SSS 2010: for eijifujiryoma
For: eijifujiryoma
From: Your Secret Santa
Title: Christmas: A Step-by-Step Manual on How to Believe
Pairing: Onew/Minho
Rating: G
Wordcount: 4,500
Summary: In which Minho doesn’t believe in many things, like lunch breaks and selfless people and Christmas, and Jinki doesn’t believe him.
The dates on a calendar are just that to Choi Minho: dates.
They’re just numbers arranged in front of more numbers and Minho does not understand why certain numbers printed on a calendar are heralded with overpriced flowers or carved pumpkins or mistletoe.
Really.
“This is my first time missing Christmas and my parents are really disappointed. They didn’t think I’d be this busy. I didn’t think I’d be this busy,” the new lawyer says with a sigh, his elbows resting on top of a thick pile of legal papers.
Minho forces himself to glance up from his file. New lawyers are either over-enthusiastic or sentimental when it comes to working on days other people consider ‘holidays’, and it looks like he’s stuck with a ridiculously sentimental one this year. This new lawyer has a name, one that Minho is having a hard time recalling because of all the white noise this said lawyer insists on making.
Jong…something.
“I work best when it’s quiet,” Minho says pointedly, and Jong-something stops talking.
“Right,” he says and promptly buries returns to his legal documents and the office is pleasantly silent and Minho loses himself in the particular contract until a weird sort of noise jolts him from his work.
It’s jingly and static-y, like electronic bells, and there’s a rustle of more sounds from Jong-something’s side of the office. “Sorry,” he says, flustered, “it’s the Christmas alarm on my phone. Merry Christmas!”
And it is during moments like this that Minho will never cease to wonder why he did not choose to study criminal law instead. It would come extremely useful in defending himself in court after being charged with the murder of a man who insists on listening to obnoxious festive tunes.
--
Minho has a list of very specific goals in life:
Get hired by a top law firm, buy a forty-inch television with cash, make his first million by thirty, retire by forty-five. He has already crossed the first two off his list, thanks to cups and cups of black coffee and law journals and twelve-hour days at the firm.
Minho knows the other two will be crossed off with nothing more than extra cups of black coffee, because he cannot read case files any faster or legally work any longer.
This is good, because all he needs to do is drink more coffee and coffee is cheap and cheap coffee means more money in the bank, which brings him closer to goal number three.
The senior partners call him intense and Minho likes the comparison because it makes him think of the way he likes his coffee. They clap him on the back and shake his hand proudly but the other lawyers relate to him in ways that are closer to the other end of the spectrum.
In the beginning, they ask Minho to join them for lunch but there are stacks and stacks of papers on his desk, papers that will not read or sign themselves. When Minho turns them down for the third time, the invitations stop and the whispers start.
It turns out to his advantage though, because no one at work bothers to talk to Minho, and no friends means more time alone and more time means more money to make.
--
Minho could have and would have continued his flawless streak of not taking time off for lunch if not for the fact that the firm decides to replaster his office. “They’ll come in every lunchtime for a month,” a senior partner tells him apologetically, “but you can go to that coffee house down the street. It’s quiet and they have really good coffee.”
He considers protesting, but the brittle way the man standing across him is smiling changes Minho’s mind. He exhales and starts to clear his desk wordlessly.
The coffee shop is small but there are heavy, plush chairs in every corner and the air is thick with the scent of roasted coffee. Minho slips into the only empty chair he can find and unbuckles the clasp on his briefcase: a little change in his surroundings won’t stop him from getting the job done.
“Hi, I’ve never seen you around here,” a friendly voice comes, sometime later, from the next table and Minho turns to his side to see someone staring back at him. Their tables look almost identical: one cup of dark coffee surrounded by sheets of papers and files and pens and highlighters.
His eyes are curious, mouth upturned into a smile but Minho stays silent. “You work with that law firm down the road, right? Many of the lawyers come down to have lunch here but this is the first time I’ve seen you around.”
Minho nods curtly, but instead of ending the conversation, the smile beaming from the opposite table brightens.
“I’m Jinki, and I’m a greeting card writer,” he says, gesturing to the stationery on his table.
And instead of turning away and getting back to his stack of papers or brushing the stranger off, Minho laughs. “Jobs like that still exist?”
“Yes,” Jinki says innocently, causing Minho’s tiny smirk to widen. “The words inside the cards you buy don’t write themselves.”
“I don’t buy cards.”
“Not even Christmas cards?”
“What is this, 1999?”
Jinki is unfazed. “The sales of Christmas cards rise every year. It’s actually more widespread than you think.”
Minho turns around, gathering all the loose papers into a pile in one swift movement and stands. “I don’t believe in Christmas,” he says before turning to walk out of the café, leaving behind a too-friendly stranger who spends his days thinking up of cheesy messages to put inside ridiculously sentimental pieces of paper.
I don’t understand people, Minho thinks as he makes his way back to the office and in the café, a certain Lee Jinki ponders exactly the same thing.
--
It’s a regular day but no, not really because Minho sits on his plush chair, magazine in one hand and a rectangle piece of paper in the other. There’s a satisfied smile on his face.
An analysis he had written on a recent case has just been published and he has a decent cheque with his name on it as another piece of proof for all his hard work.
Another small but significant step closer to goal number three.
There’s another piece of mail on his desk and Minho picks up the square cream envelop curiously. It’s too small to be considered as one of those documents clients would send over and too formal for junk mail and he contemplates slipping it right into the recycling pile but the plain, sensible way his name is printed on it overpowers his sense of curiosity.
The flap peels open cleanly, and he stares at the card that slips out. It’s a blinding shade of yellow and a moose with anthers entwined with fairy lights stands in the middle. Two huge, black numbers that read ‘25’ are printed behind the moose.
There’s a printed message on the inside: It’s the 25th of November, exactly a month before Christmas. Merry-One-Month-Before-Christmas!
-Jinki
Minho does not know which is more disturbing - the fact that he can hear Jong-something’s Christmas alarm playing in his head as he stares at the card or that a greeting card writer he had said three sentences to has managed to find out his name and firm.
He shakes his head lightly and brushes the card to the side before pulling out a file from the drawer. Time to get back to work, he reminds himself as he drops the card into his recycling bin and it’s work as usual on an ordinary November day.
--
Minho almost expects more cards but when he arrives to work to find his desk clear of fancy, colourful envelopes, he promptly forgets about Jinki because numbers that are not dates fill his mind. It’s numbers that actually matter, like how much he’s billing in every hour and how much money sits in his account and how much he’s making on interest.
He’s glad he has sensible things like this to concentrate on, and not other people and so-called important celebrations and holidays.
And the Jinki Incident would have completely faded from Minho’s memory, and it does until he bumps into Jinki one morning on his way to work.
Literally.
Minho stumbles as his shoulder slams into a person and across him, someone falls onto the curb. His briefcase is knocked from his hands, landing by his feet with a dull thud.
“Sorry!” the person says quickly, pushing himself to his feet as Minho sighs loudly as he picks up his briefcase and smoothens down the front of his suit. “Hey, I remember you.”
He looks up to find himself face-to-face with a smiling face. Jinho? Jinsu? No, Jinki. “Oh,” he says flatly, “it’s you.”
“Remember me? I sent a card to your office a week or so ago. Did you receive it?”
“If I don’t even celebrate Christmas, what makes you think I celebrate the month before it?” Minho asks bluntly, if not honestly.
Jinki’s eyes widen, as though taken aback. “It was something my team came up with so I sent some around to test the responses. You’re the first one who didn’t like it.”
Minho gives him a noncommittal half-shrug before turning around to walk away. He makes it a couple of steps away but Jinki halts him with a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
“Uh,” Jinki says, drawing his hand away quickly, “I know it’s none of my business but do you ignore Christmas because you have no one to celebrate with?”
Minho stares at him, Jinki in his argyle pullover and brown shoulder bag, who looks right back at Minho with a look he can only describe as concern with a mix of apprehension and understanding. It’s a strange, strange look.
“I don’t celebrate Christmas because I have better things to do.”
“Oh,” Jinki says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Like?”
“Making money,” Minho replies, swinging his briefcase in his hand. “Reviewing documents. Fulfilling my goals.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. Do you have anyone to celebrate Christmas with?”
It occurs to Minho he can spend the whole day arguing about pointless things like this, so he gestures at his watch and when he turns around to walk away this time, Jinki does not stop him.
It’s just another usual day at work - uninterrupted moments with files and papers and law review journals and a quick lunch of two cups of coffee. The only difference between today and all of his usual days is that Jinki’s question floats about in his head, insistent and distracting.
--
“You know where I live now?” Minho asks in disbelief as the person across him shoots him a feeble smile.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to seem so creepy,” Jinki says, “and I’m not stalking you. You dropped your planner when we walked into each other yesterday.” There’s a plain, black planner in Jinki’s hand, one of Minho’s spare ones, and he takes it back carefully.
“Thanks,” he replies, somewhat awkwardly because Minho doesn’t quite know how to deal with Jinki, who is considerate and open and bright and everything he is, well, not.
“The Christmas spirit’s already in the air,” Jinki says brightly, and Minho blinks because he really does not know how to respond and Jinki’s smile falters. “Since it’s Friday night, would you like to go out for a drink?”
“No,” Minho says automatically.
“Busy?” Jinki asks, both tone and gaze skeptical.
“I’m always busy.”
Conversation over, case closed; back to multitasking between drafting a trust and watching soccer match on his bright forty-two inch television but Jinki doesn’t seem to agree. In one swift, daring move, he reaches out and pulls at Minho’s hand, causing Minho to stumble out the doorway of his apartment.
“I could sue you for that,” he says disbelievingly, rubbing his wrist and Jinki looks equally taken aback at himself.
Minho is sullen but he makes no move to walk back inside and slam the door, probably due to Jinki being seemingly at a loss for words and Minho enjoys watching people suffer in the silence, because they’re awkward and they squirm and Jinki does awkward well.
“Well, since you’re already out…” Jinki points out and Minho sighs, loud enough for it to echo but he locks his door and brushes past Jinki. He heads for the stairs with Jinki’s footsteps following close behind because who knows what Jinki might do next if he says no: wait for him outside his office or break into his apartment or maybe even hire him as a lawyer.
--
It’s a bar four blocks from his apartment, a nice place with smooth, dark tables and frothy beers and a stage at the front, where people take turns to stumble onto for a microphone.
Jinki orders them both tall mugs of beer and Minho finds a table near the windows because it’s the furthest from the stage, where two men are singing their drunken hearts’ out.
“Do you sing?” Jinki asks, gaze fixed on the stage.
Minho wraps his fingers around the ice-cold glass and shakes his head. “Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Prove it,” Minho says before he can catch himself and across him, Jinki looks faintly amused.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I need evidence before I believe in something,” Minho replies just as quickly, picking up his mug and sipping. The beer is creamy and light and surprisingly good for a place that encourages people to butcher songs and makes their patrons sit through it.
Jinki stands. “Okay,” he says simply, making his way towards the front and Minho picks up his glass and settles back in his chair. He believes the word is ‘schadenfreude’.
By the time Jinki’s up at the front, the two men have staggered off the stage and then Jinki has the mike in hand, staring straight at Minho.
And when he starts to sing, Minho realises he’s doing so without background music because there’s only the chatter of the crowd and the dull thuds of glass on wood and Jinki’s soft, clear voice all around him. Goosebumps make their way across his skin, blooming involuntarily, and Minho clenches his hand around the glass.
The song is Christmassy and slow and vaguely familiar, and when Minho finally exhales, Jinki lowers the mike and several people actually applaud.
Jinki walks back quickly, head bowed but all smiles. “What song was that?” Minho asks, as Jinki settles back into his seat across him and laughs.
“The First Noel!”
Minho shrugs. “At least I knew it’s a Christmas song.”
“So, do you believe me now?”
He nods coolly, even though the goosebumps still linger.
“Now all I have to do is show you Christmas is worth celebrating,” Jinki says brightly, and Minho raises his glass.
“Good luck with that.”
Jinki clinks his glass up against Minho’s, determined.
--
Minho wakes up on Saturday morning with the sun pouring in past the blinds. It is ten-thirty, and Minho can’t remember the last time he had woken up this late, ever.
He doesn’t know whether to be miffed or surprised.
On Sunday, he spots an envelope slotted under his front door as he makes his way to the breakfast table. He doesn’t even need to wonder who it’s from and it’s a red card this time, with a cheery-looking cartoon elf smiling back at him.
It’s green on the inside and Minho thinks about clashing colours and Christmas. Same time next week? the first line reads and below are two words:
Yes/Yes
“You’re really not funny, you know,” Minho tells Jinki the next time they meet up and Jinki nudges him with a shoulder.
“You’re smiling, though.”
“It’s a mocking smile.”
“A smile nonetheless,” Jinki says cheerfully, and Minho can’t help but nudge him back harder, his smile a little more sincere.
--
“Why don’t you believe in Christmas?”
They’re sitting on a bench in the dark, in the middle of a park Jinki insists on taking him to. Jinki’s voice trembles slightly from the cold.
“It’s an excuse for companies to cash in,” Minho replies, “especially greeting card companies.”
“Says the person who wants to do nothing but build his fortune,” Jinki replies easily, words condensing in the air before Minho’s eyes.
“There’s a difference between making money from the willing and capitalizing from the emotions of the masses.”
Jinki stares at him curiously. “You don’t sound like the cold, ruthless lawyer I remember.”
Minho shrugs and steers the conversation away from the subject. “Would you tell me what we’re doing here? I didn’t expect to be frozen to a bench when I agreed to follow you out.”
“Five more minutes,” he replies, standing abruptly and tightening the scarf around his neck. “But we can start walking home now.”
Minho stuffs his hands as deep into the pockets of his coat as possible. “Home?”
Jinki nods. “Back to my place. I’ve got a surprise for you,” and before Minho can complain or make a break for it, Jinki links their arms together and half-drags Minho, in the chilly air, towards his apartment.
He contemplates on tackling Jinki to the ground and making his way back to his own place as they walk, but the threat of a lawsuit and the payout to follow convinces him otherwise and so he follows, his protests forming tiny clouds around them.
They walk past brightly lit shops and bundled-up people, and Jinki nods and smiles at all of them. “I’ve got hot chocolate back home if you’d stop complaining,” Jinki says as he drops several coins into a bright red bucket, causing a person dressed in a ridiculous Santa hat to wish them a cheerful, Have a merry Christmas! as they trudge forward.
Minho shuts up.
Countless smiles to random strangers (on Jinki’s part) later, they arrive at Jinki’s apartment. It’s a tiny studio apartment and Minho gapes, not at its size, but at the plain fact that Jinki does not own a television.
“You don’t own a television,” he says disbelievingly and Jinki walks out of the half-kitchen, two steaming mugs in hand.
“I don’t own a television,” Jinki replies and Minho shakes his head.
“How do you watch things like the news or soccer matches?”
“I don’t,” he says before sipping his drink, eyes bright over the mug.
Before Minho can speak, the doorbell sounds and Jinki thrusts the mug into Minho’s left hand. The hot liquid slops over the rim, very nearly spilling, and Minho almost drops it while Jinki pulls open the door and turns around to grin at Minho. “Carolers,” he says happily.
The carolers sing several songs: all bright, Christmas songs and Jinki sits by his side, breath tickling his cheek as he whispers the titles into his ear every now and then as they sit there, side-by-side with their drinks.
They don’t sing half as well as Jinki, Minho thinks as they finish their last song but he claps anyway, because Jinki looks at him expectantly as he applauds. Jinki sends them off with huge paper cups of hot chocolate and a Christmas card each and Minho sits there, pleasantly warm and comfortable on Jinki’s couch.
“It’s not always mindless commercialization,” Jinki says softly, settling down next to Minho. Minho does not speak, because Jinki is so close their knees touch and maybe, just maybe, beginning to believe is easier than he had imagined.
--
Beginning to believe is not the same as truly celebrating Christmas though, because Minho has no plans to take the twenty-fifth off and he still works twelve-hour days and downs countless cups of coffee.
That is, until he finds a cream envelope at his apartment, his name printed in Jinki’s handwriting on the front. It’s heavy in his hands and Minho bites back a smile, because this is almost routine now.
When he slits it open, a card and tiny, tiny glittery shards of green and red and gold fall from the envelope and Minho blinks at all the confetti on his hands and across his carpeted floor.
The words printed across the expensive paper read:
Did you know there’s a special ingredient that makes Christmas magical, wonderful and fun…
Minho can almost feel the cavities form as he reads, but he opens the card nonetheless.
…You!
Below is Jinki’s familiar handwriting.
And this is why you are cordially invited to my apartment on Christmas Eve (24th December) for dinner. Take Christmas Day off, because it’s about time you did.
P.S. I hope you like confetti!
Minho finds out later how difficult it is to clean confetti off the carpet because when he walks on certain spots days later, the light catches bits of colour and the confetti glints up at him innocently, reminding him of the invitation and Christmas and Jinki.
--
Jinki calls on the twenty-third.
“You’re coming, right?”
“Wouldn’t you of all people have tons of Christmas parties to attend?”
“My parents are on a round-the-world cruise and they’re spending Christmas in Scandinavia,” says Jinki, “and I did get invited to several Christmas parties but I didn’t think you would have liked to come along. They’re uh, very loud and festive.”
Minho stares out the window for several seconds, puzzled. “And you’re not going to those parties because you’re hosting one for me instead?”
“Yes,” comes Jinki’s merry reply. “Didn’t you read my card? That one special ingredient…“
“How could I forget,” Minho says, cringing at the thought and Jinki laughs.
“And I mean it. I’ll see you tomorrow!”
The line dies and for the first time, Minho is suddenly conscious that to him, it means nothing more than cheesy words on a piece of paper but it’s different for Jinki, who believes in each and every one of those words he prints inside a card.
--
It snows on the twenty-forth and Minho stands outside Jinki’s door, moving from foot to foot as he tries to keep the warmth in his bones.
“You’re on time,” Jinki says, pleased, as he swings open the door and Minho slips past him quickly, into the warm apartment.
“You’re lucky I made it here alive,” he replies darkly, thawing himself in front of the heater.
“It’s Christmas Eve, Minho, don’t be so grumpy.”
Jinki hands him a steaming mug and the apartment is quiet for some time as Minho sips at the thick, steaming chocolate while Jinki is busy arranging plates on the table behind him.
The apartment is decorated with Santa hats on the chairs and wreaths on the walls and a row of colourful cards clipped to a string that hangs above his bed.
It’s all a little too overwhelming.
Minho turns around and there’s a duck on the center of the table, crispy and golden. “That doesn’t look like a turkey.”
“I had to improvise. They ran out of turkey at the restaurant,” Jinki replies, beckoning him over. “Time for your first Christmas dinner!”
It turns out to be a perfectly ordinary dinner, except quiet Christmas music plays in the background and Jinki’s more-animated-than-usual stories, about how how one of the printers broke down yesterday and the chaos that ensued. Minho talks about the confetti in his carpet, which makes Jinki beam. “My plan exactly.”
They eat duck with rice and seaweed and kimchi, alongside a smattering of mashed potatoes and roasted carrots and Minho points it out as being untraditional. “It’s the thought that counts,” Jinki replies, picking up another piece of duck and wrapping it with seaweed.
“You’re like a walking cheesy card,” Minho retorts and Jinki says past a mouth full of food, Thank you, kind sir.
It’s the best Christmas dinner Minho could have asked for. Not that he would ask for one willingly, but if he had to attend a single Christmas dinner, it would be Jinki’s.
Barely an hour later, Jinki has Minho sitting on his bed, a spare blanket wrapped around his shoulders as they watch Christmas movies on the small screen of Jinki’s laptop. They’re both lying on their stomachs, propping themselves up on their elbows. There’s a comfortable weight leaning against Minho’s side and whenever Jinki inhales, it shifts.
“This is why you should get a TV. I’m squinting,” Minho says sleepily in the middle of How The Grinch Stole Christmas and Jinki shushes him by poking his thigh with an ice-cold foot.
Minho doesn’t remember exactly when and how he falls asleep, but he does: it’s a combination of the cozy, thick blanket and the soft dialog on the screen and the heat radiating from next to him, warm skin against skin.
He falls asleep content, even though he doesn’t know it quite just yet until a gentle shake rouses him from sleep and a blurry shape that has to be Jinki stares at him, mouth pressed in an amused smile. “It’s twelve fifteen. Merry Christmas!” he says quietly, barely audible over the voices and background music of the movie.
Minho is too sleepy to process the words, so he says an automatic “Merry Christmas,” before falling back to sleep.
--
Minho wakes up to Christmas morning on Jinki’s bed, his limbs sprawled out across the small bed. The sky is just beginning to brighten and he tugs his borrowed blanket closer to his chest as he sits up to survey the place.
Jinki is fast asleep, curled up on the couch several feet away.
There’s a card next to his pillow.
He picks it up cautiously because it’s all bright, ridiculously cheerful Christmas colours and prancing reindeer and wrapped presents with royal blue ribbons printed across the front. It’s heavier than a usual card and when he opens it, he finds out exactly why:
It’s a singing card because the moment he flattens it out, a familiar voice singing a familiar song fills the apartment and Minho laughs, snapping the card shut. It’s too late though, because Jinki blinks awake. “Your Christmas present,” he mumbles, words heavy with sleep.
The singing starts over because Minho reopens the card and it lasts for three minutes or long enough for Jinki to rise to his feet and climb onto bed, next to Minho. “I know this song,” Minho says, partly incredulous, partly proud, thinking back to his first time in this apartment and the carolers and Jinki whispering in his ear-
Minho colours at the thought.
Jinki smiles a peculiar sort of smile, cheeks pink from the chilly morning air, and he looks as though he has something monumental to say or a confession to make but it passes because all he says are three painfully sincere words: “Merry Christmas, Minho.”
From: Your Secret Santa
Title: Christmas: A Step-by-Step Manual on How to Believe
Pairing: Onew/Minho
Rating: G
Wordcount: 4,500
Summary: In which Minho doesn’t believe in many things, like lunch breaks and selfless people and Christmas, and Jinki doesn’t believe him.
The dates on a calendar are just that to Choi Minho: dates.
They’re just numbers arranged in front of more numbers and Minho does not understand why certain numbers printed on a calendar are heralded with overpriced flowers or carved pumpkins or mistletoe.
Really.
“This is my first time missing Christmas and my parents are really disappointed. They didn’t think I’d be this busy. I didn’t think I’d be this busy,” the new lawyer says with a sigh, his elbows resting on top of a thick pile of legal papers.
Minho forces himself to glance up from his file. New lawyers are either over-enthusiastic or sentimental when it comes to working on days other people consider ‘holidays’, and it looks like he’s stuck with a ridiculously sentimental one this year. This new lawyer has a name, one that Minho is having a hard time recalling because of all the white noise this said lawyer insists on making.
Jong…something.
“I work best when it’s quiet,” Minho says pointedly, and Jong-something stops talking.
“Right,” he says and promptly buries returns to his legal documents and the office is pleasantly silent and Minho loses himself in the particular contract until a weird sort of noise jolts him from his work.
It’s jingly and static-y, like electronic bells, and there’s a rustle of more sounds from Jong-something’s side of the office. “Sorry,” he says, flustered, “it’s the Christmas alarm on my phone. Merry Christmas!”
And it is during moments like this that Minho will never cease to wonder why he did not choose to study criminal law instead. It would come extremely useful in defending himself in court after being charged with the murder of a man who insists on listening to obnoxious festive tunes.
--
Minho has a list of very specific goals in life:
Get hired by a top law firm, buy a forty-inch television with cash, make his first million by thirty, retire by forty-five. He has already crossed the first two off his list, thanks to cups and cups of black coffee and law journals and twelve-hour days at the firm.
Minho knows the other two will be crossed off with nothing more than extra cups of black coffee, because he cannot read case files any faster or legally work any longer.
This is good, because all he needs to do is drink more coffee and coffee is cheap and cheap coffee means more money in the bank, which brings him closer to goal number three.
The senior partners call him intense and Minho likes the comparison because it makes him think of the way he likes his coffee. They clap him on the back and shake his hand proudly but the other lawyers relate to him in ways that are closer to the other end of the spectrum.
In the beginning, they ask Minho to join them for lunch but there are stacks and stacks of papers on his desk, papers that will not read or sign themselves. When Minho turns them down for the third time, the invitations stop and the whispers start.
It turns out to his advantage though, because no one at work bothers to talk to Minho, and no friends means more time alone and more time means more money to make.
--
Minho could have and would have continued his flawless streak of not taking time off for lunch if not for the fact that the firm decides to replaster his office. “They’ll come in every lunchtime for a month,” a senior partner tells him apologetically, “but you can go to that coffee house down the street. It’s quiet and they have really good coffee.”
He considers protesting, but the brittle way the man standing across him is smiling changes Minho’s mind. He exhales and starts to clear his desk wordlessly.
The coffee shop is small but there are heavy, plush chairs in every corner and the air is thick with the scent of roasted coffee. Minho slips into the only empty chair he can find and unbuckles the clasp on his briefcase: a little change in his surroundings won’t stop him from getting the job done.
“Hi, I’ve never seen you around here,” a friendly voice comes, sometime later, from the next table and Minho turns to his side to see someone staring back at him. Their tables look almost identical: one cup of dark coffee surrounded by sheets of papers and files and pens and highlighters.
His eyes are curious, mouth upturned into a smile but Minho stays silent. “You work with that law firm down the road, right? Many of the lawyers come down to have lunch here but this is the first time I’ve seen you around.”
Minho nods curtly, but instead of ending the conversation, the smile beaming from the opposite table brightens.
“I’m Jinki, and I’m a greeting card writer,” he says, gesturing to the stationery on his table.
And instead of turning away and getting back to his stack of papers or brushing the stranger off, Minho laughs. “Jobs like that still exist?”
“Yes,” Jinki says innocently, causing Minho’s tiny smirk to widen. “The words inside the cards you buy don’t write themselves.”
“I don’t buy cards.”
“Not even Christmas cards?”
“What is this, 1999?”
Jinki is unfazed. “The sales of Christmas cards rise every year. It’s actually more widespread than you think.”
Minho turns around, gathering all the loose papers into a pile in one swift movement and stands. “I don’t believe in Christmas,” he says before turning to walk out of the café, leaving behind a too-friendly stranger who spends his days thinking up of cheesy messages to put inside ridiculously sentimental pieces of paper.
I don’t understand people, Minho thinks as he makes his way back to the office and in the café, a certain Lee Jinki ponders exactly the same thing.
--
It’s a regular day but no, not really because Minho sits on his plush chair, magazine in one hand and a rectangle piece of paper in the other. There’s a satisfied smile on his face.
An analysis he had written on a recent case has just been published and he has a decent cheque with his name on it as another piece of proof for all his hard work.
Another small but significant step closer to goal number three.
There’s another piece of mail on his desk and Minho picks up the square cream envelop curiously. It’s too small to be considered as one of those documents clients would send over and too formal for junk mail and he contemplates slipping it right into the recycling pile but the plain, sensible way his name is printed on it overpowers his sense of curiosity.
The flap peels open cleanly, and he stares at the card that slips out. It’s a blinding shade of yellow and a moose with anthers entwined with fairy lights stands in the middle. Two huge, black numbers that read ‘25’ are printed behind the moose.
There’s a printed message on the inside: It’s the 25th of November, exactly a month before Christmas. Merry-One-Month-Before-Christmas!
-Jinki
Minho does not know which is more disturbing - the fact that he can hear Jong-something’s Christmas alarm playing in his head as he stares at the card or that a greeting card writer he had said three sentences to has managed to find out his name and firm.
He shakes his head lightly and brushes the card to the side before pulling out a file from the drawer. Time to get back to work, he reminds himself as he drops the card into his recycling bin and it’s work as usual on an ordinary November day.
--
Minho almost expects more cards but when he arrives to work to find his desk clear of fancy, colourful envelopes, he promptly forgets about Jinki because numbers that are not dates fill his mind. It’s numbers that actually matter, like how much he’s billing in every hour and how much money sits in his account and how much he’s making on interest.
He’s glad he has sensible things like this to concentrate on, and not other people and so-called important celebrations and holidays.
And the Jinki Incident would have completely faded from Minho’s memory, and it does until he bumps into Jinki one morning on his way to work.
Literally.
Minho stumbles as his shoulder slams into a person and across him, someone falls onto the curb. His briefcase is knocked from his hands, landing by his feet with a dull thud.
“Sorry!” the person says quickly, pushing himself to his feet as Minho sighs loudly as he picks up his briefcase and smoothens down the front of his suit. “Hey, I remember you.”
He looks up to find himself face-to-face with a smiling face. Jinho? Jinsu? No, Jinki. “Oh,” he says flatly, “it’s you.”
“Remember me? I sent a card to your office a week or so ago. Did you receive it?”
“If I don’t even celebrate Christmas, what makes you think I celebrate the month before it?” Minho asks bluntly, if not honestly.
Jinki’s eyes widen, as though taken aback. “It was something my team came up with so I sent some around to test the responses. You’re the first one who didn’t like it.”
Minho gives him a noncommittal half-shrug before turning around to walk away. He makes it a couple of steps away but Jinki halts him with a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
“Uh,” Jinki says, drawing his hand away quickly, “I know it’s none of my business but do you ignore Christmas because you have no one to celebrate with?”
Minho stares at him, Jinki in his argyle pullover and brown shoulder bag, who looks right back at Minho with a look he can only describe as concern with a mix of apprehension and understanding. It’s a strange, strange look.
“I don’t celebrate Christmas because I have better things to do.”
“Oh,” Jinki says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Like?”
“Making money,” Minho replies, swinging his briefcase in his hand. “Reviewing documents. Fulfilling my goals.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. Do you have anyone to celebrate Christmas with?”
It occurs to Minho he can spend the whole day arguing about pointless things like this, so he gestures at his watch and when he turns around to walk away this time, Jinki does not stop him.
It’s just another usual day at work - uninterrupted moments with files and papers and law review journals and a quick lunch of two cups of coffee. The only difference between today and all of his usual days is that Jinki’s question floats about in his head, insistent and distracting.
--
“You know where I live now?” Minho asks in disbelief as the person across him shoots him a feeble smile.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to seem so creepy,” Jinki says, “and I’m not stalking you. You dropped your planner when we walked into each other yesterday.” There’s a plain, black planner in Jinki’s hand, one of Minho’s spare ones, and he takes it back carefully.
“Thanks,” he replies, somewhat awkwardly because Minho doesn’t quite know how to deal with Jinki, who is considerate and open and bright and everything he is, well, not.
“The Christmas spirit’s already in the air,” Jinki says brightly, and Minho blinks because he really does not know how to respond and Jinki’s smile falters. “Since it’s Friday night, would you like to go out for a drink?”
“No,” Minho says automatically.
“Busy?” Jinki asks, both tone and gaze skeptical.
“I’m always busy.”
Conversation over, case closed; back to multitasking between drafting a trust and watching soccer match on his bright forty-two inch television but Jinki doesn’t seem to agree. In one swift, daring move, he reaches out and pulls at Minho’s hand, causing Minho to stumble out the doorway of his apartment.
“I could sue you for that,” he says disbelievingly, rubbing his wrist and Jinki looks equally taken aback at himself.
Minho is sullen but he makes no move to walk back inside and slam the door, probably due to Jinki being seemingly at a loss for words and Minho enjoys watching people suffer in the silence, because they’re awkward and they squirm and Jinki does awkward well.
“Well, since you’re already out…” Jinki points out and Minho sighs, loud enough for it to echo but he locks his door and brushes past Jinki. He heads for the stairs with Jinki’s footsteps following close behind because who knows what Jinki might do next if he says no: wait for him outside his office or break into his apartment or maybe even hire him as a lawyer.
--
It’s a bar four blocks from his apartment, a nice place with smooth, dark tables and frothy beers and a stage at the front, where people take turns to stumble onto for a microphone.
Jinki orders them both tall mugs of beer and Minho finds a table near the windows because it’s the furthest from the stage, where two men are singing their drunken hearts’ out.
“Do you sing?” Jinki asks, gaze fixed on the stage.
Minho wraps his fingers around the ice-cold glass and shakes his head. “Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Prove it,” Minho says before he can catch himself and across him, Jinki looks faintly amused.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I need evidence before I believe in something,” Minho replies just as quickly, picking up his mug and sipping. The beer is creamy and light and surprisingly good for a place that encourages people to butcher songs and makes their patrons sit through it.
Jinki stands. “Okay,” he says simply, making his way towards the front and Minho picks up his glass and settles back in his chair. He believes the word is ‘schadenfreude’.
By the time Jinki’s up at the front, the two men have staggered off the stage and then Jinki has the mike in hand, staring straight at Minho.
And when he starts to sing, Minho realises he’s doing so without background music because there’s only the chatter of the crowd and the dull thuds of glass on wood and Jinki’s soft, clear voice all around him. Goosebumps make their way across his skin, blooming involuntarily, and Minho clenches his hand around the glass.
The song is Christmassy and slow and vaguely familiar, and when Minho finally exhales, Jinki lowers the mike and several people actually applaud.
Jinki walks back quickly, head bowed but all smiles. “What song was that?” Minho asks, as Jinki settles back into his seat across him and laughs.
“The First Noel!”
Minho shrugs. “At least I knew it’s a Christmas song.”
“So, do you believe me now?”
He nods coolly, even though the goosebumps still linger.
“Now all I have to do is show you Christmas is worth celebrating,” Jinki says brightly, and Minho raises his glass.
“Good luck with that.”
Jinki clinks his glass up against Minho’s, determined.
--
Minho wakes up on Saturday morning with the sun pouring in past the blinds. It is ten-thirty, and Minho can’t remember the last time he had woken up this late, ever.
He doesn’t know whether to be miffed or surprised.
On Sunday, he spots an envelope slotted under his front door as he makes his way to the breakfast table. He doesn’t even need to wonder who it’s from and it’s a red card this time, with a cheery-looking cartoon elf smiling back at him.
It’s green on the inside and Minho thinks about clashing colours and Christmas. Same time next week? the first line reads and below are two words:
Yes/Yes
“You’re really not funny, you know,” Minho tells Jinki the next time they meet up and Jinki nudges him with a shoulder.
“You’re smiling, though.”
“It’s a mocking smile.”
“A smile nonetheless,” Jinki says cheerfully, and Minho can’t help but nudge him back harder, his smile a little more sincere.
--
“Why don’t you believe in Christmas?”
They’re sitting on a bench in the dark, in the middle of a park Jinki insists on taking him to. Jinki’s voice trembles slightly from the cold.
“It’s an excuse for companies to cash in,” Minho replies, “especially greeting card companies.”
“Says the person who wants to do nothing but build his fortune,” Jinki replies easily, words condensing in the air before Minho’s eyes.
“There’s a difference between making money from the willing and capitalizing from the emotions of the masses.”
Jinki stares at him curiously. “You don’t sound like the cold, ruthless lawyer I remember.”
Minho shrugs and steers the conversation away from the subject. “Would you tell me what we’re doing here? I didn’t expect to be frozen to a bench when I agreed to follow you out.”
“Five more minutes,” he replies, standing abruptly and tightening the scarf around his neck. “But we can start walking home now.”
Minho stuffs his hands as deep into the pockets of his coat as possible. “Home?”
Jinki nods. “Back to my place. I’ve got a surprise for you,” and before Minho can complain or make a break for it, Jinki links their arms together and half-drags Minho, in the chilly air, towards his apartment.
He contemplates on tackling Jinki to the ground and making his way back to his own place as they walk, but the threat of a lawsuit and the payout to follow convinces him otherwise and so he follows, his protests forming tiny clouds around them.
They walk past brightly lit shops and bundled-up people, and Jinki nods and smiles at all of them. “I’ve got hot chocolate back home if you’d stop complaining,” Jinki says as he drops several coins into a bright red bucket, causing a person dressed in a ridiculous Santa hat to wish them a cheerful, Have a merry Christmas! as they trudge forward.
Minho shuts up.
Countless smiles to random strangers (on Jinki’s part) later, they arrive at Jinki’s apartment. It’s a tiny studio apartment and Minho gapes, not at its size, but at the plain fact that Jinki does not own a television.
“You don’t own a television,” he says disbelievingly and Jinki walks out of the half-kitchen, two steaming mugs in hand.
“I don’t own a television,” Jinki replies and Minho shakes his head.
“How do you watch things like the news or soccer matches?”
“I don’t,” he says before sipping his drink, eyes bright over the mug.
Before Minho can speak, the doorbell sounds and Jinki thrusts the mug into Minho’s left hand. The hot liquid slops over the rim, very nearly spilling, and Minho almost drops it while Jinki pulls open the door and turns around to grin at Minho. “Carolers,” he says happily.
The carolers sing several songs: all bright, Christmas songs and Jinki sits by his side, breath tickling his cheek as he whispers the titles into his ear every now and then as they sit there, side-by-side with their drinks.
They don’t sing half as well as Jinki, Minho thinks as they finish their last song but he claps anyway, because Jinki looks at him expectantly as he applauds. Jinki sends them off with huge paper cups of hot chocolate and a Christmas card each and Minho sits there, pleasantly warm and comfortable on Jinki’s couch.
“It’s not always mindless commercialization,” Jinki says softly, settling down next to Minho. Minho does not speak, because Jinki is so close their knees touch and maybe, just maybe, beginning to believe is easier than he had imagined.
--
Beginning to believe is not the same as truly celebrating Christmas though, because Minho has no plans to take the twenty-fifth off and he still works twelve-hour days and downs countless cups of coffee.
That is, until he finds a cream envelope at his apartment, his name printed in Jinki’s handwriting on the front. It’s heavy in his hands and Minho bites back a smile, because this is almost routine now.
When he slits it open, a card and tiny, tiny glittery shards of green and red and gold fall from the envelope and Minho blinks at all the confetti on his hands and across his carpeted floor.
The words printed across the expensive paper read:
Did you know there’s a special ingredient that makes Christmas magical, wonderful and fun…
Minho can almost feel the cavities form as he reads, but he opens the card nonetheless.
…You!
Below is Jinki’s familiar handwriting.
And this is why you are cordially invited to my apartment on Christmas Eve (24th December) for dinner. Take Christmas Day off, because it’s about time you did.
P.S. I hope you like confetti!
Minho finds out later how difficult it is to clean confetti off the carpet because when he walks on certain spots days later, the light catches bits of colour and the confetti glints up at him innocently, reminding him of the invitation and Christmas and Jinki.
--
Jinki calls on the twenty-third.
“You’re coming, right?”
“Wouldn’t you of all people have tons of Christmas parties to attend?”
“My parents are on a round-the-world cruise and they’re spending Christmas in Scandinavia,” says Jinki, “and I did get invited to several Christmas parties but I didn’t think you would have liked to come along. They’re uh, very loud and festive.”
Minho stares out the window for several seconds, puzzled. “And you’re not going to those parties because you’re hosting one for me instead?”
“Yes,” comes Jinki’s merry reply. “Didn’t you read my card? That one special ingredient…“
“How could I forget,” Minho says, cringing at the thought and Jinki laughs.
“And I mean it. I’ll see you tomorrow!”
The line dies and for the first time, Minho is suddenly conscious that to him, it means nothing more than cheesy words on a piece of paper but it’s different for Jinki, who believes in each and every one of those words he prints inside a card.
--
It snows on the twenty-forth and Minho stands outside Jinki’s door, moving from foot to foot as he tries to keep the warmth in his bones.
“You’re on time,” Jinki says, pleased, as he swings open the door and Minho slips past him quickly, into the warm apartment.
“You’re lucky I made it here alive,” he replies darkly, thawing himself in front of the heater.
“It’s Christmas Eve, Minho, don’t be so grumpy.”
Jinki hands him a steaming mug and the apartment is quiet for some time as Minho sips at the thick, steaming chocolate while Jinki is busy arranging plates on the table behind him.
The apartment is decorated with Santa hats on the chairs and wreaths on the walls and a row of colourful cards clipped to a string that hangs above his bed.
It’s all a little too overwhelming.
Minho turns around and there’s a duck on the center of the table, crispy and golden. “That doesn’t look like a turkey.”
“I had to improvise. They ran out of turkey at the restaurant,” Jinki replies, beckoning him over. “Time for your first Christmas dinner!”
It turns out to be a perfectly ordinary dinner, except quiet Christmas music plays in the background and Jinki’s more-animated-than-usual stories, about how how one of the printers broke down yesterday and the chaos that ensued. Minho talks about the confetti in his carpet, which makes Jinki beam. “My plan exactly.”
They eat duck with rice and seaweed and kimchi, alongside a smattering of mashed potatoes and roasted carrots and Minho points it out as being untraditional. “It’s the thought that counts,” Jinki replies, picking up another piece of duck and wrapping it with seaweed.
“You’re like a walking cheesy card,” Minho retorts and Jinki says past a mouth full of food, Thank you, kind sir.
It’s the best Christmas dinner Minho could have asked for. Not that he would ask for one willingly, but if he had to attend a single Christmas dinner, it would be Jinki’s.
Barely an hour later, Jinki has Minho sitting on his bed, a spare blanket wrapped around his shoulders as they watch Christmas movies on the small screen of Jinki’s laptop. They’re both lying on their stomachs, propping themselves up on their elbows. There’s a comfortable weight leaning against Minho’s side and whenever Jinki inhales, it shifts.
“This is why you should get a TV. I’m squinting,” Minho says sleepily in the middle of How The Grinch Stole Christmas and Jinki shushes him by poking his thigh with an ice-cold foot.
Minho doesn’t remember exactly when and how he falls asleep, but he does: it’s a combination of the cozy, thick blanket and the soft dialog on the screen and the heat radiating from next to him, warm skin against skin.
He falls asleep content, even though he doesn’t know it quite just yet until a gentle shake rouses him from sleep and a blurry shape that has to be Jinki stares at him, mouth pressed in an amused smile. “It’s twelve fifteen. Merry Christmas!” he says quietly, barely audible over the voices and background music of the movie.
Minho is too sleepy to process the words, so he says an automatic “Merry Christmas,” before falling back to sleep.
--
Minho wakes up to Christmas morning on Jinki’s bed, his limbs sprawled out across the small bed. The sky is just beginning to brighten and he tugs his borrowed blanket closer to his chest as he sits up to survey the place.
Jinki is fast asleep, curled up on the couch several feet away.
There’s a card next to his pillow.
He picks it up cautiously because it’s all bright, ridiculously cheerful Christmas colours and prancing reindeer and wrapped presents with royal blue ribbons printed across the front. It’s heavier than a usual card and when he opens it, he finds out exactly why:
It’s a singing card because the moment he flattens it out, a familiar voice singing a familiar song fills the apartment and Minho laughs, snapping the card shut. It’s too late though, because Jinki blinks awake. “Your Christmas present,” he mumbles, words heavy with sleep.
The singing starts over because Minho reopens the card and it lasts for three minutes or long enough for Jinki to rise to his feet and climb onto bed, next to Minho. “I know this song,” Minho says, partly incredulous, partly proud, thinking back to his first time in this apartment and the carolers and Jinki whispering in his ear-
Minho colours at the thought.
Jinki smiles a peculiar sort of smile, cheeks pink from the chilly morning air, and he looks as though he has something monumental to say or a confession to make but it passes because all he says are three painfully sincere words: “Merry Christmas, Minho.”