SHINee Duets 2012: capebuffalo & ikui (part two)
Apparently, what is considered fair compensation for being late to the new job is two straight weeks of staying in and locking up the offices, which was just so suitable for a Kim Kibum brand of punishment. Sure, his mistake may have set back the authoritative presence he was supposed to have inspired, co-captain of the fast train, first impressions on the young blood and all, but things were not progressing as badly as Jinki thought. Surely he deserved pity from the constant 12 hour work days.
Such as right now, Friday night in the offices, cleared of people but not their traces. Jinki walks between the spaces of tightly arranged cubicles, toeing the scattered sheets of paper and avoiding stray sharp protrusions: Staples, pins, paperclips. They were in the full-swing of campaign mode, teams working from the menial end of line, stapling fliers and folding brochures; to men manning the lines, throwing phones over desks and speaking to the American people. Other spaces were piled high with boxes, full of all that fun paraphernalia: obnoxious blue, white and red hats, and paper flags to match. The chaos in preparation for public events, long lists on clipboards, a rough schedule written out in red on their massive whiteboard. Oh, and of course, empty coffee cups in every space imaginable.
It’s not a mess one man can handle, so Jinki leaves the room as is and makes a mental note to buy some donuts for the cleaning crew, his apology.
That decision made, Jinki should be returning home, thinking about how to convince an old associate from Yale -- high maintenance and hard to please -- to attend the NYC gala in a few weeks. One would think being an alumni would enough of a qualifier, celebrating the success of proud graduates and all, but this lady had an eye for perfection. Jinki dreaded the thought of creating multiple simpering e-mails attuned to her favorite turns of phrase, as well as sending her a bouquet of carnations, her favourite.
Unfortunately the blueprints to his plan do not have a chance to develop because when Jinki heads to the door, hands on the dial to dim the lights, a glow appears from one of the cubicles. Shadows move and a strange sense of nostalgia bubbles up; an enthused youth staying behind, working unpaid hours for the sake of completing tasks to perfection, for the sake of making a difference. That work ethic, that wasted effort, Jinki has already learned is all for naught. However, this guy has no clue of such a reality, and Jinki begrudgingly trots over.
“Hey, some people like to go home before midni--” Jinki’s eyes narrow. “--What are you doing?”
Not an idealist after all; just his assistant, for all intents and purposes. His initial reaction is to kick Minho out, no questions asked, but instead Jinki stares wide-eyed, baffled as the man who is an irritatingly four inches taller, is far beneath him and prostrate on the ground. When Minho does rise, his head hits the edge of the desk and Jinki cringes, hearing the hard knock and muffled curses. Yet, as if not bewildering enough, Minho for once has the gull to ignore him (and the pain), continuing to scour the floor. Only seconds later, Minho is up on his feet, padding down his pockets, expression dark enough it was borderline Dateline special kind of scary.
He knew he should’ve bagged his Leatherman.
“...Is everything okay?”
Minho glances at him -- or rather, glares, either way it’s almost enough to scour his eyeballs out. “It’s nothing,” he says gruffly, and something about the way he only gives him enough attention to answer his question before his eyes are darting around once more, away and inattentive, makes Jinki feel inexplicably uneasy. “I misplaced my keys.”
“Oh.” Maybe it’s just a reflex, but Jinki crouches down, in search for a glimmer of anything, nudging over dusty power strips and peeling apart cables before Minho cuts in abruptly, like he can’t believe this is actually happening.
“Don’t--” Jinki hears him say, before he stops, then starts again. “I mean, thanks, but it’s okay. I’ve already looked there, I’ll just go through this stuff on my desk--”
“Wait a second,” Jinki pokes his head from underneath the desk, almost knocking into Minho’s arm. “Don’t you have a roommate? Kim Jonghyun? Can’t he just let you in?”
For being such a whiz kid, that simple logic seems to have escaped the man, and Jinki finds himself leaning back until he’s staring straight at him, biting back his annoyance at this missed connection. He’s not entirely surprised to see it matched in full, their expressions exact mirrors, just like the first day they met; even so, it’s hard not to be taken aback. But the most interesting thing was how, at the last second, Minho seems to catch himself; it was like watching a living art form, the smooth mask sliding into place as the other man takes a short, deep breath before giving a small apologetic nod and digging out his cell. Even though a line of tension was still running along his jaw, the back of his neck and shoulders; the only reason why Jinki knew of the falsification was because he had seen it in action.
It was a talent worthy of a politician.
“--What? Again?”
Jinki dusts himself and gets back on his feet, listening to the phone conversation off-hand.
“Just go home then!” Minho runs a hand through his hair, shirt ruffled and, Jinki suspects, not having the most successful conversation.
“You’re telling me to wait outside?” Now Minho is pacing, fist closed at his side. “Where the fuck am I supposed to wait at this hour? Do you not recall I was mugged last time?”
Jinki blinks, his mouth falling open slightly, an I’m so sorry on his lips before he swallows it back down. Shit, was he actually starting to feel bad for the guy?
“Fine. Fine.” Minho is sighing into his phone; at this point, Jinki’s feeling a little uncomfortable. “Just call me when you’re ready.”
“Fuck.” Minho’s thumb hits the screen of his phone, a beep indicating the end of his call before he practically falls onto the nearest chair. Long fingers proceed to rub at his temples, and although Jinki can surmise the conclusion of the conversation, he asks anyway.
“So, going home?”
“Yeah right, he’s partying again.” Minho doesn’t bother moving; slouched, bitter, and defeated. “Told me to wait till he had his fill, whatever the fuck that means.”
Jinki’s counted three curses in the span of less than a minute -- certainly no world record, but still, in a subtle manner, a cry for help.
“Where are you going to wait?” It’s not like Jinki actually cares, but as a superior, he does have some obligation to the safety of his workers -- or at least, that’s how the reasoning should go.
“...The front lounge of the building stays unlocked, right?”
And there’s no reason whatsoever that Jinki should feel anything or think that Minho’s eyes have gotten rounder, a little less handsome and a notch more vulnerable. However, if Jinki does have to make a reason, it might have something to do with the whole pathetic nature of the situation, pure tragedy for a young guy to be bumming around alone on a Friday night. If anything, it’s the only reason Jinki feels sympathy (or so he tells himself), contemplating a decision with a roundabout catch.
“Have you eaten?”
Minho gives him that look he had seen only before he started being a deliberately demanding shithead, cautious and almost alarmed.
“No?”
“Well, I’m ordering pizza.”
Those long lashes flutter in confusion, and Jinki frustratingly finds his own gaze trailing away from the handsome face.
“I usually end up wasting half anyway,” Jinki says, grasping at a last minute explanation, not filling enough of the gaps to be completely transparent, but enough to give a good hint.
Minho takes the bait. “Need someone to finish the rest?”
“Need someplace to stay?” Jinki quickly bites back, choosing to focus on Minho’s fingers, which happen to be juggling the phone.
“Hey...thanks.”
It’s an odd exchange, but it works, neither side having to give up too much of their dignity, and Jinki feeling a smidgen less guilty for his treatment of the guy having a hard time -- although Minho still deserved it -- being put up for daily challenges.
Walking to the door, Jinki waits quietly as Minho follows, the guy hoisting an informal thin trench over broad shoulders, swinging a scarf around his neck, and looking like one of those college overachievers, right down to the douchebag dress code. Those were the types Jinki had avoided at all costs, chumps trying to run an absurd winter fashion show in early fall. Jinki, however, decides to keep his mental commentary to himself. In fact, he remains completely silent, walking in quick strides down the halls, to the elevator, and into the basement parking lot. He only has the slight of mind to make sure Minho is behind him when he reaches Lucinda, shined up thanks to an unexpectedly warm last weekend.
Of course, he didn’t need to worry -- Minho is right there (the guy seriously had some crazy long legs), pausing to stare his car up and down. Jinki is no fool; he can read that brief look of disbelief, but he prefers to ignore it, since no judgment could be more devastating than the tongue lashing received by Kibum.
“Need to put your stuff in the trunk?”
Jinki eyes Minho’s book bag, slung over the man’s shoulder. Another choice in style that made the man look modern, not overstated, but still such a jag.
“I can hold it.”
It irritates Jinki because Minho replies without looking at him, instead eyeing what Jinki assumes is the rust on the passenger door, something he could not control without paying a hefty bill that would cost more than his car. Again, Jinki refrains from acting, unlocking the doors and climbing into the driver’s seat. No point in starting something when the guy was going to be spending the night. If possible, it was in Jinki’s best intentions to prevent the escalation of awkwardness.
Unfortunately, that goal is difficult to accomplish once Jinki realizes he hasn’t had another passenger in his car for months. That detail is obvious once Minho opens the door to a seat piled high with pamphlet proofs and discarded paper napkins from Panera.
“Uh, let me get that.”
Jinki is not helping the reputation of his ride whatsoever, haphazardly tossing the documents and trash to the backseat, which also held other not so triumphant details of his life: A sleeping bag and two cases of ginger ale. Yet, thoughtfully enough, Minho makes no further comment, slipping into his seat quietly. The polite silence makes Jinki rethink that maybe the guy isn’t as judgmental as he made him out to be.
“So what’d you name her?”
Jinki blinks midway into through their drive; otherwise, there had been no sound other than the buzz of NPR, broadcasting a recap of the night’s news.
“Name her?”
Red light.
“Your car?”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the steering wheel as his foot presses into the brake, but that effort alone doesn’t stop Jinki from feeling the gaze boring into his skull.
“She looks well-cared for, despite all the...stuff.” The simple explanation said in a voice that Jinki could only really describe as coming from the soles of one’s feet. “I figured you must’ve given her a name.”
In a strange way, Jinki’s touched.
“Lucinda.”
Minho laughs, the kind of failed attempt at holding a grin back through long fingers. Jinki’s not sure if it was meant to be mocking, but like the first day of work, being attractive makes the questionable intent almost bearable.
Okay, so Jinki did look away from the wheel, just for a second.
“That really suits her -- I like it.”
The green light acting as his savior, Jinki lets the brief conversation drop, foot to the pedal and eyes on the road. Perhaps it was just the remnants of severe introversion, but Jinki finds himself wanting this whole endeavour to be as painless as possible. Which is why, when they reach the intended destination, Jinki plays the role of neglectful host once again. Immediately after parking the car outside his apartment complex, Jinki barely pays any attention to Minho after his feet hit the pavement.
Jinki’s already inside the brick building, skidding down the hallways, up the stairs (nine flights because that was really his only exercise beyond dashing back and forth in between offices), until he’s down the familiar carpeted hallways, dim globe lights and musty white walls. Key quickly jammed into the lock so that as soon as he steps in, relief floods his senses at the sight of what could only be described as the prototypical bachelor pad. Only that relief is short-lived as Jinki hears a set of footsteps enter behind him. It had definitely been a foolish hope in thinking that he could somehow escape, especially since Minho had the appearance of an athletic god that could stay on Jinki’s heels with ease.
“Make yourself at home.” Jinki concedes defeat, albeit a little late, motioning Minho to his tight living room space.
“Thanks.” Minho looks around carefully before squeezing past Jinki and sitting gingerly down on the couch.
“The remote is on the table.” Jinki really dreads the blank look the younger man gives him. “I have digital. Over 100 channels. HD, even. Um, pick what you like.”
“Oh, sure -- thanks.”
Another stiff as hell response, and Jinki takes it upon himself to realize that it was likely his fault, the receded lights above his head, screaming that not another soul had entered his apartment for months on end. Entertaining people was truly beyond him ,and as for inviting romantic interests, that was another self-explanatory point. Master of his domain, Jinki liked to tell himself -- or just really, really sad.
Thoughts steeped in utter tragedy are interrupted when Jinki’s buzzer sounds. He gives Minho a quick excuse me glance before returning moments later, pizza box in hand with a side of hot wings and a thick stack of napkins. There’s also a six pack of beer and ginger ale -- a custom mix and match -- hanging off two fingers, trying to be accommodating but also realizing that those were really the only two options in Jinki’s fine abode.
Jinki places everything in front of the television, currently flickering between scenes on the local ABC news hour, something Minho probably chose as neutral ground. Not that such a decision bothers Jinki as he opens the box, the en masse effect of greasy cheese, tangy sauces, and dry chicken strips enough to make his head spin with hunger. Stomach growling, lunch having only been a stale biscotti that Kibum had chucked at his head, Jinki readies himself to dive in.
“Delivery is fast in DC, huh?”
And of course, it’s small talk that stops him just short.
“What do you mean?” Jinki leans into his seat at the other end of the sofa, physically dejected that he couldn’t just wolf the whole meal down, before catching himself and straightening up, trying to appear more civilized for once.
“Well,” Minho explains in a manner that appears to involve a deliberate choice of words, “I didn’t see you call for delivery, so if you did it just now--”
“I used the Domino’s Pizza app before driving here,” Jinki interjects a little too casually, only then recalling Kibum’s sardonic look from the last time he revealed such details about his life.
It’s not Jinki’s fault he was a man of the 21st century -- or perhaps, to be more accurate, just that sad.
“That’s pretty resourceful.”
Oh. Okay.
“It’s better than waiting around, right?”
Minho takes a bite of his pizza earnestly, looking like some trendy advertisement that would have everyone under the age of thirty-five calling up Domino’s right this second. Jinki just hopes that his flabbergasted feelings won’t show this opinion, because first of all, no one approves of his indiscretions with the app world, and secondly, no one would be so complacent with the state of his car. Especially if one takes Choi Minho into perspective -- it simply goes against common sense that he would be so nice to his superior. After all, Jinki could still recall with a twisted sense of satisfaction, the discouraged looks and straight middle fingers he had received.
Unless, Minho thinks this turn of events was a chance to receive brownie points.
Fat chance that was going to happen. Jinki was no pushover to flattery, and hell if he started now.
Satisfied with this conclusion, Jinki blatantly disregards Minho, reaching for the largest of the uneven pizza slices. Two hands on the crust, dough sagging with all the toppings, Jinki digs in. Truly astounding, the way the taste of cheap food could make his mood turn around from the hair-tearing stressors that are continually present.
He’s tearing into a chicken wing by the time Minho makes another attempt at small talk, a courteous undertaking that he’s not sure why the man seems so set upon.
“So...you like chicken? I mean, on your pizza.”
Who doesn’t? is what Jinki wants to say, although at the last minute he remembers to refrain from being a wiseass, as Kibum so affectionately referred to him.
“Yeah.”
A curt response should end things, right? Just watch the television, Choi.
“I’m more of a Hawaiian person myself.”
“You mean pineapples?” Jinki finds himself disgusted in more ways than one: First because Minho did not get the obvious message to shut up, and second, because pineapples just violates all combined principles of the salty, savory taste of ingredients on a flat piece of dough.
“Hey, they’re good!” Minho laughs, a friendly attempt to defend himself. “Adds some sweetness, you know?”
And if Jinki had not already been hardened against the façade of gorgeous faces and charming smiles, he might have fallen for Minho’s words. There were some uses to his developed cynicism from the political field, after all.
“Yeah right, good,” Jinki scoffs, tone still unforgiving and enough to earn him a weak smile in return. Maybe, if he had so much as a sliver of compassion left, maybe that look would’ve made him feel slightly guilty; but he doesn’t, and Jinki quickly rejects that thought, moving on to his fourth slice.
Food alone, however, cannot distract his eyes from an all-too familiar thirty second advertisement, the one they had approved for the airwaves earlier this week; the television projecting an image of his boss at the top, the one and only POTUS. Images and slogans roll by: The man playing golf, being a dedicated father, speaking in front of congress and the nation; ‘The man to reduce the deficit’, ‘The man who upholds education as a top priority, ‘A president who has united a nation.’ Jinki makes no effort to stop his scornful laugh; it looked even less convincing on live broadcast.
“Have to launch the hype somehow.” The backhanded comment. The slip.
“Isn’t that your -- our boss?”
Jinki pauses, remembering all over again this this shit didn’t sail anymore; he was no longer privy to an environment where he could openly scorn the cause he was supposed to be supporting.
“So you don’t think you’re working for the right side?” Minho continues to prod, his expression inquiring but not threatening.
“It’s choosing the lesser of two evils.” Jinki really sees no reason to lie, reaching for a beer. “I’m just in it for the paycheck.”
“There are other jobs you could be working at if you were only in it for the money,” Minho comments, tone light but his stare intense, and Jinki fails once again to tear his own gaze away. “There must be something that binds you to this job. I mean, when people succeed in their ambitions, it would be difficult to believe that they would be doing something they didn’t have faith in.”
“You’d be surprised what people can do.” Jinki’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, scraping the flesh as he tries to suppress the unexpected, unnamed surge of hurt; Minho’s words rang with a kind of clear naivete that he hadn’t heard in ages. “You’ll learn that in a couple years if you stay in the political playground, kid.”
“That doesn’t change my point.” Minho is unwavering, choosing not to bite back at the petty attack on his experience. “If this is the kind of environment the job entails, why would you stay? There’s a reason.”
Now he’s pissed. If Jinki wanted a therapy session, he would hire a professional, not some starry-eyed guy who got around on good looks.
“Are you looking for some inspired motivation, the proverbial American Dream?” Jinki wipes the grease from his fingertips, appetite totally dead. “Fighting for liberty, equality, freedom of speech, or if I may be so ambitious, eliminating economic disparity? Sure, those things are nice to believe in, until you realize they’re all nothing more than semantics.”
Jinki’s breath is uneven; as stressful as his days are, he hasn’t felt this worked up since his previous time in the White House.
“Words have power.”
Jinki blinks; it’s not the response he expected. Minho is not discouraged in the slightest, instead giving Jinki another one of those looks, this sanguine mixture of determination and reluctant admiration -- at least, for things Jinki did before he met him.
“If it’s all semantics,” Minho continues, “then you’re the master of them. That’s what you offer.”
That sick to your stomach feeling, as if your diary has been opened, the most important pages read by an unwanted visitor; Jinki frowns, a borderline grimace. If his book was to be read, it was only fair for him to intrude himself.
“What’s your purpose, then?” Postponing a future in law school, experience beyond any young twenty-something year old, Choi Minho must have had a reason as well.
Jinki is correct with his hypothesis; Minho looks embarrassed, his hands wringing together.
“Well, it probably sounds pretty stupid,” Minho explains, and Jinki couldn’t find himself agreeing more, after hearing the man’s opinions. “But sometimes you have to put your foot down, like an intervention?”
“After racking up over $100 000 in student loans, watching student protests for every cause possible, being in an environment that touts the phrase ‘critical thinking’... You get tired you know?” Minho’s eyes are focused, voice growing in confidence with every passing syllable. “Tired of being the one to analyze and criticize, constantly putting your beliefs into papers or presentations that won’t reach outside some academic or private privileged sphere. I guess when this opportunity came up, it was telling me to put my money where my mouth was, to actually do something instead of complaining without giving solutions. The effort seems meaningless otherwise, right?”
By no means the most articulate or eloquent declaration, but Jinki finds his empathy being drawn forth despite his best efforts to deny it. The quiet observation is left on his tongue.
“You’re one of those types.” Jinki swallows, tongue pressed between dry lips. “You’d be happy if your job involved changing one person at a time.”
Minho gives the affirmative nod, eyes back on the television with a soft whisper.
“It has to start somewhere. Why not one person, then a community, a city, a state...”
A country.
It’s unmistakable, that determined glint in shining black eyes, one that makes Jinki want to choke with disbelief yet also stare in complete awe.
The presidency.
That explains the resolute stance of optimism.
“Marjory!”
What the-- “Huh?”
Minho barely registers the audio of his boss questioning him, his eyes glued to the current commercial, puppies playing Frisbee before enjoying a meal of commercial brand dog food.
“My dog.” Minho thinks of her big black eyes, his heart racing.
“Oh, you have a dog? You know that brand, they sent me a sample in the--”
“No one’s home to feed her!”
Minho’s mind is already spinning into pre-panic as he jumps up, coat already swung around his shoulders and arms reaching for his belongings.
“Ah, thanks for the meal but I need to go.”
A mad shuffle ensues as he tries to squeeze himself between the table, the sofa, and Jinki’s legs all at once, tripping over a stack of books as he heads the door, more than one indication that he can no longer think straight. But who could blame him? His whole body was charged, imagining the sad whines and drooping eyes of his little baby. He needed to save Marjory, knock down his fucking door, strangle Jonghyun for being an irresponsible partying prick-
“Woah, get a grip.”
Jinki’s hand is looped around his wrist, tight and grounded.
“You don’t even have a key.” The warm voice of reason, slowly seeping into his skin and calming his sudden rush of adrenaline. “What would you do once you got there? Your dog can skip one meal, can’t she?”
“She’s just a puppy,” Minho mutters, as if that was reason enough to defy rational logic.
The look he receives in response, an arched brow and inquisitive eyes is enough to make Minho freeze, puffing as he gathers himself and stares down at his boss.
“Do you need a ride?”
The automatic retort dies with a surprised exhale; this was the third time Lee Jinki offered to save him in one night, despite all the fear and loathing he wielded in the office.
The guy was so weird.
The whole incomprehensibility of the night is why Minho figures it’s okay to lose his shit for half an hour; when they finally stop outside of his apartment complex, it’s his turn to leave Jinki behind -- a complete role reversal, where instead of Minho barely catching the door as the code is punched in, it’s Jinki jamming his hand between the doorframe so he is not locked out.
He’ll apologize later, but there are higher priorities as he runs to the second floor of the building, halting with bated breath outside his door.
“Jory?” The half-shout and knock on the door, hopefully loud enough for her to hear, but not loud enough to disturb the neighbours at midnight.
Then Minho hears it, the heartbreaking scamper of paws down his hardwood floor, a tiny whimper and squeaked barks.
“Jory--” Minho crouches and almost sighs with relief, knowing that she was still alive (and why wouldn’t she be, but panic overrides that bit of logic). “I’ll get to you somehow, okay?”
“Gonna dash through the door or break it down?”
Minho turns to the voice, Jinki wheezing and crouching down to be level with him.
“I’m not in charge of your salary,” Jinki pronounces, and Minho can detect that the man was probably annoyed at being thrown away so quickly, “but after hearing about your debt, I’m not sure you’d want to pay your landlord for those kinds of repairs.”
Of course he’s right, but Minho still can’t give up. “I have to get to her.”
“Remember what Kibum said?”
Minho really doesn’t think this is the time to run through psychological strategies; instead of answering, he sticks his fingers as far as they’ll fit underneath the door frame, feeling Marjory lick at them. She was right there and yet Minho felt beyond helpless -- irresponsible for losing his keys, stupid for not thinking about her beforehand, and a complete pushover for not convincing his roommate to get the fuck home.
“Fine, ignore me.”
Minho glances towards Jinki, the man withdrawing a bag from his pocket.
“I just hope she won’t bite me.”
A heart shaped kibble is suddenly clasped between two fingers, and Minho watches as Jinki slips a thumb in the crack beneath door. The man clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Minho bears witness to an even stranger occurrence of the night.
“Here, Jory. Try some.” Jinki speaks softly, a tone so velvety that it makes the insides of Minho’s ears warm. That sensation only becomes enhanced when Jinki giggles from what Minho assumes is Marjory licking the man’s fingers, especially satisfying after hearing the crunch of her accepting the mystery food.
Calm, almost sweetly, Jinki continues this process, withdrawing one pellet after another from a mailbox sample of commercial dog food. Consequently, it is only excusable that Minho is more than a little bit astounded.
The tyrant, the man who had made his move to Washington a living nightmare, an experience that Minho could honestly consider a regret without any positives; here he was, playing with a puppy of all things. To think Lee Jinki was actually human and albeit, a bitter pill to swallow, Minho had to admit the man was also generous. If it wasn’t for Jinki, the both of them would be starving, and Minho would’ve likely had to call his creditors to cancel another stolen card.
Somehow it seemed the correct timing for an apology, though Minho struggles to come up with a solid reason why.
“Thanks for everything.” He braces the heel of his hand against the door, an attempt to transfer warmth to Jory on the other side. “And sorry for ignoring you earlier; you were right.”
Jinki just smiles, unfazed from his task in feeding the unseen but assumed to be adorable pet. “Remember how Kibum said every moment is a learning opportunity? Consider this another one, except it’s the most important lesson you’ll learn: I’m always right.”
It’s a joke, blunt yet somehow still excusable from the man he thought didn’t have a shred of mercy, and Minho unexpectedly finds himself chuckling. In this light, he had to concede that somehow, Jinki had become a little more pleasant and maybe even a little more attractive: A secret 100 kilowatt smile of charm.
“She’s tiny, isn’t she?” Jinki has a small grin planted on his lips, and Minho feels a slight warmth on his cheek as he continues to observe. “Her tongue can’t be any wider that the tip of my thumb.”
“Yeah.”
The bag empties, and Minho knows that he has effectively screwed over any attempts at having Marjory on a set diet. However, he also presumes that she deserves the extra treat, having to suffer due to his mishap. His hand goes back under the door; he can feel Marjory’s face rub against the tips of his fingers, wet nose and warm huffs of tired exhales. She was probably going to sleep, alone at the front door.
“Sorry, Jory,” Minho apologizes with a sad look aimed at the unyielding wooden slab, “I won’t ever let this happen again, I promise.”
He should also tell Jinki thanks once more before strongly suggesting that he can leave -- at the very least, begin the head charge into alleviating all the awkwardness that was surely going to crop up once daylight breaks. Only when Minho turns his head to follow through on his intentions, he discovers it’s not very possible anymore: Jinki is fast asleep, slouched against the doorway, hand curled against the floor, head dropped and eyes closed.
Minho glances at the darkened skin beneath black lashes, the bruised, panda bear eyes still significant in all they implied and yet, at he same time, also kind of cute. He wonders if he’s ruined Jinki’s only night to rest, and eventually lands at the conclusion that it would be a shame to wake the man. Even if they slept in the hallway, Jinki was slumped over enough that Minho was pretty sure his neighbors wouldn’t recognize him, and to be perfectly frank, he was in no mood to carry his boss down the stairs.
At this point, they both deserved a little shut eye.
“Dude, wake up.”
A swift kick shocks Minho from his slumber, groaning as he blinks up, irritated and confused.
“Are you going to get inside or not? I don’t mind leaving you here like a bum, but just remember, your fresh morning scent is totally not my fault.”
Jonghyun.
Minho’s eyes snap open as he scrambles for his phone, eyeing the digits with a blurred gaze. He makes out the numbers -- three fucking thirty in the morning.
Marjory barks and Minho blinks some more.
Lee Jinki.
“Hey,” Minho groans, his body not in sync with his mind quite yet, “Where’s--”
“Our boss?” Jonghyun finishes, brow arching in that manner that Minho finds irritatingly keen. “You two losers were sleeping on the front door step. He woke up when I came by closer, though. He already left.”
“Oh.” Minho bites his tongue as punishment for sounding disappointed. “You could have invited him to stay over; it’s way late, hyung.”
“Yeah.” Jonghyun smirks, “And I’m sure he would bunk with you, considering how cozy you two looked.”
Minho feels the blood rise to his cheeks.
“Gross, man.”
But with the way Jonghyun cackles, Minho knows he won’t hear the end of this for at least a week.
Mornings are always shitty, but this one really sucked.
By the time Minho shows up with a latte in hand, added dash of nutmeg or whatever the fuck, Jinki has the speech ready -- had, in fact, spent the last six hours rehearsing it in his head, how impromptu pizza dates don’t mean a thing when you have to roll your sleeves up at the crack of dawn, typical five minutes for a shower and half a Hostess shortcake shoved in your mouth, chewing on your way to work driving down I-40.
The guy flashes him a smile -- a friendly gesture, perfectly natural after spending several hours feeding stranded puppies through a fortunate crack in the door together -- as he sets the cup carefully by his elbow, and Jinki’s stomach flips.
“You’re late,” he says quietly, cold and quick -- even if two minutes is usually within the forgiveness buffer by anyone else’s standards.
But it was of utmost importance there is no indication that yesterday night changed anything.
He can see that Minho is momentarily confused, hit with this unexpected criticism before his incredible eyes shutter once more, face strained with professionalism. “I’m sorry,” he says, and takes the stack of papers on Jinki’s left, leaves for deliveries without having to be told.
Which is always what happens; the moment he feels that slight ebb of something, a nameless potential for harm, his instinctive reaction is to shut it down. The cold compress, the hot pack, whatever works to get that tightening in his chest to loosen and not become such an aching presence -- so he can ignore it, move and breathe normally. Get back to running the fucking country.
Minho was just one out of a million, he thinks, opening up his inbox. On a daily basis he communicates with dignitaries and diplomats, senators and heads of states, at big dinners or behind the door. Even if he had seen a glimpse of something last night that could be, shit, really fucking special -- right now there were other things on the priority list. And his personal assistant was not meant to be part of the strategy.
“You’ve seen Minho?” Kibum’s voice over his shoulder, and Jinki instantly feels the start of a tension headache. “I need a driver to pick up some posters for me on the other side of town.”
“Run fast,” Jinki tells him without turning around. “I think he’s on his way out.”
Your fault, some deep layer of conscience relays. He chooses to ignore it.
In Kibum’s opinion, Jinki was practically asking for it. Not that he couldn’t feel a touch of sympathy for the guy, having switched gears so quickly in the course of two months -- and the intellectual posturing wasn’t any different, but it was a different crowd. Before, Jinki was this an ebullience of words whom everyone grudgingly tolerated because as unconventional as his methods were, the outcomes of his work were effective. It was manipulation at its finest, and no one could do it better than Jinki.
But this was something else altogether. Now there was clashing passions and the charged ideals of the inexperienced. There was plenty of pent-up energy, but the campaign headquarters still didn’t operate within a cohesive system, didn’t flow as smoothly as Kibum would have liked. Usually it took a little time for the chemical brew to get stewing, but Jinki wasn’t helping things along with how he had singled out an individual in such a blatant way that it isolated not only him as a supervisor, but his victim as a matter of uncertainty; as with all social situations, if one person is an outcast, is anyone associated going to be subjected to the same?
That is, besides the reputable roommate. And even between them, the loyalty could only stretch so far; in an office setting, everyone was impressively professional, but Minho most of all, considering.
Kibum only had so much sympathy to go around; this time, it was designated to the unlucky Choi Minho. For whatever reason, whatever factor had made him stand out in Jinki’s eyes so that the guy was, instead of exercising his full potential, learning how to tuck coffee cups in the crook of his elbows, or running books and papers between buildings, he was inspired to intervene.
And honestly, those looks were going to waste.
“Minho,” he hails him outside headquarters, his legs having to do some quick catching up to match the other man’s long strides. “Hey, how you doing?”
“Uh--” A stutter at the unexpected question, before he flashes the brightest future politician’s smile Kibum has ever seen. “Cold.”
Kibum blinks. “It’s in the fifties, barely into fall!”
Minho nods politely. “Yeah, but I’m from Florida.”
“Right,” Kibum says, arching an eyebrow. “Well, if you need something to warm you up, I have about two dozen solicitations that needed to be drafted by this afternoon in order to be sent out to the upper crust academia. You have some time to spare from--” If possible, his eyebrow jumps even higher, “your forages in breakfast foods?”
To his credit, the Choi boy doesn’t even bat an eye. “I should ask Jinki first,” he hedges, even though Kibum could’ve sworn his jaw had twitched at the word ‘drafted.’ “I’ve got some deliveries, and he probably has some other stuff lined up...”
“Cleared and all taken care of,” Kibum overlaps quickly. “You’re mine today. Besides, sharing is caring, and if there’s one thing Jinki cares about, it’s that he doesn’t piss me off. I need your help, Minho, and your boss can spare you for an afternoon or so. You in or what?”
As expected, it totally works. “I’m in,” Minho tells him, tugging the strap of his bookbag further up his shoulder, making his sweater ride up. His shirt is neatly tucked underneath, stretched over a taut stomach.
Bingo, Kibum thinks.
---
To: jinki@whitehouse.gov
From: seungmin@stanford.edu
Subject: RSVP
Are you kidding?!
# seats: 40 if we can meet the kid
---
To: jinki@whitehouse.gov
From: kyungsoo42@columbia.edu
Subject: RSVP
Interesting pitch, but we’re sold. I always knew you had brains, but looks like you now have the brawn too. Good call. Put us down for forty-five.
KS
---
To: jinki@whitehouse.gov
From: kim.saerom@yale.edu
Subject: RSVP
The new tactic works, good job. We will need a table that can seat thirty. $250 a plate is a little steep, but I guess times are tough for everybody. Homecoming game in five weeks, it would be nice if you could speak at the brunch, despite your recent title revamp.
Saerom
---
“What the fuck?” says Jinki to his computer screen.
“Are you done yet,” asks Kibum after Jinki pauses to take a breath.
“Fuck no,” he says, “like I could ever be done with you overstepping--”
“Look, Jinki,” Kibum cuts in. “First of all, shut up. Overstepping? You’re not the CD anymore, and this isn’t a hegemony. So what the fuck is overstepping on a goddamn team? Campaign managers don’t get personal assistants, but I’ve been letting this Choi Minho stuff go because I get it, the past two months haven’t been that great for you. But now it’s time to get on the boat, help us keep it afloat -- and remember, if it sinks? We’re all out of a job.”
Jinki grits his teeth. “No one’s losing their job, Key.”
“Prove it,” says Kibum. “You know that’s the first thing I wanted to do to him? Just fire his fine ass already, because he was obviously such a distraction -- but then I thought that that would be such a waste, of his time for relocating and deferring his education awards, of my time for interviewing him but not getting any chances to utilize his skills because you’ve kept him all to yourself--” His co-manager steps closer, narrowing his eyes. “Which is just such bullshit, to be honest. I mean, I’ve seen you dish out a few things in your day, but this is like a whole new level of unjustified obsession.”
“Fine,” says Jinki, “I’ll admit it, he caught my eye and became a casualty. I’m just--” He’s not sure how to word it so Kibum won’t question it further -- but if he were to be honest with himself, the reason why was getting clearer all the time. “I’m just stressed out.”
“I know, but you need to stop torturing the guy. You know what he did, right? I asked him to draft a few solicitations for the academic crowd, but he set up this vlog-style plea tying sponsorship money with the exact expenditures for the election. He gave reasons, and they were good ones. That might not be what we’ll end up using the money for, but it’s a plan, and people like that. Plus -- and this is a big plus, which is why it’s so fucking typical for you to ignore it -- he’s easy on the eyes. This shit adds up, Jinki. You have solid gold to work with, and I know you’re good at this. So stop dropping anchor and help me steer, would you?”
Jinki clears his throat. “Only if you stop with the ship metaphors.”
“Why?” Kibum shoots back. “You suck at swimming.”
“Yeah, it’s like being stuck listening to the Thumbsucker soundtrack,” Minho says feelingly, and Jonghyun bursts out laughing, then abruptly stops when a shadow falls across both their forms.
“Minho,” says Jinki his name, his expression unreadable, and Minho gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Natural enough as it was that this guy always made him explicitly nervous, no matter how he tried to convince himself that it was mostly due to the superiority and daily self-torture, maybe it also had to do with the angle in which he bent his head, exposing that first knot of his spine, a thin construct that, with just the slightest tap, could make everything fall apart. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
But life goes on; Minho pastes a smile on his face, a cover that’s proved to be reliable so far. “Sure thing, boss.”
Out of instinct, Minho heads towards the kitchenette -- he had put a cornbread bagel in the toaster oven about five minutes ago -- to grab a mug for Jinki on the way. Or, that was his intention, except then he’s halted by a hand on his elbow.
Thumb pressed against his funny bone too, ouch.
“Um,” he says eloquently. “I’m sorry--”
“Stop apologizing,” Jinki snaps, and Minho has to actively clench his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping. Granted, it’s been pretty obvious Jinki hasn’t been having the most stellar of weeks, but the constant whiplash was starting to get to be a bit much. He understood, Jinki had made it crystal clear -- late night invites for delivery pizza and puppy food accommodations did not equate to changing the status quo in the office. In a way, though it was certainly strange, Minho understood; the office operated within a certain hierarchy, and Jinki had done this before. In a way, Minho had already conceded to trusting him, even if he still wanted to quit half the time.
The other half, even if it was him hanging onto the proverbial ledge by his fingertips, had been revealed a few nights ago. Even if it was his own dirty little secret.
Even if the way Jinki still treated him, Minho totally felt like an all-American reject.
Jinki takes a deep breath, and Minho steels himself for the worst. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
He can feel the muscles around his eyes instantly go tense, narrowing in shock. “Excuse me?”
“I said I’m sorry,” says Jinki, his face open and so goddamn appealing, shit. Not for the first time, Minho thinks it’s a perfect face for smiles; and unbeknownst to himself, at this point he’d feel no greater satisfaction than to be the cause of such an expression. “I’ve been -- that is, I. I heard what you did with the invitations.”
Wait, what? “The invitations?” Jinki raises his eyebrows, and Minho stares back helplessly, when suddenly it clicks. “Oh, the -- right. The invitations.”
“You got Yale on board. I’m...” Jinki gives this self-detrimental laugh, which is just so far away from the steely, smooth surface of upper hand commands that he’s used to, that Minho doesn’t know what to do. “I’ve been working on Saerom for two months now. It’s always a dance, but I haven’t done it in a while. I thought she was the type to overlook a pretty face, but-- not to say,” Jinki adds, “that that’s what got her attention. The ‘day in the life of a volunteer’ thing was pretty cute, even though it was like a huge breach of security--”
“Oh shit,” says Minho, but Jinki shakes his head.
“They know the deal, and even if it circulates, it’s not like you filmed anything too sensitive.”
“With all due respect,” says Minho, “I don’t have access to much.”
“The point,” Jinki continues, but not before sliding him the briefest of glances, “is that they probably saw it as a joke. Clips of you running errands and getting the coffee, ordering the catering -- the fuel that feeds the fire. And funds needed for the fuel. Making lemonade out of lemons.” Then Jinki looks him square in the eye. “Me being the lemons.”
Minho doesn’t know what to say, because it’s not like it’s not true. “Well, hyung,” he tries, and Jinki shakes his head.
“It’s okay, Choi. I’ve been treating you like--”
“Lemons,” Minho interrupts, “are useful for a lot of things.”
Jinki coughs, probably to hide a rapidly darkening blush. It is so fucking cute. “Like in sangria.”
Minho grins. “I was going to say as a natural disinfectant, but yeah, that too--”
“Okay, break it up,” Kibum sweeps in, flipping down the door of the oven and snatching the bagel. “If you’re done apologizing,” he looks pointedly to Jinki, “I actually need to use him for something that will put those big, beautiful eyes to good use.”
Minho cracks up, but strangely enough, Jinki doesn’t join him. “Are you going to have him star in more movies?” he asks Kibum quietly, a lack of expression on his face.
“Wrong again, Lee,” Kibum says, and grasps Minho by the aforeinjured elbow. “He’s going to make them.”
So Minho ends up closing the door on homemade rye and hollandaise, except now it’s traded for greasy bags of McDonald’s steak breakfast burritos, tater tots from Burger King to switch it up every now and then. Food had always been important, but it never became as important as when he actually has the privilege to observe the thick blanket of ever growing trash on Lucinda’s backseat, the clutter and empty coffee cups following Jinki into his apartment, and as much as Minho tried to maintain a distance simply on account of, until recently anyway, Jinki’s unspoken proclamation of him as the resident whipping boy, it was futile to resist picking up a few more boxes of trash bags and stocking them in places where he hoped the other man would take notice, unless he really was trying to build a fort made out of empty pizza boxes.
Then again, he has other reasons to put up with it now.
If the apartment is messy, it’s nothing like Jinki’s thinking process. It was an odd shock, because during all this time of the other man having the upper hand, it was still a unique thing that had transpired between the two of them, and something Jinki had solely taken responsibility for, despite the risk -- almost breached -- of Minho resenting him for it. Now the rapid montage of meetings, meals, meetings, meetings, was slowly bleeding into Minho’s own life, and with that came a realization that while his attitude had changed, Jinki inadvertently treating him as a confidante did not. At the same time, also realizing that Jinki wasn’t a self-centered prick, just a super cunning asshole, made Minho think that maybe he actually got off easy.
Running errands back and forth within the capital city had been nothing compared to what Jinki had to say about some of the people who ran this town. Then again, maybe that’s just part of the bargain with geniuses: They’re always bad-tempered.
“This fucking piece of shit,” Jinki mutters, hunched over his coffee table, the two square feet of space or so cleared only because Minho had beat him to it five minutes earlier, doing a clean sweep of the surface before Jinki upended his bookbag and laptop on it once more. Minho, eyes falling unhappily on a cramped stack of cheap Bic lighters -- Jinki, in a rare show of remorse, swore off the caffeine stream, but in turn had begun smoking again -- feels his fingers twitch, and in an effort to distract himself, settles down on the couch next to him.
“Are you talking about this,” he jabs his finger at the paper in Jinki’s hand, “or that guy,” nodding towards the muted television, the exaggerated hand gyrations of a state representative he knew Jinki disliked.
“Two birds with one stone,” Jinki replies, semi-cryptic in his everlasting insistence to reply to things indirectly -- to make you think, he would claim, but sometimes Minho just wants to slip two Rozerem into his chai tea and see him sleep for more than four hours straight. Not that he’s actually seen Jinki sleep, like ever. “But this one definitely needs a rewrite.” He eyes Minho thoughtfully, who swallows hard, a remnant reaction to what had been, two weeks ago, simple routine. “Want to give it a shot?”
“Sure,” Minho shrugs, and slips his fingers between the cushions until he finds the pen he had seen fall out of Jinki’s back pocket earlier. “Let me see.”
They work in silence for a couple of minutes before Minho actually realizes what’s going on. “Wait a minute. This is a draft of the weekly address.”
“Yep,” replies Jinki, chewing on his pen cap.
“You’re still writing for the president even though you’re no longer the comm director?”
“I’m still writing for the president,” Jinki says, “because I work for the president. You do too, remember?”
“Right...I just thought--” Minho sits back, lets out a short laugh. “Sometimes I forget most of this stuff is superficial, let’s give them a good show stuff. It’s almost like a movie production. And that ends up warping your ability to connect with the average American.”
“...what do you mean.”
“I mean, your perspective changes once you start operating out of DC. You probably came here macheting your way through a thicket of cynicism, but now you’re bound to all this insider knowledge. No matter what, that changes things. It changes how you treat people, it changes how you influence and write policy. You’re at the top of the totem pole, you have all these resources at your disposal, and you get to see all the diverse demographics of this country reduced to statistics and infographics. Sure, other things control policy too, but the majority is still supposed to rule. Except being a leader means you’re no longer part of the majority. And that’s the catch-22.”
“I think,” Minho continues, “it’s why Kibum wants me to continue with the vlog stuff. Creating a window where people can see the madness behind the magic -- or whatever mess we’ve just created -- isn’t just more relatable, but also more palatable. Ultimately we’re trying to make a difference too, right? Just like everyone else who has a job. And people like taking pride in their work -- except you, apparently.”
“That’s not true,” Jinki argues. “Or at least, it shouldn’t be. Why would you want someone just like you leading the country? I don’t want someone like me governing on a scale that affects lives and livelihoods. It should be someone who’s better--”
“But what does that mean? Better on paper? There are a thousand ways to look better on paper, and there’s no set of credentials that automatically lead to effective leadership. Oscar Olivera didn’t become a leader because he earned a degree from Yale. And I don’t care how liberal you are, or how much you believe in big government -- no one likes being told what to do. That’s the perspective you lose, because you guys are the one doing the telling. It’s so easy to forget that.”
Jinki is silent, and for a few seconds, Minho thinks that maybe he should’ve shut up around the time he picked that pen out between the couch cushions.
“You didn’t mind,” he says at last, and Minho blinks.
“What?”
“Being told what to do, since you allowed me to--”
“Yeah, but I didn’t like you--” Minho cuts off abruptly -- shit. “I mean,” he starts up again, more careful this time, “I didn’t like it.”
“... Right,” says Jinki. The strain in his voice means that for all the progress they’ve achieved in the last two weeks, Minho’s big mouth just set it back six weeks previous.
Minho sighs quietly, reaching in silence for the draft once more; at least they weren’t counting in months.
“Maybe you can try taking him out to dinner,” says Kibum, and Jinki remembers to fix a scowl on his face before he turns around.
“I don’t need any more of your advice,” he hisses. “If you need him for something, just go ahead and take him. You don’t need to ask me every time.”
“Again with the personal ownership thing,” Kibum murmurs. “Remember how you’re not supposed to have a PA? But as luck would have it, he told me he actually likes working for you. Likes. As in, present tense -- which, I heard, you might want to brush up on. Either way, since I’m one to actually take into consideration the desires of my employees, I acquiesced to his request. Even if it might be Stockholm Syndrome. What I really wanted to talk to you about is if you can actually use him with writing your speeches, or if I should place him with the media operations guys. And don’t lie to me, Jinki.”
“He--” Jinki has to backtrack, since more often than not when talking with Kibum you’re not certain if he’s asking something from you or if it’s the other way around. “He said he doesn’t mind working with me?”
“Like I said, other than brushing up on your tenses, I’d say that’s an affirmative.”
“Then I guess,” Jinki glances across the room, the brunette head of Choi Minho poking conspicuously above the cubicles, “I can find some stuff for him to do.”
“Of course you can,” says Kibum. “Making it official in three, two, one -- and done. Now take him to dinner.”
Jinki waits until Kibum leaves before he keys in his Domino’s app; close enough, he guesses.
Before placing the order, he takes care to add pineapple over half.
Slowly they reach a symbiosis of overlapping interests; sometimes Jinki thinks it’s hypocritical of Kibum to find no problem with their current working relationship than the one that Jinki had implemented less than two months ago, because nothing had really changed. Sure, the food was less gourmet, but Minho still spent every waking hour at Jinki’s elbow, absorbing the nuances of negotiation and manipulation, on paper or in person. Occasionally he had a camera in his hand, footage of the idiosyncratic experience swiftly edited into clever clips that showed good humor of daily predicaments as well as the results they produced. The circulation had been officially cut off at the campaign level, but it still helped boost morale, in addition to becoming a subject of intrigue. More than once, Jinki unknowingly found himself starring in these homemade demonstrations of unending stress and the triumphs that made it all worth it -- better than any drama on television.
Minho, Jinki had found, was really fucking clever.
“Give me that,” the other man says, and Jinki automatically hands him his crust. Minho stuffs it into his mouth, a little bit still hanging out as he mutters his thoughts on the latest draft of the Veteran’s Day address. His hair is getting long, covering up those incredibly expressive eyebrows while simultaneously drawing emphasis to his gigantic eyes. Sometimes Jinki is reminded of killer whales, the saddlepatch spot a visual trickery to intimidate.
He couldn’t, in all honesty, say that he had avoided being a victim.
Minho bends back the thick stack of stapled paper, ruffling through another pile in front of him for a colored pen for markups. It takes him at least thirty seconds -- not that Jinki is watching and counting, they really needed to make a run to Office Depot for some filing stands -- before he finds one, lime green, pops the cap off with his thumb and begins to write all over the page, straight lines of notes in his rounded, neat handwriting.
Jinki stares. “It’s really that bad?” Almost nearly always implying that he’s done this before.
“It’s good,” Minho tells him, even as he continues to make notes. “I’m just jotting down visual cues. If all we’re doing is putting on a show, it might as well look good, right?”
“Why, because you’ve had the experience?” Jinki can’t help but say snidely.
“Nah, hyung, I have natural born talent,” Minho drawls, his eyes crinkling in suppressed laughter. And as it seemed to happen all too often these days, that smile in check seems to catch him at exactly the right time, where something bubbles up from the pit of his stomach, a swelling in his chest that makes it hard to breathe, even though it only lasts for a few seconds.
Maybe it was happiness or something. He couldn’t be too sure, it had been a while.
This feeling is thoroughly smited the next day, during his date with Jihyo at the White House.
“You’re so romantic, Jinki,” she tells him -- banter picked up from Donghoon no doubt; Jinki can hardly remember a time when she didn’t have a cutting edge to her words, a lack of ruthlessness that he could never quite implement himself.
He gives her a sarcastic smile. “I try.”
Minho wasn’t there; Jinki had assigned him to some last-minute editing on a couple of memos to the upcoming site visits -- a manufacturing plant here, a local business there -- before he joined them; but to his dismay, Jinki felt oddly unprepared, even though he’s sat through these meetings by himself hundreds of times. Recently, with Minho a silent but supporting presence behind him as he presented on campaign strategy updates, it was now something he depended on. Going head to head with Jihyo while also having these thoughts float around in the back of his mind was nowadays less than relished.
“By the way, I watched Choi Minho’s latest promotional spot,” says Jihyo, and Jinki freezes at the other man’s name. “He’s got a good eye for pathos and visual appeal. It’s like you and him compliment with words and images -- which is a good strategy, Jinki. I’m truly impressed.”
“Thanks,” he replies stiffly. But she’s not done yet.
“I was wondering,” she taps a perfect nail against her chin, “if I could borrow him at some point after the voter demographics assessment? He could get some good project management experience if he worked directly under me, act as a liaison between our two offices. This way, he’ll get exposure to some people who could become some useful partners and resources to him in the future, especially if he wanted to pursue a career in politics after the election and have a chance to share his ideas and spread some influence. That’s our job too, after all -- giving opportunities for these kids to learn something.”
“I don’t--” Jinki has to take a deep breath in order not to set into full panic mode -- jesus, when did he get like this? “I don’t think that that’s necessary. I was planning to bring him up to the house later this week, set up a temporary office for him -- maybe Seohyun can take him under her wing. Also,” he says defensively, “he’s doing a tremendous job at headquarters with media relations, and we really can’t afford to give away our best people with the Kamachi crisis and those dipping poll numbers.”
Jihyo blinks at him contemplatively, and Jinki struggles to maintain an impassive face.
“Okay,” is all she says when she speaks again, though the glance she slides down at the stack of papers in front -- all marked with lime green ink -- gives Jinki the uneasy feeling that this, whatever it was, was not over yet.
Two o’clock coma sets in right around the time that pesto sandwich decides it’s not going to take digestion lying down; the one day of the week they get catering, and he’s paying for it big time. Jinki’s about to drag himself out of his chair and hunt for that bottle of Tums from probably the last election cycle hidden in one of the cabinets of the kitchenette when there’s a soft scurrying of paws against the plastic mat of his office, before glossy, dark eyes and a pink tongue are all Jinki needs to distract him from anything and everything important, ever.
“Marjory,” he hears Minho’s voice, but it’s too late, Jinki’s already scooped her up into his arms, twists his chair quickly around on the off chance he didn’t see her come in.
“He doesn’t have to know, hm?” he murmurs, scratching behind her ears, then hisses when a shadow falls across his desk.
“No way,” says Minho, hands already spread out in a pre-reach, the jerk. Marjory scrambles eagerly up from Jinki’s lap, balancing awkwardly on his thighs as she turns towards the sound of his voice, no loyalty whatsoever. “She’s got a doctor’s appointment today, then she’s going home, where she, you know. Belongs.”
“You shouldn’t tell her what to do,” Jinki says snidely, and pushes his chair back so she’s out of reach once more.
“She’s my dog!”
“She has a bed at my place!”
“Your lap as you sit on the couch isn’t considered a sleeping location, hyung.”
“Fine,” he amends. “She has a bowl too.”
“Okay,” Kibum says from the doorway, then in one fell swoop takes Marjory from his arms, curling her protectively against his chest. “Until they figure this out, you’ll be visiting me in my office, right Jory?” He rubs at her belly, and her tail wags happily. “And you two should know better than to fight in front of the kids,” he scolds them, jerking his head towards the rest of the office. “Remember that whole, acting like an adult thing you were trying out?”
“Speaking of,” says Jinki, rubbing his forehead as Kibum walks away making cooing sounds against Jory’s face, “After the gala, I think we need to set up an office for you so you can work on your productions that are more aligned to current events. We can formulate a way where the response of the campaign is a direct solution to daily crises and events, and have people see it as a line of reassurance that connects their problems with the guy in the White House, you know?”
Minho blinks; well this was unexpected. “Oh uh, that sounds great. Should I start clearing some space in that unused meeting room?”
“What?” Jinki is distracted, looking around the office for those Tums -- if he was really getting sick, it’d be the worst timing ever, especially since they had the drive up to NYC tomorrow. “No, your office won’t be here.”
Disappointment welling up, Minho suddenly feels the back of his throat go dry. “Then where are you thinking of?”
His boss spots the bottle, twisting open the cap and depositing two pills into his hand before popping them into his mouth, swallowing them dry. “Your new office will be next to my old office,” he tells him. It takes a second, and then Minho’s eyes widen indefinitely.