30 day drabbles 11-15
eleven: prepared
onkey, pg13
twelve: knowlege
minkey, r
thirteen: denial
jongho, r
fourteen: wind
onho, pg13
fifteen: order
jongyu, pg13
- day eleven: prepared
onkey; 1345 words; comedy; pg-13
“I’m about to throw up.”
A laugh sounded and a hand clapped Onew in the middle of his back.
Onew stumbled forward and whipped his head backwards, only to make himself even dizzier. “I’m being serious, Jonghyun, don’t.”
“Calm down, hyung, you’ll be fine,” Jonghyun said good-naturedly, rubbing his shoulder.
“No, no I won’t be fine, Jonghyun. There are so many people out there. I look so ridiculous. I’m going to trip, I know it.” He was legitimately shaking and his legs were past the point of feeling like jelly; now, they were completely numb. His stomach was spinning and the room was spinning and everything was spinning and he almost dropped to the ground right there because he was so incredibly overwhelmed.
Jonghyun’s hands landed on both of his shoulders from behind and shook them playfully, throwing Onew even more off balance. He guided him to the lone sofa in the room and pushed him to sit down.
“What are-stop-”
“Relax, hyung, relax,” he said, voice perfectly soothing, a smile lacing his tone. He sat down beside him. “You look great and you’ll walk just fine.”
Onew shook his head defiantly, eyes squeezing shut, nausea slowly creeping up his gut. “No, I-”
“You’re going to be all right.” Jonghyun rubbed his tuxedo-clad back smoothly. “And if you’re really dreading it that much, just remember that in like six hours, you’re going to be on your honeymoon, fucking Kibum into every available surface of that fancy hotel on the beach!” His optimistic tone made everything sound a little less vulgar and a little more reassuring. He stood again, making wide gestures to prove his point, whatever that was.
He didn’t have the strength to get embarrassed or scold him. He let out a shaky breath and his shoulders sagged.
“Also I asked the hotel to give you guys a little catalog of stuff you can buy, just some-”
Onew jumped to his feet. “Wait, what kind of stuff? Oh god, Jonghyun, what did you do?”
“I mean, it’s just-something to spice up your marriage! I’m just trying to help!”
“WE’RE NOT EVEN MARRIED YET!” Onew’s eyes tripled as soon as the syllables left his mouth. “‘Yet,’ oh my god Jonghyun, oh my god I’m going to throw up-” He slowly sunk down to the sofa again and buried his face in his hands. The world was spinning again.
“Listen,” Jonghyun said firmly, hearing that his cue was close in the music and promply sitting down beside Onew, “I have to go out there now. Do you know where you’re going? We rehearsed this, remember?”
He nodded, terrified as soon a Jonghyun mentioned leaving.
“Look, it’s just right out this door,” Jonghyun explained anyway, much to Onew’s relief. His hand was still comfortingly placed on his shoulder, and he pulled him to his feet again. He steered Onew in the direction of the door so he could point to where he needed to go. “Stop in the middle-Kibum will be there-and then walk up to the altar. It’s not difficult. You won’t get lost or anything. You’ll be fine.”
“Why couldn’t I just get eloped? Who suggested a wedding? Jonghyun, why did I agree to this?” his eyes were slowly growing as he caught a glimpse of the crowd outside the hall.
“You suggested a wedding, hyung, even Kibum said that he would be fine eloping,” Jonghyun’s grin didn’t help Onew’s state of anxiety.
“Oh god, I take it back. Whose idea were these white suits? I’m going to fall and get a grass stain on my ass and there are going to be pictures of it-Jonghyun, please don’t leave!” He clung to his best man’s sleeve desperately, at the edge of a panic attack.
“… Hyung, this is an indoor wedding,” Jonghyun deadpanned, tugging his sleeve away. “And I need to go, I’m supposed to be out there right now. Just take a deep breath. Don’t hyperventilate. Just calm down.”
Onew stepped away from him, nodding slowly, trying to repress his crippling nerves. Jonghyun was right, the rational half of him said. They’d already rehearsed this once. He managed to walk without tripping the first time, he could do it again.
“Okay, good luck, hyung! You look great!” Jonghyun’s grin lit up his face.
“You do too,” Onew said weakly, admiring his classy white tuxedo and navy bowtie.
“I know. I’ll see you in a minute, hyung!”
The moment Jonghyun was out of sight, Onew’s heart dropped and he compulsively began to check himself in the floor-length mirror at the opposite side of the room. His hair didn’t look right, he decided, the short black crop out of place.
That piece went there… no, wait it looked better on the other side. Oh man, why was he even trying to part it to the side, it was obviously too short. He shouldn’t have cut his hair at all.
He gave up with an exhuasted sigh.
He wondered what Kibum was doing. If Kibum was as nervous as he was. Or if he was so excited it was starting to make him sick, like it was with Onew.
Kibum probably wasn’t dying from anxiety like he was. Kibum was prepared for this. Granted, Onew was too, but Kibum was better at handling things than Jinki was.
Onew’s head snapped up.
That was his cue.
In the music.
That was it.
He was supposed to walk out now.
Onew was back to the conviction that he was going to throw up. He could barely stand up, his legs were shaking so badly. He craned his neck to see out the doorway, just for maybe a peek of his groom before he jumped headfirst into the shark-infested waters.
No luck.
He had to do it. Just like that.
He breathed in and out and tried to stay calm.
It was a lost hope, really.
Onew found the strength to continue walking. He was running on autopilot by now, because he honestly had never been more striken by pure anxiety in his entire life.
The wedding march was playing and he was walking hopefully on beat.
He was going down the hall. He could see the audience of people in his peripheral vision, but that wasn’t his immediate problem at hand.
Kibum wasn’t coming from the opposite hallway like he was supposed to.
Onew was reaching the middle, but Kibum wasn’t walking towards him.
His heart was steadily falling, and by the time he reached their mark, he was frozen.
He could hear whispers starting to sound around him. The pianist had to play a measure over again because of the pause.
Onew was rooted to his spot, otherwise he would have continued down the path to see what was wrong with Kibum. Why wasn’t he coming? Why was he-
Kibum stumbled into the doorway, smoothing down his hair and then fixing the sleeves of his jacket.
Onew’s heart floated up and he almost dropped down right there from relief. He went breathless.
Kibum stepped towards him in double-time, completely ignoring their previous rehearsals.
“Sorry,” he whispered, meeting Onew in the middle. “I was-my hair and my-jacket-sorry,”
“It’s okay,” Onew smiled shakily, holding out his elbow for Kibum to hold onto, just like they rehearsed.
Kibum didn’t take it; instead, he slid his hand from the crook of his arm down his wrist and into his hand. Their fingers laced together and Onew felt then that Kibum was shaking, too.
“Are we… Are we doing this now?” Kibum whispered from the corner of his mouth.
He looked from their hands to Kibum’s face, studying him properly for the first time.
Onew felt lighter than air. He’d never seen his friend, boyfriend, fiance, husband in less than half an hour, more beautiful in his entire life. His brain just about short-circuited, and he couldn’t manage to do anything but beam at him, the happiest man on the planet at that second.
“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
- day twelve: knowledge
minkey; 1490 words; angst, mentions of domestic abuse; r
“Are those bruises?” Minho got straight to what had been bothering him from the moment Kibum walked into his door, looking ruffled and battered in a way he’d automatically known was bad, wrong, not normal.
Kibum’s eyes went wide and he instantly began shaking his head. “No, they’re just-”
He stepped closer to him to look, and it was proven right then. His heart sank a thousand miles under ground level and he felt like he was punched right in the gut. He couldn’t even speak properly. “Those are fucking-bru-on your neck, Kibum, I-”
Kibum raised his hand to lay it over the purpling skin on his neck. “Just leave it, Minho.”
Minho refused to do any such thing. He pried Kibum’s fingers away from his neck. “What happened?” he demanded.
“Why do you need to know?” he asked defensively, trying to jerk away from Minho, whose hold on his wrist was bordering too-tight at this point.
He loosened his hold on his wrist-fuck, when he looked down he saw that there were pre-existing bruises there, too, and the instant guilt he felt for possibly hurting Kibum was suffocating at best-and tried to ask more gently this time. “Kibum, please just tell me what-”
“Just fucking leave it, okay?” Kibum snapped, voice raising for the first time.
Minho dropped his hand and forced himself to let out a steady breath, disappointment rising in his chest.
“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry.” Kibum’s face melted of all anger and he frantically apologized; his eyes were red around the edges already, growing more so with every syllable spoken in a choked voice.
Minho shook his head dismissively. He didn’t want to look directly at Kibum, not with the bruises on his throat so shockingly blatant. Turning away was his best bet, lest he break down in tears or alternately storm out of the house and force Kibum to show him the way to that bastard’s place and possibly commit a murder for what he did to Kibum.
He reached into his cabinet for a glass, in dire need of a drink of water to calm himself; his hands were shaking and his throat was squeezed shut.
“Can-” Kibum’s voice broke and he had to start over. “Can I stay here?”
“Yeah,” he said, and that was all he could handle. He poured water from a jug in the fridge into the glass, looking at that and that alone.
“Thank you.”
Minho downed his entire glass and all-but slammed it onto the counter. “I’m going to bed,” he said, frustrated and hurt and ready to shatter the glass if he stayed a moment longer.
Kibum looked up at him, and he had that look on his face. The one that Minho hated, abhorred more than anything else, because he looked so broken. So torn up and conflicted, lost and lonely and everything that he shouldn’t look like. Having a boyfriend was supposed to be just the opposite of all of that; he was supposed to be all smiles and shy glances, like how he was in the beginning.
Now, everything had changed, and Minho couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Kibum truly happy.
And that killed him, because he knew he could be the one to turn that back around. He loved Kibum more than any words could express, and every moment Kibum spent still tied-more like chained-down to that bastard was a moment wasted that they could be happy together.
Minho sighed and extended his hand to the unsure Kibum. “Come with me,” he said, exhausted, and pulled Kibum with him to his bedroom.
It was a huge relief, at least, that Kibum wasn’t dressed in wrinkled clothes anymore. His eyes were still dark and those fucking bruises on his neck were enough to bring tears to his eyes-after all, if there were bruises so visible there, then how many others did Kibum have, hidden from view?-, but at least he didn’t smell like sex and secondhand smoke anymore.
He was showered, dressed in pajamas he borrowed from Minho, and the scent of his body wash and the sight of his pajamas loosely hanging on his body gave Minho an entirely misplaced sense of possessiveness, the gratification that Kibum was here with him, that if only just for the night, Kibum was his. Kibum felt safer with him than his own boyfriend, willing to go to bed with him, knowing that he wouldn’t wake up to anything he didn’t want.
Kibum laid down first, per usual, sliding under the thick blankets on his usual side of the bed closest to the wall, facing away from Minho.
Minho rubbed his hands roughly over his face just after he flipped off the lights. Kibum looked so fucking small, so beaten-down and fragile. This wasn’t the Kibum he knew, who he grew up with and who he loved more than anything else in the entire world. This was a ghost of Kibum, a mere faint shadow. His spark was gone, his playful spirit so subdued under the iron fist of his “boyfriend,” the one he swore still loved him, the one he defended and blew off foul words about. He didn’t see what Minho saw, and he knew that Minho hated that man with his entire being. Hence why they’d never met face-to-face before.
Minho kneeled onto his bed and laid down, careful not to jostle Kibum. He didn’t know what that bastard had done to him this time around, where or how he’d hurt him, only that it was enough for him to run away to Minho’s place.
The lack of that knowledge hurt Minho worse than anything.
He reached out to gently touch Kibum’s shoulder, the lightest show of affection he could muster; all of this, he rationalized, could be chalked up as just affection between friends if it was ever an issue in Kibum’s mind. It was the best Minho could do.
“He would hate this if he found out,” Kibum whispered, a bitter sort of humor in his tone.
Minho scooted forward in a show of rebellion, his chest pressed against Kibum’s back, hand still rested on his shoulder. “Let him find out,” he murmured, lips moving just behind Kibum’s neck. “Tell him where you are and let him bust the door in when I don’t answer it. Let him in here if he wants. It’d be a fair fight.”
“Don’t fight anyone over me, Minho.”
“That’s exactly what I would do,” Minho said firmly, hand trailing carefully down Kibum’s arm until his hand was lying over top of Kibum’s. “I would fight until I won and then he could never have you back.”
“Don’t,” Kibum whispered, shifting to pull his legs further up to his chest.
Minho sighed softly, and Kibum undoubtedly felt the air on his neck. “At least he’d be hitting me instead of you for once.”
Kibum went completley rigid. “Minho, you-”
“I’m not an idiot, Kibum, I know what he does to you.”
Minho expected Kibum to bolt upright then. He expected him to deny every word and have an outburst. He expected him to gather his things and slam the door behind him as he left the apartment.
What he didn’t expect was Kibum to turn over and wrap his arms around him, to cling onto his shirt and bury his face in his chest. He didn’t expect him to start trembling, or for tears to start rolling down his cheeks.
Minho’s surprise stopped him from reacting immediately, but as soon as he could move again, his arms twined around Kibum’s figure and he slowly ran his hands through the back of his hair. “Shh… shh…” he said, and could only hope that he was properly assauging him. His chin rested atop Kibum’s head, and he squeezed his eyes shut to hold back his own tears. It was all he knew to do, to hold Kibum as close as he could and try to tell him through that touch alone that he was there, that he was safe.
“I’m scared,” Kibum admitted, tiny voice shaking harder than his body was.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” Minho cooed the words that he’d been dying to truthfully say, his heart clenching because he knew that about Kibum from the beginning, but never thought he would actually say it. “I love you, Kibum.”
He nodded against his chest, and then nothing else was said.
There was no move from either to move away from each other; Kibum fell soundly asleep just like that, with Minho’s fingers running through his hair and his arms tight around his torso.
Minho wasn’t sure what hurt worse to know this time around:
The fact that Kibum stopped defending his boyfriend, or the fact that he was so afraid he didn’t know how to get away.
- day thirteen: denial
jongho; 1134 words; angst, tragedy, illness; r
“Hyung, you do know what ‘terminal’ means, right?” Minho asked delicately, studying Jonghyun’s expression.
Jonghyun pursed his lips and furrowed his brows, hating that this conversation was coming up again. Worse than Minho’s illness itself was the so-called promise of the end. “Yes, I know what 'terminal’ means.”
Minho’s gaze remained steady on Jonghyun’s face, looking for something that Jonghyun couldn’t quite grasp. “You’re acting like you’re not exactly-”
“You’re not going to die, Minho,” Jonghyun’s eyes dipped down to their clasped hands, thumb tracing over the prominent veins in Minho’s hands. He wasn’t afraid to cut him off when he started with that, not anymore.
“Yeah, I am,” Minho smiled just enough to draw the chapped skin on his lips taut, but his eyes were dark, empty.
“No, you’re not,” Jonghyun said firmly, shaking his head. His brows drew tightly together and his heart felt like it was being squeezed unforgivingly when he recognized that look in Minho’s eyes, the detached one he now saw far too often. “You’re going to get better. What’s the point in even being here if you’re not going to get better?” he asked fiercely, gesturing around the hospital room for emphasis.
“Hyung, I-” Minho’s eyes filled with tears and his lips pressed together, stopping himself from saying anything.
Panic filled the older of the two. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said hurriedly, urgency on high. He leaned towards Minho in earnest and pushed his bangs away from his face with his free hand. Minho’s forehead was alarmingly hot, he felt from the brief contact, though it wasn’t much of a surprise considering Minho was usually running a fever.
It was absolutely shattering for Jonghyun to see Minho like this, hooked up to wires and drips, clothed in the flimsy hospital gown and sitting against crisp thin pillows. His eyes were dull, skin pallor-stricken. Lips untouchable because of circumstance, growing more and more chapped as he deteriorated in front of Jonghyun’s eyes.
His sickness was hitting hard these days, leaving not even a span of hours without some sort of incident. A coughing fit, falling unconscious. Sores littering his skin, visible even when he tried desperately to cover them so Jonghyun couldn’t see. Overheating, heart-rate jumping and slowing erratically and for no reason. Bones prominent in his wrists and his chest, cheekbones hollowed out. Getting sick even before he ate and heaving his stomach into the bowl beside his bed, muttering embarrassed apologies over and over to Jonghyun, who whispered reassurances while rubbing his back with one hand and holding his hair away from his face with the other.
The doctors never had good news. Not that they ever had, but at least before, every visit wasn’t made by the doctors wearing grim, sympathetic expressions, only to tell Minho in gentler terms that it was only a matter of time now.
Jonghyun refused to believe any of it. Nothing could take Minho away from him, no one could do that. Not even Minho himself, his long-before failed immune system (how ironic to contract this disease through a blood transfusion instead of the most common cause), or the pneumonia that threw him into this downward spiral.
Jonghyun wouldn’t accept it, wouldn’t believe it. Minho was going to stay with him, he promised that so long before. That’s what the ring on his left hand said, that’s what he was counting on. Minho was good at keeping promises. Minho was strong. He couldn’t just give up, he couldn’t.
“Why have I accepted this and you haven’t? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Minho asked, and any note of ironic humor he intended was snuffed out by the way his lips trembled around the words.
Jonghyun shook his head. “You’re going to get better, Minho,” he said softly but with the utmost conviction, combing his fingers through the younger’s outgrown and unwashed hair. “I know you are. You’ll be out in no time and you can come home again, okay?”
Minho sighed, eyes shutting, head tipping back against the pillows. “Home,” he said, a wistful edge in his voice.
“I miss you at home,” Jonghyun admitted, now watching his own fingers as they ran over Minho’s forearm. “It’s lonely without you.”
He snorted, bitter and humorless. “Maybe it’s time to get used to that, hyung,” he said, raw and harsh.
Jonghyun’s heart dropped into his gut. “No,” he said, voice barely managing to raise above a whisper as the beginnings of terror coursed through him that maybe, maybe-no, not maybe, it was impossible; Minho wasn’t leaving him, not saying goodbye, not now, not ever, no-Minho was right. “You’re going to come home with me one of these days. Soon.”
Minho’s eyes opened and met with Jonghyun’s.
Jonghyun didn’t anticipate seeing the same fear he felt echoed deep in Minho’s eyes.
“You’re going to be fine,” Jonghyun said, forcing a smile as best he could. He believed his words, had preached the same mantra over and over to himself enough to brainwash optimism.
Denial at its finest, whispered the rational voice in his head, but he didn’t need rationality. There was nothing rational about this, about how much it hurt to think that the one he loved more than anyone in the world could possibly leave him sooner than they’d anticipated with “till death do us part.”
“Jonghyun-hyung, you-I-” Minho stopped again, abruptly. He bit his lip so hard that it split, and Jonghyun had to reach quickly for a napkin on the bedside to clean it. He would have to wash his hands in a moment, he knew, because contact with Minho’s blood wasn’t safe, the doctors had told him time and time again, but dammit, he shared part of the disease already; he didn’t care that he would get worse, because if Minho was leaving him, he didn’t want to be around for much longer either.
He wanted to take care of Minho; he didn’t care about staying futilely sterile for his own sake.
“Shh, don’t worry about anything, Minho, okay? I’m here, I won’t let you go without a fight,” his smile was genuine the second time around, though weak as it was.
Minho’s eyes dropped to the sheets and a hot tear fell down his cheek, the first Jonghyun had seen in weeks.
Jonghyun tenderly wiped it away, and then half-stood to brush his lips against Minho’s forehead, whispering the most sincere “I love you” against the burning skin.
____
A week passed and Minho was lying still in his bed, hand still clasped with Jonghyun’s as the older clung tightly to the sheets in shock, pain slowly setting in, the most cruelly gripping agony he’d ever experienced.
He was left to wonder if the optimism was even worth it.
- day fourteen: wind
onho; 885 words; fluff, general; pg13
It was mid-afternoon and Minho was already exhausted. Once he stepped into his hotel room, he didn’t even want to think about the photoshoot that morning or the one he was scheduled for late in the night.
Paris was a beautiful city at night, he knew from past experience, but he’d much rather spend his night curled up with his boyfriend in their lavish hotel room than posing and taking pictures.
“Jinki-hyung?” he called into the room-such a nice room, he thought for the umpteenth time since he’d arrived the day before, definitely one of the perks of being a prestigious model for a living-, perfectly clean from maid service, but also alarmingly… empty.
“Hyung?” he called a second time, crossing the front room to peek into the single bedroom for any sign of Jinki. He didn’t expect him to answer aloud (yelling wasn’t a skill the older man had yet re-acquired), but there was no indication at all that he was still in the room.
Worry creased Minho’s brow and he walked the floor more slowly.
A paper square of loud orange on the table caught his eye and he breathed a sigh of relief.
The note read only a single word: “Balcony”.
Minho smiled to himself and looked at the unlocked balcony door.
“Hyung?” he called more gently this time, cracking the door open to look out.
Jinki was sitting on the small cushioned bench just outside, but he didn’t look up when Minho walked out. A more speculative glance showed a beyond-endeared Minho that his boyfriend had fallen asleep on the bench, head lolling to the side, body covered by a striped blanket.
Feeling stealthy and invisible, Minho relaxed and leaned against the doorway.
He breathed easily and took an extra moment to admire how honestly gorgeous his hyung was. Something about the winter sunlight in Paris was clearer than back in Seoul, purer. Bathing his boyfriend in a soft muted glow, hair shining and moving with the light chilly wind, lips looking softer than ever, the weather was perfect even for being winter. The backdrop of the beautiful city was only an added plus, pristine architecture and genuine beauty all hitting him harder than it had the times he’d visited before.
Though the city was moving all around, everything about the scene was slow, peaceful.
His steps were careful as he walked to the bench, his move to sit down even more so.
And despite his best attempts to be smooth and not wake Jinki, he was blinking his eyes open soon enough, hair falling over his face as he looked around to see what disturbed him.
Minho placed a hand on his shoulder-the blanket slid down his lap-and lightly squeezed.
Jinki smiled in return, lips barely curving, eyes still mostly shut.
“I’m back,” he said, as if it wasn’t obvious.
Jinki’s smile grew slightly and he shifted sideways until he was sitting up, though mostly slouching comfortably into Minho’s side.
Minho wrapped his arm snugly around Jinki’s shoulders and leaned into him as well, very much relishing the feeling of Jinki’s arm draped over his middle and his warmth on his body.
His eyes closed for a moment and the serenity of the warm Parisian wind barely blowing against his skin and through his hair made it quite near impossible to open them again.
He ran his hand down the side of Jinki’s arm. “Thanks for coming with me,” he said quietly, almost afraid to speak and break the atmosphere.
Jinki backed away to look him in the eye, expression calm with a smile across his lips. His hand lifted from his waist to the back of his neck, coaxing him down for a chaste, soft kiss.
Inviting Jinki with him was the best idea he could have possibly had, he decided in the seconds the kiss lasted. This was possibly the most romantic thing he could’ve done, bring Jinki here, and the only downside was that he was technically here because of work, with a runway show the next day and two more photoshoots after that, not to mention a formal party that was no less than mandatory by Kibum’s standards the following day. He felt a little guilty that he had to leave Jinki in the hotel room alone all day, but Jinki didn’t seem to mind too much, not with the beautiful city view they had from the balcony plus the tempting option of sleeping in every day. With Jinki here, it felt a lot less work and much more like a vacation, a romantic getaway for their birthdays.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Jinki said in Minho’s ear, hoarse voice cutting in and out just like it always did when he woke up.
Minho didn’t hesitate to steal one more kiss before Jinki backed away again to lay his head down on Minho’s shoulder.
It was almost regrettable, the way that his lids grew heavy in the warmth and he had to miss out on this beautiful view. But he couldn’t think of any better way to spend an already-tired afternoon than by taking a leisurely nap on their balcony, sun peeking through the clouds, wind ruffling their hair and their clothes until they were all layered and creased atop each other.
- day fifteen: order
jongyu; 1055 words; comedy, romance, general; pg13
Jinki was a great waiter. Charming, friendly, all bright smiles and hair-flips and a great enough memory that he never had to write anything down and it would all come out perfectly.
The cafe he worked at wasn’t as great. But Jinki alone was the reason that Jonghyun kept coming back for his routine sandwich and cappuccino every Thursday night.
“Hello, Jonghyun-ssi,” was spoken per usual as Jinki bowed when Jonghyun entered the small, quiet cafe.
He gave a two-fingered wave; he wasn’t in his normal high spirits. It was a hard day for him; he had to fire two of his best employees that day for stealing money from the store, leaving him two short in the record store he owned.
And on top of that, the blind date he’d gone on two nights previous didn’t go well, and by the look of things, he was set to be single for at least the next millennium.
He blamed most of that on his none-too-little crush on the waiter at the cafe.
“What’s your meal for this fine evening?” The waiter in question slid into the seat across from Jonghyun, leaning forward on his elbows, holding out a menu with a smile.
“The usual order,” Jonghyun refused the menu.
“So…” He pulled out his forever-unused notepad from his pocket and pretended to write on it with an invisible pen. “A hot fudge sundae-no fudge you said? just melted ice cream?-kimchi ramen milkshake, and a diet Coke because you’re watching your figure. Is that right?”
Jonghyun grinned and rolled his eyes, the waiter’s antics already cheering him up.
Jinki matched his grin, eyes reduced to slits in the handsome way Jonghyun liked to see. “I’ll be back with your sandwich and cappuccino.” He stood from the chair and stashed the still-untouched notepad in his apron pocket.
“Thank you,” Jonghyun said, and folded his hands on the table.
Jinki came back around only a few seconds later. “Is there anything I can get you while you wait?”
“Two able-bodied works who understand how to use a cash register, maybe?” he asked, letting a bit of his stress seep into his tone.
Jinki smiled sadly. “I’m afraid we don’t have any of those on the menu.”
Jonghyun shrugged. “Then I guess I’m good for now.”
Jinki looked troubled by his unusually low spirit. “You seem down. Do you want a coloring page and crayons or something?”
Jonghyun laughed, but felt touched all the same because Jinki was genuinely trying. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”
Jinki nodded, and as he passed Jonghyun to tend to the other customers, he patted his back.
And that made Jonghyun smile. Really big.
As promised, the food came out only minutes later, Jinki carrying it out with a spring in his step.
“For you,” he said happily as he set it on the table in front of Jonghyun.
Jonghyun immediately reached for the sugar packets on the table.
“Oh, I already added the sugar for you. Two packets, right?” He held up his fingers innocently.
Jonghyun nodded, impressed that Jinki knew to add the sugars, since he’d never asked him to in the past.
The waiter’s smile lit up the whole room. “Is there anything else you need? Besides two workers?” He clarified the second part when Jonghyun smirked and opened his mouth to respond.
He smiled and changed his answer. “I need a vacation. And a boyfriend. You know, to spend the vacation with.”
Jinki’s face fell and he pulled a menu out of his apron, flipping through it. “I’m really sorry, but that was Tuesday night’s special.”
“Ugh,” Jonghyun threw his hands up, mock-outraged. “I always get those two days confused.”
“I can check in the back to see if we have any leftovers?” Jinki offered, pointing over his shoulder. A smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth as he continued the joke.
“No, it’s okay.” He chewed and swallowed a bite of the sandwich. “I wouldn’t want an old refrigerated guy anyway.”
“We keep them under heat lamps, actually.”
“Eh, I’ll pass.”
Jinki glanced over Jonghyun’s head to the other table and saw that they didn’t need anything, so he sat down across from him again.
“What’s your type? So I can save one of them next Tuesday?”
“Anyone like you would be great,” he flirted shamelessly; if Jinki didn’t show aversion to wanting a boyfriend by now, Jonghyun didn’t have much to lose.
“Like me? I know a great guy like me!” He grinned and pulled out his notepad again, this time with the accompanying pen.
Jonghyun watched with interest, wondering if this was another joke or if Jinki was really that naive.
“Here’s his number. His name is Lee Jinki, and he’s a waiter.”
Jonghyun chuckled and took the sheet Jinki tore off. “Yeah? And you think he’d go for me?” He studied the number, and his heart jumped when he saw that it was a legitimate phone number, and that meant that this wasn’t just another one of Jinki’s jokes.
He nodded vigorously, and then pushed his overgrown bangs out of his eyes. “Yeah, he told me-and this is kind of weird, because I didn’t know you guys met before-that he thinks you’re pretty cool. And good-looking. And funny. And he doesn’t like it when you look down, and he really wants you to smile.”
Jonghyun hid his face as he folded up the sheet with the phone number on it, because he felt his cheeks heat up and he really didn’t want to seem that uncool to Jinki, that his words actually made him blush.
So, he stashed the number safely in his pocket, and then looked up when his cheeks cooled down enough for the color to be unnoticeable.
He couldn’t help the smile that spread from ear to ear as he saw Jinki’s expectant look.
Jinki’s expression softened in turn. “See? Like that.”
“Excuse me?” The other table calling out interrupted their moment, and Jinki stood up immediately.
Jonghyun chuckled and took a sip of his cappuccino. At least the day balanced itself out, from being entirely shitty to being pretty great.
At least his crush wasn’t unrequited like he thought it was.
He saw himself coming here more often than once a week in the future. Definitely.
onkey, pg13
twelve: knowlege
minkey, r
thirteen: denial
jongho, r
fourteen: wind
onho, pg13
fifteen: order
jongyu, pg13
- day eleven: prepared
onkey; 1345 words; comedy; pg-13
“I’m about to throw up.”
A laugh sounded and a hand clapped Onew in the middle of his back.
Onew stumbled forward and whipped his head backwards, only to make himself even dizzier. “I’m being serious, Jonghyun, don’t.”
“Calm down, hyung, you’ll be fine,” Jonghyun said good-naturedly, rubbing his shoulder.
“No, no I won’t be fine, Jonghyun. There are so many people out there. I look so ridiculous. I’m going to trip, I know it.” He was legitimately shaking and his legs were past the point of feeling like jelly; now, they were completely numb. His stomach was spinning and the room was spinning and everything was spinning and he almost dropped to the ground right there because he was so incredibly overwhelmed.
Jonghyun’s hands landed on both of his shoulders from behind and shook them playfully, throwing Onew even more off balance. He guided him to the lone sofa in the room and pushed him to sit down.
“What are-stop-”
“Relax, hyung, relax,” he said, voice perfectly soothing, a smile lacing his tone. He sat down beside him. “You look great and you’ll walk just fine.”
Onew shook his head defiantly, eyes squeezing shut, nausea slowly creeping up his gut. “No, I-”
“You’re going to be all right.” Jonghyun rubbed his tuxedo-clad back smoothly. “And if you’re really dreading it that much, just remember that in like six hours, you’re going to be on your honeymoon, fucking Kibum into every available surface of that fancy hotel on the beach!” His optimistic tone made everything sound a little less vulgar and a little more reassuring. He stood again, making wide gestures to prove his point, whatever that was.
He didn’t have the strength to get embarrassed or scold him. He let out a shaky breath and his shoulders sagged.
“Also I asked the hotel to give you guys a little catalog of stuff you can buy, just some-”
Onew jumped to his feet. “Wait, what kind of stuff? Oh god, Jonghyun, what did you do?”
“I mean, it’s just-something to spice up your marriage! I’m just trying to help!”
“WE’RE NOT EVEN MARRIED YET!” Onew’s eyes tripled as soon as the syllables left his mouth. “‘Yet,’ oh my god Jonghyun, oh my god I’m going to throw up-” He slowly sunk down to the sofa again and buried his face in his hands. The world was spinning again.
“Listen,” Jonghyun said firmly, hearing that his cue was close in the music and promply sitting down beside Onew, “I have to go out there now. Do you know where you’re going? We rehearsed this, remember?”
He nodded, terrified as soon a Jonghyun mentioned leaving.
“Look, it’s just right out this door,” Jonghyun explained anyway, much to Onew’s relief. His hand was still comfortingly placed on his shoulder, and he pulled him to his feet again. He steered Onew in the direction of the door so he could point to where he needed to go. “Stop in the middle-Kibum will be there-and then walk up to the altar. It’s not difficult. You won’t get lost or anything. You’ll be fine.”
“Why couldn’t I just get eloped? Who suggested a wedding? Jonghyun, why did I agree to this?” his eyes were slowly growing as he caught a glimpse of the crowd outside the hall.
“You suggested a wedding, hyung, even Kibum said that he would be fine eloping,” Jonghyun’s grin didn’t help Onew’s state of anxiety.
“Oh god, I take it back. Whose idea were these white suits? I’m going to fall and get a grass stain on my ass and there are going to be pictures of it-Jonghyun, please don’t leave!” He clung to his best man’s sleeve desperately, at the edge of a panic attack.
“… Hyung, this is an indoor wedding,” Jonghyun deadpanned, tugging his sleeve away. “And I need to go, I’m supposed to be out there right now. Just take a deep breath. Don’t hyperventilate. Just calm down.”
Onew stepped away from him, nodding slowly, trying to repress his crippling nerves. Jonghyun was right, the rational half of him said. They’d already rehearsed this once. He managed to walk without tripping the first time, he could do it again.
“Okay, good luck, hyung! You look great!” Jonghyun’s grin lit up his face.
“You do too,” Onew said weakly, admiring his classy white tuxedo and navy bowtie.
“I know. I’ll see you in a minute, hyung!”
The moment Jonghyun was out of sight, Onew’s heart dropped and he compulsively began to check himself in the floor-length mirror at the opposite side of the room. His hair didn’t look right, he decided, the short black crop out of place.
That piece went there… no, wait it looked better on the other side. Oh man, why was he even trying to part it to the side, it was obviously too short. He shouldn’t have cut his hair at all.
He gave up with an exhuasted sigh.
He wondered what Kibum was doing. If Kibum was as nervous as he was. Or if he was so excited it was starting to make him sick, like it was with Onew.
Kibum probably wasn’t dying from anxiety like he was. Kibum was prepared for this. Granted, Onew was too, but Kibum was better at handling things than Jinki was.
Onew’s head snapped up.
That was his cue.
In the music.
That was it.
He was supposed to walk out now.
Onew was back to the conviction that he was going to throw up. He could barely stand up, his legs were shaking so badly. He craned his neck to see out the doorway, just for maybe a peek of his groom before he jumped headfirst into the shark-infested waters.
No luck.
He had to do it. Just like that.
He breathed in and out and tried to stay calm.
It was a lost hope, really.
Onew found the strength to continue walking. He was running on autopilot by now, because he honestly had never been more striken by pure anxiety in his entire life.
The wedding march was playing and he was walking hopefully on beat.
He was going down the hall. He could see the audience of people in his peripheral vision, but that wasn’t his immediate problem at hand.
Kibum wasn’t coming from the opposite hallway like he was supposed to.
Onew was reaching the middle, but Kibum wasn’t walking towards him.
His heart was steadily falling, and by the time he reached their mark, he was frozen.
He could hear whispers starting to sound around him. The pianist had to play a measure over again because of the pause.
Onew was rooted to his spot, otherwise he would have continued down the path to see what was wrong with Kibum. Why wasn’t he coming? Why was he-
Kibum stumbled into the doorway, smoothing down his hair and then fixing the sleeves of his jacket.
Onew’s heart floated up and he almost dropped down right there from relief. He went breathless.
Kibum stepped towards him in double-time, completely ignoring their previous rehearsals.
“Sorry,” he whispered, meeting Onew in the middle. “I was-my hair and my-jacket-sorry,”
“It’s okay,” Onew smiled shakily, holding out his elbow for Kibum to hold onto, just like they rehearsed.
Kibum didn’t take it; instead, he slid his hand from the crook of his arm down his wrist and into his hand. Their fingers laced together and Onew felt then that Kibum was shaking, too.
“Are we… Are we doing this now?” Kibum whispered from the corner of his mouth.
He looked from their hands to Kibum’s face, studying him properly for the first time.
Onew felt lighter than air. He’d never seen his friend, boyfriend, fiance, husband in less than half an hour, more beautiful in his entire life. His brain just about short-circuited, and he couldn’t manage to do anything but beam at him, the happiest man on the planet at that second.
“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
- day twelve: knowledge
minkey; 1490 words; angst, mentions of domestic abuse; r
“Are those bruises?” Minho got straight to what had been bothering him from the moment Kibum walked into his door, looking ruffled and battered in a way he’d automatically known was bad, wrong, not normal.
Kibum’s eyes went wide and he instantly began shaking his head. “No, they’re just-”
He stepped closer to him to look, and it was proven right then. His heart sank a thousand miles under ground level and he felt like he was punched right in the gut. He couldn’t even speak properly. “Those are fucking-bru-on your neck, Kibum, I-”
Kibum raised his hand to lay it over the purpling skin on his neck. “Just leave it, Minho.”
Minho refused to do any such thing. He pried Kibum’s fingers away from his neck. “What happened?” he demanded.
“Why do you need to know?” he asked defensively, trying to jerk away from Minho, whose hold on his wrist was bordering too-tight at this point.
He loosened his hold on his wrist-fuck, when he looked down he saw that there were pre-existing bruises there, too, and the instant guilt he felt for possibly hurting Kibum was suffocating at best-and tried to ask more gently this time. “Kibum, please just tell me what-”
“Just fucking leave it, okay?” Kibum snapped, voice raising for the first time.
Minho dropped his hand and forced himself to let out a steady breath, disappointment rising in his chest.
“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry.” Kibum’s face melted of all anger and he frantically apologized; his eyes were red around the edges already, growing more so with every syllable spoken in a choked voice.
Minho shook his head dismissively. He didn’t want to look directly at Kibum, not with the bruises on his throat so shockingly blatant. Turning away was his best bet, lest he break down in tears or alternately storm out of the house and force Kibum to show him the way to that bastard’s place and possibly commit a murder for what he did to Kibum.
He reached into his cabinet for a glass, in dire need of a drink of water to calm himself; his hands were shaking and his throat was squeezed shut.
“Can-” Kibum’s voice broke and he had to start over. “Can I stay here?”
“Yeah,” he said, and that was all he could handle. He poured water from a jug in the fridge into the glass, looking at that and that alone.
“Thank you.”
Minho downed his entire glass and all-but slammed it onto the counter. “I’m going to bed,” he said, frustrated and hurt and ready to shatter the glass if he stayed a moment longer.
Kibum looked up at him, and he had that look on his face. The one that Minho hated, abhorred more than anything else, because he looked so broken. So torn up and conflicted, lost and lonely and everything that he shouldn’t look like. Having a boyfriend was supposed to be just the opposite of all of that; he was supposed to be all smiles and shy glances, like how he was in the beginning.
Now, everything had changed, and Minho couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Kibum truly happy.
And that killed him, because he knew he could be the one to turn that back around. He loved Kibum more than any words could express, and every moment Kibum spent still tied-more like chained-down to that bastard was a moment wasted that they could be happy together.
Minho sighed and extended his hand to the unsure Kibum. “Come with me,” he said, exhausted, and pulled Kibum with him to his bedroom.
It was a huge relief, at least, that Kibum wasn’t dressed in wrinkled clothes anymore. His eyes were still dark and those fucking bruises on his neck were enough to bring tears to his eyes-after all, if there were bruises so visible there, then how many others did Kibum have, hidden from view?-, but at least he didn’t smell like sex and secondhand smoke anymore.
He was showered, dressed in pajamas he borrowed from Minho, and the scent of his body wash and the sight of his pajamas loosely hanging on his body gave Minho an entirely misplaced sense of possessiveness, the gratification that Kibum was here with him, that if only just for the night, Kibum was his. Kibum felt safer with him than his own boyfriend, willing to go to bed with him, knowing that he wouldn’t wake up to anything he didn’t want.
Kibum laid down first, per usual, sliding under the thick blankets on his usual side of the bed closest to the wall, facing away from Minho.
Minho rubbed his hands roughly over his face just after he flipped off the lights. Kibum looked so fucking small, so beaten-down and fragile. This wasn’t the Kibum he knew, who he grew up with and who he loved more than anything else in the entire world. This was a ghost of Kibum, a mere faint shadow. His spark was gone, his playful spirit so subdued under the iron fist of his “boyfriend,” the one he swore still loved him, the one he defended and blew off foul words about. He didn’t see what Minho saw, and he knew that Minho hated that man with his entire being. Hence why they’d never met face-to-face before.
Minho kneeled onto his bed and laid down, careful not to jostle Kibum. He didn’t know what that bastard had done to him this time around, where or how he’d hurt him, only that it was enough for him to run away to Minho’s place.
The lack of that knowledge hurt Minho worse than anything.
He reached out to gently touch Kibum’s shoulder, the lightest show of affection he could muster; all of this, he rationalized, could be chalked up as just affection between friends if it was ever an issue in Kibum’s mind. It was the best Minho could do.
“He would hate this if he found out,” Kibum whispered, a bitter sort of humor in his tone.
Minho scooted forward in a show of rebellion, his chest pressed against Kibum’s back, hand still rested on his shoulder. “Let him find out,” he murmured, lips moving just behind Kibum’s neck. “Tell him where you are and let him bust the door in when I don’t answer it. Let him in here if he wants. It’d be a fair fight.”
“Don’t fight anyone over me, Minho.”
“That’s exactly what I would do,” Minho said firmly, hand trailing carefully down Kibum’s arm until his hand was lying over top of Kibum’s. “I would fight until I won and then he could never have you back.”
“Don’t,” Kibum whispered, shifting to pull his legs further up to his chest.
Minho sighed softly, and Kibum undoubtedly felt the air on his neck. “At least he’d be hitting me instead of you for once.”
Kibum went completley rigid. “Minho, you-”
“I’m not an idiot, Kibum, I know what he does to you.”
Minho expected Kibum to bolt upright then. He expected him to deny every word and have an outburst. He expected him to gather his things and slam the door behind him as he left the apartment.
What he didn’t expect was Kibum to turn over and wrap his arms around him, to cling onto his shirt and bury his face in his chest. He didn’t expect him to start trembling, or for tears to start rolling down his cheeks.
Minho’s surprise stopped him from reacting immediately, but as soon as he could move again, his arms twined around Kibum’s figure and he slowly ran his hands through the back of his hair. “Shh… shh…” he said, and could only hope that he was properly assauging him. His chin rested atop Kibum’s head, and he squeezed his eyes shut to hold back his own tears. It was all he knew to do, to hold Kibum as close as he could and try to tell him through that touch alone that he was there, that he was safe.
“I’m scared,” Kibum admitted, tiny voice shaking harder than his body was.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” Minho cooed the words that he’d been dying to truthfully say, his heart clenching because he knew that about Kibum from the beginning, but never thought he would actually say it. “I love you, Kibum.”
He nodded against his chest, and then nothing else was said.
There was no move from either to move away from each other; Kibum fell soundly asleep just like that, with Minho’s fingers running through his hair and his arms tight around his torso.
Minho wasn’t sure what hurt worse to know this time around:
The fact that Kibum stopped defending his boyfriend, or the fact that he was so afraid he didn’t know how to get away.
- day thirteen: denial
jongho; 1134 words; angst, tragedy, illness; r
“Hyung, you do know what ‘terminal’ means, right?” Minho asked delicately, studying Jonghyun’s expression.
Jonghyun pursed his lips and furrowed his brows, hating that this conversation was coming up again. Worse than Minho’s illness itself was the so-called promise of the end. “Yes, I know what 'terminal’ means.”
Minho’s gaze remained steady on Jonghyun’s face, looking for something that Jonghyun couldn’t quite grasp. “You’re acting like you’re not exactly-”
“You’re not going to die, Minho,” Jonghyun’s eyes dipped down to their clasped hands, thumb tracing over the prominent veins in Minho’s hands. He wasn’t afraid to cut him off when he started with that, not anymore.
“Yeah, I am,” Minho smiled just enough to draw the chapped skin on his lips taut, but his eyes were dark, empty.
“No, you’re not,” Jonghyun said firmly, shaking his head. His brows drew tightly together and his heart felt like it was being squeezed unforgivingly when he recognized that look in Minho’s eyes, the detached one he now saw far too often. “You’re going to get better. What’s the point in even being here if you’re not going to get better?” he asked fiercely, gesturing around the hospital room for emphasis.
“Hyung, I-” Minho’s eyes filled with tears and his lips pressed together, stopping himself from saying anything.
Panic filled the older of the two. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said hurriedly, urgency on high. He leaned towards Minho in earnest and pushed his bangs away from his face with his free hand. Minho’s forehead was alarmingly hot, he felt from the brief contact, though it wasn’t much of a surprise considering Minho was usually running a fever.
It was absolutely shattering for Jonghyun to see Minho like this, hooked up to wires and drips, clothed in the flimsy hospital gown and sitting against crisp thin pillows. His eyes were dull, skin pallor-stricken. Lips untouchable because of circumstance, growing more and more chapped as he deteriorated in front of Jonghyun’s eyes.
His sickness was hitting hard these days, leaving not even a span of hours without some sort of incident. A coughing fit, falling unconscious. Sores littering his skin, visible even when he tried desperately to cover them so Jonghyun couldn’t see. Overheating, heart-rate jumping and slowing erratically and for no reason. Bones prominent in his wrists and his chest, cheekbones hollowed out. Getting sick even before he ate and heaving his stomach into the bowl beside his bed, muttering embarrassed apologies over and over to Jonghyun, who whispered reassurances while rubbing his back with one hand and holding his hair away from his face with the other.
The doctors never had good news. Not that they ever had, but at least before, every visit wasn’t made by the doctors wearing grim, sympathetic expressions, only to tell Minho in gentler terms that it was only a matter of time now.
Jonghyun refused to believe any of it. Nothing could take Minho away from him, no one could do that. Not even Minho himself, his long-before failed immune system (how ironic to contract this disease through a blood transfusion instead of the most common cause), or the pneumonia that threw him into this downward spiral.
Jonghyun wouldn’t accept it, wouldn’t believe it. Minho was going to stay with him, he promised that so long before. That’s what the ring on his left hand said, that’s what he was counting on. Minho was good at keeping promises. Minho was strong. He couldn’t just give up, he couldn’t.
“Why have I accepted this and you haven’t? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Minho asked, and any note of ironic humor he intended was snuffed out by the way his lips trembled around the words.
Jonghyun shook his head. “You’re going to get better, Minho,” he said softly but with the utmost conviction, combing his fingers through the younger’s outgrown and unwashed hair. “I know you are. You’ll be out in no time and you can come home again, okay?”
Minho sighed, eyes shutting, head tipping back against the pillows. “Home,” he said, a wistful edge in his voice.
“I miss you at home,” Jonghyun admitted, now watching his own fingers as they ran over Minho’s forearm. “It’s lonely without you.”
He snorted, bitter and humorless. “Maybe it’s time to get used to that, hyung,” he said, raw and harsh.
Jonghyun’s heart dropped into his gut. “No,” he said, voice barely managing to raise above a whisper as the beginnings of terror coursed through him that maybe, maybe-no, not maybe, it was impossible; Minho wasn’t leaving him, not saying goodbye, not now, not ever, no-Minho was right. “You’re going to come home with me one of these days. Soon.”
Minho’s eyes opened and met with Jonghyun’s.
Jonghyun didn’t anticipate seeing the same fear he felt echoed deep in Minho’s eyes.
“You’re going to be fine,” Jonghyun said, forcing a smile as best he could. He believed his words, had preached the same mantra over and over to himself enough to brainwash optimism.
Denial at its finest, whispered the rational voice in his head, but he didn’t need rationality. There was nothing rational about this, about how much it hurt to think that the one he loved more than anyone in the world could possibly leave him sooner than they’d anticipated with “till death do us part.”
“Jonghyun-hyung, you-I-” Minho stopped again, abruptly. He bit his lip so hard that it split, and Jonghyun had to reach quickly for a napkin on the bedside to clean it. He would have to wash his hands in a moment, he knew, because contact with Minho’s blood wasn’t safe, the doctors had told him time and time again, but dammit, he shared part of the disease already; he didn’t care that he would get worse, because if Minho was leaving him, he didn’t want to be around for much longer either.
He wanted to take care of Minho; he didn’t care about staying futilely sterile for his own sake.
“Shh, don’t worry about anything, Minho, okay? I’m here, I won’t let you go without a fight,” his smile was genuine the second time around, though weak as it was.
Minho’s eyes dropped to the sheets and a hot tear fell down his cheek, the first Jonghyun had seen in weeks.
Jonghyun tenderly wiped it away, and then half-stood to brush his lips against Minho’s forehead, whispering the most sincere “I love you” against the burning skin.
____
A week passed and Minho was lying still in his bed, hand still clasped with Jonghyun’s as the older clung tightly to the sheets in shock, pain slowly setting in, the most cruelly gripping agony he’d ever experienced.
He was left to wonder if the optimism was even worth it.
- day fourteen: wind
onho; 885 words; fluff, general; pg13
It was mid-afternoon and Minho was already exhausted. Once he stepped into his hotel room, he didn’t even want to think about the photoshoot that morning or the one he was scheduled for late in the night.
Paris was a beautiful city at night, he knew from past experience, but he’d much rather spend his night curled up with his boyfriend in their lavish hotel room than posing and taking pictures.
“Jinki-hyung?” he called into the room-such a nice room, he thought for the umpteenth time since he’d arrived the day before, definitely one of the perks of being a prestigious model for a living-, perfectly clean from maid service, but also alarmingly… empty.
“Hyung?” he called a second time, crossing the front room to peek into the single bedroom for any sign of Jinki. He didn’t expect him to answer aloud (yelling wasn’t a skill the older man had yet re-acquired), but there was no indication at all that he was still in the room.
Worry creased Minho’s brow and he walked the floor more slowly.
A paper square of loud orange on the table caught his eye and he breathed a sigh of relief.
The note read only a single word: “Balcony”.
Minho smiled to himself and looked at the unlocked balcony door.
“Hyung?” he called more gently this time, cracking the door open to look out.
Jinki was sitting on the small cushioned bench just outside, but he didn’t look up when Minho walked out. A more speculative glance showed a beyond-endeared Minho that his boyfriend had fallen asleep on the bench, head lolling to the side, body covered by a striped blanket.
Feeling stealthy and invisible, Minho relaxed and leaned against the doorway.
He breathed easily and took an extra moment to admire how honestly gorgeous his hyung was. Something about the winter sunlight in Paris was clearer than back in Seoul, purer. Bathing his boyfriend in a soft muted glow, hair shining and moving with the light chilly wind, lips looking softer than ever, the weather was perfect even for being winter. The backdrop of the beautiful city was only an added plus, pristine architecture and genuine beauty all hitting him harder than it had the times he’d visited before.
Though the city was moving all around, everything about the scene was slow, peaceful.
His steps were careful as he walked to the bench, his move to sit down even more so.
And despite his best attempts to be smooth and not wake Jinki, he was blinking his eyes open soon enough, hair falling over his face as he looked around to see what disturbed him.
Minho placed a hand on his shoulder-the blanket slid down his lap-and lightly squeezed.
Jinki smiled in return, lips barely curving, eyes still mostly shut.
“I’m back,” he said, as if it wasn’t obvious.
Jinki’s smile grew slightly and he shifted sideways until he was sitting up, though mostly slouching comfortably into Minho’s side.
Minho wrapped his arm snugly around Jinki’s shoulders and leaned into him as well, very much relishing the feeling of Jinki’s arm draped over his middle and his warmth on his body.
His eyes closed for a moment and the serenity of the warm Parisian wind barely blowing against his skin and through his hair made it quite near impossible to open them again.
He ran his hand down the side of Jinki’s arm. “Thanks for coming with me,” he said quietly, almost afraid to speak and break the atmosphere.
Jinki backed away to look him in the eye, expression calm with a smile across his lips. His hand lifted from his waist to the back of his neck, coaxing him down for a chaste, soft kiss.
Inviting Jinki with him was the best idea he could have possibly had, he decided in the seconds the kiss lasted. This was possibly the most romantic thing he could’ve done, bring Jinki here, and the only downside was that he was technically here because of work, with a runway show the next day and two more photoshoots after that, not to mention a formal party that was no less than mandatory by Kibum’s standards the following day. He felt a little guilty that he had to leave Jinki in the hotel room alone all day, but Jinki didn’t seem to mind too much, not with the beautiful city view they had from the balcony plus the tempting option of sleeping in every day. With Jinki here, it felt a lot less work and much more like a vacation, a romantic getaway for their birthdays.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Jinki said in Minho’s ear, hoarse voice cutting in and out just like it always did when he woke up.
Minho didn’t hesitate to steal one more kiss before Jinki backed away again to lay his head down on Minho’s shoulder.
It was almost regrettable, the way that his lids grew heavy in the warmth and he had to miss out on this beautiful view. But he couldn’t think of any better way to spend an already-tired afternoon than by taking a leisurely nap on their balcony, sun peeking through the clouds, wind ruffling their hair and their clothes until they were all layered and creased atop each other.
- day fifteen: order
jongyu; 1055 words; comedy, romance, general; pg13
Jinki was a great waiter. Charming, friendly, all bright smiles and hair-flips and a great enough memory that he never had to write anything down and it would all come out perfectly.
The cafe he worked at wasn’t as great. But Jinki alone was the reason that Jonghyun kept coming back for his routine sandwich and cappuccino every Thursday night.
“Hello, Jonghyun-ssi,” was spoken per usual as Jinki bowed when Jonghyun entered the small, quiet cafe.
He gave a two-fingered wave; he wasn’t in his normal high spirits. It was a hard day for him; he had to fire two of his best employees that day for stealing money from the store, leaving him two short in the record store he owned.
And on top of that, the blind date he’d gone on two nights previous didn’t go well, and by the look of things, he was set to be single for at least the next millennium.
He blamed most of that on his none-too-little crush on the waiter at the cafe.
“What’s your meal for this fine evening?” The waiter in question slid into the seat across from Jonghyun, leaning forward on his elbows, holding out a menu with a smile.
“The usual order,” Jonghyun refused the menu.
“So…” He pulled out his forever-unused notepad from his pocket and pretended to write on it with an invisible pen. “A hot fudge sundae-no fudge you said? just melted ice cream?-kimchi ramen milkshake, and a diet Coke because you’re watching your figure. Is that right?”
Jonghyun grinned and rolled his eyes, the waiter’s antics already cheering him up.
Jinki matched his grin, eyes reduced to slits in the handsome way Jonghyun liked to see. “I’ll be back with your sandwich and cappuccino.” He stood from the chair and stashed the still-untouched notepad in his apron pocket.
“Thank you,” Jonghyun said, and folded his hands on the table.
Jinki came back around only a few seconds later. “Is there anything I can get you while you wait?”
“Two able-bodied works who understand how to use a cash register, maybe?” he asked, letting a bit of his stress seep into his tone.
Jinki smiled sadly. “I’m afraid we don’t have any of those on the menu.”
Jonghyun shrugged. “Then I guess I’m good for now.”
Jinki looked troubled by his unusually low spirit. “You seem down. Do you want a coloring page and crayons or something?”
Jonghyun laughed, but felt touched all the same because Jinki was genuinely trying. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”
Jinki nodded, and as he passed Jonghyun to tend to the other customers, he patted his back.
And that made Jonghyun smile. Really big.
As promised, the food came out only minutes later, Jinki carrying it out with a spring in his step.
“For you,” he said happily as he set it on the table in front of Jonghyun.
Jonghyun immediately reached for the sugar packets on the table.
“Oh, I already added the sugar for you. Two packets, right?” He held up his fingers innocently.
Jonghyun nodded, impressed that Jinki knew to add the sugars, since he’d never asked him to in the past.
The waiter’s smile lit up the whole room. “Is there anything else you need? Besides two workers?” He clarified the second part when Jonghyun smirked and opened his mouth to respond.
He smiled and changed his answer. “I need a vacation. And a boyfriend. You know, to spend the vacation with.”
Jinki’s face fell and he pulled a menu out of his apron, flipping through it. “I’m really sorry, but that was Tuesday night’s special.”
“Ugh,” Jonghyun threw his hands up, mock-outraged. “I always get those two days confused.”
“I can check in the back to see if we have any leftovers?” Jinki offered, pointing over his shoulder. A smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth as he continued the joke.
“No, it’s okay.” He chewed and swallowed a bite of the sandwich. “I wouldn’t want an old refrigerated guy anyway.”
“We keep them under heat lamps, actually.”
“Eh, I’ll pass.”
Jinki glanced over Jonghyun’s head to the other table and saw that they didn’t need anything, so he sat down across from him again.
“What’s your type? So I can save one of them next Tuesday?”
“Anyone like you would be great,” he flirted shamelessly; if Jinki didn’t show aversion to wanting a boyfriend by now, Jonghyun didn’t have much to lose.
“Like me? I know a great guy like me!” He grinned and pulled out his notepad again, this time with the accompanying pen.
Jonghyun watched with interest, wondering if this was another joke or if Jinki was really that naive.
“Here’s his number. His name is Lee Jinki, and he’s a waiter.”
Jonghyun chuckled and took the sheet Jinki tore off. “Yeah? And you think he’d go for me?” He studied the number, and his heart jumped when he saw that it was a legitimate phone number, and that meant that this wasn’t just another one of Jinki’s jokes.
He nodded vigorously, and then pushed his overgrown bangs out of his eyes. “Yeah, he told me-and this is kind of weird, because I didn’t know you guys met before-that he thinks you’re pretty cool. And good-looking. And funny. And he doesn’t like it when you look down, and he really wants you to smile.”
Jonghyun hid his face as he folded up the sheet with the phone number on it, because he felt his cheeks heat up and he really didn’t want to seem that uncool to Jinki, that his words actually made him blush.
So, he stashed the number safely in his pocket, and then looked up when his cheeks cooled down enough for the color to be unnoticeable.
He couldn’t help the smile that spread from ear to ear as he saw Jinki’s expectant look.
Jinki’s expression softened in turn. “See? Like that.”
“Excuse me?” The other table calling out interrupted their moment, and Jinki stood up immediately.
Jonghyun chuckled and took a sip of his cappuccino. At least the day balanced itself out, from being entirely shitty to being pretty great.
At least his crush wasn’t unrequited like he thought it was.
He saw himself coming here more often than once a week in the future. Definitely.