No Words Spared [part 1]
Title: No Words Spared
Pairing: Onho
Length: 16,620 words
Rating: PG-15/R
Genre: au, fluff, angst
Summary: It was a curious thought (which would come first, freezing or drowning?) that inopportunely introduced Minho to Lee Jinki.
Minho was tired.
He'd gotten a full eight hours of sleep the night before, had woken up and taken a refreshing morning jog and then had a nice breakfast. He'd only technically worked for a total of four hours that day.
But still, he was tired.
The sort of deep-set fatigue that ached in his bones and made him feel like the human incarnation of a raincloud. The sort of powerless exhaustion that stemmed straight from his heart.
He was tired because he was bored. Bored with his routine, his rut. Bored with being marketed as the picture of beauty and being surrounded by people of the same status. Bored with his manager Kibum listing off the photoshoots he'd be featured in that week and the runway shows he'd been hired for. The fashion industry had once been his home, his haven, his place of peace and enjoyment.
After years of being on magazine covers and starring in spreads and strolling down a catwalk, the starry-eyed joy had faded. The fads had come and gone, season trends passed. He'd gone through so many image changes, so many looks, that he wasn't sure what it was like to dress like himself and not like the F/W collection told him he should. People had come and gone, models, photographers, makeup artists, stylists. So many people he spent a day with and then were gone. Fleeting relationships, polite smiles of people who knew his appearance and not him personally. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper conversation with a stranger, just because he was so used to seeing a person once a season if he was lucky. Models in his agency didn't count; the only people besides two fellow male models he'd ever befriended was his manager. And, really, could he consider Kibum a friend when they were only partnered together for work?
Nowadays, he felt like a stranger in his own skin.
"Minho?"
He chose not to acknowledge Kibum, running a hand through close-cropped black hair that was apparently going to be "in" this season. Personally, he much preferred his shoulder-length brown waves that'd been chopped off a month before (And really, how was it plausible in any sense for long hair to be the summer trend and short hair the winter trend? It was ridiculous, and still he had to follow the fads because, well, it was his job.).
"Minho, you're zoning out again. You are so annoying on Mondays."
Minho sighed. Really, he was used to Kibum being rude to him by now, but this really wasn't his day. "Not in the mood, Kibum," he mumbled, eyes fixed on his fingers that he continuously crossed and uncrossed on the tabletop they rested on.
Kibum scoffed. "Okay, let me just cancel every plan for today since you're 'not in the mood.' Grow up, would you?"
That was another reason Minho wasn't sure if he should consider Kibum a friend: he was actually a complete insensitive asshole nine times out of ten. Minho was a face and body to him, not an actual person. Or at least, it seemed that way during work hours.
All he could really do was sigh again, this time sliding his palms across the white, circular table so he could rest his chin on the cool surface.
Kibum, seated across from him, made an off-put expression and pulled his clipboard to his chest so Minho wouldn't touch it. "You need to get up early tomorrow for the Vogue shoot, so don't forget that. And we also have a meeting with-are you listening to me?"
"Can I go home yet?" Minho asked. He knew he sounded childish, but hell, he felt childish. He was bored.
He didn't have to look up from his tapping fingers to know exactly how Kibum's jaw clenched in irritation. "Fine, Choi Minho. Let's just take you home." He slammed his clipboard on the table right beside Minho's forearm.
"I can walk," Minho mumbled, partly because he wanted to, partly because he knew it would make Kibum angry.
"Fine. Just go home. I'll be over tomorrow at six to pick you up, so be ready by then." He stood from his seat.
Minho watched him angrily stalk out of the glass office door and thought for the millionth time that their roles should be reversed, that Kibum should be the model and he should be the manager, because Kibum's runway walk was honestly perfect.
He didn't dwell on the fact, however, and jumped to his feet right behind Kibum. He threw his coat on over his long-sleeved shirt-they didn't match at all, and seeing Kibum's dissatisfied expression as he passed was just icing on the metaphorical cake-as he left the building.
It was freezing outside; he found himself regretting cutting his hair more than ever. He swore that if Kibum suggest he cut it when it started growing back, he would quit his job.
Or maybe he'd quit before Kibum had a chance.
Maybe he could-
Maybe-
Minho shook his head vehemently and tucked his icy fingers in his coat pockets, waiting for a chance to cross a busy street. He bounced on the balls of his feet, keeping the blood flow in his body. His next order of business, he decided, would be to buy a pair of earmuffs, fashion trends be damned.
He jogged across the street at his earliest opportunity, but found himself stalling on the sidewalk. A right turn would take him straight to his apartment complex, only a few blocks separating him from home.
But what would he do when he got there? What did he have to look forward to at home?
He would tidy up a bit, maybe. Make sure the color-coordinated cushions of his couch were straight and the trash was taken out and that he didn't leave the cap off his toothpaste. He would cook a single-serving dinner of painfully healthy foods and sit on his spacious couch so he could…
What?
Minho sighed and hung his head.
Nothing.
Nothing to look forward to, nothing to anticipate, nothing to get excited over.
It felt like that a lot nowadays.
He turned left on the sidewalk, heading wherever the concrete dictated.
A park.
That was cliché enough, right? Just as cliché as the jaded, brooding celebrity.
It suited him.
Minho walked leisurely along the sidewalk path, feeling isolated in a comforting way. He was the only one in the park as far as he could tell, and it made sense. He was shivering as he walked, teeth chattering. No one in their right mind would take a promenade after sunset the dead of winter.
(Minho wasn't sure where that left him. Was he out of his mind, or…?)
He came to a halt in the middle of a bridge. There was a trickling creek underneath him that hadn't yet frozen through, but made the air around much colder. He removed his hands from his pockets against his natural instincts and leaned his elbows against the wooden bridge. He breathed in deep, frosty air stinging in his nose, and then out again, a puff visible in front of him-he felt a juvenile sense of amusement that he looked like he was smoking when he did that.
His hands were trembling and standing still was only turning his body to ice more easily. He flexed his fingers and they felt stiff; he clenched his jaw but it was to no avail, as they were in motion just as the rest of him.
Minho inclined further forward, the wood jutting into his stomach. He wondered how cold the water actually was, if the air was already freezing. He wondered why it wasn't solid ice yet, only a bit thicker around the edges.
What would happen if he fell in? Would anyone save him? There wasn't anyone around, not that he saw after a quick glance left and right. Would he even be able to thrash around in water so cold, hoping to breach the surface to yell for help?
Maybe he would just freeze, and drown peacefully. He wondered which would come first, the freezing or the drowning. He wondered what would hurt more, his body turning to ice or water flowing into his lungs and choking him.
His foot rose to get holding in a cross-section of the bridge, raising higher.
He wondered-
"What the-" Minho blinked in shock as his back slammed into the ground, head banging against it. Something very solid-a person?-had collided with him, he gathered after a moment of confusion, and knocked him very unceremoniously to the ground.
There was a weight on top of him, and Minho wasted no time in shoving the other person off his body so he could stand up and brush off.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded of the person still on the ground, pulling his jacket taut over his chest and wiping off the seat of his jeans.
"Didn't you hear me?" he asked more voraciously, temper flaring. He couldn’t believe he'd just been tackled by a stranger.
The other person (a man, from the look of it) was remaining silent, head bowed and legs bent up awkwardly beside him. A hood covered his head, and the sweatshirt he was wearing seemed much too thin to be fit for the weather, Minho noticed.
"Hey, you-"
The man looked up for the first time, hood sliding back.
Minho went stiff with his mouth still half-open.
The stranger didn't seem like a thug, or a teenager out to wreak havoc like he'd expected.
He looked… innocent.
Minho's throat closed up.
The stranger blinked at him, small eyes partly covered by wire-framed glasses and shaggy brown hair that was escaping from his hood.
It was then that Minho noticed the stranger was rummaging around in his purple sweatshirt pocket.
He wanted to say something, to curse rudely at the man and then turn on his heel and walk away.
But he was rooted to his spot. His heart was thumping erratically; he wondered if it was because he was actually freezing after all.
The man pulled out a thick stack of yellow post-it notes and held it firmly in one hand as the other continued to fish for something.
Minho couldn't stop watching. The eye contact between them had broken long before, the man looking down at his pocket with brows furrowed in frustration; Minho had had ample opportunity to walk away, to be done with this strange character.
But no.
He was still standing there. Waiting for the silent man to find whatever he was so desperately searching for in his pocket.
His other hand appeared from his pocket; it held a pen, a simple black stick pen, pen uncapped already. He shuffled to right his pocket and in a second of negligence, the pen flipped backwards and out of his grasp.
Minho couldn't help but feel a small bit of panic as he watched the pen roll sideways to the edge of the bridge.
The man's face was no less than distraught as they both watched it fall into the water below with a sad plop!
"Did you really need that?" Minho asked, not sure why he bothered to.
The man turned towards him again, mouth opening and shutting, eyes appearing completely hopeless, glasses slightly crooked and halfway down the bridge of his nose. He nodded slowly, sadly.
He looked cute, Minho thought for a moment, like a lost child or something, still on the ground and gazing way up to meet Minho's eyes, lips gaping, hair messy around his face.
But no, Minho thought after that fleeting moment had passed, this freak was the one who tackled him out of nowhere.
"Why don't you say something?" Minho snapped impatiently, crossing his arms. It was too cold to stand outdoors and waste time with a weird stranger.
The man's mouth started opening and closing in the way that made him look like a clueless fish. He lifted his hand and touched his throat.
"What, are you mute?" Minho asked, mostly sarcastically. The guy was weird, but he didn't seem impaired.
He nodded.
Minho's eyes tripled in size and his eyebrows jumped up his forehead. "Really?"
He did the same again, a tiny apologetic smile tilting his lips.
Minho blinked incredulously, suddenly feeling guilty for being so rude about it before.
The man moved his hand once more, this time motioning in the air like he was writing something. His eyes told Minho he was asking a question in his silent way.
"I don't have a pen or anything," he said slowly, hoping that he read the message properly.
The man looked both ways, as if expecting a writing instrument to appear out of thin air. Seeing nothing, he clambered to his feet-his hood fell the rest of the way down to reveal that his hair was just as long and thick around the back as it was the front, and he had to fix it back into place.
"What are you-"
He was cut off by the man motioning for Minho to follow him.
Minho had no idea what possessed him to comply, but he shadowed the man as he walked the opposite way Minho had come from. For all he knew, this man was leading him to a dark patch of forest where he would drop his innocent mute act and pull out a knife from that pocket of his.
He had a feeling that wasn't it, though.
Or maybe he didn't really care if that was it.
"Where are we going?" Minho asked, catching up with the man, whose hands were jammed in his pocket, hood making him look rather small.
The man looked up at him, and Minho didn't see any sort of maniacal glint in his eye at all, just a bit of apology and a lot of sincerity.
Minho had the urge to push his glasses properly up his nose for him so that his eyes weren't cut off by the frames. He kept his hands firmly fisted in his coat pockets.
The stranger pointed down the path, and Minho noticed an opening to a line of shops for the first time.
"Buying a new pen?" Minho gathered.
The man nodded and slid his hand back into his pocket.
It was quiet for as long as it took them to reach a corner convenience store. There weren't many people out, and Minho was shivering too hard to make proper conversation. He caught himself glancing sideways at the stranger more than he intended, and no matter how many times he told himself it was because he was searching for any sign that he should mistrust him, he knew that it wasn't.
He was simply fascinated by this man.
The man walked in the shop first, politely holding the door open for Minho as he greeted the cashier with a wave.
"Welcome back," the cashier greeted with a smile.
The man returned it tenfold.
Minho stopped in his tracks, momentarily stunned when he knew he shouldn't be.
The man had already fetched a pack of stick pens by the time Minho caught up to the present, and the clerk was nice enough to give them to him free of charge.
At this, the man's eyes widened and he held his hands up to deny him, hastily reaching into his pocket for his wallet.
The cashier simply laughed and assured him that it was okay, that he was a regular and a few pens were really nothing.
The man spent the rest of his time bowing, and Minho very nearly grabbed his purple sweatshirt and pulled him out of the store to stop him.
Once outside in the cold again-Minho hadn't noticed what a great relief being indoors was until he was back out-, the man ripped open the plastic wrapping and uncapped a pen.
Minho was shivering by the time the man had shaken the pen enough for the ink to come through; he really wasn't keen on standing outside in the middle of a sidewalk and having any sort of conversation.
A quick look around showed him a quaint little café just a few shops down, and he was sold.
Minho grabbed the man's upper arm and half-dragged the clearly-startled man down the sidewalk to the café. He felt him trip more than a few times, and had to wonder if he was walking too fast or if this man was just a klutz. If he was, then maybe he didn't mean to knock him over. Wait, no, there had to be some intent behind running and tackling a person.
The air was warm inside and Minho didn't even regret the way he none-than-gently pushed the man inside before he closed the door behind them.
"I'm not standing outside to get an explanation, it's too cold," Minho said, his tone almost as cold as the air outside.
The man nodded slowly, and then glanced down at his bicep.
Minho dropped his hold hurriedly, clearing his throat.
The man stepped away, and gestured towards the tables in question.
Minho nodded, making to follow him.
"Excuse me."
Minho turned back to the counter, where a haughty barista eyed him. "Yes?" he asked, voice full of sickly politeness.
"You have to buy something if you're going to sit in here," she said, brows raising at him.
Minho clenched his back teeth. "Fine." He stepped up to the counter and picked out the simplest thing on the menu. "A hot chocolate."
The barista punched in a few buttons on the cash register.
Minho turned around and saw the stranger already seated comfortably at a two-person booth. "Do you want anything?" he called, and instantly asked himself why the hell he was bothering to be nice to the man who'd just rugby tackled him on a bridge.
The man's eyes went wide and he shook his head.
Minho rolled his eyes. "Make it two hot chocolates."
In the few seconds it took for him to pay, the barista to halfheartedly glare at him, and then her spin around to prepare the drinks, Minho flexed his fingers, regaining feeling in them, and shifted his weight between his feet to try to restart proper blood-flow in his sluggish body.
Maybe he should've gone straight home after all. At home, there were no rogue strangers waiting to attack him in the middle of a park.
"Two hot chocolates." The barista slapped the open cups down, making the liquid slosh.
"Thanks," Minho said dully, taking the styrofoam cups and heading to the table with the stranger, who was sitting and twirling his pen over the back of his hand like rock star did with drumsticks. His hood was down now, showing off his long hair.
Right as Minho sat down, sliding one of the warm cups towards him, the man peeled off the first sticky note.
"Thank you" it read.
"No problem," Minho said, suddenly feeling bashful.
The man smiled softly and stuck the small sheet to the back of his left hand, moving to write something else.
"Why did you tackle me?" Minho asked, resting his chin in his hand.
The man glanced up and smiled the same apologetic way he had since the first time, holding the stack of notes up again for Minho to read.
"I'm Lee Jinki"
"Hello, Jinki-ssi," he said distractedly, watching the man stick the paper on top of the one already on the back of his hand, "Why did you tackle me?"
Jinki wrote without hesitating this time, and Minho took a sip of the chocolate beverage in the meantime. It was a bit too hot, burning down his throat, but he welcomed the feeling after nearly freezing outside.
"I couldn't just watch you jump."
Minho was taken aback by the bluntly-stated words. He stared from the pad of notes to Jinki's eyes, registering how serious he looked, how troubled.
"I was not going to-" He stopped speaking as Jinki bent to scrawl something.
"You were thinking about it."
Minho's jaw dropped and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He felt his mouth open and close under Jinki's scrutiny; he suddenly felt like their roles were reversed, as he was the one who most likely looked like a fish, like a lost little kid.
Jinki's lips pressed into a sad smile, brows drawing upward.
"I-you-" Minho shook his head and, against all usual characteristics, began babbling to defend himself. "You can't assume-you don't even know me, Jinki-ssi, you can't judge-what are you writing now?" he asked, and even he heard the distressed note in his voice that caused Jinki to briefly glance up in surprise.
"What's your name?"
"Choi Minho," he responded slowly, reluctantly.
He mouthed the name with light in his eyes and reached to-finally-push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Minho watched his lips form the words and registered for once just how strange it was to be holding a conversation with a man who didn't (couldn't?) speak.
"How old are you?"
He had no idea why his first instinct was to lie about his age; perhaps it'd grown to be a habit over the years of bouncing between agencies and making a fresh start. In the end, he told the truth. "Twenty-four."
Jinki grinned at this, amusement playing in his eyes before they squinted into mere slits.
Minho's mouth went dry. He took another drink of hot chocolate, thankfully cooler now, while Jinki wrote something else.
"I'm older than you. Twenty-six. I'm your hyung"
An unsure smile fitted across his lips.
Jinki ducked to write again. "What do you do for a living?"
He considered lying about that, too. Had it been anyone else, he would have. "I'm a model."
Jinki's brows rose and his hand poised to write. "What kind of model?"
"Fashion model," he said nonchalantly, "Runways and magazine photoshoots. Boring stuff."
Jinki's grin went wider than ever and his shoulders shook with what Minho assumed was his own form of laughter.
As the older man moved to write, Minho had to ask himself exactly what he was doing here. He'd gotten his answer to the reason Jinki had tackled him, and that was all he wanted. There was no reason for him to sit and exchange pleasantries with a mute man.
He just…
Didn't want to leave.
Not yet.
"Being a model isn't boring. It's more exciting than working at your parents' meat shop."
Minho cocked his head in interest. "You work in a meat shop?"
He nodded, peeling off the top layer of the post-it notes and sticking it to the growing pile on the back of his hand.
"It's a few shops down"
Minho nodded in understanding.
"I always walk through the park on my way home. I usually never see anyone there."
Minho felt his ears heat; why he was embarrassed he wasn't sure. "You didn't have to tackle me," he said for the sake of saving face.
Jinki pursed his lips and bent to write, hair falling over his face and obscuring it completely.
"I didn't want you to get hurt."
"We just met. You don't have a right to-" His lips shut as Jinki began writing.
"I have a right to keep someone from hurting themselves. I would've yelled, but…"
When Minho glanced up at him from reading, Jinki was wearing a smile again, this one less amused and more dismayed.
"Why don't you talk?" Minho blurted out, knowing that he was treading into what was probably too personal for Jinki to tell him. He didn't mean to ask, really, it just fell from his lips before he could hold it in.
"I can't" is all Jinki wrote, face impassive.
"You really can't, or you can't because weird religious reasons or something?" he asked, more tersely than he intended.
Jinki set down his pen and opened his mouth, fingers resting on his throat right under his sharp adam's apple.
Minho watched interestedly as Jinki's throat muscles visibly strained. His mouth was open and he was trying to make a sound, but nothing more than an empty breath came out.
He dropped his hand and shrugged, his sad smile back in place.
It was actually heartbreaking. Minho brought his cup to his lips so he could force the lump down his throat.
"Can't"
Jinki reached for his cup of hot chocolate and held it to his lips with both hands, blowing gently on the surface.
Minho couldn't stop watching him, couldn’t stop from studying his every move, the way his eyes lidded halfway when he looked down and his lips pursed into an "o" and his long hair fell down over the sides of his face when he bent down.
Minho made a living out of being surrounded by beautiful people, men and women alike with perfect proportions, flawless features, and immaculate fashion sense, and he wanted was get away from it.
It was here with Jinki, the man in a plain (and very much out of style) purple hoodie and ill-fitting blue jeans, with a smile that lit the room and eyes that squinted into nothing when he did, that Minho found himself wanting to stay, to speak more to the man who didn't have a voice to speak back.
A sharp rap of a pen on the table brought Minho out of his daze.
"What's wrong?"
He furrowed his brow. "What? Nothing, why?"
Jinki scrunched his nose-okay that was really cute-and then wrote again. "Why were you going to jump off that bridge?"
"I wasn't-"
Jinki's expression was deadly serious.
Minho could feel that he saw right through him. He resigned to sigh and trace the edge of his styrofoam cup with his pinky, not answering immediately.
What was he even supposed to say?
"I don't want to talk about it."
Jinki seemed even less amused that he was taking the easy way out.
Minho couldn't help it. He really wasn't inclined to explain his life story to a man he'd met only minutes before and how somehow already read him well enough to know that he was contemplating jumping off a bridge just to see if he would freeze or drown first.
Jinki probably already thought he was crazy. He didn't want to give him specifics.
"I-" Minho began, but when he looked up, Jinki was already writing something.
To his surprise, Jinki didn't hold the pad in sight for him this time; instead, he gingerly reached across the table to pull Minho's left hand away from his cup.
In the same way he stuck the notes to his own hand, he stuck the tacky strip of the sheet across Minho's knuckles.
It was a phone number.
"Yours?" Minho asked dumbly; he felt the tips of his ears growing hot again.
Jinki nodded and went to scribble something else; Minho assumed he was going to explain himself.
"For when you do want to talk about it"
"I-" Minho was at a loss for words when he saw the slight smile across Jinki's lips. He felt his blush extend down his cheekbones, "Okay."
Jinki beamed.
Minho stumbled as he stood from his side of the booth. "Um..." Oh wow, he forgot that he didn't know how make friends, not real ones who cared about him and not that he was going to make them some sort of money in a spread of on a catwalk. "I'll see you?" God, he hoped so. He didn't know why, he couldn't place it, but he felt an ache in his chest at the idea that this was his first and final meeting with Lee Jinki.
Jinki nodded, smile still firm across his lips.
Minho broke a true grin for the first time that entire day. It didn't disappear completely until he was walking up the stairs to his apartment.
"Are you waiting on a call?"
Minho jumped, startling the make-up artist and smudging a cream blush over his cheekbone.
"Sorry," he mumbled hurriedly.
The woman offered a tight-lipped "it's fine" and continued working.
Minho glared at Kibum, who stood beside the lighted mirror with crossed arms and a cocked brow.
"Are you?" he pressed.
"No," Minho said distractedly, tapping again on the locked screen of his cell phone. "Why?"
"You've been staring at your phone all day," Kibum said, slinking into the vacant seat beside Minho.
Minho winced at being caught.
"Who is she?"
He turned his phone over in his hands a few times, neck straight and still, eyes downcast as the make-up artist brushed bronzer in the hollows of his cheeks. He didn't answer Kibum.
"Hey," Kibum kicked his chair.
Minho jolted, and the make-up artist gasped, a line of dark brown powder very nearly ending up across his forehead. "Sorry, it's his fault."
She didn't say anything this time, frowning.
"What?!" he asked, meeting Kibum's eyes in the mirror.
The other man crossed his legs, reclining in the seat comfortably. "Who is she?" he asked, slowly, deliberately.
"It's not-" He stopped mid-sentence, not willing to offer Kibum any information about the person he'd been praying for an excuse to message for the past three days.
"Not a girl, huh?" Kibum saw right through him. Maybe he was more transparent than he thought he was.
His face remained blank.
Apparently, that was enough response for Kibum. He perked up in his seat. "Who is he? Do I know him?"
Minho snorted. "Doubt it. He works at a meat shop."
Kibum made a face. "You met him at a meat shop?"
"What? No, I met him at the park, he-I'm not talking about this with you."
"You should send him a message. You've obviously been dying to all day."
"You don't even-"
Kibum just blinked at him in the mirror, slightly condescending as always, but always forward.
Grudgingly, he unlocked his phone and, before his impulse could wear down, texted Jinki a simple greeting.
He locked his phone and set it in his lap.
Before he even noticed Kibum wasn't in his seat anymore, his phone was snatched from his thigh and Kibum was unlocking it with sure fingers.
"Kibum, don't-"
"'Hey'?" Kibum's face pulled into an expression of distaste. He tossed the phone back towards Minho with ever-terrible aim, leaving him to fumble in the air and grapple desperately for it. "You are so tacky, Minho."
The model didn't even get a chance to snap back at his manager, because right at that moment, his screen lit and a rush of excitement went through him.
"Hey" the message back read.
"He didn't think it was tacky, Kibum!" Minho called over his shoulder to Kibum, who barked out a laugh in response.
He grinned, spirits lifted a hundredfold.
Nervously, he typed his message:
"Do you want to meet at the café tonight?"
It wasn't a full minute later that he got his response:
"Sure :)"
[part 2]
Pairing: Onho
Length: 16,620 words
Rating: PG-15/R
Genre: au, fluff, angst
Summary: It was a curious thought (which would come first, freezing or drowning?) that inopportunely introduced Minho to Lee Jinki.
Minho was tired.
He'd gotten a full eight hours of sleep the night before, had woken up and taken a refreshing morning jog and then had a nice breakfast. He'd only technically worked for a total of four hours that day.
But still, he was tired.
The sort of deep-set fatigue that ached in his bones and made him feel like the human incarnation of a raincloud. The sort of powerless exhaustion that stemmed straight from his heart.
He was tired because he was bored. Bored with his routine, his rut. Bored with being marketed as the picture of beauty and being surrounded by people of the same status. Bored with his manager Kibum listing off the photoshoots he'd be featured in that week and the runway shows he'd been hired for. The fashion industry had once been his home, his haven, his place of peace and enjoyment.
After years of being on magazine covers and starring in spreads and strolling down a catwalk, the starry-eyed joy had faded. The fads had come and gone, season trends passed. He'd gone through so many image changes, so many looks, that he wasn't sure what it was like to dress like himself and not like the F/W collection told him he should. People had come and gone, models, photographers, makeup artists, stylists. So many people he spent a day with and then were gone. Fleeting relationships, polite smiles of people who knew his appearance and not him personally. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper conversation with a stranger, just because he was so used to seeing a person once a season if he was lucky. Models in his agency didn't count; the only people besides two fellow male models he'd ever befriended was his manager. And, really, could he consider Kibum a friend when they were only partnered together for work?
Nowadays, he felt like a stranger in his own skin.
"Minho?"
He chose not to acknowledge Kibum, running a hand through close-cropped black hair that was apparently going to be "in" this season. Personally, he much preferred his shoulder-length brown waves that'd been chopped off a month before (And really, how was it plausible in any sense for long hair to be the summer trend and short hair the winter trend? It was ridiculous, and still he had to follow the fads because, well, it was his job.).
"Minho, you're zoning out again. You are so annoying on Mondays."
Minho sighed. Really, he was used to Kibum being rude to him by now, but this really wasn't his day. "Not in the mood, Kibum," he mumbled, eyes fixed on his fingers that he continuously crossed and uncrossed on the tabletop they rested on.
Kibum scoffed. "Okay, let me just cancel every plan for today since you're 'not in the mood.' Grow up, would you?"
That was another reason Minho wasn't sure if he should consider Kibum a friend: he was actually a complete insensitive asshole nine times out of ten. Minho was a face and body to him, not an actual person. Or at least, it seemed that way during work hours.
All he could really do was sigh again, this time sliding his palms across the white, circular table so he could rest his chin on the cool surface.
Kibum, seated across from him, made an off-put expression and pulled his clipboard to his chest so Minho wouldn't touch it. "You need to get up early tomorrow for the Vogue shoot, so don't forget that. And we also have a meeting with-are you listening to me?"
"Can I go home yet?" Minho asked. He knew he sounded childish, but hell, he felt childish. He was bored.
He didn't have to look up from his tapping fingers to know exactly how Kibum's jaw clenched in irritation. "Fine, Choi Minho. Let's just take you home." He slammed his clipboard on the table right beside Minho's forearm.
"I can walk," Minho mumbled, partly because he wanted to, partly because he knew it would make Kibum angry.
"Fine. Just go home. I'll be over tomorrow at six to pick you up, so be ready by then." He stood from his seat.
Minho watched him angrily stalk out of the glass office door and thought for the millionth time that their roles should be reversed, that Kibum should be the model and he should be the manager, because Kibum's runway walk was honestly perfect.
He didn't dwell on the fact, however, and jumped to his feet right behind Kibum. He threw his coat on over his long-sleeved shirt-they didn't match at all, and seeing Kibum's dissatisfied expression as he passed was just icing on the metaphorical cake-as he left the building.
It was freezing outside; he found himself regretting cutting his hair more than ever. He swore that if Kibum suggest he cut it when it started growing back, he would quit his job.
Or maybe he'd quit before Kibum had a chance.
Maybe he could-
Maybe-
Minho shook his head vehemently and tucked his icy fingers in his coat pockets, waiting for a chance to cross a busy street. He bounced on the balls of his feet, keeping the blood flow in his body. His next order of business, he decided, would be to buy a pair of earmuffs, fashion trends be damned.
He jogged across the street at his earliest opportunity, but found himself stalling on the sidewalk. A right turn would take him straight to his apartment complex, only a few blocks separating him from home.
But what would he do when he got there? What did he have to look forward to at home?
He would tidy up a bit, maybe. Make sure the color-coordinated cushions of his couch were straight and the trash was taken out and that he didn't leave the cap off his toothpaste. He would cook a single-serving dinner of painfully healthy foods and sit on his spacious couch so he could…
What?
Minho sighed and hung his head.
Nothing.
Nothing to look forward to, nothing to anticipate, nothing to get excited over.
It felt like that a lot nowadays.
He turned left on the sidewalk, heading wherever the concrete dictated.
A park.
That was cliché enough, right? Just as cliché as the jaded, brooding celebrity.
It suited him.
Minho walked leisurely along the sidewalk path, feeling isolated in a comforting way. He was the only one in the park as far as he could tell, and it made sense. He was shivering as he walked, teeth chattering. No one in their right mind would take a promenade after sunset the dead of winter.
(Minho wasn't sure where that left him. Was he out of his mind, or…?)
He came to a halt in the middle of a bridge. There was a trickling creek underneath him that hadn't yet frozen through, but made the air around much colder. He removed his hands from his pockets against his natural instincts and leaned his elbows against the wooden bridge. He breathed in deep, frosty air stinging in his nose, and then out again, a puff visible in front of him-he felt a juvenile sense of amusement that he looked like he was smoking when he did that.
His hands were trembling and standing still was only turning his body to ice more easily. He flexed his fingers and they felt stiff; he clenched his jaw but it was to no avail, as they were in motion just as the rest of him.
Minho inclined further forward, the wood jutting into his stomach. He wondered how cold the water actually was, if the air was already freezing. He wondered why it wasn't solid ice yet, only a bit thicker around the edges.
What would happen if he fell in? Would anyone save him? There wasn't anyone around, not that he saw after a quick glance left and right. Would he even be able to thrash around in water so cold, hoping to breach the surface to yell for help?
Maybe he would just freeze, and drown peacefully. He wondered which would come first, the freezing or the drowning. He wondered what would hurt more, his body turning to ice or water flowing into his lungs and choking him.
His foot rose to get holding in a cross-section of the bridge, raising higher.
He wondered-
"What the-" Minho blinked in shock as his back slammed into the ground, head banging against it. Something very solid-a person?-had collided with him, he gathered after a moment of confusion, and knocked him very unceremoniously to the ground.
There was a weight on top of him, and Minho wasted no time in shoving the other person off his body so he could stand up and brush off.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded of the person still on the ground, pulling his jacket taut over his chest and wiping off the seat of his jeans.
"Didn't you hear me?" he asked more voraciously, temper flaring. He couldn’t believe he'd just been tackled by a stranger.
The other person (a man, from the look of it) was remaining silent, head bowed and legs bent up awkwardly beside him. A hood covered his head, and the sweatshirt he was wearing seemed much too thin to be fit for the weather, Minho noticed.
"Hey, you-"
The man looked up for the first time, hood sliding back.
Minho went stiff with his mouth still half-open.
The stranger didn't seem like a thug, or a teenager out to wreak havoc like he'd expected.
He looked… innocent.
Minho's throat closed up.
The stranger blinked at him, small eyes partly covered by wire-framed glasses and shaggy brown hair that was escaping from his hood.
It was then that Minho noticed the stranger was rummaging around in his purple sweatshirt pocket.
He wanted to say something, to curse rudely at the man and then turn on his heel and walk away.
But he was rooted to his spot. His heart was thumping erratically; he wondered if it was because he was actually freezing after all.
The man pulled out a thick stack of yellow post-it notes and held it firmly in one hand as the other continued to fish for something.
Minho couldn't stop watching. The eye contact between them had broken long before, the man looking down at his pocket with brows furrowed in frustration; Minho had had ample opportunity to walk away, to be done with this strange character.
But no.
He was still standing there. Waiting for the silent man to find whatever he was so desperately searching for in his pocket.
His other hand appeared from his pocket; it held a pen, a simple black stick pen, pen uncapped already. He shuffled to right his pocket and in a second of negligence, the pen flipped backwards and out of his grasp.
Minho couldn't help but feel a small bit of panic as he watched the pen roll sideways to the edge of the bridge.
The man's face was no less than distraught as they both watched it fall into the water below with a sad plop!
"Did you really need that?" Minho asked, not sure why he bothered to.
The man turned towards him again, mouth opening and shutting, eyes appearing completely hopeless, glasses slightly crooked and halfway down the bridge of his nose. He nodded slowly, sadly.
He looked cute, Minho thought for a moment, like a lost child or something, still on the ground and gazing way up to meet Minho's eyes, lips gaping, hair messy around his face.
But no, Minho thought after that fleeting moment had passed, this freak was the one who tackled him out of nowhere.
"Why don't you say something?" Minho snapped impatiently, crossing his arms. It was too cold to stand outdoors and waste time with a weird stranger.
The man's mouth started opening and closing in the way that made him look like a clueless fish. He lifted his hand and touched his throat.
"What, are you mute?" Minho asked, mostly sarcastically. The guy was weird, but he didn't seem impaired.
He nodded.
Minho's eyes tripled in size and his eyebrows jumped up his forehead. "Really?"
He did the same again, a tiny apologetic smile tilting his lips.
Minho blinked incredulously, suddenly feeling guilty for being so rude about it before.
The man moved his hand once more, this time motioning in the air like he was writing something. His eyes told Minho he was asking a question in his silent way.
"I don't have a pen or anything," he said slowly, hoping that he read the message properly.
The man looked both ways, as if expecting a writing instrument to appear out of thin air. Seeing nothing, he clambered to his feet-his hood fell the rest of the way down to reveal that his hair was just as long and thick around the back as it was the front, and he had to fix it back into place.
"What are you-"
He was cut off by the man motioning for Minho to follow him.
Minho had no idea what possessed him to comply, but he shadowed the man as he walked the opposite way Minho had come from. For all he knew, this man was leading him to a dark patch of forest where he would drop his innocent mute act and pull out a knife from that pocket of his.
He had a feeling that wasn't it, though.
Or maybe he didn't really care if that was it.
"Where are we going?" Minho asked, catching up with the man, whose hands were jammed in his pocket, hood making him look rather small.
The man looked up at him, and Minho didn't see any sort of maniacal glint in his eye at all, just a bit of apology and a lot of sincerity.
Minho had the urge to push his glasses properly up his nose for him so that his eyes weren't cut off by the frames. He kept his hands firmly fisted in his coat pockets.
The stranger pointed down the path, and Minho noticed an opening to a line of shops for the first time.
"Buying a new pen?" Minho gathered.
The man nodded and slid his hand back into his pocket.
It was quiet for as long as it took them to reach a corner convenience store. There weren't many people out, and Minho was shivering too hard to make proper conversation. He caught himself glancing sideways at the stranger more than he intended, and no matter how many times he told himself it was because he was searching for any sign that he should mistrust him, he knew that it wasn't.
He was simply fascinated by this man.
The man walked in the shop first, politely holding the door open for Minho as he greeted the cashier with a wave.
"Welcome back," the cashier greeted with a smile.
The man returned it tenfold.
Minho stopped in his tracks, momentarily stunned when he knew he shouldn't be.
The man had already fetched a pack of stick pens by the time Minho caught up to the present, and the clerk was nice enough to give them to him free of charge.
At this, the man's eyes widened and he held his hands up to deny him, hastily reaching into his pocket for his wallet.
The cashier simply laughed and assured him that it was okay, that he was a regular and a few pens were really nothing.
The man spent the rest of his time bowing, and Minho very nearly grabbed his purple sweatshirt and pulled him out of the store to stop him.
Once outside in the cold again-Minho hadn't noticed what a great relief being indoors was until he was back out-, the man ripped open the plastic wrapping and uncapped a pen.
Minho was shivering by the time the man had shaken the pen enough for the ink to come through; he really wasn't keen on standing outside in the middle of a sidewalk and having any sort of conversation.
A quick look around showed him a quaint little café just a few shops down, and he was sold.
Minho grabbed the man's upper arm and half-dragged the clearly-startled man down the sidewalk to the café. He felt him trip more than a few times, and had to wonder if he was walking too fast or if this man was just a klutz. If he was, then maybe he didn't mean to knock him over. Wait, no, there had to be some intent behind running and tackling a person.
The air was warm inside and Minho didn't even regret the way he none-than-gently pushed the man inside before he closed the door behind them.
"I'm not standing outside to get an explanation, it's too cold," Minho said, his tone almost as cold as the air outside.
The man nodded slowly, and then glanced down at his bicep.
Minho dropped his hold hurriedly, clearing his throat.
The man stepped away, and gestured towards the tables in question.
Minho nodded, making to follow him.
"Excuse me."
Minho turned back to the counter, where a haughty barista eyed him. "Yes?" he asked, voice full of sickly politeness.
"You have to buy something if you're going to sit in here," she said, brows raising at him.
Minho clenched his back teeth. "Fine." He stepped up to the counter and picked out the simplest thing on the menu. "A hot chocolate."
The barista punched in a few buttons on the cash register.
Minho turned around and saw the stranger already seated comfortably at a two-person booth. "Do you want anything?" he called, and instantly asked himself why the hell he was bothering to be nice to the man who'd just rugby tackled him on a bridge.
The man's eyes went wide and he shook his head.
Minho rolled his eyes. "Make it two hot chocolates."
In the few seconds it took for him to pay, the barista to halfheartedly glare at him, and then her spin around to prepare the drinks, Minho flexed his fingers, regaining feeling in them, and shifted his weight between his feet to try to restart proper blood-flow in his sluggish body.
Maybe he should've gone straight home after all. At home, there were no rogue strangers waiting to attack him in the middle of a park.
"Two hot chocolates." The barista slapped the open cups down, making the liquid slosh.
"Thanks," Minho said dully, taking the styrofoam cups and heading to the table with the stranger, who was sitting and twirling his pen over the back of his hand like rock star did with drumsticks. His hood was down now, showing off his long hair.
Right as Minho sat down, sliding one of the warm cups towards him, the man peeled off the first sticky note.
"Thank you" it read.
"No problem," Minho said, suddenly feeling bashful.
The man smiled softly and stuck the small sheet to the back of his left hand, moving to write something else.
"Why did you tackle me?" Minho asked, resting his chin in his hand.
The man glanced up and smiled the same apologetic way he had since the first time, holding the stack of notes up again for Minho to read.
"I'm Lee Jinki"
"Hello, Jinki-ssi," he said distractedly, watching the man stick the paper on top of the one already on the back of his hand, "Why did you tackle me?"
Jinki wrote without hesitating this time, and Minho took a sip of the chocolate beverage in the meantime. It was a bit too hot, burning down his throat, but he welcomed the feeling after nearly freezing outside.
"I couldn't just watch you jump."
Minho was taken aback by the bluntly-stated words. He stared from the pad of notes to Jinki's eyes, registering how serious he looked, how troubled.
"I was not going to-" He stopped speaking as Jinki bent to scrawl something.
"You were thinking about it."
Minho's jaw dropped and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He felt his mouth open and close under Jinki's scrutiny; he suddenly felt like their roles were reversed, as he was the one who most likely looked like a fish, like a lost little kid.
Jinki's lips pressed into a sad smile, brows drawing upward.
"I-you-" Minho shook his head and, against all usual characteristics, began babbling to defend himself. "You can't assume-you don't even know me, Jinki-ssi, you can't judge-what are you writing now?" he asked, and even he heard the distressed note in his voice that caused Jinki to briefly glance up in surprise.
"What's your name?"
"Choi Minho," he responded slowly, reluctantly.
He mouthed the name with light in his eyes and reached to-finally-push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Minho watched his lips form the words and registered for once just how strange it was to be holding a conversation with a man who didn't (couldn't?) speak.
"How old are you?"
He had no idea why his first instinct was to lie about his age; perhaps it'd grown to be a habit over the years of bouncing between agencies and making a fresh start. In the end, he told the truth. "Twenty-four."
Jinki grinned at this, amusement playing in his eyes before they squinted into mere slits.
Minho's mouth went dry. He took another drink of hot chocolate, thankfully cooler now, while Jinki wrote something else.
"I'm older than you. Twenty-six. I'm your hyung"
An unsure smile fitted across his lips.
Jinki ducked to write again. "What do you do for a living?"
He considered lying about that, too. Had it been anyone else, he would have. "I'm a model."
Jinki's brows rose and his hand poised to write. "What kind of model?"
"Fashion model," he said nonchalantly, "Runways and magazine photoshoots. Boring stuff."
Jinki's grin went wider than ever and his shoulders shook with what Minho assumed was his own form of laughter.
As the older man moved to write, Minho had to ask himself exactly what he was doing here. He'd gotten his answer to the reason Jinki had tackled him, and that was all he wanted. There was no reason for him to sit and exchange pleasantries with a mute man.
He just…
Didn't want to leave.
Not yet.
"Being a model isn't boring. It's more exciting than working at your parents' meat shop."
Minho cocked his head in interest. "You work in a meat shop?"
He nodded, peeling off the top layer of the post-it notes and sticking it to the growing pile on the back of his hand.
"It's a few shops down"
Minho nodded in understanding.
"I always walk through the park on my way home. I usually never see anyone there."
Minho felt his ears heat; why he was embarrassed he wasn't sure. "You didn't have to tackle me," he said for the sake of saving face.
Jinki pursed his lips and bent to write, hair falling over his face and obscuring it completely.
"I didn't want you to get hurt."
"We just met. You don't have a right to-" His lips shut as Jinki began writing.
"I have a right to keep someone from hurting themselves. I would've yelled, but…"
When Minho glanced up at him from reading, Jinki was wearing a smile again, this one less amused and more dismayed.
"Why don't you talk?" Minho blurted out, knowing that he was treading into what was probably too personal for Jinki to tell him. He didn't mean to ask, really, it just fell from his lips before he could hold it in.
"I can't" is all Jinki wrote, face impassive.
"You really can't, or you can't because weird religious reasons or something?" he asked, more tersely than he intended.
Jinki set down his pen and opened his mouth, fingers resting on his throat right under his sharp adam's apple.
Minho watched interestedly as Jinki's throat muscles visibly strained. His mouth was open and he was trying to make a sound, but nothing more than an empty breath came out.
He dropped his hand and shrugged, his sad smile back in place.
It was actually heartbreaking. Minho brought his cup to his lips so he could force the lump down his throat.
"Can't"
Jinki reached for his cup of hot chocolate and held it to his lips with both hands, blowing gently on the surface.
Minho couldn't stop watching him, couldn’t stop from studying his every move, the way his eyes lidded halfway when he looked down and his lips pursed into an "o" and his long hair fell down over the sides of his face when he bent down.
Minho made a living out of being surrounded by beautiful people, men and women alike with perfect proportions, flawless features, and immaculate fashion sense, and he wanted was get away from it.
It was here with Jinki, the man in a plain (and very much out of style) purple hoodie and ill-fitting blue jeans, with a smile that lit the room and eyes that squinted into nothing when he did, that Minho found himself wanting to stay, to speak more to the man who didn't have a voice to speak back.
A sharp rap of a pen on the table brought Minho out of his daze.
"What's wrong?"
He furrowed his brow. "What? Nothing, why?"
Jinki scrunched his nose-okay that was really cute-and then wrote again. "Why were you going to jump off that bridge?"
"I wasn't-"
Jinki's expression was deadly serious.
Minho could feel that he saw right through him. He resigned to sigh and trace the edge of his styrofoam cup with his pinky, not answering immediately.
What was he even supposed to say?
"I don't want to talk about it."
Jinki seemed even less amused that he was taking the easy way out.
Minho couldn't help it. He really wasn't inclined to explain his life story to a man he'd met only minutes before and how somehow already read him well enough to know that he was contemplating jumping off a bridge just to see if he would freeze or drown first.
Jinki probably already thought he was crazy. He didn't want to give him specifics.
"I-" Minho began, but when he looked up, Jinki was already writing something.
To his surprise, Jinki didn't hold the pad in sight for him this time; instead, he gingerly reached across the table to pull Minho's left hand away from his cup.
In the same way he stuck the notes to his own hand, he stuck the tacky strip of the sheet across Minho's knuckles.
It was a phone number.
"Yours?" Minho asked dumbly; he felt the tips of his ears growing hot again.
Jinki nodded and went to scribble something else; Minho assumed he was going to explain himself.
"For when you do want to talk about it"
"I-" Minho was at a loss for words when he saw the slight smile across Jinki's lips. He felt his blush extend down his cheekbones, "Okay."
Jinki beamed.
Minho stumbled as he stood from his side of the booth. "Um..." Oh wow, he forgot that he didn't know how make friends, not real ones who cared about him and not that he was going to make them some sort of money in a spread of on a catwalk. "I'll see you?" God, he hoped so. He didn't know why, he couldn't place it, but he felt an ache in his chest at the idea that this was his first and final meeting with Lee Jinki.
Jinki nodded, smile still firm across his lips.
Minho broke a true grin for the first time that entire day. It didn't disappear completely until he was walking up the stairs to his apartment.
"Are you waiting on a call?"
Minho jumped, startling the make-up artist and smudging a cream blush over his cheekbone.
"Sorry," he mumbled hurriedly.
The woman offered a tight-lipped "it's fine" and continued working.
Minho glared at Kibum, who stood beside the lighted mirror with crossed arms and a cocked brow.
"Are you?" he pressed.
"No," Minho said distractedly, tapping again on the locked screen of his cell phone. "Why?"
"You've been staring at your phone all day," Kibum said, slinking into the vacant seat beside Minho.
Minho winced at being caught.
"Who is she?"
He turned his phone over in his hands a few times, neck straight and still, eyes downcast as the make-up artist brushed bronzer in the hollows of his cheeks. He didn't answer Kibum.
"Hey," Kibum kicked his chair.
Minho jolted, and the make-up artist gasped, a line of dark brown powder very nearly ending up across his forehead. "Sorry, it's his fault."
She didn't say anything this time, frowning.
"What?!" he asked, meeting Kibum's eyes in the mirror.
The other man crossed his legs, reclining in the seat comfortably. "Who is she?" he asked, slowly, deliberately.
"It's not-" He stopped mid-sentence, not willing to offer Kibum any information about the person he'd been praying for an excuse to message for the past three days.
"Not a girl, huh?" Kibum saw right through him. Maybe he was more transparent than he thought he was.
His face remained blank.
Apparently, that was enough response for Kibum. He perked up in his seat. "Who is he? Do I know him?"
Minho snorted. "Doubt it. He works at a meat shop."
Kibum made a face. "You met him at a meat shop?"
"What? No, I met him at the park, he-I'm not talking about this with you."
"You should send him a message. You've obviously been dying to all day."
"You don't even-"
Kibum just blinked at him in the mirror, slightly condescending as always, but always forward.
Grudgingly, he unlocked his phone and, before his impulse could wear down, texted Jinki a simple greeting.
He locked his phone and set it in his lap.
Before he even noticed Kibum wasn't in his seat anymore, his phone was snatched from his thigh and Kibum was unlocking it with sure fingers.
"Kibum, don't-"
"'Hey'?" Kibum's face pulled into an expression of distaste. He tossed the phone back towards Minho with ever-terrible aim, leaving him to fumble in the air and grapple desperately for it. "You are so tacky, Minho."
The model didn't even get a chance to snap back at his manager, because right at that moment, his screen lit and a rush of excitement went through him.
"Hey" the message back read.
"He didn't think it was tacky, Kibum!" Minho called over his shoulder to Kibum, who barked out a laugh in response.
He grinned, spirits lifted a hundredfold.
Nervously, he typed his message:
"Do you want to meet at the café tonight?"
It wasn't a full minute later that he got his response:
"Sure :)"
[part 2]