s face it, at this point, he’s addicted.

Parts of the theory are a little flimsy, because once again, Mingi doesn’t mention Eunah again after the incident. And he remains eager—eager to see Yunho often, eager to find his eyes and haunt him during the day, eager to text him slightly dirty things at late hours of the night. He’s been getting braver with it, even.

But, after all, it’s only normal for Yunho to have suddenly gained consciousness of the fragile equilibrium of their situation after having met Eunah. The brief interaction—one he’s replayed too many times in his head for his own sanity—had been startling in that sense. Suddenly, the face and the facts that Yunho had become so good at avoiding had taken shape into something tangible.

And beyond that, he’s not certain if it’s his eyes or his paranoia, but sometimes he still thinks that Mingi’s behaviour has changed, just slightly, since that day. Not always, but in the way, sometimes, when they’re in bed, breaths coming down from their highs, Mingi’s eyes drift away to somewhere foreign, yet not cloudy nor fuzzy, and far too distant. Out of Yunho’s reach. Yunho can only watch in worry when he thinks he sees it happening.

It happens during more casual conversations too. Yunho and Mingi are just talking, and suddenly Mingi’s gaze lands somewhere behind one of Yunho’s ears, somewhere far beyond the background and beyond what’s visible. In those moments, Yunho isn’t sure what he’s looking at, but there’s always a small ball of worry curling up in his chest.

All in all, Yunho thinks that it is possible, if not likely, that Mingi has doubts. And he’d have every right to. Yunho decides that the best solution, rationally, is to discuss it. Mingi’s always been the meeker one between them. The more anxious one. And he’s clearly going through a tough phase. So perhaps Yunho owes him that—owes him a conversation, if the younger man needs it.

Only, Yunho finds himself surprised to realize that he does not want to have this conversation. At all.

He tries to bring it up naturally on casual occasions, like coffee breaks, making it casual to limit the drama of it all. But the words die out in his chest. And the worst part is: the reasons are awful.

He doesn’t want to ask Mingi about the whole thing because he’s terrified it would give Mingi an exit door. The perfect occasion to end it all. And of course, Yunho doesn’t want that. Being with Mingi feels nice, and fun, and filled with so much warmth. So Yunho is scared.

The thought is weird, not only because he feels like a pathetic coward, but also like a terrible person altogether. He feels plain cruel for wishing, deep down, that Mingi will never really get the chance to walk away from him.

He wonders, in horror, if this situation—this ugly affair, to reuse Wooyoung’s word—isn’t transforming him more than he had expected. If it’s not twisting him as a person, just a little too much. Corrupting his morals for an engaged man’s pretty eyes. Corrupting his own integrity just to make the whole craze last a little longer.

But Yunho is a good man; or at least he has been for most of his life. He wants to remain a worthy person, even if he’s made mistakes. Even if his thoughts have been anything but decent and his actions have been plain amoral. So he forces himself to have that talk with Mingi, no matter what it entails.

 

His heartbeat feels louder than usual that evening. They haven’t had sex yet. They’re seated on Yunho’s couch, eating instant ramen, eyes on the television, because in the morning Mingi had said Akira was playing tonight, and when Yunho had said he hadn’t watched it, Mingi had just forced him to sit down and "admire".

Yunho remains quiet for the entirety of the movie, because Mingi is just too absorbed and enthusiastic, and it’s adorable, and Yunho has to admit it’s slightly distracting. He tries to push it down for a few more minutes, and he lets his fingers run up and down Mingi’s right thigh as he watches him watching the flickering screen.

When the film ends though, and Mingi turns to him and wets his lips, clearly ready to move on to an entirely different topic, Yunho reminds himself that he has to speak up.

He owes this to Mingi.

So he asks the younger man a question he asked him a long time ago —what feels like forever ago, now— back on that beach in Okinawa.

“Is everything okay, between us?”

Mingi’s eyebrows immediately curl in that pouty frown that overtakes his entire face whenever he gets anxious.

“Yeah, sure. Why do you ask, hyung?” His voice is small, and Yunho’s heart feels heavy.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to check up. Regarding our whole… this.” He says, his own voice sounding slightly too tight.

Mingi blinks at him, and once more he looks like a scolded child. Yunho doesn’t want to scold him. He wants to cradle him close and kiss his lips silly. But he can’t let himself get distracted.

“I just know it has been a lot for you, recently,” he continues, omitting the fact that it’s been a lot for himself too. “And you were very confused at the beginning. With… everything. And Eunah. And… yeah.”

Mingi bites at his lower lip in worry, and Yunho hates himself for ever bringing this up. But he also knows he had to, at some point. The worry, the guilt, the shame on Mingi’s beautiful features are enough to remind him of just how serious this all is.

“It’s been a lot, yeah,” Mingi says. “But we’re fine, no?”

He turns back to Yunho at that, big eyes melting into the older man’s, desperately seeking something. Confirmation. Comfort. Guidance. Yunho wants to provide all of that. He truly does. But he has to make sure first:

“Do you regret it?” he asks Mingi, voice trembling slightly.

There’s a beat of silence, but then Mingi leans in and presses a soft kiss to Yunho’s lips, and it tastes like deliverance, and sin too.

“No, I don’t.”

Later that night, when Mingi cries out I’m yours, as he comes undone in Yunho’s sheets, Yunho tries to ignore the cut that deepens in his chest, blooms bigger and wider.

 

There’s not much he can do, besides trying to pour even more tenderness and more fire than usual in every of his kisses.

At least, the sex is still very much earth-shattering.

Mingi’s clearly still enjoying the discovery. He’s eager to experiment. He dares asking new things, sometimes. And that makes Yunho very, very happy, because not only does fucking Mingi feels like the best thing, but seeing the younger man bloom into his sexuality warms his heart.

And Yunho still can’t get enough of it. He’s still as engrossed with Mingi’s perfect body and perfect moans as he was the very first time.

He’s been particularly obsessed by Mingi’s thighs, lately. Even more than before ever since Mingi has allowed him to bite at them, and leave little marks there. Discreet. Concealed from everybody’s eyes.

It hadn’t been Mingi’s initiative. No, it’s Yunho who had asked, because he thought he’d die if he didn’t get to sink his teeth into the plumpness of Mingi’s flesh. Mingi had been slightly hesitant, for obvious reasons, but his eyes were so filled with so much lust, and he had ended up nodding lightly, and then begging for more.

Since then, Yunho has been biting at them a lot. Soft love bites, pink and red. And deeper marks, burgundy and purple, too. He chews and sucks at the skin and kisses at it too, until the whole area bares traces of his ministrations. The thrill of adrenaline he feels afterward, when he looks at the beautiful canvas of his artwork, is unmatched.

It’s risky, he knows that too well. Mingi does too, obviously. But every worry seems to dissolve when the ecstasy hits. And that very risk gives Yunho a dizzying, horrible sense of power.

Because aside from the beauty of the act in itself, the bites come with something much grander for Yunho. The quiet confirmation that Eunah doesn’t get to see Mingi there anymore. That this intimacy doesn’t exist between the two of them anymore. That it is so foreign of a possibly that Mingi lets himself be marked.

And so each bite is a proof that Eunah doesn’t have Mingi entirely anymore. That nobody else sees him there. Nobody except himself. Yunho. Yunho’s. The thought always makes him dizzy. One time, he even comes just like that, sucking deep bruises into the skin there, rutting his length back onto the mattress.

It only fuels the urge to bite deeper. Stronger. To leave his teeth branded into the other man’s skin. Just to be sure that, at least for a little longer, he’ll remain Yunho’s.

 

Very often, Yunho thinks that San is his guardian angel. That’s how Wooyoung had presented him when the couple first met, and Yunho hadn’t believed it. But it does seem that San has the strange and rather valuable ability to feel when someone urgently needs him. At least when one of his friends does.

It seems like that’s the case on Thursday, around 8 p.m., when he calls Yunho out of nowhere.

“Hi, Yuyu. Am I not disturbing you?”

Yunho has just settled on the couch, scrolling unenthusiastically through the Netflix catalogue. For some reason, the silence of his apartment has felt suffocating tonight. Lonely, even. Yunho never feels lonely, usually.

“No, I’m not doing anything in particular, Sannie.”

“Great. Well, do you want to come over for dinner? Woo is meeting up with Seonghwa and I don’t have anything planned. Plus, I’ve just finished this new cycle of cooking classes and I think you deserve to be the first one trying my new and improved unagi recipe.”

Twenty minutes later, Yunho is ringing San’s doorbell, a bottle of soju in each hand. Not that he wants to get drunk, or anything. But just in case.

When San opens the door, he blinks at Yunho, soft eyes lingering on his face for one second longer than usual. Yunho knows San is seeing it; whatever has been macerating in him for some time now. Something unnamed and ugly. San doesn’t comment; he only steps aside and lets him in.

The smell of the unagi swells through the apartment, sweet and tangy, and Yunho’s mouth waters immediately. He finds his usual spot on the couch, letting his attention drift to Cotton, the tiny furball curled on the pillows, while San goes to the kitchen to finish the last touches on his masterpiece.

Yunho’s eyes drift around the room, and for some reason, he feels like he’s seeing it through a new lens. In a way he’s never seen before.

He’s always loved this place; always appreciated its domesticity. His own apartment has never been as well decorated, never felt so lived-in. He’s noticed the difference before, but he’s never really felt it. Not like now. Tonight, as he scans the trinkets on every surface and the travel souvenirs scattered across shelves, he suddenly sees everything that’s missing from his own place.

It has to be because he’s been in a terrible mood today; gloomy and oddly lonely. Probably carried all that weight with him, now projecting those dirty feelings onto his friends’ perfect lovenest.

It’s envy, he realizes. Envy for something weird and foreign, something he can’t quite name. Maybe he should buy some plants. They add warmth. And a pet, maybe. He’s always wanted a dog. Maybe he’s reaching the proper age for a dog; moving away from his early thirties and a step closer to his mid-thirties.

The thought feels strange.

He looks around again, standing from the couch to examine small details. On a dresser near the door sit a few framed pictures. One of the couple smiling in front of Niagara Falls—a souvenir from their first anniversary. Wooyoung looks so young in it; it makes Yunho’s heart swell with a strange fondness. Next to it, a portrait of Wooyoung alone, most definitely taken by San, nobody else captures Wooyoung’s beauty so perfectly, wearing a velvet shirt with a scandalous neckline. There’s one of San too, on the right side, lying in a wildflower field, dandelions tangled in his hair. His hair was longer back then. It’s stupid and sweet.

Yunho cannot take inspiration from that, though. He doesn’t have pictures he likes enough to frame. Well, he has one, but that would be weird.

His thoughts are cut short when San finally enters the living room, carrying their plates, steaming hot, filling the room with an even richer scent.

The first bite feels like heaven. The eel is perfectly caramelized, yet melts on the tongue. Yunho’s restless thoughts drift a little farther away. They end up drinking soju too, which is nice.

Everything is pleasant and simple, and San is being the perfect host, and the perfect friend, as always.

“Fuck, can you convince Wooyoung that the two of you should adopt me? I want to eat this every single day until I die.”

“Greedy hyung,” San laughs. “You’re not getting adopted. Woo says he’s too young to be a mom. Sorry. You know you can always come, though.”

“Careful what you wish for. I might take your invitation very seriously,” Yunho laughs.

“I’m serious, Yuyu.” San’s tone softens, matching the sweetness in his eyes. “You’re always welcome here. You don’t have to wait for me to invite you. You know that, right?”

Yunho lets out an embarrassed smile, because the sincerity hits him harder than expected. It lands softly, after a long and tiring week. “I know that. Thank you, Sannie.”

Cotton stretches from her spot on the couch and trots toward her owner. She climbs into San’s lap, stretches again, then curls into a warm loaf.

There’s a short silence while Yunho takes two sips of soju. His eyes drift toward the framed pictures again. He takes another sip.

“I haven’t had a lot of news from you recently, though. Is everything alright, Yuyu?” 

Yunho sort of knew this was coming, from the moment San gave him that weirdly compassionate look at the door. Very San of him. He reads people well, and he wears his heart on his sleeve. Still, the question tightens something in Yunho’s throat.

“Yes, Sannie. I’ve just been… I don’t know. Things have been a bit dull lately?”

San nods, but keeps his eyes on him, gently inviting Yunho to say more. Yunho swallows around that tightness.

“The office and everything…” he adds, his voice trailing off, the rest dying before it can form.

“I get it,” San says with a sweet smile. “Winter months and all. It gets gloomy.”

It’s Yunho’s turn to nod, eyes darting anywhere but his friend’s face. He’s not bad at eye contact, usually, and certainly not shy around San, but today everything feels too raw.

“Are you still seeing Mingi?” San asks, tone careful.

Yunho nods. His throat constricts furthers. There’s a sudden weight in his chest, or perhaps it’s not so new and it’s been there for a little while, and he’s just noticing now. The heaviness of the silence is broken by Cotton’s soft purr. It’s comforting and Yunho’s grateful.

He should try explaining. Maybe that would help. Maybe he’s kept his tangled emotions to himself for too long.

“Yeah, we’re seeing each other.” His voice comes out strangled. “It’s just been a little… weird? I guess.”

San nods. “Weird. Okay, yeah. Weird how?” The gentleness of his tone encourages Yunho to continue.

“Not too long ago we ran into Eu- his fiancée. It was… Surprising. Yeah. It was surprising. And it made things a little awkward? I think?”

“Oh. And have you guys talked about it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we did." Yunho pauses for a brief second, and takes in a long breath. "He seemed sad, and I don’t want to make him sad so I asked him if he regretted it all. And he said no, and said he likes seeing me and that he’s having fun with me, and I was... relieved? Which probably makes me a terrible person because I’m enjoying someone actively ruining their marriage? But I just really like it when I’m with him, Sannie. And I don’t want it to stop. And I don’t really want to see anybody else either?”

The words spill freely, like the dam finally gave out. He’s not sure when exactly he started crying, but tears are rolling down his cheeks now. He still can’t stop talking.

“So yeah, I was relieved. I should be relieved, still. And I am. In a way. But I also still feel weird? I don’t know, it’s the guilt, and also there’s just… There’s just a weight in there.” He touches his ribcage. “And he’s still sad, I think. Well, not sad, but sometimes he has that look in his eyes—like he’s worried—and I hate seeing that. I hate that I can’t help. And I feel like a jerk because maybe it is my fault? But I just want him to be happy, Sannie. I swear. It’s just… a lot. And I’m not used to… I don’t know. To feeling like shit?”

More tears gather in his lashes. He doesn’t feel ashamed. He’s always been an easy crier, and San would never mock him. In a strange way, it feels good. Soothing.

San smiles gently, understanding that the tears aren’t bad. He hands Yunho a tissue, and Yunho gratefully takes it because his nose is starting to feel embarrassingly snotty. He lets out a small laugh at the realization.

San’s next words are anything but soothing, though.

“Do you like him?”

Yunho’s hands still, tissue pressed to his nose.

Does he like Mingi?

Well, of course he does. They’ve become friends, in some way. He’s been thinking that for quite a while. He’s always liked Mingi. Mingi is kind, deep down, and he’s endearing.

And Yunho likes most things about him. Like his glasses and his laugh and his ways and his voice and the way he sneezes and the silly songs he sings and the way his hair fans over pillows and the slope of his nose and the taste of his tears and that cute front tooth of his, and the smell of his bodywash and the blush of his nose when it gets cold. Oh, and his smile too.

So yeah, Yunho likes Mingi.

But that’s not what San is asking, isn’t it?

San’s words bear something entirely different. Something Yunho does not think about. Refuses to. Something suddenly far too serious, that comes with heavy hearts and promises and rings. And Mingi does have a ring but he shares it with someone else. Not Yunho. He’s not Yunho’s. So Yunho can’t like him.

But his eyes seem to have made their decision before he has, because the moment San asks the question, they overflow again. And it feels like all the butterflies that, not too long ago, fluttered beneath his ribs, have flown away, leaving behind a hollow ache.

Yunho’s words seem to have vanished away with them. So instead of replying, he nods.

“Oh Yunho…” San’s voice is so gentle, yet it only makes the pain sharper. More tangible. It gives Yunho a proof that all he’s feeling is in him. But also that it exists, to the rest of the world too. “I’m sorry, Yunho.”

Yunho doesn’t know what exactly San is apologizing for, but when the younger man pulls him into a hug, he doesn’t pull away.

He thinks he should have chased the butterflies away long before they dug a hole in his chest.

Notes:

Wrote this as the first snow of the year just fell over my city! Snowy days are the most romantic :3

Thank you for reading, as always! Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments; your support means so much to this story.

I’m not sure yet when the next chapter will be published. It might not be ready for the weekend, so it will likely come out early next week.

See you soon and take care <3

Chapter 9: Whiplash

Song Mingi is 26 years old. His blood type is O. He likes his peas steamed. He has his mom’s smile. He likes grey. His Zodiac sign is Leo. He is good at his job. He likes snowy days more than sunny ones. And he might not be totally, entirely, completely straight.

He’s been practicing saying it in front of the mirror to make it sound more real. Well, not saying it out loud, but thinking it, rolling the question over in his head until it slowly hardens into something that resembles an answer, as he examines the details of his own face. Sometimes, he doesn’t quite recognize himself. The words feel foreign and abstract, like they belong to a different person entirely. He has a hard time believing them.

But then sometimes, next to his reflection, there is Yunho’s, rinsing his mouth with water, hair still slightly tousled from Mingi grabbing at his locks while the older man was sucking him off. That does help the words feel slightly more convincing

That sight also makes it easier not to panic. Because there’s nothing dirty in Yunho’s image. He looks handsome as ever, in these moments. Manly as ever. There’s no shame in his clever eyes, and his smile is full of warmth.

So it can’t be so wrong, can it? To be like that. To enjoy what they’re doing.

On the most pleasant days, he feels like maybe, just maybe, this is something he could live with.

But then he comes home, and reality crashes in. One way or another. One day, it’s his mom calling to ask when he’ll finally be ready to give her grandchildren. Another day, it’s an elderly man frowning openly at two girls kissing discreetly at the back of the bus.

Today, reality takes the shape of a commercial break during the program he’s watching on TV, one of the rare nights he actually spends at home with Eunah. They’re both seated on one edge of the three-person couch, a careful, polite distance between them.

Mingi is distracted. It’s been three days since Yunho and him had sex. Call him obsessed, but that’s a lot. He’s not exactly horny, but there’s a craving, somewhere deeper inside his chest. The urge to have that release. That blissful, floaty feeling he has, when the older man takes care of him. It helps his brain quiet down, his jaw unclench. It’s been too long, and he can’t really think of anything else.

He keeps turning his phone on and off, fingers hovering over Yunho’s contact. He could text him. But that wouldn’t really be useful: he can’t go meet him tonight. He has no excuse to: it would be too strange for Eunah. And Mingi doesn’t really have any other reason to text Yunho. They don’t just… text. That would be weird. Wouldn’t it?

Still, Mingi is thinking about it. About simply telling Yunho that he misses his touch. That he wishes he could be with him tonight. The thought feels awful—criminally betraying—to have while sitting next to Eunah. So he doesn’t text. He just sits there, half-watching the series she insisted they watch together. She doesn’t seem to care much either, judging from the hour she’s spent scrolling through her phone.

When the commercial break starts, his curious eyes drift upward from his screen. Watching ads is sometimes fun. Definitely better than staring at Yunho’s contact photo; a silly screenshot he once grabbed from the older man’s ancient Facebook account. A creepy detail, maybe, but he refuses to think too hard about it.

But right then, as the trailer of a new series begins, he feels heat crawl violently up his neck. His whole body stiffens. His pulse jumps. He hopes the dim room hides the blooming redness. He prays Eunah doesn’t look up.

To help ensure it, he reaches for the remote and lowers the volume, slowly. But apparently that movement catches her attention, and her head lifts toward the screen.

Mingi’s chest tightens.

It’s the trailer for that new Boy’s Love series that’s been popular among teens, apparently. Nothing weird. Nothing graphic. Family-friendly enough to air on secondary TV channels without raising eyebrows. But the tension beneath the protagonists’ gaze, charged and unmistakable, wraps around him like a noose.

Mingi’s heartbeat suddenly sounds horribly loud inside his chest. Or outside, maybe.

His palms dampen.
His throat feels too narrow to swallow.

He doesn’t dare turn.
Doesn’t dare glance at Eunah.

It’s absurd, but it feels like she’ll know.
If her eyes meet his—she’ll know.
If she asks anything—she’ll know.
If he thinks the wrong thing—she’ll know.

His thoughts spin outward, unravelling fast, each one tightening the panic in his ribs. There’s a sharp pulse behind his eyes, trying to escape through his skull. His shoulders lock so tightly he’s sure she can see the tension. He imagines her glancing at him with slow, dawning suspicion; imagines his face giving everything away; imagines the entire room shrinking until he has nowhere to look that isn’t incriminating.

Before his mind can spiral any further, something arguably worse happens.

Eunah scoffs.

A small, apparently harmless sound. Just a short breath, tinged with irony. But it hits him like a blow.

A meaningless noise that suddenly means everything.

“Crazy how popular these things are nowadays.”

Mingi feels like he might throw up.

He doesn’t reply.

That night, as he steps out of the shower, he catches sight of his reflection in the foggy mirror. The hickeys on the insides of his thighs stare back at him; flushed, angry red and purple from the leftover heat of the water. To him, they’re the most beautiful thing in the world. But suddenly, he wonders just how ugly they make him.

 

The next morning, they eat breakfast together. A rare occurrence, almost unnatural in its novelty. Usually, Mingi forces himself awake before dawn, noiselessly showers, and slips out the door as early as possible. In truth, he leaves early because he cannot bear the weight of sharing a table with her, too ashamed to meet her eyes.

But today he slept so badly that he woke up later than usual. Late enough to find that she had already prepared a perfect breakfast, set neatly on the table. It would have been too cruel to leave. Too obvious. Too rude. And so he sits.

He watches her eat. Her movements are delicate yet unmistakably strong; precise wrist turns, straight posture, the confidence of someone who has mastered the art of appearing composed. He wonders what he feels for her. With his newer discoveries, he isn’t sure he can call it love. He isn’t sure he could love her, if he tried. But there’s a lot for sure. Admiration, mostly. That he feels intensely. She’s always been impressive. Towering, not in height, but in presence.

He’s known that since the first time they met, back in early university. She’d been more focused than all of them, already carving out a trajectory that everyone expected would lead to something remarkable. She’d had high hopes; for herself, and for them as a couple. Hopes of a socialite’s life.

Those hopes had cracked, just a little, when she discovered that her boyfriend was softer, meeker, than his broad-shouldered frame implied. That sometimes his chest tightened inexplicably, and breathing felt unbearable.

She’d seen it happen once or twice. And she had been kind. Hadn’t mocked him. Hadn’t shamed him. Hadn’t called him pathetic. But the disappointment in her eyes had been unmistakable and devastating.

And maybe that’s what guides every movement she makes even now, this morning; this swift, clean efficiency tinged with a faint irritation. The quiet discontent of a woman who chose a man who was supposed to be more, and wasn’t.

Still, she has found ways to build a status for herself. She works; which is still unusual for girls her age, especially those soon to be married to men with respectable incomes. She goes to dance classes, flower arrangement, flute, and even judo. Mingi doesn’t know how she has the time or the stamina. He doesn’t know the schedule of any of her activities. He feels terrible for it.

She is everything he isn’t. Everything he can never be.

And that’s perhaps the reason why his guilt feels so monstrous. Because Eunah could have chosen someone who would have offered her the life she deserved. She was never particularly affectionate, but she aspired to greatness in romance as much as in everything else. And in that department too, Mingi could only ever be a disappointment.

Every time he thinks he should come clean, or at least admit that their relationship is rotting around the edges, the guilt consumes him. Not just the guilt of betrayal, but the guilt of having stolen so many of her years. Years she could have spent with someone who might have given her everything she envisioned.

Someone who would have matched.

It’s that thought that plagues him this morning, as he watches her apply a fresh layer of nail polish between bites of breakfast.

In moments like these, he hates himself.

Curses what he is, or what he might be.

Swears he’ll change.

Change his very core, if he has to.

Never repeat his mistakes ever again.

But then-

“By the way,” he starts, forcing his voice into something steady. “I’m… I’m going to the company drinks tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but Mr Park is… being very insistent about us all joining.”

Her eyes snap to him. Sharp. She’s angry he’s disappointing her again. Or perhaps just irritated that he’s speaking.

She nods, and doesn’t say a single word more.

 

“More,” Mingi whimpers, or he thinks he does, at least.

It’s difficult to clearly understand what’s spilling out from his parted lips. It’s difficult for words to fully form, with the way Yunho’s holding him firmly on his lap, cock so deep inside Mingi.

Mingi isn’t very good at riding, although Yunho refuses to admit it. His body just gets too weak and shaky once he starts getting fucked, and he barely manages to move up and down for a minute before his legs falter. Yunho always ends up being the one doing all the work. He’s good at it, thankfully. He snaps his hips in strong, sharp movements, and holds the younger man’s body so he doesn’t melt away completely.

That strong hold is maybe the reason why, despite being so terrible at it, Mingi is always eager to climb on Yunho’s lap. It just feels too good, being held so close, mouth against mouth, close enough that sometimes he feels the brush of the older man’s eyelashes against his skin.

Mingi cries out over a particularly strong thrust, but he fights to keep his eyes from closing.

He can’t miss the sight. Yunho is so handsome up close. His hair is messy, his cheeks flushed, and he’s looking at Mingi with those eyes that send shivers down his spine. Yunho looks like he wants to eat him whole. Devour him. And Mingi wants to surrender entirely.

He needs to sink in even more than usual, because today his thoughts are rougher, and they won’t fully melt away. They’re held at a certain distance by the ecstasy of the sensations, but still visible, still discernible, somewhere at the back of his mind. And it’s so ugly. So ugly to see their shadows looming.

Mingi wants to shut them up.

Needs them to quiet down and let him breathe.

But they stay there, whispering inside his chest about how awful he is, about the terrible thing he’s become.

He buries his face against Yunho’s chest, aiming for something grounding. He realizes, once his skin touches the other man’s, that he’s been crying.

For once, he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s sad, or just because it’s so good. He cries often, in bed with Yunho, and it’s always for the good reasons. Yunho doesn’t seem worried about it either, so why should he? Yunho knows best.

Yunho takes care of him.

It’s obvious in the way his large hand is running up and down Mingi’s spine, with a slow rhythm that contrasts obscenely with the fast pace of their hips meeting over and over again. The touch is so light, so intimate, that it makes Mingi sob a little harder.

“You sound so beautiful on my cock,” the older man purrs against his ear.

The hand moves, then, from Mingi’s lower back to his stomach. It presses there, and Mingi moans, loud and shameless, when he feels the added pressure deep inside, feeling himself tighten up around Yunho’s length.

“Fuck,” Yunho seems as affected. “You feel that? I can feel myself moving inside you. Oh fuck,” Yunho groans, hand pressing more firmly. “Can you feel how deep I am?”

Mingi tries to answer but it just comes out as a pathetic whimper.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart. I need you to look at me.”

Mingi hadn’t realized his eyes had fluttered closed. He forces them open, only to meet Yunho’s gaze. It’s burning. It’s dangerous. It’s soft, too; soft and adoring. There are a thousand stars in those eyes, and Mingi wishes he could count each one. He can’t believe they’re shining for him. For some reason, the thought hurts a little.

“You’re so perfect,” Yunho says in a low, almost murmured voice, his eyes still locked onto Mingi’s.

It’s overwhelming, and it makes the ache sharper, because Mingi can’t accept the words. He’s not perfect. Even through the fuzzy haze of his blissed-out state, the thought reaches him.

He’s horrible.

He’s a horrible, horrible person.

And he doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.

He doesn’t deserve the worshipful light in Yunho’s eyes.

“Hyung,”, he manages to let out weakly, “Can you…” Another shameless moan. “Spank me, please.”

Yunho’s voice is sweet like honey, but his slap is sharp and powerful. It lands on Mingi’s right cheek, aimed precisely onto a small bruise Yunho has sucked into his skin just minutes before.

“Of course, baby. Anything you wish for.”

 “More,” Mingi cries out.

Yunho’s next blow is stronger, still. Because he knows what Mingi needs. His hand finds Mingi’s left cheek, this time, slaps, and palms at its flesh a little. And then Yunho delivers another blow. And another.

The sting is good, so good, and it just feels right.  It hurts too, but Mingi’s craving it. Craving for more.

“More,” he continues, eyes pleading as they look into the older man’s. “I need it. Need it s’bad.”

Yunho’s eyes widen a little, probably surprised by Mingi’s eagerness. It’s not common for the younger man to be so vocal about his needs; not common for him to want more than what Yunho instinctively gives him. But Mingi needs more.

“I need it to hurt.”

At that, Yunho’s eyes widen a fraction further. “What’s your colour, baby,” he asks gently.

“Green, so green.” Mingi replies too quickly.

He doesn’t want to speak. Doesn’t want to think. He just wants to feel the sting and take it. Again and again until he breaks.

Yunho is a little hesitant, and it makes Mingi’s heart ache, because it’s just another proof that the older man is too good. Too good for him. That he doesn’t want to hurt Mingi. He never does. He plays with him, drives him insane, bites softly at the most tender part of his skin until Mingi is squirming and crying, but Yunho never really hurts him.

Only Mingi needs that, right now.

He needs pain. Needs to see bruises onto his skin. In his flesh. So that his guilt feels realer and becomes part of him; there for him to always remember.

“Please, hyung,” he chokes out.

“Okay, baby. Anything for you,” Yunho breathes out softly.

The next slap is so good, Mingi immediately knows he’s about to reach his high.

A slap again. Another one. And then he’s coming. Mingi bites into Yunho’s skin, at the tender spot above his collarbone. His entire body shakes, combusts, collapses.

“Hyung,” he muffles, head rising so his lips can find the older man’s. “Thank you, thank you s’much.”

Yunho kisses him. There are sweat and tears mingling with their spit.

When they part, Yunho is smiling. It sends Mingi further into the warmth of his blissfulness.

“Love-love…” Mingi’s crazed words spill from his lips unrestrained. He’s too gone to notice the way Yunho’s eyes widen, for half a second. “Loved it, hyung.”

Yunho buries his face against Mingi’s chest, and breathes out, strained.

“I know, baby,” he says, voice slightly muffled. “Me too. So much.”

Mingi’s heart flutters, just like it does every time Yunho calls him baby.

Sometimes the pet name slips from Yunho’s lips when they’re not fucking, when they’re just eating lunch together or walking side by side, and Mingi likes that even more. Yunho always seems a little embarrassed afterward, but he never takes it back.

Mingi is grateful he doesn’t. He’s Yunho’s baby. He wants to believe it, for just a second.

He knows he can’t claim Yunho. He has no right to. And the older man doesn’t want that anyway—something Mingi has to remind himself when Yunho’s eyes get too bright and hypnotizing.

Still, he can’t help feeling giddy at the thought. He’s Yunho’s baby. His only baby, for now.

Sometimes, Mingi wonders if this isn’t what it was meant to feel like all along.

 

Eunah is in front of the TV when Mingi finally comes home. The apartment feels cold, and Mingi isn’t sure if Eunah has forgotten to turn on the TV, or if it’s just the cold in his chest that’s seeping out.

“It’s past midnight,” she says, tone obviously annoyed, eyes not leaving the flickering screen.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Mingi mutters as he takes off his shoes, careful not to be too noisy. Hoping to disappear in the background. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

She nods. She doesn’t believe him. He’s not sure he does either anyways.

 

The next morning, he can feel that something is wrong as soon as Eunah steps into the kitchen. He’s almost ready to leave, swallowing his coffee as quickly as possible, when she emerges from the bedroom, earlier than usual. Her hair is styled in an elegant updo. She has swapped her usual plum lipstick for a shimmery red.

“You look beautiful,” he says. He means it. “Good morning,” he adds as an afterthought.

She seems taken aback by the compliment, though it doesn’t seem to please her entirely. She freezes for a few seconds, her hand still on the fridge door. She doesn’t meet Mingi’s eyes. She resumes her movement without replying.

His chest twists at the sight. Sure, they haven’t been on the best terms lately, but it’s still odd for her to behave so curtly. Through thick and thin, they’ve always managed to remain respectful toward one another.

But there’s something in Eunah’s demeanour today—something dry, irritated—and she’s pacing through the kitchen, heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor, in a way that leaves no room for questions.

“Got any plans today?” she asks as she pours jasmine tea into her portable cup.

“Not really. Lots to do at work,” Mingi replies. “You?”

Eunah does turn to him at that. And when their eyes meet, Mingi realizes something is wrong. Really wrong. She’s always been relatively short-tempered, but it’s unusual for her to appear so angry. So overtly disappointed.

“Nothing.” She slips into her long coat, then quickly wraps her scarf around her neck.

She doesn’t say another word before leaving, slamming the door shut with just enough force to be noticeable.

Mingi is left alone with his racing thoughts. Has she discovered something?

Impossible, he tells himself.

She doesn’t know his phone code. And he deletes all his texts with Yunho anyway.

She couldn’t have seen the cruel love bites that mark Mingi’s thighs; he always makes sure to be fully covered, and he locks the bathroom door when he changes.

There’s nothing else. Nothing tangible. No trace.

She couldn’t have seen them together. Impossible. They’re always careful. Always keep their distance, except behind closed doors. Even at the office, they’ve mastered the art of finding corners the surveillance cameras don’t reach. And nobody else knows. Nobody except Yunho and his friends, but they would have no reason to ruin Mingi’s life. Would they?

He tries to steady his breathing.

Don’t panic, Mingi. She doesn’t know.

How could she know?

Still, his pulse rises steadily, and of course, he ends up on the floor, back against the door, fist pressed to his chest as he tries to compose himself.

He leaves home late.

 

Mingi is already at the office when he realizes what has been wrong. Far too late.

He’s struggling with the latest financial review, and for the past hour he has been staring at his computer screen, eyebrows furrowed as he rereads the same page again and again. His eyes burn with irritation, and his brain has turned to mush. The words have stopped meaning anything after the first thirty minutes.

He checks the time repeatedly, irritation and frustration growing with each passing minute. It’s when he glances at the numbers at the corner of his screen for what must be the twentieth time that he finally notices the date.

17^th of December.

Fuck.

Eunah’s birthday.

Panic surges immediately, and he wants to cry more from that than from the guilt itself. Because lately, life has felt like a never-ending cycle of worries so thick and heavy he can barely even breathe properly. Panic attacks arrive uninvited and leave him motionless.

That can’t happen right now. Not now. Not here. Not in the middle of the crowded open space. Not surrounded by people who should respect him; or at least see him as reliable, competent. He has been trying so hard for that.

He can’t ruin it all with another crisis.

He stands up, focusing entirely on not shaking, and walks quickly to the bathroom. He locks himself in a stall and flushes to mask the sound of his ragged breathing.

Think, Mingi.

Think.

Find a solution.

It’s not too late.

You can still manage some damage control. You can still make sure Eunah doesn’t hate you forever. You can’t afford that. You can’t do that to her.

He stays there for a while, scrolling furiously through his phone, chest heaving as he tries to come up with a plan.

 

He leaves the office a bit earlier than usual, excusing himself to Mr. Park with the explanation of a family emergency. Which, technically, isn’t a lie. It is an emergency. An emergency to save the family they were supposed to build together.

His first stop is the perfume store in the main entrance hall of Tokyo Midtown. He went there with Eunah once. He knows she likes it.

He sprays himself far too generously with a cedar cologne, trying to conceal the lingering trace of Yunho’s fragrance. A scent that seems to cling to every piece of clothing he owns, no matter how many times he washes them. He has to conceal it all, mask everything.

Then he looks at the women’s section. Tries to remember her favourites, which turns out to be harder than he expected. She has always been so stylish, so attentive to the latest trends and newest creations. He has no idea how to pick the right one. So he asks the sales assistant.

“A gift? Very well. For a man or a woman?” she asks. Mingi’s chest tightens.

He ends up buying the newest Valentino; according to the woman, perfect for a strong and independent fashionista. Or perhaps it’s just the most expensive bottle. Mingi doesn’t really mind.

His next stop is the flower shop two blocks away. Again, he tries to think quickly, but there are so many options, and he knows nothing about flowers. His attention catches on a beautiful bouquet of white lilies, not too big, with dark green stems contrasting wonderfully with the dusty blue gauze wrapping. He likes them. The milky colour of the petals vaguely reminds him of the paleness of Yunho’s skin, glowing faintly in the moonlight that spills across the bedroom.

He chooses instead a romantic bouquet of pink roses wrapped in chiffon, the one the elderly lady behind the counter recommends.

His heartbeat still pounds too hard as he reaches Mori Tower, but at least his breathing is somewhat under control. He checks his watch. Five to seven. Eunah should be out soon. He chooses a spot at a reasonable distance from the marble door and waits.

The wind is cold and biting against his skin. He buries his face deeper into his coat.

He focuses on the passing silhouettes of strangers to steady his thoughts. Each face a story he doesn’t know. Each person carrying a guilt of their own, he tries to assure himself. He’s not the only worthless one out there.

He checks his watch again. Four more minutes.

He wonders, then, what exactly he’s hoping to achieve by being here.

It almost feels like his body is moving out of instinct, like a wild animal panicking when he’s being cornered. Running frantically, just to save himself. But save himself from what?

Maybe, he thinks, he shouldn’t have come.

Maybe this could have been the perfect breaking point. His final mistake, the one that would make the glass of accumulated failures overflow and finally convince Eunah to leave him. It would be quick and clean, probably. She’d simply look at him over dinner and say something like, This just isn’t working out.

A clean break. A way to end things without forcing him to expose the cruelty of his actions. A cruelty he could never confess—why would he? It would break Eunah.

He could still leave. He still has time. He could toss the bouquet into a trash can and take a cab to Yunho’s apartment; he could be there in thirty minutes. He could ask Yunho if he can sleep over for once, have the older man hold him tight until his thoughts quiet down and the guilt blurs into something distant and harmless.

He could let it all crumble like a coward, disappoint Eunah so thoroughly that she’d be the one to end it. But he isn’t sure that’s what he wants.

It can’t be, can it?

He has been caught in this slimy cobweb for months now, and sometimes it’s tempting to just let himself sink, to let himself be devoured whole. Fighting back is exhausting; batting fragile wings against stronger threads. And maybe surrendering would be easier. But the fall beneath him feels bottomless, and fear wraps around his heart and squeezes hard.

Eunah is his only chance at a normal life. A good life. One his parents would be proud of.

Without her, there’s nothing left. Nothing but the ugliness of his mistakes and the strangeness of who he is. And if he’s learned anything in this strange, strange period of his life, it’s that he is weak. A man who needs someone to lean on. Eunah has been that person—probably without realizing it—for years. And Yunho has too, in a way. But only as an aftertaste of their arrangement.

Yunho never wanted that role.

Yunho wants something light and easy, no strings attached, he had said. Mingi doesn’t think he could survive with just that.

And he doesn’t think he could look for anyone else. Isn’t sure he could find anyone else even if he tried. Most of the time, it feels like he isn’t into men; just one man.

A man who doesn’t want Mingi in the ways the younger man has started daring to half-dream about.

So Mingi has to fight back. Untangle himself from the web. Fly away while he still has a home to return to. That is, if Eunah isn’t so irritated she’s already decided to leave him.

When she finally walks through the doors, their eyes meet immediately. And Mingi’s heart slows down just enough when he sees her smile.

 

He couldn’t secure a booking at her favourite restaurant on such short notice, but he still managed to find a good one: a fancy speakeasy serving small, refined dishes with a sublime view over Sumida Bay. Wooyoung had mentioned the place once, recalling one of his own dates weeks ago, and Mingi had kept the name in mind just in case.

He’s glad he remembered, now that he’s sitting across from Eunah, whose eyes smile more warmly than her lips as she admires the elegant details of the cutlery.

She had seemed genuinely touched by Mingi’s surprise, and is now in a fairly good mood; a rare occurrence lately.

It’s the kind of place she likes. The kind of life she has always aimed for, somehow: a night out in an expensive restaurant in one of Tokyo’s most exclusive neighbourhoods. It’s still certainly not what she expected, especially since the table is mostly quiet and Mingi doesn’t dare meet her gaze for too long.

“I’ll be visiting my parents for New Year’s,” she mentions as she takes another sip of her Espresso Martini.

“Oh, that’s great,” he replies. “I’m glad.”

He means it. Most of him means it, at least. Maybe the worst, shyest, and shittiest part of him—the insecure, ugly part—hates it a little. Because they’ve always spent New Year’s together since they met, and although it’s obvious that things have changed, it hurts to realize just how deep the cut is. Deep enough for traditions to fall apart unapologetically. Deep enough for it all to come out easily from Eunah’s lips, completely undisturbing to her current sunny mood.

For her, this isn’t a problem. Because Eunah can live by herself. Can survive by herself. She doesn’t need Mingi in the way he desperately needs someone.

His doing. Certainly only his doing.

He forces his smile wider, forces his thoughts to leave this rotten part of himself behind. He can’t be selfish, especially on such an important day. Her day. And to be frank, he thinks he should even feel relieved. Eunah loves her family. She would probably much rather be with them tonight, instead of having only him for company. She’s made some friends in her dance class, but she’s always been rather traditional, so it only makes sense that she’d choose to spend her birthday with her fiancé instead.

“You’ll tell them I miss them,” Mingi adds.

That part isn’t entirely true either. Eunah’s mom is just like her daughter, and she looks at him with the same reserved disappointment that cuts him to the bone. Her dad is much worse. He’s never hidden his disdain, and never once tried to have a normal conversation with Mingi. He didn’t even pretend to be happy when the young couple visited their house in the outskirts of Busan to show off their brand new matching rings.

But then again, Mingi can’t blame him anymore. The old man had been weirdly insightful from the start.

Mingi wonders if he’ll ever be able to face him again, after what he did.

“Yah, let’s not talk about them—I’m going to cry,” Eunah replies, although her eyes are entirely dry.

The dryness doesn’t mean she isn’t sad. Mingi knows. Eunah was just never much of a crier. And neither is he, so they’re a good match, at least on that level. But she has been sad, he needs no proof of that. Or unhappy, rather. She’s been unhappy for a very, very long time.

Sometimes he wonders why she followed him here. Why she agreed to. She could have stayed behind. She has never been afraid of being alone. She knew that he was scared, though. Terrified. So it had been selfless of her, most probably.

“When we go back to Seoul, we should convince them to move closer to us,” she adds.

When they go back to Seoul.

The words land strangely, because Mingi has quite frankly never really thought about that. The after-Tokyo. When they go back. Back to real life. Because this isn’t real life, is it?

The thought is almost reassuring.

The thought that maybe none of this really matters. That this is lost time; a realm of uncertainty that might have clouded his judgment. Or cleared it. The difference doesn’t matter, because it’s obvious what he has to do. What he’ll have to do once this is all over. Once his boss no longer needs him in Tokyo and tells him to come back to the shore.

The fall will be over. He’ll be back on his feet.

It’s almost soothing to think about.

It would be entirely soothing, if not for the bitter realization that comes with it:

One day, inevitably, this will all be part of the past.

Their years in Tokyo.

The loneliness of it all. The beauty of it all.

And most importantly, Yunho.

As Mingi looks at the details of Eunah’s content face, feeling the warmth of their false, safe, pretend domesticity soothe his racing heart, Mingi thinks that deep down, he knows how the life he’s been living is all going to end.

They’ll buy a small house on the outskirts of the city. They’ll have two kids, like Eunah has always wanted. He’ll continue on his promising professional path, earn a promotion or two. They’ll adopt a small dog eventually, once their kids are old enough to beg for it. They’ll go on nice holidays to Jeju. And maybe, when he dives under the warm waters, he’ll remember vague, fond memories of a man he knew so long ago. A man who had been good to him. Who had made life feel so bright, for a brief moment. Maybe, if he’s bold enough, Mingi will call Yunho for his birthday, just for the sake of talking to an old colleague. He’ll smile as Yunho tells him about the life he leads, and wonder, distantly, if he could have been part of that life.

He’ll wonder if things could have been entirely different, if only he had dared.

He won’t dare. Because Mingi is a weak man, has always been, and will always be. And he could never be brave enough to willingly take the jump.

 

The dinner ends up being surprisingly nice. Eunah seems relaxed, and her smile never falters. She talks more than Mingi does, her voice quick and warm, and her eyes glisten when she describes how confident she’s becoming at work.

It had been a while since they’d had time to simply be with one another. And sometimes Mingi forgets, under the guilt and the shame, that there’s also a reason why he chose Eunah in the first place. Why he likes her, so much, just not in the way she deserves.

He feels almost comfortable. For the first time with her in a long, long time. For the first time since guilt has settled inside the very marrow of his bones.

They end up walking home instead of calling a cab, because the cold is pleasant that night and the sky is startlingly clear. Eunah continues to chirp along the way. Mingi listens, hands deep in his pockets, content in the rhythm of her voice.

Perhaps, in the end, this domesticity will work.

Perhaps if he buries the image of Yunho forever, they’ll have a chance, at something close enough to love.

They reach home far too late for a weekday. Eunah has stopped talking, but the silence between them is comfortable. Soft. Warm, even. For once, they both move toward the bedroom instead of parting ways in the hallway. Eunah is so tired she doesn’t bother changing, simply slipping under the covers with a sigh. Mingi hesitates for a second, then follows her lead.

“It was a beautiful evening,” she murmurs.

Mingi reads through the lines. Thank you, she’s saying. You did well. He doesn’t deserve it, but he lets the words cradle him anyway, gentle as a hand on the back of his neck.

Just as he’s about to turn off the light, Mingi feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” Eunah’s voice calls.

He turns to her. The smile she wore all night has softened, replaced by something slightly worried, slightly unsure.

“It was almost perfect,” she says quietly, “but there’s something I’m still missing.”

Mingi only understands her words when her eyes flick down to his mouth.

His throat tightens. His heartbeat quickens. But he can’t push her away. Has no decent reason to. Not without breaking her heart. So when she leans in, he lets himself be kissed.

The touch is soft. She’s always gave him soft kisses, softer than any other aspect of her, perhaps recognizing, in these moments, just how fragile Mingi’s heart is. Her lips settle against his briefly, sweet with the aftertaste of her cocktail. It’s nice, yet Mingi can’t help but notice just how different they’re from Yunho’s.

How instead of making flowers bloom inside his chest and along his spine, they tense up his back.

He can’t pull away. Not yet. She’d see the tension on his face and hate him forever.

He has to take it.

Take it even though it tastes like guilt and it’s so sour on his tongue.

Breathe in, Mingi. It’s almost over.

Their mouth part, half a second after that. But just when Mingi hopes his heart is going to finally slow down, he feels a hand on his thigh. Tentative. Too firm to be an accident.

Eunah’s eyes lock with his, and she presses there, lightly, fingers dangerously close to his crotch.

It takes some seconds for his brain to catch up with the sensation.

Mingi’s breath catches. He feels the lingering sensitivity of the love bites still marking his skin beneath her palm. His stomach lurches violently; he feels like he might throw up.

“No,” he whimpers, his body jerking away before he can stop himself.

He straightens at once, putting more distance between them as Eunah’s eyes widen. In the darkness of her irises, so much flashes at once—surprise, confusion, hurt. He turns away, can’t face her. Can’t face it all.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he manages, his voice pulled so tight he can already taste the tears forming. “I can’t. I just can’t.” He shifts toward the edge of the bed, feet reaching for the floor, searching desperately for something to anchor him.

“What the… Mingi, fuck, I’m sorry—what’s happening?”

“Nothing! Nothing, I swear. I’m just… I can’t.”

The silence that follows is devastating. Heavy. His heart burns with it; he feels the flame, creeping up his ribs, threatening to consume him. Each passing second makes the silence more monstrous, more unbearable.

“Why can’t you, Mingi?” her voice is tense, pointed.

He can’t steady his breathing. He stares down at his hands trembling in his lap, his eyes blurred with tears. He can’t tell if the world is shifting or if he’s shaking that badly.

He feels the weight of Eunah’s stare on him.

Can hear it in the silence. Clever and observing.

“Mingi,” she says after just a little too long. Her voice is level. Her tone is dry. Drier than it should be.

He can’t respond. A single tear escapes down his right cheek. His breathing is quick and shallow, barely air at all.

She knows.

“Mingi.”

He still can’t turn. He’s frozen, shaking, disintegrating.

“You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?”

 

He had never imagined what it would feel like to hear those words.

He’d thought about being discovered, yes—terrifying, vague thoughts he always pushed away—but never about the sound of Eunah voice saying it, echoing in the betrayal-soaked silence of their room.

His chest twists so violently he folds in on himself. Suddenly he isn’t breathing at all. Not shallow, nothing. His lungs refuse to take in air. His throat tightens, locking completely.

The world tilts.

His ears ring sharply, drowning out everything. His vision pulses—dark, bright, dark—a broken shutter. His hands claw at the sheets, desperate for sensation, for something grounding, but even the fabric seems to slip away from him. His heart is pounding too fast, too hard, a frantic stutter against his ribs. There’s a burning in his stomach, deep, twisting, unbearable. His whole body curls inward, shaking.

He tastes iron. His tongue is numb. His fingers are numb.

“Who is she?” Eunah’s voice cuts through the storm, slicing through the ringing in his ears.

She.

Eunah knows, but she doesn’t know the extent of the horrors of his betrayal.

He can’t answer. He can’t breathe. He can’t survive this.

His limbs tremble uncontrollably. His lips part for air that doesn’t come. His vision narrows, collapsing at the edges, the room dimming until there is nothing but the crushing pressure in his chest.

Eunah leaves the room without another word.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, curled up, unable to breathe or see or feel anything but the burning, twisting pain in his gut. Time bends, dissolves, disappears, and he remains folded in on himself, a heap of shaking limbs and broken breaths.

 

The next morning, Mingi wakes with his face stiff and unpleasantly marked by tears. His head throbs. His eyes sting. He barely has the strength to inhale.

He doesn’t have time to think—doesn’t have time to brace for consequences—because it’s Eunah’s presence that wakes him.

She’s sitting on the bed beside him.

Her back is rigid, her posture careful. There’s no smile in her eyes, but there’s not too much hatred there either. Her eyes are red, though. She looks like she has been crying. He startles when she lifts a hand and combs her fingers through his hair; gently, but without tenderness.

“I know you’re a coward,” she says. Her voice doesn’t tremble.

Mingi feels tears threaten.

“But I’m not,” she continues, “And whatever is happening… we’ll go through this together.”

Mingi doesn’t know if the promise should feel like relief or terror.

Notes:

So, guys, to be honest, I’ve been thinking about changing the ending I originally planned for this story… I’m still really hesitating, and at this point it might go in the direction I mapped out, or in a completely different one. I had outlined the entire plot before I started writing, but it feels like the natural evolution of the characters is pulling me somewhere else??? IDK aaaaaah

I’m also kind of nervous because I know a lot of you are invested in this story (we’ve reached 80 subscribers, thank you!!)
So yeah I’ll try my best. Oh, and it might end up being a tiny bit longer than expected. Not sure yet, but I might extend the story to around 13–14 chapters. I’ll keep you guys updated.

I’m also very unsure about the schedule for the next update, because exam season is eating me alive.
Okay, thank you for coming to my yapping session. Sending you all lots of love, and I’ll see you soon <3

Chapter 10: Dissonance

Notes:

Hi guys, I hope you're all doing well :3
Today’s baby is a big one, over 10K once more. Enjoy!!

Eunah folds clothes the same way she does everything in life. Precise, neat movements; sharp and efficient. No wasted time. No unnecessary hesitation.

She’s been pacing through the bedroom, from the closet to the suitcase neatly propped up on a chair, for the past ten minutes, and she’s already almost done.

The room is silent, and Mingi doesn’t know exactly what to do with himself. He’s seated on the bed, arms tucked under his thighs, just watching quietly. He’s not sure why he’s staying there, but it feels like the right thing to do. He was already in the room when Eunah walked in and announced she was going to pack. Leaving would have felt suspicious. Or rude. Or cowardly.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come?” she asks, finally, her eyes lifting from the suitcase to find Mingi's silhouette. Her voice is gentle, and the question sounds sincere enough, but like the last five times she asked, he shakes his head.

“No, thank you. It’s important you get to spend that time with your parents.”

She nods, and although she doesn’t smile, Mingi thinks she’s relieved. It’s better that he doesn’t come. She certainly needs some alone time. They both do.

Still, he’s surprised she hasn’t cancelled her New Year’s trip. He expected she would, after the crisis they’ve been trudging through. Things have been strange—stranger than before—ever since her birthday. It was to be expected, of course, but Mingi is still unsure where exactly he’s supposed to stand.

 

“We’ll go through this together,” Eunah had said that night.

She had made her decision then, and she had made it for both of them. Which was only fair, Mingi thought, because he’d been making decisions for both of them without her knowledge for months. And it seemed she had arrived at the same conclusion anyways: that no matter the ugliness of the truth, staying together was the best, or at least the least destructive, option.

It had felt terrible hearing those words. Because although he hadn’t realized it fully in the moment—in the long, anguished night he spent crying after her discovery—Mingi had maybe felt relief too. Relief at the thought that this nightmare of a situation was finally reaching its climax. Relief that the unspoken dread was, at last, unravelling.

But that relief was overshadowed by the fears of everything it implied: the dread of having to explain, of having to tell her about his true nature, the shame of having to share that with his own family, with hers, the forever guilt of breaking her heart. And so, although her words had felt terrible, they had an aftertaste of mercy.

The remaining question was: how do they survive, now that she knows?

Mingi’s first instinct had been damage control. Clumsy, desperate damage control. He had explained, with unconvincing, flimsy words, that he did not, in fact, have an affair. That he was only stressed at work. That physical touch had simply felt overwhelming on the spot. And so that he had panicked because he thought he had ruined her birthday. That cheating storylines always upset him because of how they had affected his parents when he was a kid.

Using his mother’s past pain as an excuse burned him with shame so intense he couldn’t meet Eunah’s eyes while saying it.

He offered excuses; the best he could fabricate.

Of course, Eunah didn’t believe him. At least, Mingi is certain she didn’t. But she nodded anyway.

And Mingi realized that maybe her believing wasn’t the most important thing. She had said “Okay,” softly. She was okay with it. Okay with pretending. With looking away, perhaps. With ignoring the holes until they could be patched with routine. They are good at pretending, they have been for a while, and she must have noticed that long before Mingi ever did. She’s always been the smarter of the two.

Her choosing to play along didn’t keep things from changing, of course.

It’s impossible not to notice the way her eyes land on him differently since that night. He sees it even now, as she folds her clothes. The look isn’t any less disappointed; no, that’s still there, but now there’s something else underpinning it. Something sharper. Less like contempt. More like anger. With a faint ripple of curiosity.

Sometimes, while they eat dinner, she scans his face in a quick, nearly invisible flicker of attention. Mingi feels its weight. Its implications. She’s wondering, about what he’s been doing. About who he’s been seeing, probably. About who touched him.

He half expects her to ask at any time, and it’s probably why even these simple moments feel unbearably tense.

But it isn’t just her gaze that has changed. Their life, as a whole, has taken on a different rhythm. She laid out a plan for him —grand, structured and relentlessly logical— explaining that since his supposed “stress” at work was beginning to affect their relationship, it was their shared responsibility to improve it. That he needed to get better. That they both needed to put in effort.

She has created rules; or good habits, as she calls them. Eating dinner together every evening. Not going to company drinks more than once a week. Never coming home later than midnight. Texting each other throughout the day. They’ve been sticking to the rules.

He had some hopes at the beginning. Hope that maybe spending time together would be the key to appreciating each other more again. But that was quickly disappointed, and these days it’s more guilt and determination guiding him through than hope or any shade of love.

And of course, as a consequence, Mingi hasn’t been meeting with Yunho as much. That part has been more difficult than he had expected. They still see each other at the office every day, and they have been taking more smoke breaks than before. But it still doesn’t compensate for the lack. They only have one evening a week—Fridays, usually—to spend together. They always make it worth it, but the frustration is still unbearable. On both sides.

Yunho seems just as affected as Mingi—maybe even more—and that brings Mingi a small, meek comfort. A comfort wrapped in guilt.

Yunho’s been more agitated since Eunah’s birthday. He’d been understanding when Mingi explained the rules. He had looked relieved, even, when Mingi said he still wanted to keep seeing him. Still, it’s very clear in the lines of his features just how affected he’s been by the whole situation. There are dark circles under his usually so luminous eyes, and they make Mingi’s heart ache. Another heavy guilt to be added to Mingi’s dreadful, dreadful list.

 

“Okay, well, I’m all done,” Eunah says as she closes the suitcase and rises to her feet. “So, I’ll be leaving at eight.”

“Are you taking the subway or a ride to the airport?”

“Cab. Safer.”

“Okay,” Mingi replies as he stands up, “So, uh, I’ll go to the couch now. So you can have a good night before your departure.”

She nods.

They haven’t attempted sleeping in the same room since her birthday. Mingi is grateful. It feels safer that way, for both of them, probably.

It’s a little awkward, but he feels the urge to tell her he’s thankful; if not for her choosing for the both of them, then for not wanting to know. So he approaches her and stands there, in front of her, a little stiffly, a little uselessly. She is the one who moves, like always. She leans in and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. Kind. Maternal. Forgiving, maybe.

“I hope you’ll use that time to sort your things out, yeah?” she says as she pulls away. “Good night, Mingi.”

 

Yunho’s noodles are not frankly good, but a man has to have flaws, doesn’t he?

Mingi is appreciating them all the same, and Yunho is looking at him excitedly. “You’re sure you really like it?” the older man has asked too many times, so he’s quiet now. But his eyes are still curious.

He looks happy tonight. It isn’t hard to know why. He has been excited about this evening since the very first minute Mingi mentioned it about a week ago.

“Since Eunah is leaving, we could… maybe I could spend the night at yours? Like the entire night?” It had been slightly awkward to ask so openly, but seeing Yunho’s face light up like a joyful puppy had made it worth it.

It had been clear for more than a few weeks that Yunho always longed for more. Although he’s smiling most of the time, he always looks a little dejected when Mingi has to leave, and Mingi has taken on the habit of never looking back when he passes through the door, because he’s not sure he can survive the sight.

Tonight, though, there will be none of that, and Mingi can’t help but feel giddy at the thought. He never really formulated the idea before; sleeping with Yunho, falling asleep in his strong arms, but it suddenly makes so much sense.

It does feel like bliss, being wrapped in Yunho’s blanket, on Yunho’s couch, dressed only in his boxer briefs and one of Yunho’s big shirts. It smells like cedar wood all around. And Mingi can’t help but smile idiotically. It’s hard to understand how he has survived all of those lonely nights in the darkness of his bedroom until now.

“I’m still not sure if you’re really enjoying it or if you’re just trying to make me happy,” Yunho repeats.

“You’re an idiot. I like it. Thank you for cooking.”

Yunho’s smile mirrors his own.  

“Are you planning on ever eating, or will you continue staring at me for the entire night?” the younger asks.

It’s Yunho’s turn to giggle, and it’s sweet and dumb and so different from the heaviness of everything that has been happening recently.

“I’d rather look at you, thank you very much.” Yunho replies. Mingi hopes his ears aren’t too red. “I just can’t believe you’re really here.”

Mingi’s heart swells a little at the tenderness, because like always, he’s undeserving of it all.

“Shut up, hyung. I’m not some kind of mysterious entity. You see me at the office every day.”

“Yeah, but it’s like…seeing Cinderella after midnight.”

The words make Mingi laugh again, and he can’t help but lean in and press a kiss to Yunho’s lips. He smells garlic on his own breath, but Yunho doesn’t seem to mind, judging from the way he deepens the kiss, pulling Mingi closer and cradling him in a hug.

Mingi giggles as he lands on top of the other man, stabilizing himself by planting a knee on each side of his waist. His smile turns wider when he feels Yunho’s hands making their way downwards, from his shoulders to his waist, and then lower to find his asscheeks. Yunho’s mouth trails fluttering kisses across his lips and along the line of his jaw.

“Hey, you pervert,” Mingi smiles between two pecks, “I’m eating.”

Yunho pulls away with a half-hearted smile. “Sorry, baby, it’s just so difficult keeping my hands off of you. You’re so cute in my shirt.”

The older man’s hands come to cradle Mingi’s waist, one on each side, just below his ribs. They’re big around Mingi and the sight Is a little dizzying.

“All mine for the night,” Yunho adds.

It does feel nice and Mingi can’t conceal the pleased groan that spills from his lips. “Yours,” he smiles as he throws his head back to bare his throat.

Yunho is always quick to take on the invitation. He starts devouring Mingi with kisses. Yunho always kisses him so well, on that tender stretch of skin. Mingi’s skin is sensitive there, and it prickles with the warmest fire.

It would be so easy for Yunho to bite there, brand him, but he never does. Mingi is thankful for that, but in the heat of the moment, he always wishes Yunho didn’t care so much, and just did it anyways.

“Oh look at that,” Yunho coos, face lowering to look at Mingi’s crotch splayed over his own. “And you were calling me a pervert mere minutes ago. Looks like someone got all excited, right?”

Mingi’s brain melts a little at the mocking tone; at the saccharine meanness of Yunho’s voice, and he can’t help but look too. The sight makes his body heat up further, fire spreading from his skin to his bones.

It’s obscene, looking at himself like that, already so affected from a few of Yunho’s expert caresses, and fewer of his words.

Mingi’s boxer briefs are strained by his growing hardness and there’s a wet spot at the front of them. It’s humiliating in the best way, and Mingi feels slightly pathetic for feeling so strained, but also proud, because he loves that his body reacts so instinctively to the older man’s.

Yunho loves it too, that much is very clear from the ways his eyes are focused on the sight, adoring.

His big hands leave Mingi’s waist to find the side of his thighs. Strong fingers grab at the skin there, just at the bottom hem of the younger man’s underwear. They massage the skin gently, threatening to slide under the fabric at any second, sending more shivers all over Mingi’s body.

“I miss marking you there,” Yunho groans as he leans forward, his forehead meeting Mingi’s and resting there; breath against breath, their eyes locked on the same trembling point between them. Mingi’s heart hitches. “You always look so pretty with your thighs all marked up.”

“Yeah, hyung, but you know we can’t,” the younger man lets out, voice trembling. They have stopped doing that, since Eunah’s birthday. Too risky, Mingi had decided, although it had ruined him to admit it.

“I know,” Yunho replies softly, something sad tinting his voice. It trembles at the edges. His hands stay where they are, holding Mingi’s skin with a kind of reverence, eyes fixed on the way the flesh gives beneath his strong fingers. “You’re still mine anyway, right?”

It’s not so common for Mingi to take control in moments like this, to initiate anything instead of letting the rhythm of Yunho’s touch guide him completely. But in that instant, it just makes sense. His hands come up to frame Yunho’s face, cradling his jaw, tilting it upward until their eyes meet.

“Of course, Yunho, you know that.” 

Yunho’s eyes are slightly glassy as they look back at him, and Mingi’s heart cracks at the sight. The older man’s cheeks are flushed, heat and emotion written openly across his face, and Mingi feels the urge to apologize until his voice gives out.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asks instead, even though he knows Yunho won’t answer honestly. He can’t. It’s better for both of them that he doesn’t.

It’s new for Mingi, calling Yunho these soft petnames that make his own ears burn if he thinks too long about them. New, but good. And Yunho always brightens visibly when he hears them, so Mingi keeps saying them.

In those moments, he wonders if any of this is still really so casual.

“Yeah, sorry, I…” Yunho swallows, breath unsteady. “I don’t know. I just got a bit overwhelmed. You’re quite something to handle, you know that?”

“I know.” This time, it’s Mingi’s voice that trembles on a sharp exhale.

“I just…” Yunho’s eyes lower back to Mingi’s naked thighs, pressed against his own. “I don’t like the idea of her being able to touch you.”

Fire melting into ice that’s equally as burning. Cold and merciless along Mingi’s spine.

“It’s not like that, Yunho. I swear it isn’t.”

What worth are his promises, when Yunho already knows how much he’s been lying? Still, it’s true. Eunah hasn’t tried anything since her birthday. No reaching for him in bed, no quiet invitations, no soft touches. Silence, distance, routine. It is true, and Mingi hopes—desperately—that despite everything, Yunho believes him.

“She doesn’t touch me,” he murmurs, voice low and earnest. “She doesn’t see me. You’re the only one.”

It makes no sense, reassuring him like that, when the ring on Mingi’s finger still feels so heavy. It makes no sense and Mingi knows it; the truth tastes metallic and sour on his tongue. But what choice does he have?

Pretending, playing along, twisting his own reality until it hurts; he’s been doing it for months. At least right now, the lie-turned-half-truth steadies Yunho’s breathing. At least right now, it eases the ache in both of them.

Yunho’s eyebrows draw together, his frown deepening even as his eyes flutter shut and his head tips back, throat bared. “Say it again,” he breathes. “Please, baby.”

Mingi leans in, lips brushing the warm skin of his throat. A kiss first, gentle, apologetic, then the words, whispered like a vow.

“You’re the only one, Yunho.”

He pours everything he has into it; want, guilt, longing, devotion. Hoping that if he says it softly enough, earnestly enough, the universe might finally listen. Hoping that if he wishes for it with everything inside him, one day it might become true.

Just Yunho and him.

The two of them against the entire world.

It’s gentler than usual, when they finally have sex. Yunho carries Mingi to bed, because he wants to be looking into his eyes while he takes him.

So they fuck just like that, gaze into the other’s gaze, lips finding each other over and over again, whispering sweet words that no one else can hear. Mingi doesn’t point out the wetness he sees in Yunho’s eyes just before he comes. Maybe he lets out a few tears too, which isn’t a rare occurrence anyways.

The crash is equally too mellow and too intense, and for once, Yunho doesn’t walk to the bathroom to bring a towel and clean them up. Instead, he crumbles next to Mingi, body wrapping around the younger man’s.

It’s hot and they’re sweaty and disgusting, but Mingi doesn’t even think about pulling away. Still, for a reason he can’t quite name, his heart doesn’t slow even as his breathing steadies. There’s something about the way Yunho holds him that presses too deeply into him. It feels like a lot. Like something new. Something that wasn’t supposed to exist between them, and yet somehow grew anyway. It’s frightening, how strongly Mingi feels it all.

“I don’t want to fall asleep yet,” Yunho mumbles into his hair.

“Why, baby?” Mingi whispers, letting his hand slide to the back of Yunho’s head. His fingers soothe through the damp, mussed strands, still warm from effort and heat.

“It’s too early. I want to enjoy being with you longer.”

Mingi’s heartbeat trips again, just a small stutter, but enough to shake him.

“We still have a couple of days,” he murmurs. “I can come over again. If you want that.”

“You promise?” Yunho’s voice is thick with sleepiness, soft and vulnerable in the dark.

“Yeah, I swear.”

A satisfied whimper escapes Yunho; quiet, content and almost childish.

“Goodnight, my Mingi. You mean so much. You know that, right?”

“Yes, hyung,” Mingi exhales.

“So much. So, so much. Everything.” the older man adds, his voice already smudged at the edges.

Mingi doesn’t fall asleep as easily.

He feels safe, dangerously safe, wrapped in Yunho’s arms. Warm, wanted, cradled against a chest that shouldn’t be his to rest against. Yunho’s embrace. His colleague. His lover? It’s hard to pretend they’re anything less than that, not with the way Yunho has watched him all evening.

As he feels Yunho’s hold around his waist tighten in his sleep, Mingi wonders —not for the first time this day— what exactly Yunho sees when he looks at him with those eyes. What lies beneath those whispered declarations. What he means. What he wants.

If the boundaries haven’t already begun to blur into something vastly different from what they started as. Something heavier. Something dangerous. Something Mingi doesn’t dare to name.

 

Mingi never really had friends after school, and he never felt particularly deprived for it. From experience, friendship only ever led to disappointment. And when the only friend he’d truly trusted pulled away, once he realized Mingi’s affection came just a shade too warm, that had been confirmation enough. No more trying. Friendship just isn’t necessary.

He never really felt lonely, even when Eunah gently insisted that having friends would do him good, asked if he wasn’t bored when she went out with hers.

But these past few weeks, he finds himself longing for something that feels suspiciously like friendship. He’s not sure exactly why.

Part of it must be tied to Yunho and Wooyoung, who orbit each other through the workday like two halves of a pendulum: arguing, swatting, snapping, then aligning again as if pulled by some invisible rhythm only they share.

Mingi still isn’t exactly sure what he thinks about Wooyoung. They see each other at the office, and they’ve even met up for dinner a couple of times. It’s not always very pleasant, but it seems to make Yunho very happy, so Mingi remains willing. And Wooyoung’s boyfriend, San, is very kind, at least—Mingi enjoys talking with him. So overall, he likes those evenings.

But still, something a little sad blooms in his chest afterward, especially these days, now that he has started feeling strangely isolated.

Sometimes, when he watches the two friends laughing over something stupid at the coffee machine, Mingi wishes he had a friend of his own. Someone to talk to. Because right now, more than ever, he would need that.

He’s been lost, and the quiet of his apartment without Eunah is no help. He doesn’t spend long there. He just stops by once a day out of some sense of duty, before leaving for Yunho’s apartment. It’s a nice rhythm, weirdly domestic, and although it’s simple, it sends his anxiety spiralling.

The first morning is beautiful and easy and Yunho is so pretty when he wakes up, hair tousled and eyes still slightly puffy.  His breath doesn’t even stink in the morning, and Mingi thinks it’s awfully unfair. But maybe he’s simply too eager at the idea of kissing the older man to be objective.

On the second day, they wake up spooning on the couch. Mingi’s back is uncomfortable, the position twisted and awkward, but he’s far too content to complain. He’s giddier when he feels Yunho’s hand grabbing at his hip and pulling him closer to the older man’s hard length.

On the third morning, Yunho wakes him with warm, fluffy pancakes. It’s wholesome and it’s stupid, but it makes Mingi’s heartbeat quicken, and he struggles to slow it down for the entire day.

The thoughts are still there, curious, spinning, and once again, as he watches Yunho looking absurdly good with his rolled-up sleeves and his half-tied tie while serving breakfast, Mingi wonders if he’s allowed to feel like this.

He wonders if there’s a world, a reality, in which this could be his life. Normalcy.

He wonders if maybe, if he wanted to try being with Yunho, Yunho wouldn’t be happy to give it a shot as well.

He wonders if maybe, maybe he could take the jump.

If only he had a friend to talk to.

 

“Sort your things out, yeah?” Eunah had said. And Mingi decides he wants to try. He wants to try, even if that means making a terrifying, terrible decision. Even if it means choosing something Eunah would hate.

There’s not really anyone he can talk to. The only people he’s been speaking to these days are Yunho and San, who’s been texting him recommendations for the city’s best gyms. But they’re not really friends, and of course, Mingi can’t turn to him.

He ends up turning to someone who knows him well despite everything, someone who might understand his situation at least partly: his father.

It’s easier than he expects to get the words out. He uses simple words; words that hurt, but that he has repeated in his head so much that they’ve become a part of him. He’s a cheater. His dad doesn’t sound too surprised.

“Son, of course it’s a bad thing. I can’t tell you it’s something without consequences. You know how much it hurt your mom when she found out. But it’s also not the end of the world. Most men look for something else at least once in their life. It’s part of our society. It’s just who we are, as men.”

The words sound wrong, even if they’re not surprising. His dad has always been cynical. Mingi’s mom used to say he’s the one who gave Mingi his lack of expectations.

Mingi doesn’t think he agrees with his dad, because he’s never felt like life with Eunah wasn’t exciting enough, or like he was destined to betray her. He feels like what he’s dealing with is something else entirely, but explaining that would be too strange. And probably impossible, without having to mention that his situation is a bit different, because Yunho isn’t like his dad’s lovers had been.

He still doesn’t bother contradicting him, because it feels nice enough already to hear someone say he isn’t a monster, even if it’s probably a lie. But the older man’s voice tightens a little when Mingi shares the real reason for his call.

“I’ve been thinking of…” Those words are harder to find, because he hasn’t really dared uttering them until now. Not even in his mind. “I don’t know if I should stay with Eunah.”

“So what, so you can get with this other girl?”

Mingi doesn’t reply, because once again, it feels like something too dangerous to put into words. Would Yunho even want to get with him? Does he like Mingi enough to forgive him, for being such a pathetic excuse of a fiancé, and such a coward in every direction? Does Yunho like him like that at all? It’s getting harder and harder not to believe so. But there’s still no certainty.

“Mingi, believe me. Leaving Eunah would be a big mistake.”

The words slice clean through Mingi’s daydream and drop him brutally back to earth. Flying doesn’t feel safe unless he’s held in Yunho’s arms.

“It’s one thing to have a little affair. But it’s an entirely different thing to throw everything away.”

The words sting, because Mingi knows he’s been doing exactly that for a while already. Ruining everything anyways.

“Trust me, son. No one’s worth destroying a stable relationship over. What does this other girl have that’s more, huh? Is she prettier? Younger? Friskier? All that fades with time. What matters—the only thing that remains in the end—is trust. Is safety.”

Mingi finds it hard to speak. Finds it hard not to burst open and tell him it’s not like that. That Yunho is so much more than a fling. That he’s the first person who has made him feel alive in so, so long.

“I know. It’s just… I do feel safe. With h-her. More than… more than I ever did. With Eunah.”

“Man up, Mingi. Who taught you to talk like that? Why would you feel unsafe? You have a good situation. That’s what safety is.”

The words ache like a blow. In that sense, Eunah is safety. A safety he’d probably never have with Yunho. Yunho who doesn’t even care for relationships. Yunho who never asked any of this, and just wanted to fuck him, all in all. And Yunho is a man. 

When did Mingi start dreaming about more?

About things that are dangerous, things that could never fit into the reality he’s built?

“Do you really think she could make you happier?”

He can’t answer that, because the truth would confirm everything he’s been secretly half-thinking. Yes, he’d be happier with Yunho, if they could be together. If Mingi weren’t already engaged. If they had met in another life, one where Mingi wasn’t a worthless cheater, and Yunho could take him seriously. If Yunho has wanted him too. 

They could have been so happy.

“Listen, Mingi. I’m not judging you, okay? I know what it’s like to go through this. You know how it was for your mother and me. But she gave me you and your brother. And in the end, nothing could ever be more important.” His voice softens into a cough. “People cheat because they’re unhappy. Empty. But that emptiness can’t be filled by another heart. You have to find peace within yourself.”

That evening, Mingi texts Yunho to cancel their plans. It’s wiser to stay home, where no one has to see him crying over everything he’s terrified of losing.

 

The following days are cloudy, both in the sky and in Mingi’s mind. He spends them mostly worried, internally cursing himself for having dared to even begin to think about the possibility of another life. For having allowed himself, even for the briefest moment, to believe that maybe he could be brave for once.

His dad’s words have been convincing enough to dim the faint lights of hope that had begun to rise over the dawn. But they are still far enough from his secret, stupid fantasies that they can’t fully convince him to put an end to all of this.

He thinks about ending it, more than once. Mostly during office hours, when everything is quiet and there’s nothing to distract him from his thoughts. Except there’s also Yunho’s presence—magnetic even from across the room—always there, a constant reminder of his irresistible pull.

Mingi spends half his day biting the inside of his cheek, trying to steady his racing thoughts, trying to steer them away from the chaos of it all.

From the certainty that he has to follow Eunah’s implied instructions, his father’s advice, and put an end to all this.

From the selfish, guilty thought that he could make it wait just a little longer and enjoy his sin while he still can.

From the stubborn, secret wish that maybe there’s another way. That maybe his dad was wrong, Yunho was wrong thinking they could do “no strings attached,” and Mingi himself was wrong for believing he could ever move on from Yunho.

He knows he has to quiet that lingering hope. So he tries to force it.

There’s not much he can do, realistically. He can’t stop himself from finding Yunho’s eyes across the open space so many times a day he’s lost count. He can’t stop himself from surrendering every time Yunho comes to his desk and asks if he wants to go for a smoke break. He can’t suppress the urge to live in the older man’s orbit.

What he can do, though, is slow down the rhythm, even if it kills him not to enjoy these precious days of freedom while he still can. So he explains that Eunah wants to call him every other evening, and that it’s going to be complicated for him to keep coming over every night while she’s away.

Yunho’s sad frown almost convinces Mingi to take everything back and grant himself the bliss of falling asleep in Yunho’s perfect hold every day. But Yunho is too kind to push; he only nods and says that it’s okay, that seeing each other less is still better than nothing.

There’s a brief moment during which Mingi half expects the older man to ask why he’s even doing all this: why he’s half trying to hide the truth from Eunah when she already knows the ugly outline of it anyway; where they’re going with all of this. But maybe Mingi is just projecting. Maybe Yunho’s dejection is only from a place of lust and greed; wanting to spend more time in bed. Maybe he doesn’t care so much.

Yunho doesn’t speak, because he never says anything that might put Mingi in an awkward situation. Because he’s too kind, and Mingi doesn’t deserve him. That thought alone is enough to steady Mingi’s resolve.

Still, there’s a sensitive topic left; a difficult detail: New Year’s Eve.

 

When Eunah had explained she would be gone for the occasion, Mingi’s first thoughts had cruelly and shamelessly fled to the idea of having Yunho as his midnight kiss. He had felt like a goddamn teenager, falling asleep dreaming about that scenario.

The two of them in a fancy restaurant where nobody would look twice at them. Yunho looking like a million bucks in one of his best suits, hair combed back in that way that makes him irresistible. The clock striking midnight, the loud cheers fading into the haze of Yunho’s gaze, and Yunho’s lips touching his own.

The idea was awfully tempting. But the implication was also heavy.

It’s only natural for Mingi to want to celebrate the event with Yunho: his fiancée is gone, and he has no friends or family around. But there’s no legitimate reason for Yunho to want that too. Because Yunho has friends. Plenty of them. And Mingi is just the guy he’s been sleeping with.

Sure, Mingi isn’t blind: he can see that Yunho is into him, that he enjoys the time they spend together. But still, Mingi hasn’t shaken the older man’s world like Yunho has for him. Hasn’t transformed him or revealed some hidden truth. Hasn’t marked him to the bone.

So why would Yunho want to spend New Year’s Eve with someone who’s, in the end, just a hook-up?

Mingi’s intuition seems confirmed when, after he tells Yunho about Eunah’s absence, and Yunho rejoices in the time they’ll be able to spend together, he still doesn’t mention New Year’s Eve. Mingi can’t say he’s surprised, and he definitely doesn’t feel that little sting of disappointment. He definitely isn’t imagining Yunho out with his friends, probably at a bar, where someone else will see him and hit on him, and Yunho will realize he’s worth so much more than wasting his time on Mingi’s pathetic self.

So yes—Mingi surely isn’t disappointed.

In the end, he’s grateful, even. Because Yunho’s silence is good for his desperate attempts at creating a respectful distance, at stopping the escalation, at aiming for a less chaotic new year. Yunho’s lack of mention feels like a welcomed mercy.

Those are the thoughts Mingi clings to as the date approaches and his dread of spending the evening alone grows bigger and uglier.

At least, that’s the plan; until during one of their smoke breaks, as Mingi is distracted by the sight of snow falling into Yunho’s hair, crowning him with a halo of white, Yunho says something Mingi absolutely hadn’t planned for:

“By the way, do you mind if Woo and San join us for New Year’s Eve? It’s kind of a tradition between us, and I feel like Woo would kill me if I broke the cycle.”

Mingi’s eyes snap from Yunho’s snow-dusted hair to his eyes, and he has to blink a few times to process the information.

“Join us?”

“Yeah? To celebrate?” Yunho’s right eyebrow shoots up. “I’m not offering a foursome with them, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Mingi can’t stop himself from laughing a little, and the joke—if it even is one; he’ll have to figure out that part later—manages to get his thoughts functioning again.

“So…” He struggles, careful not to sound too desperate. “You want to celebrate New Year’s Eve with me?”

It’s Yunho’s turn to blink at him, eyebrows drawing together in soft confusion.

“Uh, wasn’t that the plan? Or maybe I shouldn’t have assumed. Did you… Do you have other plans?”

“No, no!” Mingi cringes at how quickly the words shoot out. “I’d love that. I just wasn’t sure it was… what you planned. What you wanted. Yeah.”

“Well, if you want it, then I want it too.” Yunho smiles, an unusual shyness colouring his voice.

It’s a little odd, this stumbling over their words. Things haven’t been like that before. Even during their beginnings, when Mingi was intimidated, Yunho always managed to take his hand and guide him, with unfaltering confidence and that charming smile that Mingi loves as much as he hates it.

But Yunho seems shy too today, and the realization twists that never-quiet apprehension that has taken up permanent residence in Mingi’s chest. That stubborn feeling that perhaps he’s not the only one who senses things changing.

“Okay, sure, then.” Mingi replies, trying to keep his voice level. “We’ll celebrate it together.”

 

Mingi is utterly underdressed, and he hates it.

It’s the type of situation he usually manages to avoid, because he thinks everything through over and over again until he’s certain he has the perfect outfit for every occasion. But he had been particularly anxious choosing clothes for this evening, because it’s a special occasion.

Because it’s New Year’s Eve, which is a big deal in itself. But also because he’s spending the evening with Yunho, and it oddly feels like a date; like something far too serious, yet still, in the end, it's just a moment spent with a fuck buddy, which should mean nothing. Probably?

On top of those doubts comes the realization that he’ll be spending the evening with Yunho’s best friends, under their scrutinizing gaze. Because they know what’s been going on, and they’ll probably judge him, and they’ll judge him even more if he comes dressed over the top. It doesn’t help that they’re celebrating in Yunho’s apartment, which is, in the end, a pretty casual setting.

So after half a night of anxious deliberation, Mingi settled for something simple. A crisp white shirt, tucked into one of his best pairs of pants, ones that fit really nicely around his backside, not that this detail is too important. He added a thin silver necklace to adorn his skin, because Yunho seems to look at his neck more when he wears one.

He’d thought he looked nice when he checked himself in the mirror one last time before leaving his apartment.

But now, seated on the couch facing Wooyoung—who is simply dazzling in his bedazzled cropped shirt—he feels horribly underdressed.

The two other men are dressed rather simply, but Yunho is Yunho, so of course he looks breathtaking regardless. Plus, he’s wearing a black shirt that looks delicious, contrasting perfectly with his milky skin, and Mingi feels a little like dying at the sight.

So yes, Mingi is underdressed, and he can’t stop obsessing over it. And maybe it’s just an excuse; something easier to latch onto than all the actual reasons for his tension. All the doubts and hesitations that lie beneath it.

He does his best to hide it all, but it seems he isn’t doing a fantastic job. Yunho seems to have noticed already, his eyes darting to Mingi’s every few seconds, quietly asking questions Mingi can’t possibly answer. The older man looks slightly stressed too, fingers fidgeting around the rim of his glass even as he visibly tries to keep the mood light.

“That drink is truly amazing, Woo, thank you,” Yunho says with a smile, and Mingi wonders if the others can perceive the cloudiness in the older man’s voice, or if it’s just something he catches because he’s carrying so much guilt.

“Thank you, hyung,” Wooyoung replies smugly, bringing his own glass to his lips and smacking them together dramatically. “I’ve got to admit it’s one of my best creations. That’s actually how I managed to seduce San.”

“Jagi, you know you seduced me the moment I saw you in the dairy aisle of the convenience store,” San cuts in, his eyes horribly soft like they always get around his boyfriend.

Mingi definitely never feels envious around them. It’s not like he's jealous of what they have. At all. It’s not like he’s ever thought about how nice it would be if he and Yunho had met that way. If they were boyfriends. 

 

The evening does get better as time goes on.

A few glasses of liquor melt some of the tension in Mingi’s shoulders, and Yunho seems to relax too in response, almost automatically.

Like in the few evenings they’ve already spent together, the four of them, something becomes easier once Mingi gets out of his own head, once he silences his thoughts a bit, and lets himself enjoy the simplicity of the moment. The illusion of friendship. Not his friendships, he knows, but someone else’s— it still feels nice to borrow them for a while.

San has taken care of the meal, and it ends up being delicious. Flavourful and spicy enough to cradle the tongue without weighing on the stomach. Mingi doesn’t dare say aloud how surprised he is at San’s cooking skills. Apparently life really is a bitch and some people are just perfect like that. In that way, San reminds him of Yunho a bit. Aside from the fact that Yunho can’t cook—which isn’t something the older man needs to know.

After dinner, they return to the couch for more drinks. Wooyoung has mixed new cocktails for them. Well, “cocktail” is a generous term. They mostly taste like vodka mixed with some unidentifiable red soda. Definitely not mixologist-approved, but perfect for sending the last traces of tension floating out of Mingi’s body.

He isn’t sure exactly how he ends up dancing with Wooyoung to a Park Ji-yoon song he can’t remember the name of.

It’s odd, how comfortable he feels. He dances shamelessly, meeting Wooyoung’s daring looks with bold ones of his own. He isn’t sure where that false confidence comes from, but it must be convincing, judging by the way Wooyoung laughs and matches his energy.

A stubborn part of Mingi’s brain—the shittiest part—is still there, hissing that he should be ashamed. That it’s dangerous to let his body express itself so freely. His body is that of a wild animal, it has been like that, set to survival mode, for most of his adult life.

Hide away. Hide yourself. Don’t let them see. Be smaller, and then bigger, and both at once.

But right now, he doesn’t feel that urge. He feels the music ripple through his body, through his muscles, reaching his heart and soothing it, bathing him in light.

He lets his movements flow, rhythmic, too much, not manly enough, and exactly what he wants them to be right now.

It’s easy to feel like there’s nothing wrong with that, not when Wooyoung dances just as wildly and shines like a million bucks in the warm apartment light.

It’s easy to feel like that with Yunho on the couch, looking at him through thick lashes, eyes creasing from how hard he’s smiling, pout curled up in something gentle and too sweet for the obscene bubble-gum lyrics filling the room.

Mingi doesn’t feel like he’s wrong.

Mingi feels right. All the restrained parts of him, quieted for so long, are spilling out in a way that strangely doesn’t feel terrifying.

His wants don’t feel so scary either. He wants Yunho. And it’s okay to tell him, right now.

“Come dance with us, hyung!” The words escape before he can second-guess them, light and reckless on his tongue.

Yunho doesn’t hesitate. He stands, gestures for San to join them, and steps onto their makeshift dance floor.

 

By the time the clock strikes the New Year, they’re all tipsy enough to have stopped checking the time. It’s San who notices, at around five past midnight, when the echo of fireworks becomes audible through the too-loud music.

“Oh my God, guys, we missed it!” he practically screams, face flushed, tone much higher than usual.

“Who cares! Happy New Year!” Wooyoung sings back, stopping his movements as the lights outside catch his eye through the bay window. “Let’s go check the fireworks!”

They rush onto the tiny balcony, their bodies brushing together, the proximity much welcome against the harsh winter air. The wind is coarse at this height. Mingi instinctively shifts closer to Yunho, wrapping his arms around the older man’s torso. His head rests on Yunho’s shoulder.

It’s nice, Mingi thinks. Nice, because he can hug Yunho like this, and nobody finds it odd.

The city skyline glimmers under the bursts of fireworks blooming among the stars. There are distant cheers, rhythmic basslines, and the muffled noise of neighbours celebrating.

Yunho tilts his head back gently, whispering a quiet, “Happy New Year, baby,” right into Mingi’s ear.

Mingi can’t resist the sudden urge to pull away just enough to turn Yunho’s body toward him fully. Yunho’s silhouette stands out against the illuminated night sky. He looks like every one of Mingi’s fantasies, and also like something more than anything Mingi has ever dared to dream.

“Can I be your New Years kiss?” Mingi asks.

Yunho only nods, lips curling into that sweet smile that has pierced through Mingi’s soft shell countless times.

“Make a wish, hyung,” he whispers as he leans in, hands sliding to the back of Yunho’s neck to pull him close.

It’s one of their softer kisses. No desperate tongue, no biting. Just gentle lips against each other, tasting, cherishing, speaking all the forbidden things they cannot say aloud. Mingi pours all of himself into it, even though the movements remain delicate.

Yunho’s hands settle at the small of his back, holding tight. Lately, Yunho always holds him like this—like he’s scared Mingi might vanish. Like he knows all the doubts plaguing the younger man.

When they part, Yunho’s eyes have turned a little sad. Still fixed on Mingi’s face, studying every feature with something like reverence, but also dangerously close to pain.

Mingi doesn’t ask what the older man’s wish was. He thinks it’s probably achingly close to his own. He hopes the ache on his own face isn’t too visible.

When the cold becomes too biting, the four men step back inside.

 

Mingi isn’t sure who lowers the volume of the music, but it shifts from loud pop to old jazz. There’s something mellow in the melody, something that resonates perfectly in his chest.

He settles back on the couch, legs strangely heavy. Yunho approaches, but instead of sitting beside him, he sinks onto the carpet at Mingi’s feet. He folds his legs and rests his head on Mingi’s thigh—right where his mouth has left pretty marks so many times.

It feels natural for Mingi’s hand to slip into his hair, brushing through the dark locks, smoothing them away from his forehead. Yunho melts into the touch, and Mingi’s heart swells. He distantly thinks he never really noticed before how much Yunho yearns for his touch, too.

The pleasant thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of Mingi’s phone in his pocket. He reaches instinctively. His swollen heart deflates instantly when he sees the caller ID.

He knows he has to answer. Because it’s the right thing to do; to make sure Eunah doesn’t panic, to make sure she doesn’t feel betrayed on such an important day. That’s the type of things you have to do for the person you’ve spent half a decade living with.

He doesn’t dare look at Yunho when he clears his throat, stands up, and mutters, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this,” before stepping onto the balcony again.

 

“Hi, Mingi,” Eunah’s voice comes through. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, Eunah,” he answers, his voice tight.

He’s not sure why, but suddenly he feels like crying.

There’s just so much sadness in the realization that Eunah’s name hadn’t crossed his mind since midnight. Not even once. He couldn’t spare even a second thinking about the one person he was supposed to care about most. It confirms everything he’d been unsure about. It's freeing, in a weird way. 

 “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I am.” He doesn’t think he’s lying. His mind feels strangely clear—but perhaps that’s just the cold air numbing him. “Is your evening going alright?”

“Yeah. Mom made her kimchi stew, and Jisoo brought her new boyfriend. He’s nice, I think. He’ll take good care of her.”

“Good. Good. She deserves it. Only the best.”

There’s a brief silence.

“And you?” Eunah’s voice suddenly sounds tighter too. Mingi wonders if she feels like crying as well, so many miles away. He wonders if she’s looking at the same starry sky, and realizing the same painful truths. “Who are you spending your evening with?”

“Some colleagues of mines.” Mingi doesn’t lie. “You’ve met one of them, Jeong Yunho, a few weeks ago.”

He hopes Eunah doesn’t hear the tenderness that bleeds into his voice every time he even so much as thinks about the older man. But it wouldn’t feel right to hide his name away.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Eunah says. Mingi thinks he hears relief. “Well, I won’t bother you longer then.”

“Okay.”

“Have you made a New Years wish?”

“I have,” Mingi replies quietly. “Have you?”

“Yeah. I wonder if it will come true, this year.”

When the line goes dead, Mingi stays outside for a few more minutes. The fireworks are gone, the smokiness fading, leaving a cloudless horizon. He lets himself be held by the silence a little longer.

 

Mingi steps back inside, and it’s instantly clear something has shifted. The three men fall silent, and Wooyoung’s and San’s eyes snap to his face immediately. Yunho’s gaze, on the other hand, stays fixed somewhere on the wall.

“Sorry,” Mingi mutters as he walks back to the couch. It would be weird to sit where Yunho’s head is now resting, so he sits a little farther away. “I had to take that.”

“It’s okay, Mingi,” San says with a gentle smile. His face is still flushed, but his eyes are sharper, more serious, now.

An unnatural silence settles, broken only by the faint jazz humming through the speakers.

When Mingi finally gets a full look at Yunho’s face, his heart constricts. The older man’s lips are pouted in something that fails to be a smile. His nose is red. His eyes look wet.

And just like that, Mingi feels wrong again.

He can’t be entierly sure any of this is about him. Maybe the three friends have just brought up something emotional while he was outside. The mood had already shifted anyway—after the dancing, after the kisses and the secret wishes that melted into the night.

Still, he’s lucid enough to notice that Yunho is sad. And that it’s Mingi’s fault, most probably. That he’s the worst person alive, for making Yunho feel that way. That he doesn’t deserve Yunho’s light, or his friends’ warmth, or this beautiful evening that belongs to a life he isn’t part of.

Before he starts trembling, he stands.

“I’m gonna go to the kitchen. To cut the cake I brought." His palms feel sweaty against his pants. "So, uh, yeah.”

He turns away immediately, hoping no one sees how red his ears are.

“I’ll come with you,” Wooyoung chimes in, unnaturally cheerful.

 

It’s very clear Wooyoung’s intentions are far from pacifist as soon as he closes the door behind them.

“Was that your wife on the phone?” he asks. His voice is light and innocent. 

Mingi’s brain short-circuits for half a second before he turns to look at him. Wooyoung is already staring, sharp eyes narrowed in a pointed gaze that looks nothing like the casual tone he’s affecting.

“Fiancée…” Mingi corrects, heartbeat accelerating. “Yeah.”

He has no reason to lie. No reason to apologize. Not to Wooyoung. But his mind spirals anyway. It’s been a while since the younger man has showed any open hostility, long enough for Mingi to almost believe Wooyoung had forgotten his initial disdain.

Reassurance is impossible when Wooyoung lets out a humourless breath, the sound clipped. It strikes straight through Mingi’s chest, a painful jab that feels both deserved and unnecessarily cruel.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, though,” Mingi adds, defensive, managing to keep his voice just steady enough.

His fragile confidence collapses when Wooyoung scoffs again, louder, sharper, openly aggressive, now. “Well, I do. It very much is my business. Because in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re cheating on her with my best friend. And that’s not a great thing, is it, Mingi-yah?”

Mingi’s gaze drops, unable to withstand Wooyoung’s. Shame flashes hot behind his ribs, familiar and choking; because Wooyoung isn’t saying anything Mingi hasn’t already screamed at himself in the dark.

Words don’t come. They can’t, not when he can’t even begin to understand why Wooyoung is saying all this. It can’t be simply for the pleasure of reminding him what a terrible person he is.

The clock ticks loudly in the kitchen’s suffocating silence.

Wooyoung seems to read straight through the chaos in Mingi’s head, because he speaks again.

“Do you ever plan on… I don’t know, doing anything about that?”

“Like what?” Mingi asks, fists tightening against the counter. He needs to steady himself. His palms are sweaty and trembling.

“Like leaving your poor wife. Or letting go of Yunho. Because frankly, he’s too nice to tell you any of this, but I think everybody has started to realize this whole thing has been going on for way too long.”

When did the evening shift into something so painfully real?

Was it when Mingi answered Eunah’s call, because he’s too weak to let her go?

Or maybe earlier, when he accepted the invitation in the first place. When he stepped willingly into a moment that wasn’t his to live.

Maybe the illusion of hope, the thrill he felt while dancing under Wooyoung’s approving gaze, that has now turned so hostile, was never anything tangible.

Mingi agrees with Wooyoung. Deep down, he knows every word is true. These thoughts have haunted him for weeks, creeping into his nightmares, gnawing relentlessly. Still, faced with Wooyoung’s attacks, there is nothing he can do but let the words strike him like physical blows.

“It’s not—none of this is simple,” Mingi mutters, voice straining. His breath tightens.

Wooyoung doesn’t seem to notice—or doesn’t care. “What’s not easy? Living with yourself while doing all that? Yeah, I bet.” He lets out a bitter laugh.

It’s cruel. But Mingi can’t muster anger. He knows Wooyoung is right. And Yunho’s muffled voice drifting from the living room is enough reminder of the quiet chaos Mingi has been causing.

“No, just- all of this. I’m not… I didn’t know I was… queer. Before.”

Wooyoung’s eyes soften slightly at that, and for a second Mingi expects him to let it go. But then Wooyoung speaks again.

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be the first one in this room to figure out being gay isn’t easy. But that’s not an excuse, you know that, right?”

Suddenly Mingi isn’t even sure if Wooyoung’s words are cruel at all. Maybe the tone has shifted with his vulnerability. Or maybe Wooyoung was never trying to hurt him in the first place; he was just protecting Yunho with a ferocity that makes sense for someone who loves him. Loves him like Yunho deserves to be loved.

“I know. But it’s also so much harder than that,” Mingi says. His throat is tight. Tears threaten but don’t fall, leaving only a raw, scorching ache. “There’s… I met Eunah when I was very young. I didn’t know who I was. And now I can’t just… I can’t just leave her.”

He doesn’t know why all of this spills out, shamelessly. All his guilt, all his pathetic fears, ugly and exposed under Wooyoung’s merciless gaze. But the words come anyway, and he can’t stop them.

“But that doesn’t impact Yunho. We’ve both been clear about our expectations since the beginning. At least he has been. And he’s okay with it.”

He knows that isn’t entirely true. Doubt has crept into him too many times—held in Yunho’s arms, bathed in the soft adoration of his gaze. Those doubts melt into cruel certainty when Wooyoung’s eyebrow lifts.

“We both know he’s not okay with it. He flinches every time your phone lights up, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. You can lie to yourself and to him all you want, but I’m not playing into you guys’ games. And if nobody is willing to say it, then I will. All of this is wrong. And it’s destroying him, Mingi.”

Ice cracks at the base of Mingi’s skull, slides down his spine, seeps into his blood.

Destroying him.

He’s been destroying Yunho.

He’s been hurting him, with his cowardice and his indecision and his betrayals.

He’s been hurting him.

And the most terrifying part of all: if he’s been hurting Yunho, it’s because this has become something more. Something he never planned for, never admitted, never dared to name.

The realization hits with the same cold certainty he felt every night he ignored Yunho’s trembling silence.

He wonders if Wooyoung can hear his heart breaking open in this small kitchen. The kitchen of the man he’s been quietly falling in love with, and hurting all the same.

“So you want to be messy?” Wooyoung continues. “Fine. Be messy. You’re allowed to do whatever you want—to be a piece of shit if you want. But don’t justify it with ‘I’m coming out.’ That’s not how it works.”

Wooyoung’s eyes are piercing, unrelenting. Mingi can’t look away. His shaking becomes visible, faint but unstoppable.

“Yeah, coming out isn’t easy,” Wooyoung says. “Accepting yourself is terrifying, and messy, and sometimes ugly. But the way you’re treating him—and her—you can’t keep blaming that on being lost. Spoiler alert: life isn’t easy. It wasn’t before. It won’t magically become glitter and hearts because you realized you’re gay. When you get past this obstacle, there’ll be another. And another. And if you keep making excuses, you’ll always find a new one.”

The words fall more softly now, but they’re no less devastating. Softer only because Mingi had never formed these thoughts himself. Wooyoung lays them out simply, painfully, undeniably.

The problem was never fate, or life, or Eunah, or Yunho. The problem was Mingi. His fears. His doubts. His refusal to face them.

He is the only one steering all of this. The only one responsible for the pain he carries, and the pain he inflicts. The only one capable of choosing differently.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, tears finally prickling.

“I’m not the one you should apologize to. Tell him. But more than that—figure out what the fuck it is that you want.”

“But what if…” Mingi’s voice shakes. A tear slips down his cheek. He swallows, bracing for the impact. “What if what I want isn’t what he wants?”

“You can tell yourself whatever you want to keep being a coward. But I know you enough to know you’re not stupid. At least not completely.” Wooyoung’s harsh expression softens into something unexpectedly gentle. “And you can’t not see the way he looks at you. I’ve seen it. And I’ve seen the way you look at him too. Your eyes are more expressive than you think.”

Those words land softly, cradling something fragile and desperate inside him. Mingi should feel only guilt. But there’s a flicker of something else—something irrepressibly bright. Proof that he hasn’t imagined everything. That something real exists. That he isn’t the only one drowning in feelings too big, too dangerous.

“And trust me,” Wooyoung adds, “I know exactly how terrifying it is to fall in love. But it won’t disappear just because you refuse to look at it. So fine—lie to yourself if you want. Say it isn’t like that. But deep down, you know. And you know what you have to do.”

Wooyoung’s words hit somewhere deep, unearthing a clarity that feels both violent and freeing.

For the first time in what feels like forever, the path forward doesn’t feel impossible; just terrifying, and finally his to choose.

Mingi’s heart hammers against his ribs, frantic. He nods at Wooyoung, steps out of the kitchen, grabs his coat from the hallway, and walks out of the apartment without looking back.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed this part! We’re entering the climax of the story, and I hope you guys are still enjoying the process! I definitely am.

As always, feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. You can’t imagine how much your support means. Also, we’ve reached 90 subscriptions on this fic, which is insane??? That quiet support also means a lot too, so thank you for that.

I have no idea when the next chapter will be ready to post, but I’ll try my best, as usual. Also, I’ve finally settled on the ending, and I’m now certain that this story will have a total of 13 chapters (12 + an epilogue).
I’ll see you soon, and until then, stay safe and warm <3

Chapter 11: Marrow

“We were thinking of Kantō, maybe," San says, bringing his glass to his lips.

“Oh, lovely. How long?”

“A week or two, maybe. Depends how long my boss is willing to let me—”

San's words are interrupted by the sound of the apartment’s front door opening and closing again.

Yunho’s eyes instinctively dart to the closed door that conceals the corridor.

What’s going on?

There’s a minute of silence, barely long enough for Yunho to register the implications. There’s a worried furrow in San’s eyebrows, visible even from Yunho’s peripheral vision. Before his thoughts can fully catch up, the sound of feet padding down the hallway—from the kitchen to the living room door—breaks the brief stillness. Then the door opens.

Ever since they’ve met, Wooyoung has been terrible at hiding his emotions. His features are just that expressive, as vivid as his bright mind and brighter moods. Tonight, that loud, readable face of his betrays him once more. He’s smiling, but tightly, shoulders hunched. It’s obvious something has happened.

The front door opened and closed again, Yunho realizes.

Someone left the apartment.

Someone who’s clearly not Wooyoung.

Someone who has to be Mingi.

“Is everything alright?” San asks, worry piercing through his voice, just like every time he sees Wooyoung with any expression that isn’t a dazzling smile.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Wooyoung replies, but his voice is too meek, and he lingers in the doorway. He’s looking down at his feet, which is awfully unlike him.

Yunho’s chest tightens in a way he isn’t used to. “Did Mingi go out for something?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level.

“Uh… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Instead of answering, Wooyoung moves to one of the small chairs. He sits and curls in on himself, and only then does he lift his gaze to Yunho. His expression is uncertain, but his voice is steadier when it finally comes.

“I think he left for good.”

Yunho’s chest, which had been steadily tightening, snaps at that. The bow unravels. The arrow breaks, and comes straight through his heart.

“What do you mean, baby?” San’s voice chimes in as he stands and moves toward the chair, crouching in front of his boyfriend. His hand finds Wooyoung’s arm and rests there, drawing comforting lines.

Something in the gentle gesture pushes the arrow deeper into Yunho’s chest. Just slightly. Just enough to remind him of a closeness that is forbidden to him; and that, right now, feels more threatened than ever.

“He said… Well, he didn’t really say anything, but I think he understood he needed to go?” Wooyoung says, eyes still locked onto Yunho’s.

If Yunho didn’t know him better, he’d think the look was challenging. Arrogant, even. But he knows Wooyoung too well. He sees the distress pouring through the cracks. He’s asking for forgiveness.

What the fuck is going on?

“Why did he need to go?” Yunho’s words come out harsher than intended.

Wooyoung is built to withstand them, though. His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Because he realized he was making you sad.”

“What the fuck, Woo?” Yunho shoots to his feet. He doesn’t even know why, he has nowhere to go, nothing to do, except fight the urge to melt into rising panic. His body seems to have realized before his mind fully catches up; his heart is pounding. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing! I just… I told him he was being an asshole. To you.” Wooyoung’s brows furrow in a genuine concern that would probably melt Yunho’s heart under different circumstances, but right now, he’s too panicked for any of it to register.

“And who asked you to say anything?!”

“Nobody, but I had to, because you’re too fucking nice for your own good!”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m a grown man. I don’t need your protection!”

San’s head swings between the two of them, mouth agape. He looks like he wants to intervene but stops himself at the very last moment.

“Well, what I see is that he’s been treating you like shit, and you deserve better.”

Yunho’s mind spins. Sadness and anger merge, bubbling up from his stomach through his chest and throat. He turns, walks to the balcony, and throws the door open. Leaning out, he looks left and right down the street. Mingi is nowhere to be seen.

He's not even sure what he’s feeling. The emptiness suddenly feels all-consuming. He isn’t sure how long it’s been there; quietly growing for days or weeks, gnawing at him.

He turns back to the room, facing his friends, and can’t stop the angry words snapping from his lips, his gaze fixed on San.

“Did you tell him?”

San’s face pales. He knows, of course, what Yunho is referring to. The slip. That evening they have spent, just the two of them, ending with Yunho crying into San’s arms because of the dull weight in his chest.

“No,” San mutters. He looks like he wants to disappear.

“Tell me what?” Wooyoung snaps, eyes narrowing like a fox’s as he looks at his boyfriend.

“None of your business, once again!” Yunho throws back, harsher than he intends. His palms come up to cover his eyelids, pressing down as if it could ground him. “Mingi isn’t treating me like shit. We’re consenting adults having sex because we want to. How is that any of your business? Why can’t you just stay out of my fucking business?”

“Because you’re clearly in love with him, and it’s so obvious that this situation is driving you insane!”

Love.

Yunho’s hands fall uselessly to his sides. “I’m not…” He blinks, eyes darting anywhere but into Wooyoung’s unwavering stare.

He’s never been in love.

“I’m fine, Woo, you don’t have to babysit me. I'm doing perfectly fine—”

“Well clearly not. You’ve looked on the verge of a breakdown for the past two weeks.”

“Woo, stop…” San says gently.

Yunho is too stunned to speak. Not only by Wooyoung’s harsh, unflinching tone, but by the fact that all of this has clearly been brewing inside him for a very long time—not hidden, but contained.

Wooyoung isn’t entirely wrong. He has to admit that.

 

Life, recently, has been both unfairly cruel and merciful.

There had been the terrifying morning when Mingi—pale as a ghost, eyes puffy behind his thin glasses—had pulled him aside near the coffee machine and whispered, so quietly, that Eunah had told him she knew. Not everything, but enough to make everything feel unsteady and dangerous. That Mingi had managed to convince her, somehow, but he wasn’t sure she believed him, and things were not going well.

Yunho had to drag the younger man to the rooftop that day, earning a few inquisitive looks from colleagues on the way, simply to prevent Mingi from falling apart in the middle of their workplace. Mingi hadn’t cried once they reached the rooftop, not quite, but it had taken Yunho a very long time to see his breathing steady.

That day had felt a little like the end of everything, but Yunho had been too worried about Mingi’s own state to panic too much about their situation. Mingi is, always, the priority.

After that, things slowly and surprisingly fell back into a routine—an altered, diet version of their usual rhythm. A new rhythm made of restraint, and a lingering shadow between Mingi’s brows. But Yunho had no choice except to make the best of it. So he pushed down the hurt and smiled as brightly as he could, hoping to soothe the fragile tremble beneath each of Mingi’s decisions.

As if the universe itself had taken note of Yunho's devotion, it had given him a priceless gift. Nights with Mingi. Proper nights. Without Mingi having to vanish a little before midnight. Nights during which Yunho could hold him close until dawn, fall asleep with that blissful weight against his chest, the softness of so much skin against his own.

The simple domesticity of it all only worsened Yunho’s forbidden thoughts.

Waking up to the sight of Mingi’s face—so close, wrapped in sleep’s quiet, features devoid of their usual tension—felt like a gift too grand. Yunho suppressed the urge to take out his phone and snap a picture he could look at forever. Instead, he pulled the younger man closer and swallowed down the groan that almost escaped from his lips upon realizing he could smell his own cologne on Mingi’s skin.

Then, there were the simple breakfasts they shared before work; Mingi clad in one of Yunho’s sweaters, slightly too tight on his broad frame, his hair still damp from his shower, looking like the very picture of coziness. Yunho’s heart had swelled so much he’d had to take a picture that time, despite Mingi’s embarrassed protests.

He did, however, resist the instinct to call Wooyoung just then and tell him, I get it now. All the sappy shit you talk about. All those absurd words of tenderness and devotion. I get it all.

The lonely nights had been almost unbearable after that, but Yunho had always been a positive person. All in all, he tried to be grateful. He brushed aside Wooyoung’s worries whenever the younger man asked why he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days, or why he kept checking his phone so anxiously. He kept his mouth shut, because he knew exactly what Wooyoung would say if he gave him the chance.

Words of worry and warning.

Words San had more gently suggested the night Yunho had broke down in front of him.

This can’t go on forever, hyung.

You shouldn’t torture yourself like that.

You should tell him about your feelings, or you should let him go.

Yunho chose to ignore all of it, to stay floating on his little cloud of peaceful illusions, because even if the whole thing hurt—hurt more than any ache he’d ever experienced—the highs were so bright they made it worth it.

 

Tonight was supposed to be one of those merciful occasions. It had begun beautifully, and although Mingi had seemed a little tense at first, he had quickly bloomed into a light-spirited version of himself; rare, but unmistakable in its brightness.

Seeing Mingi dance—movements confident, smirk sharp as he mirrored Wooyoung—had been one of the most beautiful sights Yunho had witnessed in so, so long. In that brief instant, Mingi bathed in gleefulness and joy, shining so brightly in such a small, simple room, that it almost felt like the answer to all of Yunho’s instincts.

He had known, from the beginning, that something incredibly grand lived beneath that hard shell, deeper still beneath the trembling tenderness of Mingi’s layers. Something beautiful, something blooming, waiting for the proper sunlight to unfurl. He had seen glimpses of it here and there, whenever Mingi looked at ease and happy. In bed, as he spilled exhilarated giggles onto Yunho’s skin. That time they went to karaoke. And tonight, as Mingi danced as though he’d been doing it his whole life, loud, bright and breathtaking.

It sparked a confused fire of emotions. Happiness. Relief, at seeing light after so many cloudy days. Pride, and hope. Hope for something that, finally, almost started to make sense. Something that could be promising, if he didn't think too hard about it.

All in all, it had been a beautiful evening, and Yunho thought nothing could ruin it. Especially not himself.

Then midnight came, and Mingi had whispered, “Make a wish, hyung,” so low, so close to Yunho’s ear, his eyes still glazed with joy and hope. And Yunho couldn’t stop the selfish thought that bloomed before he could smother it:

I want him to fall in love with me.

Reality only struck when their faces parted, Mingi still looking at him with so much glinting behind his gaze. And Yunho felt like the worst person alive for wishing something so cruel, something that would ruin everything, that would make Mingi suffer just as Yunho himself had been suffering.

He wondered, not for the first time, how bad his influence had been on the younger man. In more ways than one, Yunho had corrupted him. Encouraged him, despite his reluctance, to walk a path of betrayal and hurt.

And now, that same younger man was looking at him with something so vulnerable in his eyes.

Trust.

He trusted Yunho. Trusted him to help him discover himself, to keep him safe, to promise things were going to be okay. Yunho had promised that so many times. He had wished for it so many times. Only now was he realizing that he himself wasn’t certain anymore. Because he had become selfish enough to want Mingi to feel the same devastating butterflies that had been hollowing out his chest for weeks—leaving an ache that filled with warmth only when Mingi touched him, and turned into agonizing void the moment he was alone again.

Yunho had to look away.

And so, when they went back inside, instead of taking the small space Mingi left next to him on the couch, he sat on the carpet and let his head fall onto Mingi’s thigh. The warmth of the clothed skin was reassuring, and it was easier not to look up.

When his eyes met Wooyoung’s, Yunho closed them to escape a little further.

He chastised himself for feeling so dejected in such a privileged moment. Every instant spent with Mingi is precious, these days, and he worships them. Yunho knew how precarious their equilibrium was. He knew his illusions—this pretend evening between two happy couples—couldn’t last forever. He simply hadn’t expected it to shatter so quickly.

Suddenly, Mingi’s body tensed beneath Yunho's cheek. The younger man hurried to his feet and made his way to the balcony, phone buzzing in his hand, mumbling that he needed to take the call.

Of course Yunho knew who it was. It was obvious in the guilt staining Mingi’s voice. His friends knew too, though they didn’t comment. The dawning, awkward silence settling over the room as Mingi closed the balcony door behind him made it perfectly clear.

Yunho isn't even sure whether his friends spoke at all, during the call. His eyes, mind, and heart were entirely captured by the silhouette he adores so much, visible behind the bay window, phone to his ear, head tilted slightly as he tried to hear better. Mingi’s face was turned away, so Yunho could only imagine the expression he wore. Something guilty, yes, but also tender, probably.

Mingi’s voice had become gentler, lately, whenever he talked about Eunah. Yunho had noticed. It made sense. Mingi was feeling bad, he had said. Yunho understood that, he did. But he couldn’t suppress the ugly, selfish jealousy curling around his heart whenever he thought about it for too long.

The terror that maybe Mingi was slowly realizing that, despite everything, he still loved her.

And no matter how much Yunho reminded himself that Mingi had every right to—that Mingi had been engaged from the start, that Yunho had no right to claim anything beyond the fleeting touches he had been given—it felt a little like betrayal, and a lot like heartbreak.

He wondered if Mingi ever called Eunah baby, in that soft, affected voice he uses in his gentlest moments.

He wondered if Mingi secretly wished that he was with her, tonight, like he had been so many times during their long history Yunho had almost no knowledge about. Years of intimacy Yunho could never rival.

“Are you okay, Yunho?” he vaguely heard San ask.

He couldn’t reply, too afraid he would crumble into tears.

 

“I’m sorry, Yu, I really am, but I just can’t stand seeing you like this!” Wooyoung presses on, voice still firm. “And it’s unfair that he could just do whatever he wanted, while he knew what he was putting you through!”

“He…” Yunho blinks, “He knew?”

“Of course he did. How could he not? You have the gentlest eyes when you look at him. Mingi’s not an idiot, and he has to own up to his actions.”

The cave in Yunho’s chest feels like it’s about to crumble.

Is it possible, that Mingi knows already? That he knows the secret hidden in Yunho’s chest and has chosen to ignore it?

“But what if…” Yunho’s words come out trembling, crushed under the implications. “What if he doesn’t come back?” He blinks away the tears gathering in his eyes. “What if I was happy with what I had, Wooyoung? I was happy with him, even if that was all he was willing to give me.”

For the first time in so long, San’s voice meets his. “Yu… I know you’re angry, and I agree it wasn’t Wooyoung’s role to intervene—”

“Yeah, it wasn’t.”

“But he isn’t entirely wrong… It’s obvious how much this whole thing has been making you suffer.”

“Well that’s my choice!” Yunho chokes out. “And I would have been better off if you had kept your noisy selves out of my business.”

So many feelings tangle and explode over and over inside his chest. There’s something so deeply hurtful in the way his two friends look at him—eyes wide with worry, speaking with a certainty that Yunho can’t understand.

Has he been so obvious, all this time?

Is this what love is supposed to feel like?

The eyes feel too heavy. Too much to bear.

“I think you guys should go.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Wooyoung replies immediately, expressive bitterness mixing with obvious hurt in his voice. “We’re leaving.”

San doesn’t reply, but his widened eyes blink back and forth between the two men for a moment.

 

When they finally leave, Yunho isn’t surprised to feel no relief at all. The quiet—broken only by his neighbours still carefreely celebrating—feels like hell.

The shame that overtakes his body when he grabs his phone and tries calling Mingi is burning, but he’s too desperate to care. He just wants to see him. Needs to see him. Needs to look into his beautiful eyes and worship the curve of his pouty lips. Needs to hug him and close his eyes until everything disappears and Wooyoung’s words melt into nothing. Needs to make love to him as he whimpers sweetly and they both pretend, for a little longer, that Mingi is his. That this is enough to make Yunho happy.

The phone beeps back against his ear. No signal. The lines must be saturated with New Year calls.

He still manages to send a text. He doesn’t bother pretending he’s detached or casual in any way.

Where did you go? he types. Can you come back, please?

His heart pulses in his ears when he drops his phone and stares at the ceiling, uncertain whether he should expect a reply. Uncertain whether Mingi will ever come back. He thinks that maybe, without even realizing it, he has just spent his very last evening wrapped in the comforting illusion that they had a future together.

He startles when the phone buzzes barely a minute later.

I’m sorry, I should have said goodbye, appears first on the screen, followed shortly by, I just needed to go. This whole situation is too difficult and it couldn’t stay like that forever. I need some time to sort my things out. Is that okay?

Instead of soothing Yunho's fears, the words land like a final blow. The hollow caves in, weighing down so heavily on him that Yunho is afraid the floor will collapse beneath him, beneath the couch, beneath the entire building, and swallow him whole.

Mingi’s words are uncharacteristically certain, which can only imply something Yunho refuses to let himself consider. Yunho can’t find the courage to reply.

That night, he cries more than he has in years. He forces himself to muffle the sound with his pillow, scared the neighbours might hear his pathetic sobbing. He can’t have more people witnessing his unravelling.

 

The next day, Yunho goes back to the office with a weight sitting so heavily on his chest it’s a wonder he can breathe at all. He arrives too early, far too early, but he can’t help it; he can’t wait. He needs to see Mingi again, needs to look at him and anchor himself. Needs to know where they stand.

Mingi is so expressive, so painfully transparent in everything he feels, that Yunho is convinced he’ll know instantly. Just one look, one twitch of Mingi’s lips or brows, and he’ll understand. He’ll know if his terrible worries have a right to exist.

He waits, impatiently, in his office. Checks the time every five minutes. Maybe less. He wonders, half-heartedly, if this is what anxiety feels like. If this is how Mingi feels every time he looks jittery and haunted by things he can’t talk about.

The thought makes Yunho want to cradle him closer and never let go. Take all the weight from his shoulders. He could be so good to him. He knows he could. But Mingi probably doesn’t want that, he reminds himself. That’s what he meant by living his apartment.

The minutes keep passing, one after the other, enough for Mingi to be late. Enough for Yunho’s worries to begin to spiral.

Has something happened to him?

Once he decides he can’t wait anymore, Yunho gets up and makes his way to Mingi’s service colleagues. He clears his throat, tries to sound as casual as someone with his heart in pieces can manage.

“Is Mingi not coming today?”

“No, the kid’s sick,” one of the middle aged men mutters, not even glancing up from his computer.

Yunho is certain the distress shows on his face, and he’s grateful the man doesn’t look at him. He walks back to his desk on autopilot. He feels Wooyoung’s gaze on him from a few tables away, but he can’t bring himself to look back. They haven’t talked since their fight. Yunho doesn’t know where they stand right now. If Wooyoung is still angry. Or if Yunho is the one who is. He’s lost, and there’s nothing left in his chest but pain.

Is Mingi ever going to come back?

What if he just left? Left for good.

Mingi still isn’t back the next day.

 

That third night after New Years, as he lies restless in his bed, Yunho wonders if he should just try to call Mingi again. Or text him, at least.

He could. Mingi is nice, and he wouldn’t judge him for that. But also, what if the text ends up being the last straw, the final push that steers Mingi away from him?

What the younger man probably needs, right now, is space.

Space to breathe and decide.

It’s pathetic, but still, Yunho’s only urge is to try and deescalate the whole thing. To try to pretend nothing has happened, that their situation isn’t a mess, that they can continue pretending forever. It’s selfish, perhaps, and a little cowardly, but it’s infinitely better than the idea of seeing Mingi break things off with him once and for all.

Yunho doesn’t know what he’ll do, if that happens.

He wonders if this is why he doesn’t do love, usually.

Nothing has ever felt like this, before. Skinship is supposed to be light and consequence-less. It’s about having fun and emptying his mind. Nothing has ever brought him to such a state, lying in his bed, hating the silence and the cold around him, yearning for another weight on his mattress.

Now there is this thing in his chest. Big. So big and heavy. And he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The night worsens his worries. He wonders if Wooyoung is right. If Mingi has seen that love of his, and if that’s why he fled. Because Mingi doesn’t want any of it. Because for him, none of it was ever about Yunho. It was about experimenting, and discovering himself, maybe. And in the end, Mingi has always known what he wanted. Things that Eunah has promised him. Things that Yunho could never offer.

A ring. A wedding. Kids, one day. Mingi would be such a good dad. He will be, Yunho remembers.

He wonders if, in some years, he’ll be looking at Mingi’s Facebook profile and see an adorable cherub face smiling at a camera, looking just like his dad, with his mother’s hair, maybe. Yunho wonders just how painful that would be. He wonders if, by then, he’ll be less selfish. If he’ll be able to be happy for Mingi. For now, he can’t manage to feel anything but distress at the thought. At the realization that he has nothing to offer Mingi but what’s inside his chest. This aching, burning, useless and unwanted love.

He pulls his pillow tight against his chest, and stares at the dimness of his room. The moonlight crosses the window, spills inside just enough to touch the other side of his bed. He can’t stop his mind from returning to the image of the man who had been there barely a week ago.

Yunho's brain brings him back to that first night sleeping together. To a fleeting moment he has thought about too many times already.

Waking up in the middle of the night, limbs tangled with Mingi’s under the warm blanket, the younger man’s breathing so steady against Yunho’s chest. Mingi’s arms had tightened in his sleep.

Yunho hadn’t been able to silence the words that had landed in the stillness of the room, a secret for nobody to hear except himself.

“I love you, Mingi. I love you so much,” he had whispered, so low.

 

Yunho welcomes the weekend with as much dread as relief.

He’s terrified of the silence and the long hours of doing nothing except waiting for news from Mingi. But he’s also grateful for the quietness of it all. For being free from his colleagues’ curious looks. Most of them have probably noticed something is happening, although they’re too polite to mention it.

So when Friday night finally arrives, he just buries himself under his covers, turns on the TV, and hopes the sappy drama he’s watching will prevent him from thinking of Mingi too much—although he knows that’s a lost cause. When his phone rings and Wooyoung’s contact picture appears on the screen, he decides to ignore it.

Yunho is not ready to face his friend. He feels guilty for being mad at him, but also ashamed for realizing just how right Wooyoung had been. His current unfurling is proof enough that he’s become utterly helpless when it comes to Mingi.

He spends the whole night like this, half asleep, the flickering TV screen half drowning the pain.

 

Yunho is woken up by the harsh sound of his doorbell.

It takes him several minutes to process the thought, eyes blinking at the blinding light of the living room, sun spilling from the bay window. He’s never been so irritated to see sun. The sky shouldn’t be all happy and parading; it should be mourning with him.

Then, the bell rings again.

Yunho straightens up on his couch, stretches his neck, and stares at the sunlight for a brief moment.

Another ring, pressing.

At that, finally, his brain catches up.

Someone is ringing. Someone is here.

He knows who it is. Who it has to be. Finally.

His heart catches up with his thoughts, and he jumps to his feet.

In the few seconds that stretch between him leaping from the couch and hurrying to the door, Yunho manages to bless the universe for, once more, being merciful. For putting an end to the last days’ agony.

When he reaches the door, he stops himself, takes a deep breath, and combs his hair the best he can with the back of his hand. And then, he opens the door.

The face that blinks back at him isn’t the one he expected.

“You look like shit,” Wooyoung says, deadpan.

He’s not smiling, but his arms are straight in front of him, holding a pretty white pastry box wrapped in pink gauze.

Yunho tries not to let the disappointment seep into his expression. He should be happy—he forces himself to think. Happy to see his best friend, who cares enough to come all the way on a Saturday morning instead of staying in bed with his perfect boyfriend, who he’s very happy with. Instead, he’s here, pouting at Yunho, eyebrows furrowed, but still there, despite his pride.

They’ve known each other long enough that this isn’t exactly a new situation. They’ve had their fair share of arguments, which usually end with Yunho bowing—not particularly because he’s at fault, but because he knows just how difficult it is for his friend to apologize. Wooyoung always makes it up to him anyway. He’s a little shit, sure, but also a great friend.

It does make a small, half-hearted smile bloom on Yunho’s lips as he steps aside.

“Come in.”

 

Wooyoung doesn’t try to hide the unimpressed rise of his brows as he enters the living room and catches sight of the half-eaten sushi tray on the low table, or the oversized blanket that’s fallen onto the carpet from Yunho’s earlier scramble. Yunho doesn’t bother hiding it away. He just sits back in his spot on the couch, still warm from his sleeping frame.

Wooyoung sits on the opposite chair, eyes never leaving his friend’s face.

“So… How have you been?”

His voice is a little tight, which is unusual, and it makes Yunho feel vaguely embarrassed. Wooyoung is concerned. Genuinely so. He feels guilty—obviously. Yunho feels the urge to reassure him, but it’s difficult to find the right words.

“I’m okay. Just a bit down.”

“Any news from Mingi?” the younger asks, blunt as always.

“No.”

There’s a small silence after that, broken only by the faint sound of a bird landing on the balcony railing and pacing across the metal. Yunho lets his eyes follow it, observing the small greyish thing.

“Shit,” Wooyoung replies. “I’m sorry. I really thought… I really thought I was doing good. I thought he just needed a little push in the right direction, you know?”

Yunho nods, ignoring the wetness in his eyes. He’s always been an easy crier, and his friends know. He’s not ashamed. He’s been crying so much lately anyway—it would be pointless to hide it.

“I know Woo. I know you always wants what’s best for me.”

“Right!” Wooyoung chimes in, too earnestly, guilt heavy in his tone. Yunho couldn’t really be mad at him, even if he tried. “In the end, it’s his loss if he doesn’t come back. You’ve been happy before him, you’ll be happy after him. He’s the one stuck in that shitty relationship.”

“Don’t—” Yunho chastises gently. Wooyoung is trying, as usual, but the words still ache. Because Yunho couldn’t possibly be comforted by the thought that Mingi is unhappy. That thought is worse, probably, than his own current unhappiness. “I don’t want him to be sad,” he says truthfully.

“Yeah, I get it,” Wooyoung replies, voice softer. “I’m sorry. I really am.” He adds after a small pause.

“I just want things to go back to what they were,” Yunho lets out, voice breaking halfway through, just as a tear escapes his lashes.

“Back to what? You’ve been miserable, Yu. I know you’re not weak, and honestly, I’m not worried about you in the long run. I know you can handle it. I know you won’t crumble because of heartbreak. But still, you deserve more than that. Why would you want to go back to that?”

The question is reasonable, Yunho has to admit.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, he didn't believe in love. He used to think what Wooyoung and San had was a lucky draw that only reaches every other soul. Not him. And suddenly he found himself there, drowning in something stronger than he had ever imagined. Head over heels for a man who doesn’t want him back. The irony of it is almost funny.

His voice is soft when it comes out, shameless in its truth. “Because I fell in love with him, Woo. I didn’t think it was something I’d ever feel for anyone. But I love him, and I’ve got no power to change that.”

“But you’re the kindest person I know, hyung! You deserve someone who wouldn’t hesitate to offer you the world,” Wooyoung replies, eyebrows furrowed. The genuine anger in his voice is endearing, and Yunho can’t help the broken smile that blooms on his lips.

“It’s easy to say, for you and San. You guys met at the perfect moment, when you were both aligned under the same star. But not every story can be like that. And not everybody can be like you. And although it’s not romantic, and I am not so proud saying it out loud, I fell in love with him in this chaotic, twisted story, and I can’t find it in myself to hate any of it.”

Wooyoung’s pout turns sadder at that, though he nods. Yunho is grateful for his silence. The younger man seems to be understanding—finally—just how much it all means. A little too late, perhaps, but Yunho can’t blame him. He’s been late enough himself.

It feels right to continue speaking. To let the sadness, spill out to another heart that knows just how overpowering love can feel.

“I hate the fact that he’s not mine. I hate that his heart is always so heavy, and I hate every night I have to let him go. But I love every minute before that. I love his laugh, and how serious he looks when he’s staring at his screen. And his nose—have you seen his nose? And he’s so soft. Once you break the shell, there’s so much softness begging to be seen.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, but he’s half smiling.

“God, if I’d known you’d be the sappy type, I would’ve never pushed you to date.”

“Well, at least you can be comforted—apparently I’m the type to fall in love without even dating.”

Wooyoung’s chuckle is sweet and tangy, and it makes some more of the weight seep out from Yunho’s chest. Wooyoung takes the small box he brought and left on the table. He unwraps it. The sight of perfect, delicious-looking macarons makes Yunho salivate on the spot.

“You’re going to be an incredible boyfriend one day. If he’s too dumb to realize that, then it’s his loss. And eventually, when you’re okay again, we’ll find you someone who deserves you.”

Yunho can’t quite believe his friend, but he nods anyway, grateful for the mere consolation of feeling this warmth cradle him.

He may have missed out on his only chance at love, but at least he’ll never be fully alone. That alone makes him lucky.

 

They stay in the living room, chatting for a long while, devouring the macarons without a care for their gentle presentation. Wooyoung lets Yunho weep a little as he lingers on Mingi’s adorable habits, and although the younger man mocks him, the gentle smile on his face is enough to make Yunho feel safe to continue.

They remain there, buried under blankets, until the bell rings again—and this time it’s San who enters the apartment, arms full of takeaway.

“Woo texted me. I hope it’s okay that I join?” he asks, puppy eyes soft, as if Yunho could ever refuse him anything.

They end up spending most of the day there, playing video games and screaming at one another, until the sun lowers and Wooyoung starts calling the two other men losers for wasting their late twenties boxed up in a cramped apartment when they could be seeing the world.

Yunho resists for a little while, until Wooyoung calls him a bitchless virgin, which makes San’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and makes Yunho fall into a coughing fit so violent he’s afraid he’s actually going to pass out.

 

And that’s how he ends up getting dragged out of his apartment and into the bustling belly of Shibuya nightlife. 

“It’s been forever since we went out,” Wooyoung chirps as he leads the two other men with too much ease through the crowd of early partygoers.

Although his chest is still hollow, Yunho feels grateful as he looks at his best friends speaking too loudly over the bass, laughing at jokes Yunho can barely hear. He welcomes the drink Wooyoung hands him with great gratitude, and downs it in one swift movement.

“Yeahhhh, that’s what I wanted to see! My Yuyu is back!”

Yunho laughs at that, and even if he doesn’t feel at all like he’s back at all, he’s happy to be there. He lets himself get carried by the music, swallows down more glasses. He does politely decline, though, when Wooyoung nudges him and points his chin toward a pretty man nursing a drink at the bar. Yunho’s type, he has to admit. But he can’t possibly think about any of that right now.

“Too early, Woo.”

In truth, Yunho doesn’t think it will ever be possible for him to consider another man. But what does he know? He spent most of his adult life thinking love was a myth, so he can't be too sure about anything anymore. What does he know—maybe one day he’ll just think of Mingi as his first love.

And what a first love.

For tonight, it’s okay to think of him still. To pray that, despite the days of silence, it’s not entirely over. Even if they don't have much time left anyways. Even if it’s a lie, and it feels hopeless, because Mingi has been expressive in his silence and Yunho knows the younger man has probably spent this time trying to muster the courage to tell him that their thing has to end.

Mingi is breaking up with him through silence. It’s obvious. The only explanation.

Yunho tries to drown the thought with another drink, replacing it with softer ones. Like the memory of how Mingi looked on New Year’s, dancing without a care in the world. Yunho thinks he was an idiot—never bringing Mingi out to dance earlier. He should have given him that. And more. Beautiful dates and expensive dinners. Gifts, and a thousand more kisses, while he still had the chance.

He can’t help it when his fingers type his code, open his gallery, and tap the folder dedicated to the younger man. Only three pictures; a testimony of how scarce their shared moments had been, despite the weight of it all.

There’s the one of Mingi standing in front of Tokyo Tower, cheeks flushed from the cold.

There’s the one of him seated at Yunho’s breakfast table, hands wrapped around a coffee mug, a shy look on his face.

And a last one; a selfie Yunho managed to convince Mingi to take one evening when they cooked tteokbokki together. Mingi’s lips are stained red by the sauce and he’s slightly frowning, but the sight is too endearing. Yunho remembers how sweet and spicy those lips tasted when he kissed them right after the picture.

He can’t stop himself from stepping out of the bar, walking a few paces away from the crowded entrance, and pressing the phone icon next to Mingi’s name on his screen.

 

Yunho's breathing is tight as the line rings for a few seconds, and then Mingi picks up.

“Hyung?” he asks.

“Hi,” Yunho breathes out. He’s unsure what he intended to say. He’s a bit drunk, and hearing the other man’s voice feels like enough. Maybe it's all he wanted. 

“Are you okay?” Mingi asks, gentle worry tinging his tone.

Yunho’s heart loops at that; at Mingi’s kindness, even as the younger man is clearly trying to break things off. 

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” he replies, pouring all his tenderness into the words. He hopes it carries across the line. “I wish you had called.”

“Oh.” Mingi replies. There’s pain in his voice too; obvious. “I’m sorry, hyung. I… I want to do things properly, for once. Take the time to end things well.”

Yunho wants to laugh bitterly, because the man he loves disappearing suddenly isn’t exactly what he’d call doing things properly; but then again, Mingi is just trying his best. He’s as clueless as Yunho. But at least he’s brave enough to say it, even if Yunho had to call first.

“Yeah. That’s kind of you. I’m sorry for Wooyoung’s words, though. I know he… I don’t know exactly what he said, but I wanted to let you know I’ll be fine. No matter what he said, you don’t have to feel guilty for leaving me, because—”

“What?”

Mingi’s interruption cuts Yunho short, and embarrassment surges. The younger man is probably realizing Yunho is lying. That he’s far from alright. That he’s lost and pathetic. But that’s fine, after all. There’s no pride left to preserve with the first man who ever made him feel love. He just wants Mingi to feel light and confident in his decision. To have Yunho's blessing, so he can move on. He doesn’t need to know Yunho might die from the ache of never kissing his neck again.

“Yunho, I’m not leaving you.”

What?

Oh, right. They weren’t even dating in the first place, so Mingi can’t technically leave him.

“I mean, whatever you want to call it,” Yunho mumbles. “Just… not seeing me anymore. You never owed me anything and—”

“Hyung, I still want to see you.”

“What?” Yunho echoes, confusion etched into every line of his face.

There’s a brief silence over the line, and beneath Mingi’s breathing, Yunho thinks he hears the vague sound of waves lapping at sand. Where is Mingi? He doesn’t get to finish the thought before the other man speaks again.

“I told you I needed some time, and I meant that. I want to end things with Eunah properly, because she deserves it.”

End things.

But not with him.

With Eunah.

Yunho can hardly believe the words. He grips his phone tighter, afraid it’s going to slip, afraid he’s going to wake up from a dream. Perhaps his drunk mind is making things up. But Mingi’s voice feels real enough.

“But when I’m back, I’d like to take you out. If you’re willing to give me a chance.”

Oh.

Butterflies. So many of them, suddenly awake. Nocturnal, of course. But the colour of their wings doesn’t matter as they flutter in Yunho’s chest and warm his body to the fingertips.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “I’d like that.”

“Thank you, hyung. Thank you for being so good and patient with me. I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

Yunho doesn’t think he’s ever heard Mingi sound so certain.

When the call ends and Yunho finds himself thrust back into the street, the heavy weight of his drunken body suddenly too real, he isn’t sure what he’s thinking. Only that maybe there’s still hope.

That maybe, Mingi wants him too.

Notes:

Hi dearest readers!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I know it wasn't the most eventful one, but it was essential to the plot. Only one chapter left after this, plus the epilogue. I’m a bit sad to be nearing the end, but I’m also excited to finally give my babies the resolution they deserve.

The final two chapters will take a little longer to publish, I'm aiming for one chapter a week instead of the usual two, because I want to make sure they’re extra polished so I can leave you all on a positive note. I’m also in the last stretch of exam season, and at this point caffeine is basically the only thing keeping my brain half-functional.

I’m so grateful for all the love this story has been receiving. We’ve now reached 100 subscribers, which is simply crazy. Even though most of you are silent readers, I appreciate your quiet support so much. As always, feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.

Take care, and I’ll see you next week (probably on monday!) <3

Chapter 12: Oxygen

There’s a thick blanket of snow on the beach, pristine white fading into a dull gold before melting into the silver of the Pacific. The waves lick lazily at the sand, their weeping muted by the crispness of the winter air.

Mingi’s boots are coated in a thin layer of ice, shining under the dim sunlight, just below where his gloved hands wrap around his knees. He’s seated on the frozen ground, bundled in just enough layers to stay warm without trembling. For someone who’s so often shaky, these past few days have been remarkably steady, even amidst the harsh Hokkaido winter.

The sky is clear today, and it feels as though the earth has been uncovered from the thin veil that once made the cold more bearable. The air is harsher, the chill more biting, yet Mingi still finds it pleasing. His attention is caught by four birds racing across the cloudless sky, twirling and singing so high above him. He watches them for a minute.

Then there’s the sound of soft steps, muffled by fresh snow, approaching from behind. They stop several feet away, probably still on the rocky pavement rather than the beach—though it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins beneath the white cover.

“Mingi!”

He turns to see Eunah standing there, looking smaller than usual beside a tall pine tree. Her thick wool coat swallows her figure, making her look like a fuzzy animal. The thought draws a smile to Mingi’s face.

“I’m done. Let’s go?” she asks, holding up a bright pink bag in her gloved hand.

He rises slowly, his body slightly numb from the cold, and makes his way to her. She isn’t quite smiling, shivering a little, but her tone is still warm as they start walking.

“What did you get?” he asks.

“One of those artisanal candles for Mom—‘ocean breeze scented.’ I think she’ll like it. Oh, and a glass necklace for Jisoo.”

“Nice. I’d love to see them.”

“Sure. I’ll show you once my fingers are no longer in danger of falling off.”

They fall into silence after that, wandering through the quiet cobblestone streets of Otaru. The whole world feels muffled here. Mingi likes it. His eyes linger on the old buildings with their wooden engravings and intricate decorations. It’s three in the afternoon, and the sky is shifting from clear blue to a pale mauve, the moon already glinting softly. The gas lanterns, perched on tall iron poles, have begun to bathe the streets in their gentle warmth. 

Mingi can’t help but think it was a good idea to come here. He had hesitated, as he always does when making decisions, but then he forced himself to just do it; because it was all part of what he’d decided. Becoming a new man. A decisive one. A responsible one.

Sure, it wasn’t the ideal context for a couple’s getaway, but that wasn’t really the point anyway. He had been very clear about that when he called Eunah the day before her return from Korea, on the first of January.

 

“Maybe we should go somewhere, you and me. Have a little trip. So we can take the time to talk things out.”

It made sense, after all. Eunah had come to Japan for him. She had been dedicated enough to take the jump, to accompany him into this new life. And although she had ended up thriving—probably living a much more fulfilling life than he did in Tokyo—it had still been a drastic change she had willingly accepted. They both loved Japan, so it made sense; it had been a chance to explore more of the country. Only it had been almost half a year since their arrival, and they still hadn’t left Tokyo together. They hadn’t seen much of anything. And so it only felt right for Mingi to make that happen, to fulfil—if not all of Eunah’s expectations—at least this small detail, something that could make her smile.

“Where?” She hadn’t sounded opposed to the idea, although the heaviness in her tone made it painfully clear she understood this was no romantic getaway.

“What about Hokkaido?”

It hadn’t taken much convincing, for which Mingi was grateful, because he’d been shaking like a leaf in their too-empty apartment, heart pounding with the terror of change, but mind set, pushing through with the momentum of Wooyoung’s harsh words.

“You know what you have to do.”

That single sentence had been the first thing to truly make sense of his situation. Because Wooyoung had been the first person not to tell Mingi what he was supposed to do. Unlike Eunah, who had insisted they would get through their issues together, or his father, who had told him to swallow the pain and commit to the safety of his predetermined life, Wooyoung had given him a choice. No—better: he had told Mingi, plainly, that he was the only one who could make a choice for himself. That he not only held that responsibility, but that power.

Those few, precious words kept circling through Mingi’s hectic mind in the days that followed, and he found himself growing more and more grateful for them. The conversation hadn’t exactly been pleasant, and it took him a while to realize just how selfless Wooyoung had been, pushing for a confrontation that offered him nothing in return, but that would probably change Mingi’s life forever.

At least, that’s what Mingi kept thinking about in the living room of his apartment, clicking through dozens of websites in an effort to plan a good trip for Eunah. Something nice. Something different from their ordinary life, comfortable enough to feel like a treat, but daring enough to challenge her, because she always loved being challenged. He poured all his energy into the planning because it was the only thing he could control; it felt easier than planning the words he would eventually have to say.

He tried practicing them in front of the mirror. Tried letting them roll off his tongue. The explanation. Not too much, not enough to break her heart. But just enough to explain –even if she probably understood already, smart, smart Eunah-, that he thought it was time for the two of them to break up.

The idea was terrifying. Every time he tried practicing the words, he ended up curled in on himself, shaking, barely breathing under the weight of guilt, fear, and shame.

The most dreadful part was the thought of bringing it up at all. Breaking the fragile peace between them, even if that peace was clearly manufactured and artificial to both. The idea of stepping into his own decisions, owning them. The possibility of hurting her. It was all paralyzing.

So he told himself he’d deal with that later and threw himself back into perfecting their trip. A goodbye trip.

Still, he wanted to tell her the truth before they left—give her the choice to have the conversation in Tokyo instead of traveling all the way to a different island for it. So the night she returned from Korea, as she unpacked one suitcase and repacked another for their departure the next morning, he mustered all the courage he could:

“I want to… to make sure we’re on the same page. Regarding this. I think this—going away for a short while—is the right opportunity for us to discuss… things.” The words burned on his tongue, and his heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his skull. “Discuss us,” he added.

He got the confirmation he needed when Eunah smiled with a hint of pain.

“Yes, Mingi, I know you didn’t organize all this because you suddenly discovered a passion for travel agencies,” she had said. “But you planned a nice trip. No matter what comes out of it, I think we should enjoy it. So let’s leave that for a little later, okay?”

Her tone startled him with its steadiness, although he supposed it made sense. She had always been the cold-headed one, the perceptive one. She knew, before he had even said it. In the grand scheme of things, that made sense too. She’s good at seeing things. It’s just that, perhaps, for a while, she had stopped looking. And it took a proper crisis, bubbles bursting at the surface, to catch her attention again.

Mingi forced himself to swallow down the terrified realizations these thoughts brought with them. The fear that while she could clearly do without him, he couldn’t say the same.

The fear that maybe he would truly be alone.

And when the small, dangerous hope that he might have Yunho afterwards blooms inside him, he forces it down even harder. Because thinking of that now is unfaithful to the attention each situation deserves. Because to deserve even half of Yunho, he has to prove himself at least half a man—and offer Eunah the closure she deserves.

 

It’s been a strange, strange trip. Nothing like anything Eunah and Mingi have ever shared before.

There’s still a bit of that strategic silence they’ve both grown accustomed to. Sometimes Eunah seems like she wants to say something, but she stays quiet, her gaze wandering. More often, Mingi wants to apologize, but he knows it’s useless, and so he keeps his mouth shut.

There’s no point speaking immediately, Eunah made it clear she wants to enjoy this a little longer, and Mingi has to respect that.

It’s okay, for now, because there’s also a gentle relief in two souls knowing they’re approaching new, diverging paths. The relief of knowing that both of them know. That this pretending won’t last forever. That their silence isn’t weakness but a final act of tenderness.

Mingi thinks that part is working. They’re having a pleasant time.

On the first day, they walked the busy streets of Sapporo, marveling at the buildings half-hidden behind the constant snow. It was crowded, and by early evening the sidewalks had turned into slippery traps, but it had been nice, still.

On the second day, they drove to Mount Yotei. The volcano rose regal and proud from the icy desert into a pale cotton-candy sky. Some cranes flew in lazy lines above them. Eunah spent half the day complaining about snowflakes getting into her coat, but by the end of it, when Mingi left her at her hotel room—he had deliberately booked two, and she hadn’t even thought to protest—she was smiling.

Now it’s the third day, and they’ve driven back north to Otaru. Mingi thinks he likes this quiet town the most; gentler than the sublime wilderness, warmer than the big city. They wandered the old streets until Eunah decided she wanted to go souvenir shopping in the covered market. Mingi chose to wait outside, enjoying the crisp air, and so he has spent half the afternoon seated by the port, staring at the vague, distant shapes of silver mountains caught between fog and the Russian coast.

Overall, it’s unexpectedly nice.

Partly because of the experience; the beauty of winter in a place cold and far from the rest of the world, where they can exist for a little while without being terrified of tomorrow.

Partly because Eunah seems to be enjoying herself, even if the frown on her face appears a little too often. When she smiles, at least, it doesn’t feel forced or insincere.

Probably also because Mingi isn’t ashamed. He’s doing things properly, or trying to. Going at her pace, letting her choose when she’ll be ready to talk.

And no matter how many times he wants to collapse under the weight of the unknown, no matter how many times he feels the urge to call Yunho, he doesn’t. For once, he wants to do things right. 

 

Soon enough, they reach the small cottage they occupy. It’s a small thing, built from dark wood, just at the edge of the city, before the streets melt into tall forests of endless pines.

It’s easy to share the space. They take off their wet shoes, slip off their coats. Mingi goes to the kitchen and turns on the kettle while Eunah goes to light the fireplace. Eunah settles on the couch, her book in hand, while Mingi cuts some vegetables for their dinner.

The simplicity of that momentary routine makes something a little sad bloom in Mingi’s heart. The thought that, if things had always been like that, they could have worked out well. It does make him feel guilty, for being the way he is. But he forces the thoughts down, because it’s too late for self-pity.

The dinner is good, and Eunah isn’t afraid to say it:

“You really outdid yourself there.”

It does make Mingi feel warm and proud.

After they’ve finished the dishes, Eunah’s eyes are caught by something outside the window.

“Look at the sky,” she says, voice lifting with a marvel Mingi isn’t so used to hearing.

His own heart lifts when he walks to the window, and stares at the stretch of darkness, canvassed by a few pine trees that rise so tall they blend into the shadow. There are so many stars glinting, bright and infinite. It’s been so long since Mingi has seen a sky like that. They don’t exist in Tokyo.

Eunah and he end up sitting on two chairs on the porch, cradled in countless blankets to survive the merciless night wind. There’s some heat radiating from the house, which helps a bit too.

The air smells of smoke and forest humidity, with a tinge of something marine. It’s so quiet that Mingi can hear the faint breathing of the ocean, although it’s too far to be seen.

And it’s precisely in that moment of quiet and stillness, as Mingi’s mind is completely free from worry, that Eunah decides it’s time for them to speak.

 

“I’m ready.” she says, out of the blue. “I think we should talk.”

It startles Mingi for a brief instant.

“Okay.”

He takes a deep breath, and the iciness of the air feels pleasant in his chest, cooling down his nerves, bringing him weirdly close to the universe. To something grander. In the grand scheme of things, this isn’t the entire world crumbling, is it?

The ocean will continue breathing and the pines will still stand proud and tall. The stars will keep on shining.

“So, you asked me to think. About everything. And to sort my thoughts out. And I think I did.”

Mingi half expects Eunah to cut his words, to tell him she knows, because it’s obvious she does. She knows everything. But weirdly enough, she remains quiet. He sees the outline of her profile in his peripheral vision. She’s looking up at the stars.

“I wasn’t entirely honest when I said all of my… stress was caused by work. I think— I know that things aren’t going very well between the two of us. And it’s my fault, and it’s making you sad. And I’m sad too.”

He can see Eunah nodding lightly at that, but she doesn’t add anything. He’s thankful for it.

It feels generous of her. She’s leaving him a chance. Not to run away; to finally own up. To be the one being brave.

“I think…” He takes a deep breath in, “I think we’re not working out anymore. And maybe… maybe we should try to go our own ways.”

There’s a small movement again. She nods, almost imperceptible.

It’s an odd response, for something so big. Something so dreadful. Something Mingi knows they’ve both been terrified of for far too long. But somehow, it matches the instant. Everything is falling apart, but quietly so. Mercifully so.

It is a good thing. Eunah’s simple movement is enough to confirm that.

Mingi lets the silence settle, because he needs to be generous with her too.

A cloud has appeared between the stars. It drifts calmly. Mingi looks at its movements. It feels like his heart is beating with the earth’s breathing.

Eunah’s voice isn’t too small when she finally speaks up: “I spent a lot of time with Mom and Dad during the holidays. And I think it helped me understand it all better. It’s been thirty years for them. And they still fall asleep in each other’s arms every night.”

Mingi’s chest twists at the thought. He isn’t always sure if he believes in that type of love. The sparkling, enduring one. His parents certainly hadn’t had that. But recently he feels like he can understand the idea of it better, for some reason.

“I’ve loved you, Mingi. I’ve loved you so much. More than you’ve probably ever realized. For a very long time. And I’ll probably love you, at least a bit, forever. And I know, in your own way, you have love for me too. But we never had what they had. And that’s something we both deserve to find, don’t you think?”

Her words are so much bolder than his own, like always. But they’re not harsh. They mirror his own honesty in their own, blunter way. And for once, the two of them fit perfectly in that fragile, shared space.

“Yeah, I think that too.”

Eunah’s mouth parts, and she looks like she wants to add something, but she changes her mind and her lips close back. Mingi doesn’t ask her what her words had almost been. Sure, there’s so much left to say. But it took him forever to find his voice. She deserves to have that time too.

Maybe it’s the fresh air and the endless freedom of the night sky, but Mingi feels no weight on his chest. No hole either. He’s not quite relieved yet. Not happy. He’s mourning already, but it’s a peaceful feeling. He isn’t flying, nor falling. He’s found the ground, the shore, and he just exists on it, for now.

It’s been forever, since he felt like he could exist fully on earth. But he finds it easier to speak when his feet aren’t too unsteady. It’s easier to admit everything he’s been drowning in.

“I’m sorry,” he says without a second thought.

“I know.” Eunah replies into the night. There’s no anger in her tone.

Mingi lets the words exist. He hopes she hears the reality of them.

“You’ll always be a part of me, Eunah.”

“I know.”

 

The next morning is gentle, and it almost feels like life is back to normal. Mingi has a dreamless night; he wakes up well-rested, with no tension between his shoulder blades.

They leave Otaru not too long after dawn, and drive up north to another coastal village. There’s a weird lightness in the air, and although Mingi first thinks it’s simply the relief of having spilled out his truth, he’s reassured to see a serene expression on Eunah’s face too.

The charged tenseness of the previous night has melted into something surprisingly easy. Easy to breathe around, to exist around, to talk around. Their chats are simple, and casual, and for a brief moment, Mingi almost thinks that maybe nothing has happened at all. That he imagined their previous conversation, and that life will soon shape itself back into their uncomfortable routine.

That is until, over, lunch, Eunah says casually:

“I think I’ll move back to Seoul in February. So I have some time to plan my transfer and all.”

There’s a minute during which Mingi is too startled to reply. Eunah’s bluntness, her confidence with her words and decisions, is something he’ll never fully grasp. But it feels oddly comforting right now. It makes it all a bit more real. Slightly more tangible.

“Okay,” he manages to say. “I can take a hotel room until then, if you’re more comfortable that way.”

“No, no, don’t worry.” She smiles as she takes a takoyaki to her mouth. “We’ve spent months sharing an apartment. We can switch — one in the room, one on the couch every night.”

 “Of course not. I can take the couch. I think it’s only fair.”

“Okay, well, don’t come complaining when you’ve got a broken back.”

And just like that, she switches back to the topic of the weather, and the implications of tomorrow become a distant problem.

 

It remains light, and they don’t mention any more of their situation until their fifth, and final, day.

They’ve reached the northernmost part of the island, where land is just an endless stretch of white and blue, sprinkled with the greyness of rocky mountains and weeping trees. There’s not much traffic there. A car once in a while, and few deer, appearing and vanishing behind scarce, stubborn foliage.

They drive a long time along the coastline, enjoying the view to Eunah’s favourite Teresa Teng record. The sight of icy waters stretching up to the horizon is melancholic, and Mingi thinks it’s strangely fitting to their situation.

They stop in front of a magnificent frozen waterfall, because Eunah wants to take some pictures. And then they linger there, staring at the ocean.

“You seem to have changed a lot, you know?” Eunah suddenly says.

She’s not looking at Mingi. His eyes remain set on the ocean too, where they’re safe.

“Yeah,” he lets out, a small puff of cloud escaping from his lips.

Close to the horizon, something comes out of the surface; too far to be recognizable, but clear enough to be noticeable even in the distance. Mingi thinks he hears the whistling of the creature, although it’s most likely the whispering wind.

“Tell me, Mingi, is it because of a woman?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“No,” he mutters, truthfully.

“But there is someone, right?”

Somehow, the weight of the question isn’t brutal, nor unexpected. Mingi doesn’t startle. Once again, it makes sense that she knows. That she put the messy pieces back together, and understood just enough to know. Weirdly, he feels grateful. Because there’s no anger in her voice.

“Yeah,” he manages to admit to the Pacific and the clouds and the woman who was supposed to be the love of his life.

She doesn’t recoil, doesn’t scream, doesn’t turn around and drive away, abandoning him to the betrayal of his existence.

“Okay,” she says instead, quiet and simple.

When they get back inside the car, she turns the music louder. Mingi raises the heating, hoping it manages to comfort her, since hugging her would be inappropriate right now.

And so he stays immobile, eyes on the road, driving towards the unreachable end of the land. Eunah is turned to her window, probably admiring the shifting colours of the late afternoon falling upon the ocean.

“It wasn’t the longest time, but we still had a nice run, didn’t we?”

Mingi pretends to ignore the wetness in her voice. That’s what Eunah would want.

“We did,” he replies simply, batting away the tears that threaten to fall onto his own face.

 

The day of their return to Tokyo is tenser than the rest of the trip has been.

They are slightly late to the airport — Mingi’s fault, because he took the wrong turn — and Eunah is aggravated. Mingi is a little on edge too, which isn’t so weird, he figures. It has been a long week, although it unfolded quite beautifully, all things considered.

Still, there’s an uncomfortable moment during which Eunah’s eye rolls and scoffs become hurtful, even in the blurriness of his peripheral vision. And more than anything, obviously excessive reactions to his inconsequential mistake.

But Mingi knows that, in more than one way, he deserves her spitefulness. He knew that having those painful conversations, making that shared decision, wouldn’t be enough to magically melt away months — or perhaps years — of hurt.

He knows he can’t be angry at her. But she has every right to be.

As terrifying as the thought is, it’s loud and clear in Mingi’s head.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons staying in the same apartment until she actually goes back to Korea doesn't seem too bad of an idea. Not the simplest one, he’s certain, but a good way to force himself to actually be there, if she ever wants to spit at him. If she ever decides the gentleness of her response to him half-admitting all the hurt he caused was not enough.

It’s terrifying, and he finds himself surprised by his own uncharacteristically blunt decision. But even as doubts rise, he forces himself to commit to it. It’s the least he can do.

And so, when her words get mean in the car, he decides not to let her anger sizzle and turn more bitter, and offers her a chance:

“Are you angry at me?” he asks, replying to another of her exaggerated sighs.

The car heater sounds overly loud amidst the sudden silence.

“A bit, yeah.” Eunah replies. The hesitation in her voice is foreign and weird in Mingi’s ears. But it doesn’t sound too pained. “I think I’m scared, mostly. About coming back to Tokyo.”

Of course, Mingi understands her fear. He’s had thoughts of his own, swimming around his mind ever since the previous night. He knew, inevitably, that this day would come, and that this trip — out of reality — would eventually come to an end. He was very lucid about the pain that would come with finding reality again, with having to proceed through the next steps.

The planning.

The packing.

The splitting of silly things they have accumulated over time. That small souvenir they got in Jeju. The book about parenting Eunah bought for their second anniversary; hopeful, probably.

The discussing every detail of undoing years of hopes of a future together.

The fear of what the next day will bring.

Of course, Mingi has his own idea half-formed about that part in a corner of his mind. It’s very clear, what he hopes to do. What he wants to manage to create, if he can. But as long as he’s not back in real life, the thought feels too forbidden, too much like betrayal, and so he pushes it down until the next day.

“I feel the same,” Mingi says, voice fragile. “Well, the scared part. I’m not… I can’t be mad at you, of course.”

“Of course you can. You weren’t the only one in this relationship. Messing things up is a two-person job.”

Mingi wonders, just then, if Eunah really understood the extent of his guilt.

It’s unlikely she hasn’t, he thinks. She’s smart, and he’s admitted it, hasn’t he?

No — he knows Eunah enough to know that she got it.

Maybe it’s easier for her to put it like that. To free herself from the vulnerability of her role in this story. To take back the power of guilt. Eunah has always hated feeling weak.

Or maybe she really believes it. Maybe she's certain that, in some of her harsh words and unreachable expectations, she has played a role in this too.

Mingi doesn’t think he can believe that, but if that’s the version she wants to settle with, he can’t take it away from her.

 

They end up making it to the airport on time, and they pass the controls rapidly, mostly thanks to Eunah’s efficient planning. Their documents are prepared in neat folders, their stuff sorted out neatly. Her strength is visible even in the way she walks to their gate, a few steps ahead of Mingi.

Her steps are rapid — because of course, despite them not being late, she’s a little stressed about missing the plane — but nobody who doesn’t know her could guess that. No, to the untrained eye, she looks like the picture of composure and elegance, even in the messiness of an airport hall.

And upon looking at her like that, guiding them through the crowd, Mingi can’t help but feel relieved; not for himself, but for her. Because he’s certain now: the hardest part is behind her.

She’d be so easy to love, for another man.
She’d be so easy to love, if he could.

Her future is bright and hopeful, and Mingi feels lighter at the thought that, though he might have stolen too many of her years, he didn’t dull any of her shine.

 

Their apartment looks a little different when Mingi pushes the door open. It looks smaller, somehow. Less menacing than it had turned over the past few months.

It’s odd, he thinks, how the mind can turn something gentle into something so sour when it’s poisoned by worries.

He carries both of their luggage inside, settles his own next to the couch, and Eunah’s back inside their once-shared room.

It’s late already, and they just have the energy to warm up some instant ramen. They eat quietly, the silence broken once in a while by a memory of the trip they’ve just come back from. There’s something absurd about evoking something so fresh for both of them. But it feels nice, bathing in that warmth for a little longer.

It’s not before the lights are turned off, and Mingi settles under his blanket on the couch, that he allows all the thoughts to come back.

Tomorrow, life starts again. Real life.

Tomorrow, he’ll go back to the office.

Tomorrow, he’ll see Yunho. 

The weight that lingers on his chest as he falls asleep is heavy but warm. Nervousness, surely, but also tinged with something bright and soft. Something he hasn’t really felt in a long time. Hope.

 

 

With every floor the elevator passes—each number lighting up in a brief flicker of orange before jumping to the next—Mingi’s heartbeat pounds harder.

His palms are clammy, his suit feels too tight, and it seems that the quiet resolve and confidence he has built over the past week, while handling the most difficult decision of his life, have evaporated the moment he stepped into the office building.

It makes for a terrible elevator ride. It isn’t too early, and the already-late businessmen force themselves into the confined space, bodies squeezing uncomfortably close for a Monday morning. Mingi’s legs feel like jelly.

He has spent the past days deliberately avoiding thinking about this. About what will happen after. About the next chapter of his life. A life that could hold happiness—or loneliness. He told himself the avoidance was out of respect for his and Eunah’s situation. Which was true, at least partly. But now, as his heart thrashes in his chest and his throat goes dry, he realizes it was also because he was terrified of what came next.

He should have explained more to Yunho.

They have barely spoken since New Year’s—just two texts and a brief call, one that had left Mingi disoriented. Terrified, too, because Yunho had sounded so certain during that call, so sure that Mingi leaving that night and disappearing afterward meant the end of something. Which made sense, in hindsight. But Mingi hadn’t expected Yunho to see it that way. Despite whatever sadness Wooyoung claimed Yunho had felt, Yunho had always been a rock.

And although it made sense that the older man would have doubts, the resolve in his voice had been terrifying—because it meant he might be willing to let Mingi go. So, despite Wooyoung’s words, Mingi couldn’t help but worry again. Worry that maybe Yunho wasn’t as serious about this as Mingi was. That maybe he didn’t want him in the same way. 

Which would be okay, Mingi repeats to himself in the elevator. It’s okay, because Yunho owes him nothing. Yunho could very well hate him after everything he’s seen; after watching Mingi betray his fiancée, over and over. After watching him avoid Yunho’s own painful looks, whenever it felt easier.

Maybe Yunho doesn’t want anything to do with him, and Mingi has to be okay with that.

He didn’t leave Eunah for Yunho. No—that would be ugly. He left Eunah to free them both from a life built on lies and the denial of his own nature.

That doesn’t mean he has won Yunho. He knows that. Even though it terrifies him, he forces himself to repeat it. It’s part of the plan, isn’t it?

Becoming a better person.

A decent person.

Someone Yunho could perhaps respect.

Someone who wouldn’t have to hate himself so deeply that his chest remains permanently clenched.

Mingi likes that idea, so he has to accept the terror of starting over. Of trying to do things right, with Yunho. Of telling Yunho what he wants. How he feels.

But it still feels like hell, standing here among clammy bodies in the dense, moist air of the elevator. Sweat gathers at Mingi's collar, and the careful way he slicked back his hair will soon come undone.

He should have told Yunho he was coming back today.

He pushes his glasses up on his nose and swallows the saliva pooling too quickly on his tongue. He tries to breathe deeply through his nose, even though the elevator reeks of sweat, deodorant, and an aggressively artificial air freshener.

What if Yunho has moved on?

What if the time away from Mingi has shown him how ugly Mingi has been, all this time?

He tightens the loop of his necktie, even though it already feels like he’s choking.

What if Wooyoung has convinced Yunho never to speak to him again?

What if Mingi has already lost him forever?

The doors open on his floor, and Mingi is surprised his legs still work as he steps out. They feel heavy, sure, but they aren’t trembling. He doesn’t know how that’s possible; perhaps a perk of his new, self-manufactured resolve. His mind remains unconvinced of his own goodness, but his body seems to believe him. He’s grateful for it.

He carefully avoids the open space and heads straight to Mr. Park’s office. He doesn’t linger; just bows deeply to apologize for his absence and reassure his supervisor that, yes, his grandmother is doing much better, and he is extremely grateful to have been granted such a last-minute leave to visit her. He promises he’ll work twice as hard to compensate. Mr. Park doesn’t seem bothered and doesn’t even look up from his computer, which is a relief. Mingi isn’t ready to face all the gazes yet. They’ll know, probably—just by looking at him—the desperate attempts he’s making to become better, to take responsibility. And that would be a good thing, he supposes. But it doesn’t make it easy to be seen. 

He leaves the small office, turns toward the open space, and takes a deep breath.

He can already see Yunho’s back from here. The older man is half-turned, leaning toward his screen, his face resting on his right hand. Mingi’s heart skips.

He’s here, at least. That’s good. He hasn’t disappeared. He hasn’t changed too much.

Calm down, Mingi. Your life may have crumbled, but the world hasn’t tilted in the meantime.

Once again, he’s surprised his legs move at all. He walks, feet heavy but determined. He passes one cubicle, then another. Passes his own without greeting anyone. Not that they seem to notice, all glued to their screens, the smell of coffee thick in the air.

With every step, the heaviness in his legs grows louder. It crawls upward; through his thighs, into his pelvis, his lower stomach, up his spine, into his heart, the back of his neck, his head. With every inch he closes, Yunho’s silhouette gains detail: the stubborn strand of hair that always falls the wrong way, the small scratch on the back of his hand; and Mingi’s heart tightens painfully.

It’s happening.

Just as he stops, his gaze catches Wooyoung’s. The younger man sits across from Yunho, and when he sees Mingi, he smiles, small. Perhaps that is the final push Mingi needed.

He clears his throat.

 

“Yunho?”

Yunho’s shoulders turn half a second before his head, as though he’s finishing the line on his screen. When his eyes finally land on Mingi, they widen slightly.

“Oh.”

“Hi.” Mingi says, a little dumbly.

Yunho smiles.

His hair is slightly tousled. His eyes warm. He has a kind face. There’s something faintly feline in the way his lips curl.

The sight reminds Mingi strangely of a day not so long ago, yet so different. His first day here. It takes him back to following Mr. Park across this very floor to meet a man who had looked at him, exactly the same as he is now.

Mingi feels as small as he did that day. But his voice doesn’t falter when he asks: “Do you want to go for a smoke break?”

It’s much too early for that, and Mingi doesn’t miss the way one of Yunho’s cubicle mates rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath, but he can’t bring himself to care. Because Yunho nods, takes his jacket, and follows him toward the elevator.

 

The sky is heavy with black clouds that weep over the city, the rooftop wet. Its cement floor has turned from its usual dusty grey to a deep charcoal. Mingi is grateful no one else is there, because they can’t step out from under the small shelter without instantly drenching their clothes. The hem of Yunho’s jacket sleeve is a little damp, catching stray droplets as he holds his cigarette at an angle, careful to keep the smoke from blowing into Mingi’s face.

It’s quiet, and Mingi is grateful for the rain breaking that silence. Grateful that Yunho is not looking at him, but at the fogged-over city unfurling before them. Nothing about Yunho’s posture suggests urgency. Nothing pressed or impatient. If Mingi didn’t know him, he might think Yunho felt perfectly normal; calm, grounded, even still in a moment like this. But there’s a faint, unusual tension in the set of his shoulders, a slight stiffness in the way he holds himself. And Mingi thinks that maybe Yunho is looking away because his eyes feel a little unsteady. His hand betrays him too, shaking just slightly as he lifts the cigarette to his lips.

God, how he’s missed those lips.

Mingi is staring. He can’t help himself. It feels like it’s been forever. He might be a little dramatic, but the past days have been rough, and some part of him is convinced he survived them only because of the promise of seeing this face again.

Even in the dimness of the cloudy light, Yunho shines.

“So, did you go on a trip?” he had asked in the elevator.

“Yes, Hokkaido,” Mingi had replied.

“Oh, nice. It’s lovely there.”

That had been all. Yunho had nodded, smiled, and gone quiet, offering Mingi what he always does: time and space to speak. And so, Mingi speaks.

He draws in a deep breath, his eyes darting from the endless stretch of concrete and glass of the horizon to Yunho’s profile, just inches away. The small shelter forces them close.

“I… I wanted to apologize. First of all. For leaving so abruptly. On New Year’s Eve.” His throat tightens. “It was a lot, and I got into a… chat with Wooyoung. And it made me realize some stuff.”

Yunho’s right eyebrow lifts at that last word, but he doesn’t comment. He takes a slow breath of his own when Mingi hesitates for a few seconds. The apprehension shows in the bob of his Adam’s apple. Mingi feels the urge to hurry, spill everything, end this mutual terror swallowing them both.

“Eunah and I broke up.”

Yunho turns to him at that, eyes widening slightly. It’s adorable, and a little sad.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I… I told you that’s what I wanted, during that call.”

“Well,” Yunho says, turning back to the city as he exhales smoke that blends with the cold air, “there are a lot of things I want. Doesn’t always make them easy to reach.” He pauses, then adds softly, “But that’s… I think that’s a good thing, Mingi. I really do. I’m happy for you.” His voice is sincere, but his mouth doesn’t quite curve into a full smile. “I’m proud of you,” he adds.

Heat rushes up Mingi’s neck. He wants to hear that again. Wants Yunho to say it while looking straight into his eyes. Wants Yunho’s fingers on his cheeks, his voice close, soft, intimate.

He could ask, probably. But he doesn’t deserve that, not yet.

“What about you?” Mingi murmurs.

“Me?”

“Are you happy? For yourself. About… all of this.”

Yunho swallows. The air is cold enough that Mingi can’t tell whether the faint clouds escaping his lips are smoke or breath this time. 

“Well…” the older man begins, “do you want our—this—to continue?”

The question hits Mingi hard. He has thought about it endlessly. The answer is both simple and impossibly complicated. He craves what they had. Craves Yunho’s touch, his warmth. Right now he wants nothing more than to take Yunho’s hand, pull him somewhere hidden, and kiss him until his thoughts fall apart.

But that’s not the point. Not the heart of this.

“No,” Mingi says softly. “I don’t want things to keep going the way they were. I don’t…” The words are difficult, heavy, too big for his tongue. There’s so much he wants to say—too much for this moment—so he reaches for something simpler. “I really like you, Yunho. I like you a lot. And I don’t want this to be just sex, or… whatever we’ve had. And I know it’s your thing, and you have every right to want that. But I think that… maybe you want a little more too. And maybe… you like me a little too.”

Yunho’s lips curl upward, and he stubs out his cigarette before turning toward Mingi fully.

“Yeah. I do like you. More than a little, Mingi.”

There’s confidence in his smirk, and no tremble left in the hand that rises to brush a stray strand of hair off Mingi’s forehead. Yet in his dark eyes, Mingi sees something familiar, something raw and unspoken, the same thing he has glimpsed in their softest moments, during the most tender kisses. An air of desperation, even as he smiles. It’s in the faint downward curl of his brows. The lingering way his gaze moves over every one of Mingi’s features, reverent, consuming. Yunho is taking it all in a way that makes Mingi feel seen. So seen, peeled apart, noticed and looked at. It feels like nothing short of reverence.

Maybe it was that gaze, Mingi thinks, that pushed him past his fear. Past the sleepless nights. Past the terror of letting go of a past he thought he owed. Maybe it was that gaze that made him believe he could jump, and land somewhere safe.

For the first time in all the afternoons they’ve spent on this rooftop, Mingi realizes how small they are in this sprawling city. Two silhouettes lost in a maze of concrete. Just two people on a building among thousands, on an island in the middle of the sea, on a planet drifting through an endless universe.

And somehow, in all that impossible vastness, he found Yunho. And Yunho found him.

Found him with those eyes that make tomorrow feel like a promise.

“Okay, then,” Mingi breathes. It sounds stupid, given the gravity of all this. It means nothing, and everything. But it feels right to say whatever comes, because Yunho is still looking at him, smiling, not hating him at all.

“Okay, then,” Yunho echoes, smiling wider. “So, what do we do next?”

There’s nothing uncertain in his tone. Nothing hesitant. His gaze is steady. But he simply doesn’t know, and he’s honest about it. It makes him look a little like an excited puppy, Mingi thinks distantly.

He wants to discover every version of Yunho, including this one. Clueless Yunho, eyelashes fluttering, handsome and slightly lost. Yunho might be a god when it comes to sex, instinctive when it comes to friendship, but this part—this beginning—he’s new to. That thought is oddly comforting. It puts them on equal footing, for once.

Baby steps, Mingi thinks. “Well… let me take you on a date, first, maybe?”

Yunho’s smile widens, and so does Mingi’s.

How had he ever convinced himself he could get over Yunho?

“Okay,” Yunho says. “A date sounds nice.”

 

The restaurant is not too formal, not too quiet, and not too bright. But Mingi can’t tell if it’s formal, loud, and bright enough either. His gaze keeps drifting to Yunho’s face, currently tilted down toward his plate as he cuts into his meat with careful attention.

The candlelight reflects beautifully along his features.

Mingi swallows hard.

This has to be perfect.

He hasn’t been this nervous in forever.

Nervous isn’t bad, though. Nervous is different from the stomach-clenching anxiety that has tormented him these past months. Nervousness sits deeper, low and warm in his chest. Less prickling on the skin. Steadier, heavier, but unmistakably there as he watches Yunho’s every expression, every flicker of his eyes, every small movement of his mouth.

Mingi wants everything to be perfect.

“Relax,” Yunho says gently.

“I’m sorry,” the younger man breathes, running his thumb along the edge of his napkin. “I’m nervous.”

“I know, I’m nervous too.”

Mingi huffs a tiny, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t look like it.”

“What do I look like?”

“Handsome, hyung.” his voice shrinks at the end, embarrassed. “You know that.”

“Still, I like hearing it on your tongue.” Yunho’s eyes are warm. So warm. “Just stop worrying your pretty little head,” he adds, leaning in and reaching out to flick a stray lock of hair at Mingi’s temple. The touch is featherlight.

“I’m sorry. I just want this to be right. I’m serious about all of this. I don’t want to fuck up again.”

“Stop saying that,” Yunho’s brows knit together as he leans further forward, trying to catch Mingi’s eyes. “You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m just as guilty as you. I knew what I was getting into.”

“Well, you didn’t betray anyone in the midst of it,” Mingi mutters. His heart tightens as the words leave him, small and a little ugly.

“This is different. And you owned up to it. Which is… good, I think. Better than most people ever do.”

Mingi finds that hard to believe. His shoulders rise and fall in a faint shrug. Yunho watches him for a moment.

“What will Eunah do now?”

“She wants to go back to Seoul. She’s been planning her departure. She’s still at the apartment, for now.”

“Okay.” Yunho nods slowly. “Is it okay between the two of you? Like… seeing each other around.”

“I think so, yeah. At least for now. I think she’s relieved too, in the end. So maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as I expected.”

Yunho’s thumb taps once against his glass. “Have you told her the truth?”

“She guessed it.”

“Are you ashamed of it?”

“Of course I am,” Mingi answers, too quickly.

“About cheating on her,” Yunho asks, eyes steady on the other man, “or about cheating on her with a man?”

The words land harshly. They rarely use such blunt language, Mingi thinks; not about that, not about what they were, because it was easier to blur the lines before. Easier for everyone. But things are different now. It makes sense that Yunho would stop softening his words.

Mingi opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He hasn’t untangled any of this. The shame in his chest has been simmering for so long, heavy and confusing, and without a clear shape. He isn’t sure where it begins or ends.

When he doesn’t answer, Yunho breathes in, then speaks again.

“I can’t be mad at you for it. And it was far too soon to tell her too much, probably. But I just want to make one thing clear.” He shifts in his seat, eyes soft but unflinching. “I’m not… I’m not ashamed of what I am. I’m gay. I like men. I like you. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing. And I know it’s not… necessarily an easy idea to make peace with. But I managed to find that peace. And it’s not something I’m willing to lose again.” His fingers tighten slightly around the stem of his glass. “I don’t want to be your dirty secret. You don’t have to tell the world, but I want to be with someone who can look at the two of us and think we’re a beautiful thing. Do you think you can find that, Mingi?”

Mingi doesn’t think any part of Yunho is wrong.

He doesn’t think anything has ever been wrong with him. The idea itself is impossible.

There’s nothing ugly in what Yunho says. Nothing shameful in the small, bright vision he paints. In fact, it might be the purest, most beautiful future Mingi has ever dared to imagine.

And it’s almost enough to make it all alright.

Yet, there’s something ugly that lays within Mingi’s own thoughts. He knows it too well from the countless nights he’s spent hating on it. Not only his true self, but also the angry, spiteful hatred he has for it. That’s the ugliest part, probably.

And Yunho doesn’t deserve that burden.

Mingi could say yes. He could promise he will have no shame.

It’s so tempting, just to surrender. To melt into Yunho’s gaze, into the warmth of existence in his orbit. An existence that’s right, easy and bright like everything he touches. It’d be so easy, to just say yes. To erase his fears and pretend he’s already whole, already brave, already like Yunho—bright and clean and strong.

But he isn’t. Not yet. And he won’t lie, not anymore.

“There’s still… there’s still a lot I’m getting to terms with,” he says quietly. “I’ve never really managed to face that side of me.” He hates himself for dancing around the words, so he swallows hard, forcing them through. “To face the fact that I’m gay. And rationally, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I just never really knew much about any of it. But then there was you, and San, and Wooyoung, and you made it seem more simple.”

He watches Yunho carefully with each word—terrified Yunho will pull away, frown, tense. But Yunho only nods, slow, steady. His eyebrows stay relaxed.

“So I think… I think I’m okay with it, mostly. Or getting there.” He exhales shakily. “And I want to grow into it. But there’s still a part of me that’s scared. I’ve always been scared, about everything. I can’t just shut it out. I don’t think it will be easy to move past it. And there are things I’m still far too terrified to face.” His voice dips low. “I don’t think I can… I don’t think I can tell my parents. And I don’t think I’ll feel ready for that soon. And that’s unfair, because I don’t want you to think I think there’s something wrong with you, or us. But I need to tell you the truth. I’m not there yet.”

Yunho’s gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it brightens, gentles. He nods again; soft, small, reassuring. A tiny smile curves at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” he murmurs when Mingi finally quiets. “Waiting is okay. Time is okay. We have time, don’t we?”

It sounds so easy on his lips. And just like that, all of Mingi’s twisted, knotted thoughts loosen, dissolve into something simpler.

The trust is overwhelming.

Mingi’s heart swells, too full to contain, and he lets his hand inch forward across the heavy tablecloth. His fingers brush Yunho’s knuckles; warm, soft, pale. Mingi has loved these hands from the first moment, their gentleness, their strength. He doesn’t love them any less now.

He looks away from their hands only because there’s something he loves even more; Yunho’s eyes. But when he looks up, Yunho isn’t watching him. He’s watching where their hands meet. Where skin touches skin. Where Mingi’s ring no longer sits.

“Yeah,” Mingi whispers. “We do have time.”

Yunho exhales, and finally lifts his gaze back to Mingi’s face. There’s something careful in his expression, something thoughtful. A look that always makes Mingi feel absurdly cared for.

“So,” the older man says, voice gentle but uncertain, “How do we begin again?”

Begin again. They’re not broken. Mingi swallows, thumb brushing unconsciously against Yunho’s knuckle.

“We could,” he starts, then stops, searching. “We could ask questions. Go back to the basics.”

Truthfully, there are many things he still wonders about Yunho. Thing he didn’t dare wonder about when he had no right to think about the other man like that. Things that go beyond routine and schedules and the cute little habits he’s noticed. 

“Right, first date things.” Yunho’s lips curve, just a little. “Alright,” He straightens a bit in his chair. “First question. What was your first dream?”

“I wanted to go into music,” Mingi admits.

“Sweet. Hip hop?”

“Ballad, actually.”

Yunho laughs, the sound cutting cleanly through the last of Mingi’s nerves. “Ballad? I would’ve paid to see that.”

“Hey,” Mingi protests, though he’s smiling now, embarrassment blooming warm rather than sharp. “I was sensitive, as a kid. Then I turned into the angstiest teenager. Would have probably thrilled in metal or something.”

“You would be cute in leather pants.”

“Hot. Not cute. You?”

“Dentist. I can’t possibly remember why. What’s your favourite season?”

“Spring, I like hanami.” Mingi answers a little blushingly.

“Noted. I might be more of a fall guy.”

“That suits you.”

“Most irrational fear?”

Mingi thinks for a second. “Escalators. The ones that look like they’re going to eat your shoelaces.”

Yunho snorts. “Oh I get that. Not irrational. Absolutely valid.”

“I once tripped getting on one when I was twelve. Traumatizing.”

“I can see it,” Yunho says fondly. “Gangly legs. Too much confidence.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

“What’s yours, anyway? Probably ghosts or something?”

“Hey, come visit my mom’s house, and then you’ll see if ghosts don’t exist,” Yunho frowns.

“Wow, meeting the parents already… Burning through quite a few steps for a first date, no?” Mingi throws him a teasing smile.

Yunho lets out a brief, half nervous laugh. “Please. My mom would adopt you in five minutes and then use you to gang up on me.”

“I am extremely adoptable. I do dishes. I say thank you.”

“That’s dangerous information to give. Okay, another one. First time you fell in love?”

The restaurant noise rushes back in for half a second, loud and intrusive. Mingi inhales, then exhales.

“My best friend,” he says, “When we were about fourteen, I think. Didn’t end too well.”

Yunho’s face softens instantly, something tender settling into his gaze. “I’m sorry about that, Mingi. I feel strangely maternal towards your fourteen-year-old self.”

Mingi snorts before he can stop himself. “Now I will pretend that isn’t the weirdest thing you’ve ever said. What about you?”

Yunho doesn’t answer right away. He looks down, watching his thumb trace the edge of the tablecloth, then looks back up, eyes bright but shy.

“Well,” he says, “this year.”

Mingi blinks. “No, I meant the first time you fell in love.”

“This year,” Yunho repeats, a bashful smile overtaking his features.

Something in Mingi’s chest gives, soft and aching and beautiful all at once. Something warm folds itself around his chest, thick and strange and sudden. He’s been wrapped from the inside out in wool pulled straight from a living thing. It’s too much, almost. It presses against his ribs, cradles his heart in a way that feels both safe and alarming.

“Oh.”

Love.

The word blooms.

Love. Love. Love.

Yunho loves him.

Mingi used to think he knew love. The dull reality of it. But this—this is entirely different. This is terrifying. This is alive. This is beautiful. It doesn’t make it any easier to say it. 

His mouth opens, then closes again. He can feel the words scrambling in his head, tripping over each other, refusing to line up properly.

“I—” His voice cracks. “I do— I just—”

The thoughts race, spiral. If he says it wrong, if he says too much, if he says too little. If he names it and it breaks. If he doesn’t and it slips through his fingers.

Yunho shifts, just slightly, as if sensing the storm. His grip tightens, grounding. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, cutting clean through the noise in Mingi’s head. “I know it’s a lot. And I’m not… I’m just not very good at lying. You asked back. I had to tell the truth.” He offers a small, shy smile. “You don’t have to be on the same page. I’m fine with that. If you are.”

“No,” Mingi blurts out, too fast. “No, I do. I do—” He exhales, shaky. “It’s just… I’m not very good with those things. Words.”

Yunho’s expression softens immediately. He squeezes Mingi’s hand, thumb brushing a small, soothing circle against his skin.

“Baby,” he murmurs, gentle but firm. “Slow down.”

Mingi nods, breath still uneven.

“I’m sorry I even mentioned it,” Yunho adds quietly. “But remember? We talked about this.” His eyes meet Mingi’s, warm and steady. “You can take all the time you need. We have time. So much time.”

The warmth in Mingi’s chest doesn’t fade. If anything, it settles, less frantic now, more certain. Still strange. Still overwhelming. But no longer threatening to burst.

Love, he thinks again.

It is love.

It does certainly feel like love, when Yunho is looking at him like that. Mingi likes it. A lot. 

 

It’s already late when they step outside the restaurant. The night has settled over the streets, muffling the world in a velvety quiet. The wind carries the faint scent of rain-soaked pavement and leftover warmth from closing kitchens. Lantern signs sway gently above them, casting soft glimmers of gold over Yunho’s cheekbones.

The sidewalk is slick, reflecting long ribbons of neon light. Mingi’s shoulder brushes Yunho’s, once, twice, neither of them pulling away. It feels natural. Easy. A little dangerous in a delicious way.

Mingi feels good. Still, there’s a question burning at the back of his throat.

“Do you… Can I come home with you?” he asks. His cheeks burn instantly, which is stupid, because he’s asked that so many times before. Yunho loves it, when he asks for things. Voices them out properly.

Tonight, though, Yunho snickers; soft, bright, shaped like a chime. He shakes his head.

“Nah, I’m not easy like that. You can’t have me on the first date.”

Mingi blinks, stunned, lips parting, which only makes Yunho laugh harder, a pretty hand covering his mouth.

“You said we have plenty of time, didn’t you?” He teases.

“Well, yeah…”

“Then I’m sticking to my dating principles.” The older man lifts his chin with exaggerated pride, a smug smirk curling on his feline lips.

“Oh, so you’re a dating expert now?”

“Well, I’m figuring it out on the spot, but I think I’m not doing too bad.”

The gentleness in his tone settles softly around Mingi. No urgency. No fear. Just something soft, something safe. Yunho is right; they have time. So much time.

They’re not doing bad. Things are going to be alright.

And so they walk all the way to the subway station, down the empty steps. The cavernous space echoes faintly, stripped of the usual rush-hour chaos. Mingi has never seen any station of the city so still. There’s something magical about it, suspended, dreamlike.

At the point where the stairs split toward different platforms, when they need to part, they stop without needing to say so. Mingi turns toward Yunho instinctively, too close, close enough for anyone passing by to understand immediately. And the thought feels good. Maybe it would be nice for the world to see; to know who his heart belongs to. 

Yunho looks at him with the same feline smile he’s worn for most of the evening, the same sly thing that had made Mingi lose his mind in the first place. Mingi always feels strangely small, when faced with that look. In a good way. He feels small, and warm, and safe.

Yunho hums softly, eyes drifting slowly over Mingi’s face.

“What?” Mingi asks.

Yunho steps closer, one foot, then the other. Close enough that Mingi has to tilt his head the slightest bit to find his eyes.

“I might make just a small exception to my rule,” Yunho murmurs. “There’s something I’d like to do.”

“Yeah?” Mingi's chest tightens.

The proximity is nothing compared to what they’ve had so many times. Nothing compared to the blunt feeling of Yunho’s hands all over him. They know every inch of him already. Yet it feels entirely different, right now.

Things are different, now.

Because Mingi is fully, painfully in love. And he’s allowed to be.

“Yeah,” Yunho says, gaze dropping to the younger man's lips. “I very much want to kiss you.”

The hungriness in Yunho's eyes is familiar. That, Mingi is reassured to see hasn’t changed at all. He too, wants Yunho’s lips all the same. They’re close, so close, a little pale with the cold, but so inviting.

“I think I’d like that too,” Mingi murmurs.

It’s softer than their first kiss, when Yunho leans in. It’s slower, too.

The older man moves his hands first; both of them find the sides of Mingi’s jaw, cup it, hold it gently. Yunho’s right thumb hovers over the skin in a gentle movement that’s not exactly a caress.

Their faces are so close Mingi can see every one of the older man’s eyelashes, can see the light glow of his cheekbones, and smell the traces of wine on his breath. Yunho’s eyes blink back at him as he still doesn’t move. Once. Twice. Three times. They look down to Mingi’s lips, up to his eyes. There’s so much contained in the stars of him.

Mingi can’t wait anymore, so he’s the one who closes the gap, tip-toeing just slightly to breach the distance.

He puts just a little too much strength in the movement, enough that Yunho is taken aback, stumbles a little, before he steadies himself, his big hands finding the small of Mingi’s back. He presses there, holds tight. Tight, but not greedy.

There’s no greed in any of it. Nothing pressing or worried. Nothing desperate.

No, there’s only warmth, so much warmth spilling from one set of lips to the other, and melting somewhere between the two. And a sweet, sweet taste, something between wine, milk, and honey. Something like hope.

For once, when their lips part, Mingi’s heart isn’t aching, but blooming.

“Fuck,” Yunho groans, eyes burning as they take in the details of the younger man’s face, “I might have a really hard time sticking to my principles.”

Mingi giggles, but he doesn’t shy away from his lover's gaze. “Oh, so you just wanted to try the product before you committed, uh?”

“It isn’t like that, pretty boy. You know I’d choose you over and over again. Kiss or no kiss.”

“Well, you’ll have to prove that.”

“What about taking you on a date, tomorrow, so I can make it up to you?”

Notes:

This chapter was a shameless tribute to my time spent in Hokkaido, aka the most enchanting place I’ve ever been to. I hope I managed to share its sublimity with you through their story.

That being said, and more importantly, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was a lot, and one of our longest ones so far, which only feels fair hehe :3

I’ve been working on the epilogue, and it’s going to be nice and long for you guys, with half of it in Yunho’s POV and the other half in Mingi’s, for a full and complete conclusion. It should be posted on next Sunday.

Thank you all for still being with me.
See you soon for the last one <3

Notes:

I’ve just created a Twitter account to connect with you all. I haven’t posted anything yet, but feel free to add me! I’ll share eventual updates about the publishing schedule and will be available for any questions or feedback. :3
@violetundt