SHINee Duets 2012: capebuffalo & ikui (part one)
Title: Working in Government Gives You No Discounts For Your Sex Life
Authors: capebuffalo & ikui (Team Onho Against A Wall)
Pairing: Onew/Minho
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Jeny’s pottymouth.
Authors’ Notes: There is a Part II. It’s longer. It has more food. It’s coming soon (Says Jeny).
A DAMMING VERDICT FOR THE ESTWICK
Wild Fish Enhancement is suing two biologists from the Segai Institute for their endorsement of a proposed fish hatchery within the newly restored Estwick River. With the removal of the Estwick Dam, fifty miles of pristine fish habitat is now accessible to hundreds of thousands of salmon who come back each fall to spawn in their natal stream. According to the WFE, the installation of a fish hatchery will inflict genetic adulteration within the species. “More is not better,” maintains WFE Executive Director Kim Hanwen. “We are interested in propagating the species within a stretch of the river that has not been available to native wildlife for over six decades. Putting a hatchery in the river does nothing to support our efforts of ensuring the salmon thrive by natural means.”
But the Segai Institute had an unexpected advocate in White House Communications Director Lee Jinki, who wrote a searing editorial in the Washington Post last Wednesday. “It’s ironic that WFE is so focused on achieving genetic refinement when the federal government has done all it can to annihilate the gene pool of the Segais.” No response is yet available from the White House in regards to Mr. Lee’s comments.
She’s never liked heels, but they do make for a dramatic entrance.
The walk down the hall doesn’t take long, but tonight each step is punctuated with the click of her five-inch Louboutins, the seamless line behind her legs and feminine curve of thighs, pencil skirt belted with a tucked in shirt. Ominous enough.
The world is in her hands, capped by two paragraphs on a letterhead far too familiar in this building, the manila envelope a formality secured with the tiny metal clip. Even formality, in fact, was an anachronism, considering her phone vibrating in her pocket -- probably Donghoon asking what kind of fixings she’d like with her hamburger tacos. But this was a place of tradition.
She stops outside an office. Off-white, classic pleated pattern, mid-18th century, just like all the others. There are only a few others, though. It’s 11:30 PM. Foo Fighters’ Dear Rosemary is playing on KMAX 101.2, which is just so fucking perfect because she hated the Foo Fighters.
“Have you eaten?” Speaking of traditions: A question steeped in their shared heritage, where strength, power, the ability to breathe fire and vanquish all enemies is solely dependent on the food you’ve consumed. Takeout boxes from KFC, empty styrofoam cups previously filled with powder-mixed mashed potatoes and gravy litter the floor around the garbage can, balled up napkins next to teachings and preachings in paragraph form.
You are what you eat. But unfortunately, chickens rarely have the upper hand.
“Yeah, mom.” Her colleague barely looks away from his computer, a plastic spoon caught between his teeth. “Hey, by your definition, what constitutes as an airplane?”
“Why, you thinking about taking a trip?”
“I’m serious, noona.” An out-of-place endearment; under a public, more professional audience, he’d call her Jihyo-sshi.
“I’m serious, too.” The tone of her voice, devoid of her usual humor, makes him look again, this time longer, lingering, until his gaze drops to the envelope in her hand. Jihyo swallows hard past the lump in her throat, then says, “Maybe you should take a trip.”
He pulls the spoon slowly from his mouth, the tip glistening with his saliva a distraction in the dimly lit room. “Should it be a one-way ticket?”
“No.” She was told to be firm about this. “No, nothing really changes. But this is politics,” she affirms unnecessarily. “It matters what we call you.”
“I see.” Jinki holds out his hand; Jihyo hands him the envelope. He takes it out and she holds back the urge to bite her lip as she watches his eyes skim over the preamble and land mid-page -- right to the important stuff.
“You wrote this?” he asks at last. Jihyo nods slowly.
“Heechul proofed, approved it in two minutes.”
“Ouch,” Jinki says softly, then drops the piece of paper on his desk. He dips his head slightly; his bangs falls into his eyes, momentarily hiding his expression, and Jihyo grits her teeth against a sudden surge of sympathy. Sometimes she forgets he’s still so young.
Young, and brilliant. But he fucked up.
“Like I said, you’re not getting kicked out of the House. But they’ve arranged a space for you in the office downtown, next to Kibum’s -- you remember him?”
“...Of course.”
“You’ll get the new crew in two weeks. Take a trip if you want, but be back before then.”
“This time with my head in the game,” he replies woodenly, and Jihyo glances at him sharply.
“And more complaisance on your plate than just salmon,” she tells him. “You got pissed off over dinner, Jinki.”
An averted gaze follows, Jinki leaning back into his chair, lazy and saturnine, no fight or resistance. That complacency is exactly what she resented the most, for these grounds were no place for fragility. Yet fragile is exactly what Jinki had become: the passion, the fire, stomped out of him, extinguished into bitter embers.
It was daunting to believe that at one point in the distant past, this man had walked into this very office, slamming palms onto the desk and showing a courageous will to remove the outdated bureaucracy that resided within. He had bypassed the same manila envelope, had instead rolled up his sleeves in order to sink elbow-deep into the slew of American politics. Jinki had been in her position, once a fighter working for the benefit of the system.
Was it too much for her to have expected this scenario to cause a resurgence, the bite of an opponent that could challenge her directive?
Jihyo is not sure, especially as she finds that her business has ended, quicker than anticipated.
“You know what I think constitutes as an airplane,” Jinki says finally, as Jihyo turns to go.
Internally, she winces. Of course he would want the last word. “What?”
“Shooting for the Z. Most people just see the X and Y -- and the X and Y argue right or left, without having the slightest idea there’s another way.” Then he looks straight at her, and the intense loss without regret doesn’t just make her uneasy; it scares her. “That’s what keeps it a myth, something we only think exists in our imaginations.”
“Then I’ll congratulate you on your ability to fly,” she retorts. “But the rest of us are still grounded. We’re not interested in exploding, Jinki. Rules exist in order to achieve results.”
“Rules are meant to be broken,” he says childishly, and Jihyo glares.
“I’ll see you in two weeks.”
Demoness, exiting the office with each step she takes like added punctuation to some regimen for his undoing, leaving Jinki to wallow in self-loathing. Or that is what he would have liked, sliding into his worn office chair, hearing the creaking groan as an audible exemplar for his current mood. Jinki however, is distracted by the irritating sight, just between the fingers that are pressed against his forehead: the empty brown cardboard box, shoved beside his desk from this morning.
A knock at the door.
He does not bother looking up this time, expecting the presence midway between his prior unscheduled conference.
“So that’s why you handed that thing to me this morning.” Jinki jerks a thumb towards the box. “Who knew it’d be such a life-changing omen?”
“Well it’s not like it came with a puppy.”
Kibum shuffles inside and carefully shuts the door behind him, moving as if the entire building is asleep, which might very well be the truth, seeing as Jinki, holed up in his office since three this afternoon, couldn’t make the call himself. “She wasn’t dropping tears when she left, so I assume you must’ve taken it easy on her.”
“She asked me if I remembered you.”
Kibum scoffs, and Jinki feels a sudden stab of relief; at least he still had one person on his side.
“Anything else remotely interesting?”
“We discussed the axes upon which an airplane travels.” Jinki says solemnly, before a corner of his mouth curls up at Kibum’s baffled stare. “Oh, and the usual pitiful looks.”
“In other words, How to Concede with Humility While Going Down Easy in Politics 101?”
“I didn’t get to attend that lecture.”
“...Be careful, Mr. Wiseass, otherwise I won’t be able to tell you apart from all the other Yalies around here.”
Jinki visibly flinches, a label he prefers not to recall. Even though he appreciates Kibum’s presence, it’s all too easy to keep in mind that the blonde was not the epitome of compassion. For one, the offered commiseration was not always in tune with what he wanted; Jinki watches silently as Kibum approaches his desk, then sits on the surface and effectively crushes all the papers sitting in the only space that was clear of litter. Their eyes meet, Kibum’s popping out more than usual due to the dark line of kohl, everything implying a far cry from his anticipated night of moping at home on his worn leather couch. “You’re taking me out, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Kibum smiles widely, lips making a show of shine and gloss. Jinki resists the urge to grab a used tissue and wipe it away.
“And would it be assuming too much that I had a choice about it?”
“Absolutely.” Kibum makes a face at the clutter on his desk, an ample collection of greasy food containers. “So get packing.”
Not that Jinki had all that much to pack besides a few unsorted files, some half-filled PEZ dispensers, and maybe some freebie lobby group pens. Unlike his coworkers, he’s never been much of a sentimental person, his desk sans framed photos of family and friends. To Jinki, having his mom’s photo in his wallet is enough, an intentional double-edged sword for bailouts during disaster dates.
“Is that really it?” asks Kibum, not helping in the slightest as Jinki sluggishly fills the box, occasionally scraping off dried potatoes from the edge of a sheet.
“It’s not like I’m the type to treat my -- what was my office -- like some kind of high security vault.” Jinki scrunches his nose, making the prompt decision to abandon what appeared to be a pen stuck in a congealed cup of gravy. “Work is work and home is where the heart is, or whatever the fuck.”
“Uh huh.” Kibum is leaning over, being authoritatively useless while Jinki toils away, picking at a stray wrapper. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” His anger and shame slowly slipping, Jinki finds himself tidying the office in autopilot, almost in a daze. “I’m cleaning.”
“Why?”
“Well--” Jinki pauses, just short of dropping more trash into his already overflowing trashcan. “Common courtesy, right?”
“So you’re going to clean your office for the power woman who trumped you?”
Jinki looks up and Kibum’s brow is arched a mile high.
“Point taken.”
Kibum smiles. “Now take your pathetic box before I dump it.”
Jinki clutches his belongings a little tighter, dreading the grip that loops itself around his free arm.
“We’re going out and you have three choices: Eastside, 14th Ave, or the Metropolitan.”
Absolute dread, because if anything, those places were made for lifestyles of the rich and famous, young men such as Kibum, not socially inept folks like Jinki. However, while Jinki is being pulled down the lavish halls of red carpets and pristine walls, he tries to take a different approach.
“Kibum, I just got demoted.” A dramatic groan, hoping for some sort of sympathetic effect. “I can’t afford even a mouthful of some mixed drink, let alone ten bucks worth.”
“I already know you don’t drink cocktails.”
The curt reply and Jinki cringes, caught red-handed.
“Anyway, it’s Tuesday and they have a Bud Light special for three dollars. Perfect for you.”
“Seriously.” Jinki looks into Kibum’s confident gaze as he stumbles along. “Did you plan this all in advance?”
“Yes, including the cab.”
“Why a cab?” Now Jinki is starting to think that all of this is really unnecessary. “Look, so I took a tumble off the bridge into troubled waters; so what? It doesn’t mean my vehicle’s rendered useless, right? Save some cash, save me a trip, don’t burn the extra exhaust; think of the environment!”
Kibum continues to stride down the hall like his entire purpose is to pretend like he hadn’t heard a word of what Jinki just said. “We’re going out for the night, hyung. And that entails an upgrade from your sad, tawny, lame excuse for a car Camry DX. Although a taxi may not be the most extravagant thing, it’d be nice to be seen in a vehicle from this century.”
Jinki’s miffed, partially because he is not sure what color tawny is, but also because he’s pretty goddamn sure that Kibum just took a cheap shot at Lucinda.
“Okay, fine, she’s fifteen years old, but you’re nine years older than she is, and it’s not like you still run like you’re brand new.” Jinki is triple-checked assured of that fact, as he made sure to stretch the worth of his $2500 deposit on his baby, sweat and tears slowly building up savings from minimum wage jobs in his college days.
“Hyung.” Kibum gives him a frank look, countering Jinki’s burst of confidence. “The door is rusting and trust me, having to endure being in that metal beast once is already more than enough. But--”
Jinki does not like the way Kibum gives a sharp glance at his half-filled box.
“--Your car would be good storage space in the meantime.”
As usual, Jinki is not quick enough to articulate an immediate protest, and his attention is diverted as the man’s bony fingers reach into his pocket, left posterior. A teasing squeeze that makes Jinki yelp, followed immediately by a pronounced frown. Kibum dangles his keys in front of his face, a clear taunt as they finally make their way out of the building, past security guards with expressionless faces that could rival the Queen’s Guards, if not a little more, well, Americanized military jackets.
At this point, Jinki does not even want to bother inquiring how Kibum knew where he kept his keys, nor does he want to look back to the grandest of all prisons, supremely white and superficially reassuring. Jinki instead chooses to saunter behind clumsily with box in arm, the fresh night air oddly chilling to his skin as his feet shuffle forward on the pavement.
Grounded, Jihyo had said. He still didn’t like it.
Not only that, but as they near the parking lot, he begins to acquiesce that maybe Kibum had a point, poor Lucinda sticking out like a sore thumb among the sleek, thick steeled silhouettes of Audis and BMWs, their dark colors looking cool and contemporary. Taxi it is, then.
Granted, the Camry didn’t do him any good at Yale either. Back when he was drinking 24-packs of Fanta every three days and sleeping on his stomach with his Olivetti typewriter within reach, Jinki still wasn’t considered the cream of the crop. A natural introvert, his staying-in sessions mostly involved watering his potted plants and writing letters to congressmen and local representatives by lamplight while his peers went to dinosaur parties and drinking blitzes.
Well, sometimes he torrented movies.
A degree in political science wasn’t exactly a shoe-in for a successful and robust career; but as was typical, after graduating, Jinki was a mind and body of ideals. Five applications to jobs all over the country landed him at a literacy program in Portland, where he spent afternoons and evenings teaching GED and ESL classes, struggling to make education a priority again to people seeking a second chance. Learning about the tremendous pressures his students faced at home, his heart slowly fractured and finally broke at the end of two years. He still wanted to save the world, but that desire was now tempered by the recognition of the structure and rules of the system they were born into; the country paid its price for its heterogeneity, and people could still hurt each other in what should be safe places in phenomenal ways.
After his third year, he realized that if he wanted to change things, he had to buy into the game. So with the best hand he had, he moved to DC to work as a campaign staffer for the Democratic presidential nominee, splitting his remaining time volunteering at a veterans support agency group and translating documents from Hangul to English for the CIA. As such, when he scored first row seats to the party convention and overheard the speechwriters arguing over the transition between veterans affairs and foreign policy, Jinki had a few ideas. Three days later, Jinki found himself working for the man who was seeking to become the most powerful person in the world.
Which, he did.
But what a town. For the first time in his life, Jinki was no longer able to win arguments with his flawless discourse. In fact, there was no discourse; there was no winning. There was politics, and politics meant the slow yet magnificent stripping of every public service into a standardized regulation, where demarcations were made on people who were eligible for things like food, basic utilities, a place to called home based on inconclusive demographics, categories that were downright cold in practice. Instead of serving the people, Jinki found himself supporting lawmakers who were working to keep them out.
Then the salmon thing happened, his moment of madness -- something fishy, Seohyun had called it, before it became clear just how serious his mistake was -- and it all snowballed from there.
The thing with Kibum is, the more he hates you, the nicer he is to your face. So part of Jinki’s still grateful that even when he bypasses his budget restrictions anyway by ordering a single malt whiskey because that’s what he’s gotten used to drinking while shuffling suits between the Hay-Adams and Decatur House, that Kibum’s still there to call him a fancy old man, eyes full of judgment as they scrape over his rolled up shirt sleeves and too-loose slacks.
“Now I’m stuck with the biggest nerd on Capitol Hill,” he complains, reaching instinctively to straighten Jinki’s collar. “Jihyo totally has it in for me too.” As far as he was concerned, genius was by no means an excuse for looking like shit.
“Look, no one’s going to wear Armani to work,” retorts Jinki “What’s the point when we’re already sweating through our first crisis at six in the morning?”
“You’re in front of cameras all the time, is the point,” Kibum says. He angles an eyebrow, as if taking mental measurements, and Jinki blinks.
“Don’t tell me there’s a dress code at campaign headquarters.”
“When I’m the captain,” Kibum begins, and Jinki groans. “No sponsored polos, no zip-up fleece, no baseball caps. You shower every day--” he points a finger, a preemptive accusation, “and dress like you’re trying to seduce the American public. Which, I should clarify, is exactly what we’re doing, instead of trying to sell them the food spilled down the front of our shirts, you know what I mean?”
“I still think Jihyo hates me more,” Jinki says, after a horrified pause.
“You better put some effort into it too,” Kibum adds loftily. “The staff applications required headshots this year; I swear Eunjung wants to hire these guys for Real McCoy models after the campaign season -- they’re ridiculous.”
Jinki gapes. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but it’s hardly a comeback.
Kibum shrugs. “This is politics,” an indirect echo of what Jihyo had said earlier. “Appearances matter.”
Another one of those grown-up realities that Jinki would rather forget, deciding this was the opportune moment to down the remainder of the burning amber liquid. Honestly, who cares about imperfect hair or all-nighter eau de toilette? It’s what things like hair gel and deodorant were for, not that he really used much of either.
Oh fuck it.
“One more drink, ple--”
A hand shoots out before he can finish his sentence, and Jinki finds his arm being pulled away from the bartender. He directs a glare at Kibum because it was his idea to go out in the first place, so goddammit to hell if he was being told to stop. It’s only at this juncture that Jinki realizes that Kibum is not within his line of sight; accordingly, the fingers on his wrist are a lot longer than he’s used to. Jinki veers his gaze only to find it landing on some hot shot in a bomber jacket wedged right between the two of them: Crinkled eyes with pronounced experience, a straight jaw, and inevitably, the smile asking for something more than a friendly introduction.
“Let me get that for you.”
Jinki would raise an objection, except hey, he just lost his job and a free drink is a free drink. The man orders another malt whiskey on ice and Jinki resists the urge to grin as Kibum leans back, making a show of rolling his eyes, which is a surprisingly tame reaction on the blonde’s part. Usually the young man would have been outraged at being pushed aside so rudely, but Jinki thinks the complacency may have something to do with this whole situation being the perfect spectator sport.
“A toast.”
Oh, so this guy was going to take that route, an attempt at a handsome smile with a tinge of wasted charm.
“For what?”
If Jinki was in the mood, he would have played it up a little, voice more curious than the dead mundane pitch it was currently at. However, sadly for him, this blatant display of disinterest didn’t seem to be enough to dissuade his courtier. Nor does it dissuade Kibum, snickering in the background and ordering a vodka cooler for that delicious combination of refreshment and witnessing the humiliation of a friend.
“Oh, I don’t know.” The man tries the smile again, arms resting comfortably on the bar, reminding Jinki far too much of the pompous older men he had to frequently encounter while residing in the upper echelons. “To a young night, an ambient atmosphere, and a good drink.”
Their glasses come together, a forced clink that allows Jinki to wash down another few mouthfuls of the hard liquor. The drink packs less of a hit than Jinki desires, a latent wish that he was not such a tolerant drinker. For once, Jinki would rather not be conscious about the events unfolding. He wants to be the depressed drunk in the corner, not the one being badgered by the very people he despised on Capitol Hill.
“Uh huh.”
As expected, his lack of enthusiasm has no effect, the man still persistent and hovering in a manner far too close for personal comfort. He could see the wet lips and smell the accompanying sweetness of brandy, as unsubtle as a smack in the face. Jinki was totally grossed out; this guy was that type: Wife waiting at home, children in bed, but so much clout that there was not an ounce of fear when it came to pursuing extramarital affairs, including those of not the most heteronormative kind.
Not that Jinki should judge a book by its cover, but the thick platinum ring on the hand that touched his own was difficult to ignore. If he wanted to go through the trouble of creating an extra bundle of stress in his life, Jinki would much prefer to contemplate the sinking ship that was supposed to be his blossoming career in the political stratosphere. Actually, that is exactly what he would rather be thinking about at the moment.
“You wanna get out of here?”
Belatedly Jinki realizes that he should have paid more attention to withdrawing his hand. Now those fingers are tracing his own, the creep factor sensation beginning with a brush along his knuckles and jolting almost immediately to the base of his spine. Ew, Jinki thinks; too bad it’d be way too inappropriate to kick the man in the crotch and make a run for it.
But even he can still put on a show; Jinki lets out a soft sigh, the momentum of the night obviously increasing in enjoyment for Kibum, who was sipping silently on a mango cooler with the snidest of smirks. Even with the dim glow of yellow lights, Jinki could still make out that irritating lack of support his companion was giving.
“What do you think?”
The man cannot wipe that shit-faced smile off his face. Therefore Jinki can only return the look by blinking rather sullenly, dreading his predicament as the man continues to speak with resolve.
“Or we could go to the lounge; the tea room’s pretty tenebrous right now, just a bunch of dinosaurs at this time of night. Your pick.”
Jinki’s about to reply when his brain grinds to a halt; hold up, tenebrous? What the hell?
Jinki scrambles in his pockets for a pen, congruently flipping over the fancy cardboard coaster of his drink.
“Can you spell that word you just said?” Jinki is dead serious, already misunderstanding the word tawny and not wanting to appear lacking in vernacular. “The ten-e-whatever. I have a dictionary.com app on my phone.”
Even in the lull of waiting for a response, Jinki recognizes the type of silence that follows, awkward and sharp on the ears. This recognition is only confirmed by the gobsmacked expression on Kibum’s face, straw dangling from full pink lips.
“Uh.”
Jinki continues to extend his pen to the stranger, insistent that he receives an answer. But of course, the one time he displays sincerity is the one time he evokes repulsion -- no photo of his mother needed -- and the guy quickly backs away, giving an amicable show of apology.
“Actually, I think, yeah, I just remembered I need to be somewhere,” the man says hurriedly, edging out of his seat. “I’ll see you later, man.”
It’s something Jinki takes to mean, never again, you freak, not that he minds, shrugging as his courtier leaves with haste. There are more important things to focus on, Jinki punching a guessed spelling of the unknown word onto his phone.
“See--” Kibum returns to his original spot as Jinki discovers the meaning of the adjective, ‘dark; gloomy; obscure.’ “I would call you brilliant if you’d done that on purpose, but I know that’s a straight-up lie. You’re just a geek.”
Jinki is unfazed, suddenly absorbed in the magical world of apps and smartphones. For one, the international map app he just downloaded is incredibly detailed; travel tips, hotel ratings, non-tourist destinations, the whole shebang.
“Hey, Kibum-ah, where do you think I should go for the next two weeks?”
Kibum rests his chin on Jinki’s shoulder, who smiles as he observes the blur of colours on the LCD screen. “Maybe somewhere warm.”
By the time he got back, it was going to start getting cold. And busy.
By the time Jinki comes back from his vacation -- having spun the globe on his phone and jabbed at a spot with his finger at Key’s insistence, luckily it landed on Guadalajara -- he’s only marginally less discontent. This feeling was exacerbated by him falling asleep every time he tried to start the latest Jonathan Franzen novel while sitting on the beach, screaming children and skimpily clad bodies abound. Same with Aimee Bender. All he had to show for his efforts was enough tan lines to be able to be called a modern art piece and the tip of his nose scraped raw from failed resistance to itching.
Guadalajara is also two hours behind EST, which means that by the time he wakes up with a heady feeling that he’s forgotten something extremely important, the alarm on his phone is already going off for the fourth time, as it does, every half hour. He had set it for six, which had given him a little less than an hour to shower, have breakfast, and refill his thermos at the nearest Coffee Bean before heading to work.
The first day of his new job, in fact.
Shit, is the first thing that comes to mind, and for a split second he almost wants to curl right back under the blanket and fake his own death and/or disappearance so that Key will stop bothering him, but the fact of the matter is that he was curious. Jinki had never felt like a natural leader by any means, but on a few memorable occasions back at the Multnomah County Literacy Program, he had been praised as a good instructor. It was also a self-induced challenge that he could adjust his methods based on the audience.
It was refreshing, in any case. And it was something he could control.
Relying on years of experience reluctantly battling his resistance to morning routines, Jinki somehow manages to roll out of bed, shower, rub a towel through his hair, grab the first clean shirt that isn’t horrendously beachy that he can find, pull on a pair of slacks, grab a splotchy banana, and is out the door in twenty minutes. Too bad he’s already half an hour late.
The offices of campaign headquarters had been upgraded since the last time he had spent any substantial time there -- that is to say, during the last election. Square footage had increased in order to include two dozen more staffers and house individual offices for the fundraisers, top aides, online hands and operation assistants, as well as himself and Kibum, who were co-managing the headquarters. Maps covered the wall space in the central room, while long lines of desks were divided by makeshift cubicles for grouped work stations, decked with pinned advertisements and visual banners, post-it notes and rolled-up slogans. Laptops and phones were laid out every few feet. It was a bustling organization, one that had lead them to success three years ago. Still, things could’ve gotten off to a better start than they were going now.
When Jinki arrives, Kibum’s already handing out the itinerary and informational packets they had spent three hours printing, stapling, and stuffing into individual folders the Friday before he had left. He’s probably missed the icebreaker -- a half-hearted attempt at The Big Wind Blows -- though he was still in time to see them divide into teams for the pre-campaign training.
See, as in, slip into the room much less inconspicuously than he had intended, his jacket already falling off his shoulders but still caught on his elbows as he tries to catch his breath, having mixed up the correct floor with the one two floors below it, and then when the elevator took too long, decided to run up the stairs instead.
And maybe it was the lack of coffee, or maybe he was still on the incorrect floor, because with everyone staring at him in surprise, the first thought that occurs to him is that they definitely had the eyes for it. Belatedly he remembers Kibum’s comment about Eunjung hiring all the goodlooking ones, but it was one thing to hear about it and another thing entirely to go through an instant onslaught of one’s ego when confronted with a whole crew of more evolved human beings.
Kibum clears his throat, and Jinki glances over, dazed, although he struggles to snap out of it when the lasers shooting from Kibum’s eyes hit him square in the face.
“This is Lee Jinki,” and the unhidden venom in his voice makes Jinki look down instinctively to see if his shirt is still tucked in, just in case. “He is the co-campaign manager, former communications director to the president, and apparently a peruser of late night activities. You’ll find,” he says, switching his tone, “that everything we do here is a opportunity to do learn and do things better. For instance, take a look at Jinki here.” The staffers obediently turn their eyes once again to Jinki, who struggles not to slouch. “Would you buy what he’s selling?”
“Are we talking about his physical presence, or Cargill?” one of the girls in the front speaks up, and everyone starts laughing. Jinki almost can’t get angry because they all look so attractive doing it. Almost.
“This isn’t a corporate classroom,” he says swiftly, stepping up to the front. “We don’t sell based on brand names and logos. We have a message to spread, messages with real substance because they’re abridged versions of our intended policies to serve the American public. This is not a product you use in your car or your kitchen; this is restructuring the world in which we all inhabit so we can address and accommodate every person’s needs as best we can.”
“Yeah, but the shirt on your back is from Cargill,” says a guy sitting a couple rows back; he has obnoxious, two-toned, blonde brunette hair, but somehow still looks devilishly handsome. “People also depend on capitalism and corporatists to provide what they need.”
Jinki’s face twitches. “True, corporate sponsors have their own place propping up public entities that contribute to a functioning, productive economy.. But -- and we’ll discuss this in more detail later -- capitalism is not a fundamental component of politics. What’s your name?”
The man licks his lips before grinning widely, and Jinki, trying to keep his eyebrows from going up too far, glances over at the man sitting next to him by random chance, then blinks in surprise to see what he’s feeling mirrored exactly on his face -- but bolded somehow, like all his facial features were outlined with permanent marker.
“I’m Kim Jonghyun,” says the blonde, diverting his attention once more, and Jinki gives him a tight smile in response; he can already tell he isn’t going to like him.
“Dude, that’s my shirt.”
“I don’t care,” says Minho, feeling bitchy. “I’m completely broke now, so we’re sharing until you can stockpile some button-ups the next time you go to Walmart.”
Jonghyun makes an ‘oh’ shape with his mouth, and Minho wants to slug him. “Do they have Walmart around here?”
“I don’t know -- I don’t live here either.”
There was technically no difference between DC and Gainesville time, but Minho’s body still wasn’t cooperating with the thirty or so degrees difference in temperature, which meant that everything he did felt lethargic and sodden with fatigue, like he was trying to move through daily life while swimming in a vat of peanut butter.
Naturally, this was when he’d get mugged for the first time.
Coming out of a Rite Aid with some basic essentials -- razor, dish detergent, a pack of Oreos as a poor excuse for breakfast -- he’d gotten ten steps towards the bus stop before someone jabbed what he later learned was a small flashlight in his backside, demanding his wallet and cell phone before shoving him to the ground for good measure, and by the time Minho had gotten over the initial shock to scramble back up and kick some ass, everything was gone except for the flashlight.
Try paying the Metro Transit with that.
It’s not typical of Minho’s nature to complain, but after spending a good six years building up his academic credentials in the midst of stints with the Peace Corps and community organizing, he had been finally ready to settle down into a prolonged bout of educational learning, acceptance to law school at U of F -- and two hours away from fucking DisneyWorld; the happiest place on earth indeed. Then Jonghyun had yanked him out of his moderate comfort with sedentary student living with a surprise application to some kind of temp gig for the upcoming campaign to reelect the president of the United States, which Minho had been totally down for, deferral request submitted and U-Haul truck rented -- up until he realized the full irony of living in the surrounding neighborhood of the nation’s capital.
“That’s just your typical DC orientation,” Jonghyun had told him after Minho had come home, half-traumatized and full-out filled with rage. “Someone stole my order while I went to get napkins the other day at McDonald’s.”
Granted, he had tried to make up for it a few days later, when he came back to their two bedroom apartment with a half Chihuahua, half pug mix in his arms, the runt of the litter, this tiny thing with dark fur and large, glittering eyes; they had named her Marjory.
Jory was currently trying to make him feel better by sitting directly on his feet; unfortunately, it was totally working. Minho bends down to pick her up, tucks her under his arm and walks to the kitchen to refill her bowl -- because naturally he couldn’t count on Jonghyun to do it.
“So what do you think of our boss?” Jonghyun calls from the living room.
“I think he’s...” Minho pauses with folding back the paper bag of dog food before hefting it up and tipping a small amount into the dog dish next to the refrigerator. “Eat slowly, Jory,” he warns, “that’s all you get tonight, you’re getting chubby--” He puts the bag back on the counter, watches her eat. “I think he’s going to be different.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Jonghyun muses. “Ex-comm director at the White House, right?”
“That’s what Kibum said.”
“Oh my god, Kim Kibum,” Jonghyun groans. “Why do I feel like he’s going to be the biggest source of regret I’ll have on this job?”
“Everyone needs one,” Minho says pleasantly. “You’re mine, after all.”
“I love you too.”
But it was a strange affair, how the president’s main speechwriter was suddenly rubbing shoulders with commonplace volunteers, hires for the summer, subjected to coffee runs from Chevron stations and fast food fries and chicken tenders, instead of the cellophane wrapped, higher class stuff they probably get from vending machine prototypes stationed within walking distance of the Oval Office.
At least, that’s what the rumors were.
And even food is less important than reputation. As far as Minho has heard, Lee Jinki had a unique brand of brilliance, a way of wording things that struck at the core of your soul, that made you step outside and hop in your car and get fifteen bucks worth of stamps for all that canvassing you’ll be doing for the next few weeks. He was a wizard, he wrought diction and syntax with an unyielding but unifying public image that the president pulled off so well. After the previous term, the administration had set a high standard for eloquence, almost single-handedly thanks to the notorious communications director.
So really, when he showed up at the office at approximately a quarter after nine that morning, the two-inch gap between Minho’s top and bottom lip was due to awe and please can I have your autograph? Just as much as it was seeing Lee Jinki in a Cargill polo, his hair fluffed out, half dried, shirt tucked in the front but not the back, the skin around his eyes the color of a healing bruise, like he hadn’t slept in two days -- which, for all he knew, might have been the truth. Otherwise, he looked like he was twelve.
“Different,” Minho murmurs again, as Marjory crunches away. Well, he always loved challenges.
But not quite a challenge like this.
By the time everyone else is assigned to color-coded teams and lining up to take headshots for their ID badge, Minho’s left on the sidelines in a daze, pressure added by the heavy weight of Jinki’s gaze as he glances between his clipboard -- which was so what the fuck, this wasn’t summer camp -- and his face, some kind of superficial scrutiny that said nothing about the five-page CV he knew Jinki had on file, which was just so typically East Coast Ivy League shenanigans and if there’s one thing Minho won’t put up with, it’s chip on the shoulder bullshit--
“You can be my personal assistant,” Jinki smiles at him suddenly, and Minho feels a flood of relief, in addition to an understandable amount of curiosity of being singled out from his peers for what -- he guesses anyway, it’s been a while since he’s been in a semi-corporate setting -- would be a coveted position of support to the brains behind the campaign.
However, after two days into the gig, Minho’s starting to think that maybe, Jinki just hates him.
Jinki doesn’t hate Minho.
It might seem like he does, especially after two weeks of making him fetch coffee and sort mail and Minho kind of gives him this look every time he says his name like he’s biting back a retort and or withholding a punch to the face, but ever since he let it slip that he graduated with a degree in Communications from South Florida Community College, spent the next two years in Honduras for the Peace Corps, got accepted into law school at University of Florida and had been apartment-hunting in Gainesville up until his spontaneous relocation -- or rather, roommate strongarming -- to DC for the campaign, Jinki figures the one thing that could bring down someone who had basically conquered the world was to make sure they were really, really bored.
Okay, so maybe he was a little resentful. Apparently even former speechwriters for the most powerful man in the world could be vindictive.
Or maybe that was it. Maybe by being guided by his ambition, by climbing up the political ladder, Jinki became dismayed at how much more restrictive it was; how, with power, came all these things that you could no longer do. Including making a difference -- at least in an effective, timely fashion. As the backbone of bureaucracy, Jinki has never organized a campaign for food and health education, held youth projects and provide activities as alternative pastimes to keep them off the streets, to build water sanitation stations, to feel your compassion turn into affection after building real relationships with names and faces that you see every day, for streets you walk down to visit friends and host families, or simply to buy a killer pastelitos de carne for lunch.
And it wasn’t fair to take it out on the guy, but then again -- because this was totally a good reason -- he was also startlingly handsome. Soulful black eyes that locked on you and didn’t waver for a second; Jinki hated how he always had to look away first. Sharp lines inscribed a square jaw, pronounced the planes of his cheekbones; neither could his height and build be excused as anything ordinary.
It just wasn’t something you could ignore; in fact, it was the very first thing that came to mind.
To also learn that he had already accomplished so much while also being two years younger gave Jinki this consistently rankled feeling that put him in such a bad mood -- which wasn’t hate! just annoyed as sin -- he soon began to realize that the only possible catharsis was to attack the root of the problem.
“You know how to make eggs?” Jinki asks. “Spanish-style, like deep-fried in olive oil so that it’s golden on the sides and just a little bit runny, with some Maldon sea salt on top?” Minho gives him a sour look.
“No,” he says, and yet his tone is amicable -- which was impressive; at least he knew how to keep professional. “I can learn, though.”
“That’s great,” Jinki says warmly. “Keep on taking the initiative, that’ll get you far.”
In the reflection of his MacBook screen, he can see Minho giving him the finger over his shoulder.
It’s enough to make his day.
“So what was on the menu this morning, three-tiered waffles?” asks Jonghyun, chewing on a breadstick. They’re at Olive Garden for an early dinner on a Saturday night, early because Minho hadn’t eaten anything all day after being called into the office at 7:30 in the morning for an impromptu meeting on next month’s strategy for the West Coast states.
Minho mechanically spoons some minestrone into his mouth; Jonghyun is kind enough not to point out that it’s actually for his tea. “Nothing. Not even a granola bar. I had forgotten the coffee because I went straight to the office after I showered, but he didn’t bring it up at all; I spent the entire time taking minutes as they roundtabled their way around some kind of agenda--”
“I was kidding, Choi,” Jonghyun says quietly. As much as they clash on a daily basis, seeing his roommate walk around -- when he could see him, that is, the guy had some crazy hours -- with eyebags the size of the Sargasso Sea was probably not the best indication of job satisfaction. “The real question is, why the hell are you on breakfast duty anyway? You’re supposed to be an assistant, not a butler. It’s not what you signed up for, man -- to know the difference between poached and scrambled or whatever the shit.”
“It’s not what you signed me up for,” Minho corrects, then sighs, dropping his wrong sized spoon back into the bowl. “But like hell if I know what he’s got planned. I’m only deferring six months for this, okay? If he keeps pulling this stuff, then after February, you’re on your own.”
“That’s barely the start of election season!” But Jonghyun gets it. While the rest of them are working on press releases and drawing wide circles for televised infographics, Minho has yet to have a desk assigned to him, which just plain sucks. More often than not the poor guy has his ass balanced on the edge of someone else’s desk, asking for important documents sealed in eight and a half by eleven manila envelopes to run back down between cubicles and corridors, sometimes between buildings for a little fresh air, if he’s lucky. A glorified paper boy.
Jonghyun likes his job well enough -- it’s exciting and at the hub of all that anyone’s going to be talking about for the next ten months -- but he’s really starting to feel bad.
“Listen, the guy has issues,” he says, fork poised over his plate. “Just remember you’re not one of them, all right? He got demoted a month before we even started. They made him go on vacation before he snapped and went down in history, not as a writer but a whistleblower. He’s had to adjust to a lot; the only reason you’re his bullseye is because you’re so fucking noticeable. And as much as I hate to admit it, that’s not your fault either.”
Minho, head bent over his stuffed chicken marsala, looks up suddenly, blinking in surprise. “Wait, did you just say something nice? About me?”
“I am so nice to you,” Jonghyun protests, piercing a piece of breaded eggplant for emphasis. “I have all the best intentions!” Then he sighs, because what the hell. “And I don’t want you to leave.”
He looks up to meet Minho’s gaze, a sappy albeit sleep-deprived smile hanging off his lips; sometimes he thinks he ought to do more to earn the right to see it. “I’ll stay,” Minho says finally, and Jonghyun rolls his eyes while simultaneously conveying his gratitude, which makes the other man scowl. “For Marjory.”
Fair enough; he probably deserved that.
For Minho, even with a night well-saturated with spaghetti and pasta sauce, he still avoids telling Jonghyun about the worst part. The worst part was that the same day he had filed for his deferment was also the day he had received a full scholarship from Indiana University, provided he begin his studies with them next semester.
Unfortunately, an election and a shitty boss got in the way.
As far as he knew, turning down a scholarship was definitely not one of his life goals. Minho had always been a risk taker, unconventional in the standards of owning a certain set of 500-page textbooks by the time you’re twenty-five, but he had had Telgucigalpa, he had had the confines of a small, hipster community -- priceless stuff, in his opinion. Still, this was pushing it; in addition to youth outreach and nutrition ed, he had also busted his ass for two years at 22 credits a semester to get to this point, and just because of one well-landed application suddenly turned into a nightmare -- even if it was history in the making -- maybe it wasn’t worth it at this point in his life.
“Give me a reason,” Minho mutters to himself, and he’s not sure if he’s speaking to Jonghyun, currently across the table making his way through a thick piece of chocolate cheesecake, or to one Lee Jinki.
Part Two