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heartofashesHence, I'm just dumping it here. I'm glad nobody will truly notice that this is here while at the same time, I can get it away from my wip folder and never have to look at it again lool.
Pairing: Kim Mingyu/Wen Junhui
Fandom: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Tags: burnout/depression, idolverse au, like yeah tw for mental illness stuff ig sorry idk how else to tag
“To love something, then, is to name it after something so worthless it might be left untouched—and alive. A name, thin as air, can also be a shield.”
Ocean Vuong
The steady glare of overhead lights flicker against Mingyu's bronze skin, throwing his undulating cheekbones into sharper relief.
He pants, and pants, then pants some more. His shoulders hunched over in exhaustion, hands gripping knees in resignation, the jagged cotton of his tank top sticking to his back like thick treacle. Heavy breathing and drying sweat cocoons the dull, lifeless ochre-white walls that make up their practice room, that becomes their refuge on nights like this:
Nights, where the clock moves excruciatingly slow and breakneck-fast both at the same time. Nights, where thirteen heartbeats collide, mingle, drum in unison. Nights, before their fifth consecutive comeback schedule, yet another music show pre-recording that is on the cusp of draining every last ounce of Mingyu's optimism, energy, willpower.
Kim Mingyu, the requisite charmer. Kim Mingyu, the former emcee, the bearer of a heavy mantle, in charge of working his unique magic on anyone that shoves a mic infront of his face. Kim Mingyu, the nation's visual, in charge of looking his absolute best at all costs, even when on the inside he’s a creased brown paper bag that is merely a phantom of its past self.
Kim Mingyu, always on, on, on for the cameras. Kim Mingyu, who just wants to, for once, be off - curled up like a parakeet in the void of a tree bark, hidden away from every form of human perception. Kim Mingyu, who doesn’t want to be seen unless he’s seen for who he truly is, unless he’s-
But that's an existential crisis reserved for another day.
Right now, there is a swirling practice room. There are bodies in motion, and then suddenly, abruptly at rest.
Right now is the precarious span of a ten-minute break Soonyoung called only because everyone is getting visibly frayed at the edges. Jeonghan has already begun whining about a stiff shoulder, Seokmin has missed two consecutive beats while executing what was a (deceptively) simple part of the choreography, and even Chan nearly slipped while landing a pirouette he's perfected over decades of discipline and practice.
They’re all running on minimal sleep and minimal downtime between blinding camera flashes and blinding stage lights (or alternately, blinding reflections in the practice room mirrors). And Mingyu, he-
He hates when he cannot physically uplift the people who - since he was a mere teenager struggling to carve his own niche in this big, daunting city - have been his family, his precious, stunning miracle. He hates when he's wound up so tight that every part of himself is furloughed, even the parts that usually conceive of ways to constantly take care of them, to constantly bend over backwards to submit himself to them, to put their well-being before his own. To hold them carefully in his graceless, uncoordinated arms and whisper, you mean so much to me, I can't bear to see you upset.
"Mingyu-yah?" there is a hand on his shoulder, and then a voice that blooms with the gentle cadence of a dandelion in winter. Rare, but resolute.
Mingyu looks up, and it's like staring directly at a supernova. Wen Junhui's hair is in complete disarray, sticking up in places, falling flat in others, but beneath it, there is a forehead glistening with beads of sweat. Beneath it, there are the kindest eyes Mingyu has ever seen, delicate like a spring breeze, shimmering like sunset over a dark, desolate lake. Beneath it, are lips pulled up in a gorgeous horizontal smile, the most minuscule of gestures, the most heartrending of phenomenons.
Mingyu dreams about that smile on nights he would never acknowledge even at gunpoint. Mingyu wonders how it would feel to map the length of that smile with his tongue, to taste it's geometry, to become the wooden ruler that lends that horizontal line its dimension and breadth.
"Jun hyung," Mingyu breathes in reply, straightening up perhaps a little too quickly, a little too desperately, "Is everything okay?"
The horizontal smile broadens by a centimetre, mellows and shivers like dewdrop on flower stem. "Funny, I was going to ask you the exact same question, Gyu-yah."
Junhui pauses then, regarding Mingyu with a look that betrays gravity, that betrays keen perception - something that is inherently characteristic of Wen Junhui, something that Mingyu will never circumvent. Wen Junhui navigates past every little maze you erect around your heart, every little hoax and folly you manufacture to throw him off your scent, and always emerges triumphant. He always dives straight into the very core of your being no matter how many obstacles you send his way, no matter how many distractions and obfuscations you can conceive of, no matter how many denials cross your lips. And Mingyu has, after years of thwarted resistance, learned to admit defeat.
It's impossible to survive Junhui's scrutiny entirely unscathed. There is always collateral damage, there is always being utterly deconstructed within seconds, there is always every card laid out on the table, all in.
(And perhaps that’s exactly why Mingyu loves it so terribly. Around Junhui, every latitude and longitude of his soul can be understood even if he isn’t always on. Even if he’s curled up in a ball, hiding in the void of a tree bark.)
Junhui's horizontal smile remains intact, but the hand on Mingyu's shoulder tightens, travels to the valley of Mingyu's neck.
"You seem...a little different." Junhui says, in that frighteningly candid way of his. Mingyu will never understand how Junhui can be so painstakingly honest, so unflinchingly vocal about every thought, every emotion he experiences. But the one thing Mingyu has learned over the years is to never question any of Junhui's careful machinations, to never try to pretend he's even remotely immune to any of it.
"I don't know what it is that's bothering you, but you can talk to me, you know that right?" Junhui's fingers idly stroke the expanse of Mingyu's skin he's caressing, soft ocean wind hitting blistering sand, "Junnie hyung is always here to listen."
Mingyu shuts his eyes for a second, letting himself revel in the tremors of Junhui’s touch, the piano-callused fingertips that make goosepimples rise in Mingyu’s flesh, that make him yearn for an unravelling he knows has always been out of bounds.
The rest of the room is relatively quiet - at least compared to the usual cacophony. Jihoon, Hansol and Seungcheol are in a corner huddled around Jihoon’s tablet (possibly reviewing a track they’re working on), Minghao, Soonyoung and Chan going over the choreography once again with Seokmin, the latter always doubly dedicated to amending his mistakes when he begins to falter. Seungkwan and Joshua are giggling in hushed unison over some ridiculous joke Jeonghan just made, and Wonwoo is asleep on a worn-looking cushion right behind them.
In that moment, despite being surrounded by multitudes - by the people Mingyu calls his miracle, his home - the world narrows down only to the two of them: To Mingyu, to Junhui. To Junhui’s hand warm and steady on Mingyu’s neck, to Mingyu’s breath painting shadows over Junhui’s skin.
“Hyung,” Mingyu manages to exhale, feeling suddenly a little in over his head, “Do you ever think about- do you ever wonder if we even mean anything, in the larger scheme of things?”
Junhui’s eyes widen for a millisecond - as if he didn’t expect his simple gesture of good faith to devolve into a nihilistic reflection (and Mingyu didn’t either, so he doesn’t really blame Junhui’s reaction) - but it’s gone as quickly as it had appeared. The depths of Junhui’s pupils now glow like simmering embers, his horizontal smile slipping into an indulgent chuckle.
“What does anything mean, really?” Junhui says, in his signature unassuming tone. That particular tone with which he utters the most searing tidbits of truth as if he’s merely commenting on the weather, as if none of it should ever be a dramatic revelation. “I can quote psalms from Buddhism and say that existence is nothing but an endless cycle of living and dying. I can quote Camus and say, existence is just one meaningless act repeated after the other. But truth be told, all of that is bullshit, Mingyu.”
“Hyuuuung,” Mingyu whines, squirming a little as Junhui’s fingers travel further upwards, tangling into a stray lock of Mingyu’s hair, “You know that’s not what I was asking.”
Another chuckle escapes Junhui, quieter this time, but no less bubbling with indulgence, no less tinged with a particular sweetness that is unique only to Junhui and nobody else. He pulls at the curling lock of Mingyu’s hair his fingers are entwined in, making Mingyu gasp a little, making Mingyu reel at the possibility of what would happen if this could go further, if Junhui could close every inch of distance between them. Once again, the world is narrowed to the two of them, even though they’re far from alone, far from secluded.
“I know,” Junhui murmurs, and it’s softer now, like a secret that’s theirs to share, theirs to hold. “But I also think, sometimes you make your own meaning, Mingyu-yah. Sometimes, you don’t have to carry the weight of making sense of everything all by yourself, of wondering what your legacy will be, wondering whether you are doing enough.”
“I…” Mingyu blinks at Junhui in naked surprise, his heart beating a thunderstorm in his chest, his mouth falling open. “How did you....”
How does Junhui know? How does Junhui always just know? How does he penetrate past the fog of Mingyu’s riotous muddle of thoughts, insecurities, misgivings, and extract its very core, find that exact spot that’s the linchpin of it all, that is the summation of every single thing plaguing him.
Mingyu is wildfire clearing out an entire forest - running away with himself before he even thinks, before he even comprehends the consequences of his searing, all-enveloping passion. He jumps in before he calculates and smolders in the aftermath, his insides charred to ashes before he can even <i>begin</i> to understand how to mitigate the damage.
But Junhui is the coolant to his flame; Junhui <i>understands</i> how to mitigate every damage, how to pluck Mingyu from the jaws of his own destruction and always carry him to safety.
“Like I said, Mingyu-yah,” Junhui’s smile has never looked so beautiful, so radiant, even under the steady glare of the overhead lights of this yellow-ochre practice room, even accompanied with Junhui’s thoroughly disheveled hair, eyes lined with reminders that sleep has been as much of an adversary for Junhui over the past week as it has been for Mingyu. “Junnie hyung is always here to listen.”
There’s a prolonged second in which Mingyu is panting again, though not out of exhaustion anymore. His chest heaves up and down like that’s his own form of surrender, his own response to the violence of being seen, deciphered, parsed out by none other than Wen Junhui.
Mingyu’s mouth is still slack, unable to form a response, unable to even consider a response, to formulate an adequate sentiment that will convey, I want you to listen to me forever. I want you to hold me like this and pull me into your arms and keep me there until every last one of my stupidly loud thoughts go away.
But instead, Mingyu only leans further into Junhui’s touch. He takes in a deep breath, and the scent of Junhui’s floral shampoo fills up his being, curves its way into every desolate space within him that’s forgotten how to feel.
Junhui smiles again, that same radiant little thing, sparkling in the midst of an otherwise dull landscape. But it’s brighter now, singing of something even more tender, singing of something that awfully resembles hope.
“Come on,” Junhui says, perhaps understanding, once more. Understanding, that Mingyu needs his silences to be filled, needs Junhui to personally hold his hand and bring him out of his stupor, “I’ll show you the move you were struggling with earlier. We still have a couple more minutes until Soonyoung declares break time’s over.”
Junhui properly ruffles Mingyu’s hair then, digs the entire expanse of his palm into Mingyu’s scalp and sends every strand into disarray, into pure and unhindered chaos. When Mingyu tries to protest, Junhui presses his left forefinger to his mouth, a glint of mischief shrouding the warm brown depths of his eyes.
“Ssh,” Junhui’s voice is even quieter than a murmur now, quieter than it’s been all night, quieter than every shared secret.
He leans forward, drags himself up on tiptoes so he can be level with Mingyu’s height, so he can ghost his lips over Mingyu’s forehead, engulfing it in the most fragile of kisses.
“I’ve got you, Gyu. You’ll be alright.”
---
It begins, when Mingyu is sixteen.
They’re in another practice room, surrounded by bright green walls this time (the ochre-white had come much, much later), assembled in a tentative, buzzing circle. Seungcheol’s long, scruffy hair is falling all over his forehead, veiling the furrowed lines of his eyebrows. But none of them have any illusions otherwise.
They know what’s coming.
“It’s delayed again,” Seungcheol sighs, and there’s a tautness to his posture, a note of resignation to his voice that wasn’t there the five times he’s uttered the exact same words before, “Sahjangnim says there are scheduling conflicts, budgeting issues. We won’t debut for another six months.”
For a tremulous minute, there is stark silence.
There are twelve identical gasps of inhaled breath. There is the resigned hunch of Seungcheol’s shoulder, as if descending further and further onto the surface of the cold hardwood floor they’re all sitting on. There is a frustrated grunt from Jihoon’s end of the circle, a sound that’s more pitiful than is furious. There is the hint of moisture in the corner of Seokmin’s left eye, a broken sniffle which suggests he’s desperately trying to suppress a sob, but failing miserably.
And then there’s Mingyu, nails dug into the worn fabric of his favourite red hoodie, a staggering hurt ballooning in his chest that he can no longer subdue, that he can no longer deny. Wildfire, threatening to blaze through yet another forest, threatening to incinerate it until everything is reduced to scattered ashes.
“Can’t we do something, hyung?” It comes out hoarse with boiling anguish, invisible smoke filling his intestines. He sounds indignant, childish, borderline irrational, but can you blame him? Mingyu hadn’t signed up for this - this ceaseless cycle of crippled dreams, this daunting pendulum that swings back and forth without any hint of resolution, keeping them all suspended in an embittered limbo.
Day in and day out they work so, so hard. They spill sweat, tears, the bleeding expanse of their skill and compassion, the shuddering weight of their sincerity, their commitment. They endure ankle sprains and twisted muscle and crippling criticism, they are told they’re not enough, that they have to be vaster than this, more seasoned than this, that they are mere molecules in a world that will ruthlessly chew them up and spit out their remains, leaving them wrung and disparaged and utterly vanquished.
And in return, they are asked never to revolt against the system, never to question their lot in life, never to take even a single step that isn’t perfectly restrained, that isn't perfectly measured out against every outcome.
But it’s been months, and Mingyu has seen the shadows under Seungcheol’s eyes, has seen the wisps of Jeonghan’s mirth slowly wear off, has seen the grim set of Minghao’s lips when he is once again shafted into a corner, and-
Mingyu doesn’t believe in destiny, doesn’t believe in higher purposes, doesn’t believe in divine responsibility, but there is one single fundamental truth that has always propelled him, that has always been his greatest conviction:
If he can’t fight for these people, there’s no spark to his wildfire at all.
“We can do this on our own, can’t we?” Mingyu adds, in steadily unravelling desperation, “Soonyoungie hyung and Channie can choreograph! Wonwoo hyung and I can help film the music video! We can all write lyrics together and Jihoonie hyung can-”
But the impassioned call to mutiny needs only a second to evaporate, needs only - a hand, clammy with sweat, soft with empathy, unfurling against his own.
Wildfire, meet coolant.
So far, Wen Junhui has been preternaturally still, seated beside Mingyu all erect-spine and inscrutable eyes, his long dark hair gathered into a breathtaking ponytail. Junhui has a particular flair for completely camouflaging himself at will, blending into his surroundings so deftly that you wouldn't even hear him breathe, wouldn't even remember he was supposed to be in the room in the first place.
But he is. He always, unflinchingly, is in the room, constantly present, constantly watching and assessing and evaluating with sharp hawk eyes. Constantly beside Mingyu, by some astounding twist of fate, the angles of Junhui's stunningly lithe body equal parts bewilderingly attractive and even more bewilderingly evasive.
Though now, Junhui makes a deliberate choice to step out of his inertia, to discard every lick of disguise and camouflage in favour of reaching for Mingyu's hand, in favour of pressing into it a gentle urgency, a sobering reminder of where they are, of who they are.
"I think," Junhui says, his Korean still clipped, unpolished, but no less full of unmistakable care. An unmistakable offer of comfort, even if couched within an unmistakable rhetoric of mediation and diplomacy. "Maybe we need to clear our heads first, Mingyu-yah. Let’s all take a walk together."
And there it is.
Wen Junhui, plunging into the wreckage, into the very epicenter of Mingyu's wildfire, into the very filament of Mingyu's flame. Wen Junhui, pouring invigorating rain on scorched soil, erasing every square-inch of havoc Mingyu has wreaked within seconds. A blazing empire, rescued with Junhui's adept, delicate might.
Mingyu gapes at Junhui with unmasked awe, trying not to let his eyes linger on the errant strands of hair that fall over Junhui’s forehead, on the striking slant of his collarbones, still glimmering with beads of perspiration. On the tantalising sensation of Junhui’s palm against his, heartlines slotting against each other, static electricity spinning around their joined fingertips.
“But!” Mingyu begins, another indignant attempt at protest, at nascent rebellion, but the words barely make his way out of his throat, his wildfire now thoroughly at the mercy of Junhui, “What’s there to clear our heads about! It’s been more than a year and we keep getting strung along by the company, we should-”
“Yes, we should.” Junhui sounds completely unfazed despite the decisiveness in his voice, a strange half-smile teasing at the corner of his lips, “We should do a lot of things, Mingyu-yah. All of the things you just mentioned. But that’s not how it works, does it?”
Mingyu is painfully aware of the eleven sets of unblinking eyes currently shuffling between him and Junhui like they're in the middle of an insidious, incessant tennis match; a mix of both trepidation and curiosity clouding their faces.
Junhui isn’t a man of many words, opting instead to remain a passive spectator at all times - never quite verbally interjecting during heated debates, but always, always knowing how to arbitrate in quieter, profounder ways, how to take care of them unobtrusively, without flourish or fanfare. Junhui is: waking up at the crack of dawn to make them all sandwiches for breakfast because his Korean is still shoddy, is still lacking the depth of vocabulary with which he wants to express the entire immensity of his affection. Junhui is: helping Chan finish his algebra homework even in the midst of the most draining of late-night practices. Junhui is: storing Chinese snacks in the bottom right cabinet of their tiny dorm kitchen so Minghao feels less homesick everytime Lunar New Year comes around without even a single possibility of a plane ticket back to Anshan.
But.
Mingyu is sixteen, and for the first time in the two years since he first met Wen Junhui, the latter is actively, vocally, using his words. He is saying what he wants to say out loud, for everyone to perceive, is telling Mingyu in no uncertain terms: This is not your battle to fight. There will be another day, another moment, another catalyst that will fuel your revolution.
Mingyu is sixteen, and for the first time in the two years since he met Wen Junhui, for the first time in all sixteen years of his existence, Wen Junhui plucks him from the jaws of his own destruction, and carries him to unequivocal safety.
A blazing empire, rescued with Junhui's adept, delicate might.
Wildfire, and coolant.
Mingyu hunches into the cold, unrelenting hardwood of the practice room floor, but miraculously enough, it's not a surrender. It's months of wound-up tension gently seeping out from his veins, untangling the interminable knots in his stomach. It's air filling his lungs in an exhilarating rush, swarming all the hollow spaces inside his chest, helping him slowly breathe out the tendrils of uncertainty and resentment that have plagued him since the minute he set foot in the company building, that keep plaguing him continuously.
The resentment doesn't entirely trickle out, not quite. It’s something that’s become a part of him now, even if he’s still too young, still barely knows anything about the world that awaits him beyond these bright-green practice room walls - perhaps it’s a prerequisite of trainee life, a constant symptom of being stuck in an embittered limbo that seems to never have any end in sight. But in this moment, his palm connected with Wen Junhui's, his eyes settled on the subtle upward pull of Wen Junhui's half-smile, Mingyu feels: this is okay too.
His wildfire is allowed to make concessions too, is allowed to pick it's battles, is allowed to surrender, as long as Wen Junhui is its coolant. As long as Wen Junhui is here to be his magnetic north, to gently hold his hand and maneuver him however he wills, to dive into his very epicenter.
"Okay, fine." Mingyu replies, after what seems like the longest, most excruciating millisecond.
Eleven collective sighs of relief immediately populate the room (Mingyu is sure he hears Seungcheol mutter something to the tune of "oh thank god" under his breath), but Wen Junhui continues to seem unfazed, continuous to half-smile at him in the most inscrutable, the most breathlessly attractive way.
"Let's clear our heads then," Mingyu adds tentatively, and suddenly it's as if a spell is broken, the green-walled practice room coming alive with shared whispers and bubbling chatter, "Let's take a walk, if that helps."
"What if we went for a picnic instead!" Seungkwan pipes up, with an enthusiasm that is truly surprising considering he was on the verge of defeat and despondency mere minutes ago, "Cheolie hyung, can we please take the day off and go for a picnic?"
"Seungkwannie’s right, you know." Jeonghan throws his hat into the ring, the sparkle of his mirth returning bit by bit, a soft grin lighting up his face, his long ponytail swishing with carefully restrained eagerness, "We haven't taken a day off in ages, Cheolie. A picnic would be perfect."
And perhaps, that’s the only encouragement they all need.
In the very next second, the atmosphere in their dreary green practice room shifts so dramatically, it nearly gives Mingyu whiplash - pretty much everyone chimes in with their assent, with animated suggestions on where they should go, what they should eat, who the designated driver should be. Twelve sets of imploring eyes bore into Seungcheol, silently pleading him to let them have this, to let them, just this once, let go of the woeful burden of constant performance, of constantly measuring out their actions against its outcomes.
"Okay, okay," Seungcheol begrudgingly acquiesces after another minute of loud, excitable chattering. Though, from the slow, burgeoning smile taking over Seungcheol’s face, Mingyu can tell that Seungcheol’s acquiescence isn’t begrudging at all, that he wants this as much as the others do. "Let's go on a picnic. I'll talk to Hyelim noona and get us a day off."
Unanimous cheers erupt from across the room, and Soonyoung bounds over to Seungcheol to pounce on him and pull at his cheeks. Even Seokmin's tears have dried, his signature blinding sunshine smile returning to his face, Hansol and Seungkwan surrounding him from both sides to wrap twin arms around him, to start planning the particulars of their picnic at lightning speed.
Mingyu's attention, however, unfailingly settles on Wen Junhui.
Junhui’s dark, neatly-tied hair gleams in yellow lamplight, and his sharp hawk-eyes pierce into Mingyu as if culling out every buried emotion from within him, uncovering every clandestine thought, every invisible belief.
Mingyu is sixteen, and for the first time in the two years since he met Wen Junhui, he willingly submits. He willingly submits to every bit of inspection Junhui wants to conduct, to every single morsel of knowledge Junhui wants to extract from him.
Mingyu is sixteen, and he learns how to simmer rather than burn, but only in the aftermath of Wen Junhui's careful persuasion. Only under Wen Junhui's endless thrall.
Junhui’s half-smile grows into something fuller, more magnificent, shining with something far beyond Mingyu’s comprehension.
For the longest second, Mingyu forgets that their hands are still intertwined. But Junhui makes no move to seperate them either.
----
(There’s a spot near the banks of the Han river, where a cluster of camphor trees interweave into a natural trellis, festooned over the grassy landscape like the most welcome respite to a sweltering summer.
That’s where they settle that day, during their picnic - Mingyu and Junhui, sprawled lazily under the canopied leaves, as the rest of the members whizz along the nearby lane on their bicycles, gleefully racing each other.
Junhui had begged off from the racing, citing that he was once a kindergarten cycling champion and would beat them all in seconds, that he was only giving them a fair chance of winning by not participating in the race. Mingyu had begged off because - well, because he wanted to spend time with Junhui, under any garb, under any excuse.
Because moments like this; private, precious, pristine; came by rarely. Because Junhui is the coolant to Mingyu’s wildfire, a torpedo against the walls of his heart, and Mingyu is only sixteen, is only a caterpillar raring against his shell, hankering for release.
Junhui’s hair has come loose from his ponytail, the strands curling against the bloom of his cheekbones, against the contours of his jubilant laughter, and Mingyu, for the second time that day, discovers something entirely new.
He discovers what it’s like to want, what it’s like to lunge headfirst into a chaotic ocean and find no purchase, no anchor. Only Wen Junhui’s sharp hawk-eyes piercing into him, only Wen Junhui’s hand brushing against his, the friction between Mingyu’s large, uncoordinated fingers and Junhui’s dainty, piano-callused, contemporary dancer’s fingers sizzling like high-voltage sparks.
“I hope you didn’t mind, Mingyu-yah,” Junhui whispers, delicate, unencumbered, “About what I said earlier in the practice room. I was just trying to-”
“I know,” Mingyu reassures perhaps a little too quickly, perhaps pathetically puppy-eyed, but in this moment, under sunbeams filtering in through trellised branches, rendering Junhui’s pale honeyed skin into stunning golden watercolours - he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t care how keen he sounds, as long as Junhui keeps looking at him like this, as long as Junhui's fingers siphon sparks up his spine. “I- actually. I should thank you, hyung. For reigning me in. For making me realize that perhaps I should have more patience.”
Junhui levels at him another one of his characteristic inscrutable gazes, parsing out every corner of Mingyu’s soul, disembodying him like the disjointed parts of a car radiator and then assembling him back whole.
But in the very next split second, Junhui laughs again, the horizontal lines of his lips as mesmerising as ever, the edges of his vivid-yellow button up shirt sliding down to reveal the glorious valley of his collarbones.
“You’re a peculiar one, Gyu,” Junhui replies, but his voice is heartstoppingly tender, his hands feather-light against the concave of Mingyu’s wrist, “But guess what?”
Junhui leans in then, lowering his nose against Mingyu’s temple, transforming his whisper into something more exaggerated, into something more amusedly conspiratorial, “I think it’s amazing. I think you’re amazing.”)
---
There's a yellowing scrap of paper in his wallet, sandwiched between a 1000 won note and a letter his mother wrote to him on his very first year as a trainee, still tear-streaked from the countless times he’s read and reread it over the years.
(Mingyu isn’t one for sentimental relics, but that letter has always been different, has always occupied an irreplaceable niche in the empty crevices of his hollowed-out chest, the only reminder that he's human on sleepless nights when every part of him feels corrupt, mechanical, reprobate.)
But the yellowing scrap of paper is a relatively recent addition, gathering dust and irrational dread among folds of taut leather.
Seungcheol hands it to him two days after his minor meltdown in the ochre-white practice room, after Junhui had suitably assuaged his existential questions (though far from assuaging the want, the forbidden fantasies of tracing the horizontal planes of his lips), after Junhui had once again proven himself the consummate coolant to Mingyu's wildfire.
Mingyu is twenty-three now - the requisite charmer, the former emcee, the bearer of a heavy mantle, in charge of working his unique magic on anyone that shoves a mic in front of his face. Mingyu is twenty-three now and he is the nation's visual, in charge of looking his absolute best at all costs, even when on the inside he’s a creased brown paper bag.
Mingyu is twenty-three, and:
"Take it," Seungcheol says, flattening the yellowed paper against Mingyu's right palm, its margins blotted with dark blue ink, "It's my therapist's number. Same one I consulted last year, when I…. when I went on hiatus."
Mingyu stares it like he's seen a ghost, eyes nearly bugging out of its sockets, mouth slackening to let out the tiniest gasp of despair.
A therapist?
How can this-
"W-what do you want me to do with this, hyung?," Mingyu splutters, his mouth running away from him. He's blindsided, trying to desperately gather his wits, trying to desperately make sense of what it is that Seungcheol is implying, what kind of scrutiny he's exposed himself to, "I-I don't need a therapist."
There's a pause, in which only the clock on the mantle ticks deafeningly, it's seconds hand moving in tandem with Mingyu's quickening pulse. Seungcheol’s shoulders are more rigid than usual, the lines of his eyebrows furrowing downwards, betraying blatant, unmistakable concern.
But then, unfathomably, unprecedentedly:
Seungcheol smiles. A bittersweet tug of his top lip, a certain twinge of resignation. A tired, fond sympathy, despite the blatant, unmistakable concern.
"Trust me, Gyu," Seungcheol's warm, endlessly comforting hand finds its way to the junction between Mingyu's throat and shoulder, "I've been through this too, so I know what to look for. I don't want you to go down the path I did last year."
"I d-don't know what you mean," Mingyu splutters again, suddenly feeling like a helpless child, feeling like he's being scolded and disciplined even if Seungcheol's touch is nothing but reassuring, Seungcheol’s words are nothing but reassuring, "I'm okay, hyung."
There's a pause again, and Seungcheol’s gaze probes past Mingyu with more incisiveness, with more gravity, raking between the bags under Mingyu's eyes which he has desperately hidden with concealer and eye cream, the rim of redness around Mingyu's pupils, the intermittent tremors of Mingyu's hand, grasping at the yellowing scrap of paper like a lifeline.
"You saw the signs once, Mingyu-yah - when I was the one who was struggling." Seungcheol says, measured, impossibly compassionate, "You saw the signs, and you immediately acted on them - you immediately jumped in to help me, before I could even understand what was wrong with me. I want to do the same for you."
The paper nearly burns a hole into Mingyu’s palm, the dark blue ink terrifyingly prominent against the dirty-blond surface. The recognisable scrawl of alphabets and digits taunt him, reminding him how hollow his chest still is, how no amount of old, nostalgic letters of encouragement from his parents can ever stitch him whole.
Seungcheol gently pats the length of his shoulder, and Mingyu crushes the paper into a fist.
But despite his very worst impulses, he doesn't let go of it. He doesn’t throw it away, doesn’t utter another word of protest.
He lets it burn a hole into his palm.
----
Despite everything, all the cataclysms and the glories, all the resounding highs and debilitating lows, there are some things Mingyu will never get tired of.
The bustling hum of a dressing room full of thirteen people, staff occasionally slipping in and out to retouch their makeup, to go over stage logistics, to bring them abundant snacks when their backstage wait runs interminably long.
Mingyu still remembers his first ever music show performance, his stomach overrun by mobs of butterflies, his jaw locked with determination. On stage, under the blinking flashlights, it felt like he was gliding in autopilot; all those nights of exhaustion, blood, sweat, tears culminating into thoroughly entrenched muscle memory. Wildfire that for once, had free reign, had free passage.
But later, Junhui had cornered him in front of the washroom mirror - Mingyu half in the process of scourging off his makeup, Junhui half-vibrating with residual adrenaline. He’d wrapped a firm, fragile arm around Mingyu’s waist, had flashed another one of his dazzling horizontal smiles and leaned in to murmur, “We did it, Mingyu-yah.”
Now, too, Mingyu is poised before a washroom mirror somewhere backstage of Music Bank, basking in the familiar, affectionate commotion of twelve loud, beautiful boys right outside the door, in the surprisingly posh dressing room they’ve been allotted for today. Mingyu can hear Seokmin and Soonyoung goofing around, lobbing a steady deluge of acrostic poems at each other, and Seungcheol squealing in that adorably high-pitched wheeze that is so characteristic of him. Mingyu hears Seungkwan yell something too, but the words are drowned out with the distinct chaos of something that can only be Yoon Jeonghan’s lithe frame barrelling into him, demanding a piggyback ride.
Despite himself, despite his steadily cascading heartbeat, despite his hands gripping the cold granite basin like it's the only thing keeping him upright - Mingyu can’t help the subtle hint of a smile that teases at his lips (albeit tinged with a note of despair), can’t help but be infinitely endeared by the people who mean the entire world to him.
Mingyu had barricaded himself into the bathroom under the guise of wanting to do his makeup all by himself, without any help from the stylists or coordi noonas. “I’ve been practicing,” he’d insisted to their surly, cantankerous manager, “I want to try something new. The fans will love it.”
For some unfathomable reason, the manager had agreed with barely any persuasion - a rare occurrence in the Pledis building, indeed. Perhaps, they’ve given up on Mingyu like everyone else has, like everything else has. Perhaps, Mingyu really is compromised in the most deplorable of ways, the chinks in his armour despicably evident to everyone who lays eyes on him.
He doesn’t blame any of them.
It’s been close to twenty minutes, and he’s barely touched the brushes and palettes that lie disassembled on the counter, has barely done anything but let his haphazard breathing mist over the aforementioned washroom mirror, stare at his barefaced reflection, the same red-rimmed pupils, the same intermittent tremors of his hands that Seungcheol had emphasised with acute precision.
Fuck.
Yes, fine, he’ll admit it: the makeup was merely a half-baked excuse, a ruse constructed in the absence of any other outlet, any other avenue of escape. It’s not that he doesn’t want to do his own makeup at all, it’s just:
He’d simply wanted a moment alone, away from the terrifying ordeal of always being on, on, on. Away from the gut-wrenching predicament of being seen, from being surrounded by sharp hawk eyes that will continue to diagnose the chinks in his armour, that will immediately twist in concern at the sight of it, will rush to Mingyu's side to comfort him, to assuage his torment.
He loves them, he loves his members more than life itself - but it’s his job to take care of them, to pull them out of crumbling debris, to make sure every inch of them is cherished and treasured and protected. It’s not vice-versa, not quid pro quo. It’s never been.
His wildfire does not need cooling, not right now, when all he wants is the cacophony of his thoughts to run its natural course, to reach its natural conclusion and finally lay themselves to rest on their own, without the help of any scribbled digits on yellowing scraps of paper.
And it’ll happen, he knows it will happen if only he gives his thoughts the space to self-destruct organically, if only he-
There is a knock on the door, startling him out of his emotional descent. A crude awakening.
“Mingyu-yah, can I come in?” Says a gentle, gravelly voice. A voice that is embedded into the very fabric of Mingyu’s shuddering soul.
Wen Junhui.
Mingyu’s back straightens within a millisecond - a well-honed defense mechanism. His carefully neutral, carefully manufactured facade slips back into place like it’s almost become a norm now, like his greatest disguise, his greatest deception. Kim Mingyu, once again pretending to be: on, on, on.
“Sure, hyung,” Mingyu clears his throat, tries to sound as cheerful and normal as possible, but he doesn’t know how much he succeeds.
In fact, judging from the curious pull of Junhui’s eyebrows the moment he turns the doorknob and steps inside, shutting the door behind him, perhaps Mingyu really does not succeed. After all, very little escapes Wen Junhui’s sharp hawk eyes, Wen Junhui’s unfiltered, relentless gaze.
Junhui’s stage outfit is a flimsy taffeta ensemble with hardly anything left to the imagination - arms enticingly prominent underneath the barely-there fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, the dip of his adam’s apple sloping into the velvet-silk choker wrapped around his neck, thrown into sharper focus by the golden necklace that rests elegantly below it. His hair is perfectly coiffed, the auburn highlights refracting the dim lighting that suffuses the washroom, that once again makes them feel like the only two living, breathing souls in this dank building - the laughter and bustle on the other side of the door rendered into mere white noise.
Mingyu has to remind himself how to breathe.
“Just checking in on you,” Junhui says, the gravelly words as soft as they are tentative, like he’s stepping on eggshells. “You’ve been in here a while.”
“Ah, sorry, I-” Mingyu clambers to come up with an adequate response, an adequate excuse for the bags under his eyes, the red-rimmed pupils, the intermittent tremors of his hands. “Do we need to go on stage now? Give me five minutes, I’ll wrap up.”
There’s a pause, and Junhui's eyebrows crinkle further, his gaze - that same old impermeable gaze which unscrambles every smidgeon of Mingyu's resistance - settling on the lines of Mingyu's very bare, very much unmade mouth.
Something shifts in the air between them, which Mingyu is barely equipped to comprehend, is barely equipped to disentangle himself from. With every slow, deliberate step Junhui takes towards him, Mingyu feels his carefully manufactured facade slipping, the hollowness of his chest exposed through the cracks, the sum total of every existential crisis blatantly etched into every freckle of his nose.
"Oh, Mingyu-yah," Junhui is eerily close now, close enough for Mingyu to count his eyelashes, to notice that the auburn of Junhui's hair is mirrored on his eyebrows too, close enough for Mingyu's ragged breathing to collide with Junhui's much more measured exhales. "There’s still at least an hour till it's our turn to perform. We have time."
"O-oh," is all Mingyu can conjure up in response, his breathing continuously skittering away, his pulse deafening in his eardrums.
One of Junhui's hands have found its way around Mingyu's waist, holding him steady, holding their bodies at a proximity that makes Mingyu's head spin, makes him want to dig a hole into the marble flooring and disappear into it forever. But there's that horizontal smile, breathtakingly intimate now that it's aimed like this, a delicate rose pressed into the pages of this stolen moment that is its own time capsule. Like this, in the midst of Mingyu's meandering emotional descent
Perhaps, it is another brave rescue attempt, coolant to his wildfire. Perhaps, Mingyu is suddenly no longer sure he doesn't want his wildfire to be cooled.
(After all, Wen Junhui always has that effect on him.)
"May I?" Junhui asks, head cocked towards the brushes and palettes scattered on the counter, a question hovering on the edge of diffidence. But at the same time: those two simple words are a refreshing gust of spring air, the first seasonal flourish of cherry blossoms.
Mingyu swallows an abrupt gasp, attempts to silence the steadily climaxing thunder of his pulse, attempts to extricate his (intermittently shaking) hands from the frosty granite of the basin. Junhui's sharp hawk eyes are suddenly terrifyingly open, utterly uncharacteristic of its usual impermeability, betraying secrets Mingyu has been too much of a coward to decipher, betraying an earth-shattering emotion Mingyu has been too afraid to name.
Mingyu swallows again, saliva stuck in his dry, parched throat; but this time, he does what he does best around Junhui.
He succumbs.
"Yeah," he nods, and Junhui's resulting horizontal smile is blinding, illuminating the grim, dingy bathroom like the most astonishing burst of life.
Without delay or hesitation, Junhui dives in. He reaches for a makeup brush and begins lathering a liberal dollop of primer onto it, brings it to the shadows of Mingyu's face and begins to massage the substance with measured strokes. For a second, Mingyu has to shut his eyes, inhaling the earthy musk-scent of Junhui’s perfume, feeling Junhui’s quiet breaths tremble along his pliant skin, feeling the makeup brush wander along the bevel of his cheekbones, along the trajectory of his nose. And then, Junhui emits a quiet huff, something that betrays an odd hint of amusement, of fondness, and Mingyu once again forgets how to breathe.
His eyes flutter open more out of a reflex than curiosity, settling, as it often does, on the spectacle of Junhui’s horizontal smile, still breathtakingly intimate, still devastatingly close.
“You don’t have to stand quite so stiff, you know,” Junhui teases, his horizontal smile widening by a centimetre, “I don’t bite. Unless, of course, you’re into that kind of thing.”
Mingyu’s eyes immediately go round as saucers, his deafeningly loud pulse pounding for an altogether separate reason, the tips of his ears turning bright crimson. He flexes and unflexes his hands, trying to adequately form them into a semblance of composure but Junhui just giggles, withdraws the brush from Mingyu’s skin only to reach for the foundation next.
“I- I, um-”
“Relax, Mingyu-yah,” Junhui quickly reassures, spooling the liquid foundation in question onto his fingers and gently dabbing it along the lines of Mingyu’s forehead, along the outlines of his sideburns, “I’m just pulling your leg.”
“Oh, ah, okay” Mingyu’s still-crimson ears are a painful reminder of how easily Junhui can reduce him to shambles - a pastiche of floundering heartbeats and stuttered breathing.
Somewhere at the back of his head, there are remnants of his emotional descent, of the hollowness of his chest, of the very reason why he chose to shut himself in this washroom in the first place. Somewhere in the folds of his wallet - sandwiched between a 1000 won note and a letter from his mother - there is that yellowing scrap of paper, constantly taunting him, constantly threatening to burn a hole into his palm.
But right now, there is Junhui, his horizontal smile the most magnificent sight Mingyu has ever laid eyes on, the silk around his neck glinting like fool's gold. There is Junhui, sturdy hands wielding makeup brush with swift precision, caressing the planes of Mingyu’s features with a tender velocity, with how deftly he paints colours into Mingyu’s cheeks, along the length of Mingyu’s shut eyelids. There is Junhui, coolant to his wildfire, making Mingyu nearly moan with how he lowers cold, liquid eyeliner into the specific spot where Mingyu’s eyelashes begin tapering out, begin fluttering against the musty air of the washroom.
There is Junhui, who makes Mingyu forget everything else, who makes the hollow crevices of his chest feel a little less hollow, makes the crushing weight of his various combined existential crises feel a little less crushing.
"Hey," Junhui says, his smile shifting from something mischievous into something more serious, more poignant. Perhaps, he has once again read Mingyu like an open book, has unravelled every thread and skein Mingyu likes to keep interminably tangled together. "I meant what I said the other day, you know? Junnie hyung is always here to listen, if you ever want to talk."
Junhui’s hands still for a moment, hovering on the tail-end of a perfectly executed eyeliner wing, his piano-callused fingers flush against one of Mingyu’s freckles.
Mingyu’s (perhaps not-so-hollow) chest rises and falls in a frenzied rhythm, a desperate and futile attempt to gather his wits, to regain his composure. That same endlessly tempting invitation, the “Junnie hyung is always here to listen” that does nothing but tear Mingyu apart limb from limb, make him want to rip the living, pumping ventricles from his heart and offer it up to Junhui, to show him every wound, every laceration, every infuriating inch of agony that plagues him on sleepless nights. That same invitation which makes Mingyu want to say:
Hyung, you said I have to make my own meaning out of life, but what if I can’t? What if I’ve fooled everyone into thinking I’m good at what I do, but I’m not? What if the fear of not doing enough, of not being enough, ends up killing me someday?
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say any of it.
Junhui stands there, makeup brush lowered to his side, gaze back to being infuriatingly inscrutable, raking through Mingyu once more - a sword twisting against an open wound. And Mingyu-
Mingyu knows that his wildfire cannot afford to escape his control today, cannot incinerate another forest, cannot afford to take prisoners. Instead, he is: on, on, on.
Kim Mingyu, the requisite charmer. Kim Mingyu, the former emcee, the bearer of a heavy mantle, in charge of working his unique magic on anyone that shoves a mic infront of his face.
He smiles, a reluctant little thing, despite trying to infuse into it every bit of the charisma he’s been known for all throughout his career.
“You look very handsome today, Junnie hyung. Has anyone told you that? ” Mingyu forgoes the temptation to further expose the chinks in his armour, instead trying to summon up the same coy teasing Junhui had deployed on him mere minutes ago.
(He hopes he succeeds in coming across more blasé than blatantly obvious. After all, he means every word of that sentence, even if it is a weak attempt at diversion.
Junhui is very handsome.)
There’s a moment - disappearing in a flash, gone as quickly as it arrived - in which Junhui visibly stumbles. His mouth nearly falls open, his own cheeks bloom in shades of bright pink and red - and none of it is because of the makeup. Junhui’s balance nearly crumples too, him seemingly tripping on nothing but thin air, but pulling himself upright at the very last minute.
Mingyu never does this, never quite says things like this no matter how prominent they are on his mind every time he so much as looks at Junhui, and for once, Junhui is the one coming apart at the seams. Even if he slips back into a visor of complete unperturbed calm within a matter of seconds, it’s a second too late, Mingyu has already seen him come undone.
“Are you suggesting I don’t look handsome on other days?” Junhui aims for levity, but there is the slightest shiver in the tenor of his gravelly voice, an unmistakable heat in the way his sharp hawk eyes glisten.
It turns Mingyu’s ears crimson once more, but this time, Mingyu doesn’t fight it. He only smiles wider, his crooked left canine slipping out in sudden, unadulterated delight. Despite himself, despite his emotional descent, despite the hollowness of his chest, despite the yellowing scrap of paper in his wallet.
“I wouldn’t dare, hyung.” Mingyu replies, and a distinct sensation is slowly blanketing him from head to toe, careening through every nerve ending of his body, leaving behind sharp pinpricks of simmering desire.
A sensation, that feels peculiarly like his wildfire being cooled. But oddly enough, Mingyu submits to it.
Junhui blushes again, this time doing nothing to conceal it, doing nothing to even pretend it’s not a blush. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
There are still bags under Mingyu’s eyes, red rims around his pupils, intermittent tremors in his hands. But right now, there is Wen Junhui, and everything else fades to black, everything else ceases to matter.
Mingyu continues to smile.
----
In the quiet blue-dark of his room, buried under three separate layers of warm quilts he personally knitted last winter, Mingyu fishes the yellowing scrap of paper from his wallet.
He untwists and unfolds it with the corner of his thumb, lets the ink smudge the tiniest bit - though not enough to obscure the digits, not enough to erase the boldly embossed:
CALL DOCTOR PARK
His heart is on the tip of his tongue, ready to detonate any second, ready to scatter it's hopeless rubble across every inch of this room, across every inch of this universe. But at the same time: the yellow of the paper feels pithy underneath his thumb, almost like it is utterly fangless, like he's the one wielding power over it, like he's the one burning a hole into it.
He sucks in a fitful breath, then does what he already should have done, weeks and weeks ago.
His left hand reaches for the nightstand, rummaging and pillaging through it in the muted blue-darkness. Infinite clusters of stars glitter outside his window, and his fingers finally collide with the cold, metal exterior of his phone, a single brush of contact unlocking it.
Another prod of his finger and a green symbol lights up the crystalline screen, propelling him to his destiny.
His loud, deafening pulse throbs in tandem with the rapidly swelling dial tone.
---
Chapter 2
On another winter like this - almost an eternity ago now - there comes a moment where it all culminates, reaches boiling point.
In his Poetics, Aristotle called it catharsis - tragic pleasure, that which invokes fear and pity among every spectator, among every participant. But to Mingyu, it's a reckoning, wildfire crescendoing into molten lava.
Mingyu is twenty, and he is, for the very first time in twenty years of his existence, in the middle of a gay bar.
Kim Mingyu is twenty, and the stench of cheap alcohol, recycled smoke, expensive leather, clings to him like a persistent burr, shadowing him as he migrates from drink to drink, from dance floor to dance floor, from wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights gaping at skimpily clad men to blushing profusely when a drag queen suggestively winks at him.
Jungkook and Yugyeom brought him here under the guise of escape, of laying claim to formative experiences that evade you when you grow up under a remorseless, persistent limelight, of unshackling yourself from an abyss that will only lead to constant self-critique. The temptation had been too much forgo, the fissures that had then only begun hollowing out his chest desperate to be filled.
And that is how: Kim Mingyu is twenty, and in an unnameable, inconceivable gay bar nestled in the midst of a winding Itaewon alley; is alone at the counter while his friends briefly step outside for a smoke break (cigarettes are not Mingyu’s thing, he swiftly finds), is alone at the bar when a shadowy, weasely-voiced stranger sidles up to him and says, "You seem like you're lost, petal. Let me buy you a drink?"
Something in Mingyu freezes then, a strange sort of terror palpitating in his heart.
The very objective of tonight was this: letting strangers buy him drinks, dancing with faces he will never remember the following morning, letting loose every inhibition that has accumulated in his bones for years. Why, then, can Mingyu not even look at this man? Why then, do the neon strobe lights feel like laser beams about to split him open? Why, then, is the curve of this man’s lips a smoke signal, a blinkering red flag?
“I-I..” Mingyu splutters, panic pooling into his deafening pulse, his eyes scanning the crowded dance floor for any possible means of fleeing, any form of circumvention, of bypassing either a very awkward conversation or a very threatening one. The man keeps smirking at him, his eyes settling on the planes of Mingyu’s chest bared ever-so-slightly by his low-cut blazer, with no shirt underneath. Mingyu suddenly regrets his outfit choice for tonight.
But perhaps, there is something in the air, or perhaps, destiny does exist, perhaps, this night is built for freedom after all. In the very next moment, before Mingyu can scramble for any further excuse, there is a distinct gravelly voice, a voice embedded into the very fabric of his soul, a voice that’s saying:
“I’m sorry, is anything the problem here?
And then, an arm is wrapping itself around Mingyu’s shoulder - an arm that has playfully cradled him a thousand times in practice rooms, in the confines of their humble dorm kitchen, under covers of bunk beds during cold January nights - and pulls him closer, his hips crashing into the arcs and angles that make up Wen Junhui.
Wen Junhui, who has magically shown up without any preamble at this unnameable, inconcievable gay bar, nestled in the midst of a winding Itaewon alley. Wen Junhui, who is once again his saviour, plucking him from the jaws of his own destruction.
Wen Junhui, who is currently in a leather tank top that hugs every square inch of muscle and sinew in his body, whose dark, smoky eyeliner are framing his staggeringly handsome features, the balls of his cheeks highlighted with the tiniest smattering of glitter.
Wen Junhui, who is once more breathtaking, who presses into Mingyu's personal space almost with a determination Mingyu hasn't encountered before, with a possessiveness that makes Mingyu's skin buzz and tingle.
"My boyfriend was just getting me a drink," Junhui continues, eyebrows drawn together as he glares at the weasely-voiced stranger, pulling Mingyu even closer.
It takes more than a second for Mingyu to realise that he is the boyfriend Junhui seems to be referring to - a careful ruse to drive this stranger way, the only reason why Junhui would hold Mingyu this tight, like he's afraid to let go.
(Of course it's a ruse. As if Mingyu has ever had a chance. As if Junhui would ever truly want to hold Mingyu as primally as he is now.)
But the ruse lands perfectly. The man's face falls, and with a grumbled half-hearted apology, he scurries away into the neon-lit bar-crowd as quickly as he had emerged.
But Junhui's arm stays locked around Mingyu's sweat-streaked for longer than necessary, now his sharp (smoky-eyelinered) hawk eyes turned on Mingyu's face, boring into him like the vertex of a drill.
