…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
☎️ preview: The toughest part about loving Seungcheol was the fact that he didn’t know himself at all. And how does one truly love a ghost?
based on the song Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call by Bleachers
“But you should know that I died slow
Running through the halls of your haunted home
And the toughest part is that we both know
What to happened to you
Why you're out on your own
Merry Christmas, please don't call”
tw/cw: heavy angst + smut, not a happy ending, tortured lovers, coups is an asshole but he doesn't mean to, idol!seungcheol x nonidol!reader, talk of leader responsibilities, abstract telling of sexual intercourse, heavy topics such as anxiety and depression
🪽fic rating/wc: 18+ / 2.4k
☁️ masterlist & a/n: this heavy angst christmas fic is to combat the insane amount of fluff in the vernon christmas special (ᵕ—ᴗ—) it's also very self indulgent angst + smut with coups. thank you for spending 2024 with me and i cannot wait to spend 2025 with you too!
“Oh, golden boy, don't act like you were kind”
He was inevitable in the end. Like some invisible string connected the two of you together. Not the pretty, dainty kind of invisible string. Whatever held your lives together was made of barbed wire. Whatever line wrapped around your ribs, restricting your breathing, tying you to him was nothing pretty. It was what army men used in wars.
You can’t hate your best friend, even if they end up hurting you. You just can’t.
“Come back to bed.” You whisper in the dark as you watch his dark silhouette get up. The clock on his nightstand was barely legible.
You could hear him throwing a shirt on. “I’ve got to go.”
You open your mouth to ask him again, but the words die in your mouth. A couple days ago you would’ve begged, but the bubbling hatred in you pushed the words down your esophagus, momentarily choking you. Seungcheol noticed your silence.
“I’ll be back before sunrise.” He leans over the bed and kisses your cheek, brushing a stray hair from it. “Don’t be mad.”
You shake your head in the dark. “I’m not mad.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
That was just how the world spun. You, lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling you used to trace constellations on together. Sheets that smelled like him - aftershave and candles. Pleading words sewn shut in your mouth, hidden in your lungs, suffocating you. As you sank back into sleep, drowning under everything you’ve ever wanted to tell him. You knew it wasn’t his fault. After all - he barely knew who he was, hidden under all his responsibilities and his job title, he was barely a semblance of a man - tugged and stitched together.
It barely registered in your mind that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. Part of you knew he wouldn’t be there to celebrate anyways.
“You know this moment don’t ya
And time is strangely calm now”
You could say what drew Seungcheol to you initially was your confidence. It illuminated you like a beacon, a moth to the flame, as his eyes followed your movements from across the crowded room.
It was Christmas Eve in Korea, and everyone in the right circles knew Johnny Suh’s Holiday Bash was the place to be.
At least, that was what your friends had told you, claiming they had a way in and convincing you to join them.
You were pleasantly surprised to find that for untouchable K-pop idols, everyone at the party was oddly normal. Kim Sunwoo’s voice could be heard over all the chaos, forehead pressed up against Lee Haechan’s, caught in the middle of some intense drinking game. Jeon Jungkook took a love shot with a heavily drunk Kim Mingyu, the sounds of their glass cups clinking against one another catching your attention.
Drifting away from the noise, you moved upstairs, your hand tracing the natural engravings against the wooden banister. The dim lights made it difficult to see, as you searched for a respite away from the noise downstairs. You’d certainly never question a K-opo idol’s ability to party again.
It was Seungcheol’s quiet stare that made you approach him, noticing how he sat with his back against the smooth white wall, his hair falling into his eyes. It was odd to see him alone, unaccompanied by his usual entourage of rowdy members. When alone, he seemed oddly sad, as if he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t. Perhaps it was the vulnerability in his eyes that urged you to sit next to him.
“I’d like to be alone, please.” He mumbled, turning his big eyes towards you. The light from downstairs caught in his irises, refracting into a million tiny lights.
“Me too.”
Your reply amused him as he watched you, intrigued by the way you stared off into the distance. He hadn’t known how you had noticed his glassy, tearfilled eyes from the get go, or else he would’ve walked away.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Your offhanded tone made the loaded question fall easier against his chest. He could feel himself breathing routinely once more, the tears in his eyes receding as he processed your question and figured out an answer.
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” He admitted, finally turning the whole of his body to face you, moving his knees up against his chest as he leaned back against the wall once more.
There was something about him that made you want to help him. Maybe it was the fact that he was famous for being the reliable leader, responsible for too many things at such a young age. Maybe it was because, based on the things you’ve heard about him, you knew you could relate. Maybe you had already known - even then - that the two of you were different sides of the same coin. That he was inevitable in the end.
“I’ve got time.” You send him an open smile. “Lay it on me.”
Even to this day, Seungcheol had no idea why he confided in you, a total stranger, on the floor of a Johnny Suh Christmas party. He usually held his cards close to his chest - so close in fact, that the people around him often joked that he couldn’t read the cards himself.
So maybe he knew you were inevitable in the end too.
But neither of you could’ve ever predicted what would become of the two of you by the time the next Christmas rolled around.
“Oh, golden boy, you shined a light on our home,
And at your best you were magic; we were sold”
By the time the next Christmas rolled around, everyone around Seungcehol would credit you as the one who had “fixed” him. It was a term they all danced around lightly - fixed. None of them knew how to describe it, but Seungcheol was happier, louder, and had magically learnt the art of self-confidence.
“That is not my hyung.” Chan yelled into your ear from the side of the bar, eyeing Seungcheol, who was on the dance floor surrounded by an ecstatic Soonyoung and Mingyu. “My Seungcheol hyung does not dance.”
You laughed, because you knew the amount of work that had taken him to get where he was now. No one, except the two of you, would know about the late nights Seungcheol had spent near tears as you knelt by him, soothing phrases leaving your lips only to crash against his back.
“Look at him.” Chan was pointing an accusatory finger at Seungcheol, who had a wide grin on his face as he watched Soonyoung attempt to win over a girl on the dance floor. “He used to avoid the dance floor like it’d kill him. Hell, he avoided the bar in general.”
You followed his finger, a small smile drifting over your features as you witnessed Seungcheol laugh, the sound travelling straight to your core as you watched him. As if he had felt your stare, Seungcheol turned, his bright smile shining upon you as he reached out a hand, gesturing you towards him.
“Hi.” His forehead pressed against yours as he spoke.
“Hi.” You whispered back as he pulled you closer, relishing the safety you felt within his strong arms.
“I love you.” He said, but there were other words hidden deep beneath them. Don’t leave.
“I love you too.” Don’t hurt me.
“And the toughest part is that we both know
What happened to you”
You dreaded each time he was called in for work. You knew he loved his job, and more often than not, he would have a good time - singing, dancing, creating with his friends for his fans. But you also saw the heavy weight that followed him home whenever it wasn’t a good time. Each company meeting where he was yelled at, each unsettling encounter with a crazy fan, each hate post you knew your boyfriend had read multiple times over.
You both knew the baggage that followed him home far outweighed the good he felt. But you couldn’t ask him to leave - because that would ruin him too.
February 19 2022. The date forever seared in the front of your mind. It was the day Seungcheol had returned home after dropping out of his world tour.
He had landed on your shared porch like a dead bird.
“Cheol.” You grabbed at his shoulders, trying to get a good look at his face.
He pushed past you into your shared home, kicking off his shoes and throwing his bags onto the floor. You watched him leave up the stairs. You heard the door of your shared bedroom swing close, the lock click into place.
You didn’t mind sleeping on the couch that night. You knew he needed his space.
“I’m sorry.” He had told you the next morning, his eyes betraying his lack of sleep.
Handing him his breakfast, you shook your head. “Don’t apologize. Do you want to talk about it?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
First crack in the glass. You really should’ve known. After all, Seungcheol told you everything.
“But you should know that I died slow
Running through the halls of your haunted home”
Seungcheol kissed you each time like he was afraid to lose you. His kisses were full of passion, firm and messy. He kissed you like he was constantly running out of time.
His calloused hands ran gently against your bare skin, handling you like pieces of precious glass.
“I love you.” He’d murmur against your stomach as he inched his way down, looking up at you with shining eyes - akin to the way he once looked at you during your first meeting. That was something special about him: his eyes sparkled the same way whether he was crying or in love. You had yet to learn the difference.
Seungcheol liked holding you as he pushed in, craving the feeling of closeness and how he was connected inside of you, with you. You were his escape and his solace, his mind numbing into a void of white as pleasure coursed through him. The usual jumble in his brain ceased to attack him and he was left with the sole thought of showing you how much he truly did love you.
Seungcheol loved making love with you. It was the aftermath where he didn’t.
“I love you.” You’d whisper as you threaded your fingers through his hair, your other hand drawing circles against his bare skin - and your voice would feel planets away.
The loudness of his own mind was back, the mess of barely coherent thoughts intruding once again. Seungcheol knew it made no sense.
“You were mine, but you were awful every time”
Choi Seungcheol was not good for your soul. You knew that. He was a man full of paradox, forever contradicting himself and everything you’ve ever felt for him. Even the way his coarse hands gently traced the bones of your back felt contradictory, when he had only just told you the two of you could never be together.
“We won’t work.” His lower lip jutted out as he spoke, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.
“I know.” You were tired of begging, the constant back and forth. Seungcheol would run, and then he would still find his way back to you in the following few months. That was just how this relationship worked, and you were used to it by now.
“I’m sorry.” He would whisper, cupping his hands around your face as his thumbs traced your cheekbones, a gesture filled with silent love.
Then don’t leave, you wanted to yell at him. If he really was sorry, if he really did love you, why would he still leave each time? But you knew that wasn’t how he operated.
You knew Choi Seungcheol wanted you. But he barely knew what he wanted himself.
“'Cause everybody's gone it's
Just you and your anger”
You knew he’d be back like clockwork. You knew Seungcheol could never stray from you for too long, some hindrance keeping him from ever truly leaving you.
He’d leave each time he felt like he wasn’t enough, each time you failed to convince him he was. Then he’d come back the moment that insecurity vanished, leaving him with his anger. At himself, at the world, at you.
Seungcheol’s anger burned in white and blue. His anger was silent, suffocating, almost petty and petulant by nature. He would never yell or raise a hand at you but he’d push you away. Further and further until it felt like you never really knew him at all.
“I love you.” You’d say, and he’d just hum in response.
“Cheol.” You’d beg, because even when you said you were done begging, you knew you’d do it again. “Look at me, please.”
He turned, although his eyes locked on some spot right above your head.
“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” You’d ask him. “Let me help.”
You knew your attempts at understanding were futile. Choi Seungcheol’s fatal flaw was his independence. He relied on no one but himself.
“Merry Christmas, please don't call
Merry Christmas, I'm not yours at all”
You supposed Christmas Eve was as good a time as it could get. There would be no best time, you knew that now. You had been looking for the perfect time to leave and look where you were now. Six years deep, in love with a man who barely knew love himself.
Merry Christmas. You wrote, leaving the letter tucked neatly beside his Christmas gift on the living room table. You knew you couldn’t say goodbye in person. One look at his shining eyes and you’d be begging for his love once more.
I know none of this is anyone’s fault. You had begun the letter with. I know there are just some things nobody can fix.
Your hand on the doorknob, your other hand clutched around the handle of your bags, you turned to take in the place one last time. Memories of you and Seungcheol circulated through the air as you lingered by the door, unable to step forward.
Because that was the couch where he had said I love you for the first time, his face inches from yours. That was the kitchen lights that had flickered when broken, the same lights in which you had danced under, wrapped warmly in his arms.
I really do wish you the best, Cheolie. And because at Christmas, you tell the truth - I hope you find everything you need to be happy in this life. Merry Christmas. Please don’t call.
a/n: ending off the 2024 season with a bang! if you made it this far, thank you so much for following along through the beginning of this blog - and i'm excited to spend the next year with you!
Synopsis : You get into a fatal car incident, but later you wake up and find yourself back in the past. You vows to take revenge on your adopted family.
Warnings : mean stepmother & stepsister, mentions of car crash and fire incident, CEO SEUNGCHEOL, make out session that leads to both individuals doing sex, smut, red leading to black flag ex, infidelity (not reader and seungcheol), mention of period, sexual tension(?), lovey-dovey couple, sexy and delicious seungcheol 🫦🫦, simp!seungcheol, he fell first and they both fell harder.
a.n : THIS IS MY VERY FIRST FIC THAT REACH MORE THAN 3K WORDS AAA, and sorry for the delay because i forgot what the ending supposed to look like, also the smut warning below. enjoy reading it, xoxo
Smut warning : making out, pussy eating, cream pie, BIG DICK!cheol, reader sucking on seungcheol's fingers, breast play(?), sex without protection (don't do this shit in real life) this is my first time writing smut, lmk if i miss anything!!
“You can't just break up with me when you know our wedding is near!” Hearing that makes your blood boil, he’s right, your wedding is near, but don't you think it's too much? Get married with your fiance after knowing he likes your sister and they have an affair going on?
You don't even know how you can return to the time before Se-hyuk & you get married. All you remember before is you're in a coma after big accidents between your car and theirs. And now you're wearing your cancelled-wedding dress, in the boutique store that you remembered has been closed.
“I shouldn't even fuck with you, Yoon Se-hyuk” That's all you say before you ripped the gown, paid for it and then go straight to your car without sparing a glace at him.
……………………
“Han y/n! Se-hyuk is searching for you” You sigh heavily, you already blocked his number & any other social media platform so he can't annoy you anymore, but now he's coming to your house? You wonder how much audacity he has, because he was brave enough to come here after you made him gone in your life.
“Tell him to go home!” You don't want to see his face anymore. Every time you remember it, your heart aches so much that it brings your eyes to tears.
You know you have never been so lucky in your life. Your stepmother opens your bedroom door, telling you to talk with Se-hyuk.
You told him to talk with you outside, and he's holding onto your hand like a lost puppy.
“I told you to fuck off, didn't i? What is wrong with you? I told you don't be near me anymore!” You yell at him, and before he can even answer, his phone rings and when you both look at the contact name, you decide to be the one who answers the call.
It was his mother, “Hello? Se-hyuk, I'm searching for a hanbok right now, and they have a lot of variety. What colour do you think would match me well?” After a few seconds of silence, you answer her.
“Pink and green will suit you the best auntie, and for your information, our wedding is canceled” You can hear his mother's panicked voice, asking what is wrong with your relationship, but you didn't answer her, you hung up the phone and put his phone on shut down.
“Go away, Yoon Se-Hyuk” You said and turned your back to go back to your house.
……………………
“So, you're Han Yu-ra?” The guy in front of you asked and made a smirk raised from your lips.
“No, I'm Han yn. I'm her sister, and I'm the one who’s going to be married to you” The sentence you left out making him arched one of his eyebrows, telling you to explain yourself.
“Here's the deal, we’re going to get married, you go back to Taeja's group, and both of our companies will merge and I get to have my revenge” You said calmly, while looking him dead in the eyes and smiling through your lips.
He asked what's in it for him. Luckily, you've done your research, “you can get your revenge on your brother too, isn't that what you wanted?” You tell him and your expression is cocky.
Both of you closed the deal and started making the rules to live in while still in your marriage life.
You are aware of your surroundings. There is a paparazzi that takes your photos, and Yu-ra is also in that lounge, walking to search for the man in front of you but then surprised by your figure that sat with him.
You had asked your cousin– who also deeply hated Yu-ra, to help you check Seungcheol's background and being the paparazzi at the hotel and will be the one who published the rumor for both of you.
She also knows about you going back in time.
……………………
Seungcheol brought you to his room to discuss the matter of your marriage, and suddenly, a question came to his head.
“Why did you choose me to have revenge on your family? Am I that handsome?” He asked while confidence was plastered on his face as he poured the wine for both of you.
You scoffed, didn't know what to say for a while because of his demeanor, “Because Yu-ra liked you, and also you're not my type, so don't be a big head”
His smirk faltered after hearing your response, and a scowl replaced his confidence.
Both of you are drowning your sorrow with the wine filling up the hollow of your body.
……………………
A Few weeks passed, the rumors started flying in his company too, and now Seungcheol is in a meeting with your ex.
“Do you realize she's just using you?" Se-hyuk says to his boss, his tone dripping with arrogance.
The audacity of his words makes Seungcheol blood pressure spike. After everything he’s done—treating you so cruelly and having an affair with your sister—he still refuses to let you go? What the hell is wrong with him?
“That’s none of your concern, Manager Yoon,” Seungcheol replied sharply. Then, with a calm yet pointed smile, the CEO added, “And for the record, I don’t care if she’s using me. I love her.”
Se-Hyuk glares hard at his boss.
Maybe he still loves you, and doesn't want you to go run your own life, because after all you both have been in a relationship for a decent time, 5 years to be exact and the moment before you ended everything is 3 months before your wedding.
He knew better than to press the issue further. Instead, he turned his attention to the proposal his team had submitted. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to focus, his mind wandered elsewhere.
……………………
"Aww, so you shut him out like that? You really love me, don't you?"
Seungcheol was used to your teasing by now, and he found it oddly satisfying to play along.
"Of course. You're my dear fiancée. How could I not love you with all my heart?" he replied, a smirk adorning his perfect features.
The two of you continued your playful banter late into the night. Eventually, you realized he had caged you beneath him on the sofa in the apartment he had bought for you both to share.
His intense gaze shifted between your eyes and lips before he slowly leaned in, his right hand cradling the side of your face. You responded with your lips brushing against his, a silent invitation.
When your lips met, Seungcheol kissed you like he was afraid of losing you, his touch tender yet passionate. You knew better, though. He loved it when your kisses turned wild— something you'd learned firsthand during your first kiss in a hotel room, a memory you cherished.
Your hands threaded through his black locks, pulling him closer as soft grunts and moans escaped your lips.
After what felt like ten minutes of an intense make-out session, He finally pulled back to give you both a chance to catch your breath.
Without hesitation, he asked, "Bedroom?"
You nodded in response.
Your relationship might not have started romantically, but deep down, something told you this could be the best thing that ever happened in your life.
Meanwhile, you and Seungcheol are having the time of your life, Se-hyuk is trying to get Yu-ra to go home because earlier she called for him, and he can tell that she's drunk.
He's rushing to the bar, throwing Yu-ra on his shoulder to take her to her house (which basically, yours too).
But a plan can't always get in your way, can they? Yu-ra is drunk enough to have Se-hyuk stop the car in the stinky, small motel, so they can do the activity a soon-to-be brother-in-law and soon-to-be sister-in-law shouldn't do.
Even when Yu-ra is kissing him like a mad woman after entering the room, Se-hyuk still thinks about the afternoon event that makes the girl who sat between his legs pissed and starts to attack his sensitive spot on his neck so she can get his attention.
Pretty good to say, both pairs having an intimate time that night.
…………………..
Here's the difference, Choi Seungcheol woke up from the best sleep he ever had with a smile on his face when he noticed you're still in his arms.
On the other hand, Yoon Se-hyuk was scared shitless when he saw Yu-ra's and his naked body and the motel room they booked for the night. He quickly gathered his clothing and put it on so he could leave the room fast.
Now, he can't even blame you for the canceled wedding anymore. He knew he was an asshole back then, but now he feels like he's a total dickhead because last night he fucked your sister, despite knowing that there's a cold war going on between both of you.
He’s still trying to win you back, with a constant push from his mother and sister, who many have labeled a gold digger.
Yes, he marries you for your money, that doesn't mean he doesn't love you, does it? Well, he admits, at first glance, that he has already fallen in love with you, the way you sit and talk elegantly about your interest, and that you are also searching for a husband.
Then, there comes Yu-ra who is always trying to steal his attention away from you to her, and that she always wears a slightly more provocative outfit when he's at your house, telling him that she already feels comfortable with him.
That leads to another. They started seeing each other more often without you knowing, and they started developing feelings for the other individuals, making it so complicated.
He doesn't know how you can find out about his affair with Yu-ra because both him and your sister are sure that they're playing clean, at least that's what they thought.
Unfortunately, you saw them minutes after the hard car crash. That puts you in a fatal condition where you can even speak or move your body. You can only move your eyes.
……………………..
After you woke up, your fiancé decided that it's time to have a shower, and he insisted that you both have to do it together.
It’s nothing dirty. He just takes care of you after the little act last night and having a light conversation with you, and what surprises you is that there's no awkwardness lingering between both of you.
The CEO said his schedule today is packed, so he’s going to come home late, so you told him you will be joining a cooking class that his mother attends.
You know Seungcheol's mother isn't quite fond of you, so you want to change her mind and want to start a good relationship with her.
It's 10 a.m. and the house is already empty, leaving the cool air behind.
“So, do you have any reason why you want to join this class?” Jamie– the owner of the class, ask you. So you answered, “yes, i want to sometimes cook with my fiancé, and my soon-to-be mother-in-law is joining this class, so i want to start a good relationship with her”
Jamie nodded with a satisfied smile, and then she talked to you about the rules on this class and other information you should know.
The odd thing is, Jamie looks a lot like your mother. They even had the same scar that looks like they have the same cause– a cat.
After she explains everything, Jamie brings you to her class and starts introducing you.
Seungcheol's mother looked surprised by your present, and then she shifted her eyes to her table again.
You greet her, and you're lucky because the table you got is side by side with her.
“Why do you join this class?” She asks, tone sharp, and she doesn't even know why it can come at such a tone when she didn't mean it.
“I heard from Seungcheol that you joined the cooking class here, auntie, so i said to him i'll give it a try to bond a good relationship with you” you answered calmly.
She gives you one last glare before deciding that it would be best for her to just ignore you.
When the class is finished, she told you to meet her at the café nearby, wanting to have a talk with you about your relationship with her son.
“I’m just going to ask you the point here” she says, making you gulp hard on her glare.
“Do you even love my Seungcheol? how can I trust you when I know your relationship with your ex has failed because you canceled the wedding!?”
You won't lie, that words cut deep into your heart, your body is shaking and your eyes are glossy, you want to get out of there soon, but before you can even open your mouth, she strikes again.
“Look, you can't even answer that question. How can I give Seungcheol to you when you can't answer the basic question I ask?”
Another voice joins in, a male voice that you and her are familiar with, because that's your fiancé's voice.
“That is not your business mom, the only thing that matters is I love her and she’s willing to try a relationship with me, isn't it enough?” He angrily said to his mom, and he gently grabbed your hand and pulled you up from your seat, then you both walked away.
You are still sparing glances towards your back to see Mrs. Choi's reaction, but she just looks at both of you in horror.
Seungcheol doesn't even spare her a glance anymore, he just goes straight to the parking lot while still holding your hand to guide you.
“You okay? She doesn't do anything to you, does she?” His voice etched with worry that was evident on his face.
“It's okay, Cheol. She didn't do anything to me”
After you calmed him down, both of you entered his car, you questioned your car but he said a driver will pick your Mercedes up a few minutes ahead.
The strings of ‘sorry’ seem to never stop falling from his lips, and you can only tell him that everything's fine and he doesn't need to apologize.
……………………
“Ya, Han Yu-ra, what’s your sister like? She's marrying my brother, so I need to know her” of course Yu-ra and Se-hee— Se-hyuk's sister, knows who that voice belongs to.
Choi Seungchae, Seungcheol's sister and a well-known celebrity slash influencer in south korea.
“She's selfish, and always talks bad about people even if she is close with them, you know she was also adopted by my father, right?” Yu-ra said with a smirk on her face, that Seungchae wants to scratch her face with her perfectly fresh-made manicure.
Se-hee nodded her head upon hearing Yu-ra's words, she also added, “And you know? she’s the one who cancelled the wedding between her and my brother!”
“Also, I followed you on sns, can you follow me back? it'd be an honor to me!”
“I'm sure she has her reasons to end things with your brother,” Seungchae pauses before continuing her words, “and doesn't your description sound like you throw your sister under the bus Yu-ra? No? I feel like that is much more to your description, not hers”
She then walked away out of that store with her friends while they were laughing about Se-hee who bluntly asked her to follow back her SNS so she can brag to her other friends.
Yu-ra twitches her eyes, she can't even make Seungchae like her? What does she lack? She's perfect and she's going to tell her mom so she can ruin both family dinners.
……………………
When Mrs. Choi goes to Seungcheol house, she didn't expect to see his son and you both sleeping together.
it's nothing serious, she would say. because Seungcheol's sleeping on the couch while his hands are holding onto yours who's sleeping on the floor with the position that could probably make your neck uncomfortable.
Startled by the sound of the door being unlocked, you shot your eyes open and found it weird that Mrs. Choi is here, she doesn't usually come in without any notice before.
You want to greet her first, but she quickly shuts you down and then grabs your hand to take you outside.
You want to protest, but before any words come out of your mouth, Mrs. Choi brings you to her embrace and starts hugging you tightly which makes you worried, what's wrong?
“Are there any problems, auntie? I’m sorry, I didn't mean to sleep here, I dozed off without knowing last night” You babbled to her, waiting for any impact that might have gone to your face.
Instead, she pulled away from the hug and started speaking, “I never seen him sleeping peacefully since he's graduated his elementary school because of his trauma, thank you for making him sleep like this again”
You don't even know what to say when she hugs you again, this time a little bit shorter, and she says, “You have my permission to marry him, the only thing you have to achieve is that i want you to join Taeja's group again”
And there's where your real revenge starts, with the help of your fiancé's family, of course.
……………………
Both your family agreed to have dinner together on Sunday night in Taeja’s group restaurant that they had reserved, only for the family.
Mrs. Choi doesn't look so fond of your stepmother, she knew about the backstory of your poor life because of her.
Meanwhile your father— Han Jiwoong, greets the other families with a genuine smile, your stepmother uses her sly smile, making everybody in Taeja's family start to scoff at her, even Grandma Taeja.
After half an hour greeting each other, here comes the main topic of why Taeja’s family and yours are having dinner tonight, it's to discuss your marriage.
“Our company will begin merging after they both get married, you don't mind that, right?” Grandma Taeja asks your family, especially your stepmother because her eyes are pointed to her.
She answered her with that mischievous smile of her, “we'll gladly accept that, grandma”
“But our daughter is not perfect, so we aren't really sure if she can be married with your grandson” she continues, and that makes your heart burn with anger.
“As you know, she works as a painter that only sell 2 or maybe 3 pieces total in her life, she can't cook on her own, and also adopted” The words that she threw at you make your heart pounds a thousand times than your average, all of that makes you nervous, but Seungcheol hold your hand to tell you he's here and everything is gonna be fine.
Seungchae seems to be confused by the tension from your family, she whispers to her husband, “what is this? Why are they trying to make their daughter look bad?”
While her husband only shook his head that means he doesn't know.
“I don’t care about the pieces she sell, my family is rich, we surely can make her life comfortable without her lifting up her fingers” Mrs. Choi said as she also knows about Han Jiwoong's wife's plan to drag you down.
Seungcheol chimes in, joining the conversation, “I'm the best cook in my family, you don't need to worry about both of us not eating, I can make her breakfast, lunch, and dinner, we can also go out sometimes” His answer is sharp, undeniable.
“We also don't care about her being adopted, there's nothing to worry about, and we have 90% control of the media in South Korea, so we can shut them down if we want to” He added to ensure that anyone from your family can talk bad about you anymore.
Few hours passed, and the dinner was already finished minutes ago. You and Seungcheol are both satisfied by the dinner and also his family answers to yours.
“It's okay, they're good people” Your fiancé said to ease up your worries that were written on your forehead.
……………………
Summer is soon turning into autumn, and your relationship label is turning into husband and wife after being engaged for 3 months.
Today is the sacred day for you and Seungcheol, both of you will say the vows and a contract hidden beneath that.
Your father walks you down the aisle, a beautiful white gown draped around you, fitted bodice that accentuates the waist and a voluminous skirt that flows out dramatically made of satin.
You choose a sweetheart and off-shoulder neckline to anctuates your collarbone, and a natural looking makeup so it doesn't overwhelm you.
The veil made out of tulle, makes your face look beautiful in the altar lighting.
The procession goes really well, and you soon know that's because your step sister hasn't arrived yet.
after the guest and family member announce their speech— including Seungchae and her husband crying while reading theirs and it makes your heart warm at the sight, and Seungcheol's brother's cold speech that looks like it's just for formality.
When the photo session though, everything starts to irritate you a little, because not only your stepsister have arrived, she also wears a white dress, hoping to outshine the bride— yes, you.
She even goes live on social media, “Guys, look at my stepsister, she really looks beautiful isn't she?” while holding your hand, which you let go.
“I'm sorry, Yu-ra. I'd love to hold hands with my husband only” with a smile on your lips, filled with dread for her to take a hint.
“I love you, my wife” Seungcheol said, and you answered the same.
Both of you lean towards each other, letting the photographer take your sweet photo while kissing so happily and a grumpy Yu-ra beside you.
……………………
“Okay, so now what?” You ask your now husband, after the wedding ends.
“Why are you still asking? We’re going to have a Honeymoon, and we're taking the first flight to Jeju tomorrow” He said, making you feel ridiculous talking to him.
So you hit him, hard on his shoulder, “You said you're scared of the beach and ocean because of your childhood, we don't have to if you don't want it, we can go anywhere” You answered him and remembering his fear of the ocean that he told you a few while back.
“If you can face your fear, and eat my food without me having to do it first, so can I do it too, you're telling me we are in this together, right?” He looks at you like you're the one putting stars one by one in the sky.
And without a doubt, Jeju is where you both go.
…………………..
“It's not that bad” Seungcheol says after you both reach your bedroom, and clean yourselves.
You gave him a smile, “right? it's calming” as you climbed to the bed, your brain turning his gears to think about the sleeping position tonight.
“Here's a pillow, you go sleep down there” Your words make Seungcheol furrow his eyebrows and eyes wide, “No! We can go sleep in the same bed”
The way he said it so casually makes your eyes also widen, you both definitely can't sleep on the same bed.
“I promise i'm going to hold your hands while we sleep–” before Seungcheol can even finish his sentence, you already throw the pillow to him.
“No!” You yell at him to make his eyes go even wider, which makes you smile sheepishly at him, while muttering soft ‘sorry’.
“You have a dirty mind, we wouldn't even do anything” and finally, you tell him, “okay, you sleep here”
And just before he can express his happiness, you added, “i'll sleep there" while grabbing your pillow and starting to get up from bed.
Well, of course Choi Seungcheol has to be a big headed person he is, so he caged you on the soft bed, making it impossible for you to move.
A week before your wedding, Seungcheol confessed that he has feelings for you, maybe that's why you don't want to sleep together.
“You don't believe my words, do you?” he asked, and the way you stay silent with your eyes wandering anywhere but him makes Seungcheol even more sure about his question.
His eyes dart from your eyes to your lips and back to your eyes again, only to find you already doing the same.
Slowly but surely, he leans in, both you breath hot while your lips brushing the slightest.
it feels like you're so close but so far to his liking, so he grabbed the back of your head to push your lips to clash with his.
The kiss soon got heated with both of your tongues joining in, your lungs burning at the sensation begging to tell you to pull away from him but your brain keeps ignoring it.
Fortunately, after a few seconds Seungcheol pulls away, making you chase his lips that are stained with your lipstick, meanwhile yours was plump and glossy.
Your hands paw weakly on his shirt after gripping it like your life depends on it, silently asking him to put it away, and with that look in your eyes, how can he refuse?
Seungcheol wasted no time to take his shirt off, leaving him only in his black trouser.
You're now technically gawking at him, but how could you not? His bicep is big and you can even see the veins become more prominent. Looks like he's god's favorite, and that's why he has that body of a god.
Seungcheol goes to the bed again, only to find you still staring at him. Looks ready for him to cherish, and to ravish.
He kisses your lips again, but this time it's rougher than the last one, soon the kiss starts going to your neck and the sweet spot behind your right ear.
his hot breath fanning over your skin, makes you shudder. His next move lets you out a whimper, but how can you not? He cups your pussy through your short silk nightwear.
“Cheol” you moan, holding his bicep while looking at his other hand that goes under your top, fondling with your right breast.
Seungcheol can feel himself getting worked out. The trouser he had picked earlier today feels a little strained to his liking. He can't hide his growing bulge anymore.
He starts undressing you, taking his time while kissing the new spot he sees, while you can only whimper and moan out because you can't think of anything other than him.
“You're wet, baby” it's true, you've been wet since the moment your kiss got heated, and everytime you think of his demeanor, you caught yourself in a sinful scene.
You grab his black lock when he decides to dive in without giving you any warning, the sudden act makes you scream out loud, you don't really care who's gonna hear you, the hotel receptionist told you the suite was soundproof.
Your husband can tell you are close, so he pulls away from your cunt and you can see his chin and mouth glistening deliciously with your essence.
Without any words, he gets up to take off his trousers and boxer. His cock is massive with veins noticeable to your eyes, even though you two had sex before this, but you still amaze at his size.
You whine at him but he quickly shuts you up with a deep kiss to your lips and slowly he starts pushing himself inside of you, not wanting to hurt you.
His thrust started slow, but when he's sure you adjusted his size, he becomes rougher with you, grunts heavily heard here and there from him.
“Open” His words leave no room to argue, when you do open your mouth, he inserts his middle and index finger.
He smirks before opening his mouth again, “Suck my fingers, sweetheart” He left you speechless— not that you could answer him or something, you begin to suck eagerly, wanting to be a good girl for him.
After only a few thrusts, you can feel your stomach tightening a sign to warn that you're going to cum, and Seungcheol was aware of this so he fastened his pace, also reaching for his own high.
The way you clench around him makes your husband's head feel dizzy, and the time you cumming it also triggers him to come hard inside you, filling you to the brim.
He didn't immediately go off of you, he rested himself for a minute and when he did get off you, he carried you to the bathroom to clean yourselves out.
“I love you, baby” He said while carrying you, never in a million years he's thinking of saying that to someone. “And I hope you love me too” Seungcheol added.
The sweet moment makes your heart start warming, and you just hope that there's no other torture you'll get in this life.
……………………
Of course, your torture doesn't stop there.
Yu-ra is still snooping on your marriage life, and Se-hyuk is still being your pain in the ass.
One day, though, he's going inside your house and finds a file of treasure, the truth inside your wedding.
He quickly tells Yu-ra about it, and they both make their cunning plan with the help of your stepmother.
Meanwhile, you found out that you are your father's real daughter after taking a DNA test. The result makes your heart clench, so he abandoned you and decided to adopt you again?
And Yu-ra is not even his real daughter, all the torment you had in all your life just to know you're the real one?
“You're home late tonight, it's unusual of you, why?” Your husband asks why slowly walking to you while crossing his hand, and before he can say anything, you just go to wrap yourself on his body, wanting nothing but to be held by him.
The seconds he had you in his embrace, tears started falling from your eyes, your expression pained seungcheol to the deepest of his heart, willing to do anything to stop them.
A few minutes pass and you finally tell him what's going on and why are you home late at night crying your heart out.
The moment he hears the reason, he instantly soothes you down with his hand, silently telling you that it's okay to cry and you will resolve this problem together.
Since the honeymoon, you two got closer and eventually you started to like him too, your routine becomes more and more like a husband and a wife should be.
you sleep on the same bed, cooking or baking together, and even have breakfast, lunch, and dinner together.
Seungcheol's family also notices this, even Seungchae always teases both of you for it. His grandma also becomes more welcome to you, and being the kind person she always have, sometimes she invited you to Choi's manor to have brunch together with her and Mrs. Choi.
……………………
Seungcheol and you entered his family's manor at the same time, his mother told both of you to come here everyday, but since you’re busy you often call off her invitation.
But today is an exception because you and your husband don't have any schedule.
Mrs. Choi is already waiting for you at the sofa right before the entrance, she gets up to greet you.
Seungcheol is already having his hands in the air beside him, waiting to be hugged by his mother while closing his eyes.
After a few moments, he can't feel anything that close to his body, so he opens his eyes and can't believe what he is seeing.
His mom hugged you before him, when he saw this, he whined “mom! I'm your son, why is she getting the hug first!?” He said while slightly pouting and looking at you with a playful glare which you responded with you sticking out your tongue at his direction, mocking him.
“She’s my daughter! Of course i would hug her first, beside you don't come here as often as her and i'm angry for that” She defends herself after letting you go from her embrace.
The lunch was filled with a lot of laughter echoing in the table and the talk about everything you could ever imagine with cranky Seungcheol at his mother's house.
It's not a problem to have your husband sulky, because you know how to make him normal again, so you hold your chopsticks that you use to pick the galbi to his mouth, muttering ‘aaa’ to him.
Seungcheol looked at you weirdly and not wanting to take a bite but gave in when you kicked his shin beneath the table.
When your stomach is filled to the top, you three go sit in the living room and hold a conversation about your businesses.
The talk soon died down when an uninvited guests came barging without everyone knowing they would be here, it's your stepmother, Yu-ra and Se-hyuk that you think so pathetic because of how on's on his knees for you last week on a police station but now he's on their side.
“Oh, good. You’re here, mom” The words coming out of Yu-ra's mouth make Seungcheol’s mother want to gag. She doesn't have any right to call her that.
She was searching for a document in her purse, and when she found it, she shoved the paper to your face. She smirked before opening her mouth again, “your son and my sister are having a marriage that is based on a contract. She wants to use your beloved son for her own goods”
Mrs. Choi unfazed as she took the paper slowly, training her eyes into it before forcing her eyes to Yu-ra's again, she chuckles.
“First of all; don't call me like that, I don't want you to call me ‘mom’ because you don't have the right, second of all; do you not know literally anything beside this? I also participate in this contract. You should read it first before barging into my house like that” She gets up from her seat, and starts going to your stepmother.
“Teach your daughter some manners, how come she has a mother but doesn't have any manners or shame walking like that at someone's house? She must be getting it from her mother” You can basically see there's a lot of smoke coming out of her head, being the embarrassing attention to her because of her daughter.
Your mother-in-law also goes to your ex, “What kind of man are you? Why are you still interfering with your ex who has already married life? You’re the one who found out about the contract, are you? I checked the CCTV when I went there, and you know it can get you to prison, right?”
Her words leave three of them speechless, and before she turns around, Se-hyuk is already on his knees.
The sight makes you roll your eyes in annoyance, and the thing that makes you want to throw up is the fact that he started apologizing hundreds of times.
But she just stood there quietly, that's when you noticed the front bodyguard already at home, dragging all of them out of the house.
And after a few moments, the lady asks you if you're okay and when you said you're fine she turns to her son to give him a long well needed advice.
It's already sunset when you both decide to go home, and Seungcheol holds your hand throughout the ride, an act to comfort you.
……………………
It's been weeks since your last encounter with Yu-ra, it happened just 2 days after the incident in the Choi's manor, she slapped you real hard before chucking her glass of water at you.
“You're a fake daughter of my dad, so let go all you have because you don't deserve it and you never will! you take everything that's mine!” She said with anger, the fiery glares she threw at you filled both of her eyes.
The way she started mocking you and even bringing up your biological mom hit your nerves, so you slapped her back, twice and smirked at her “Who said I'm the fake one? call father if he's aware of it”
When Yu-ra got home, she got into a big fight with her father or stepfather, she's not his biological daughter but you are, and then her mom did nothing as she was just as speechless as her.
turns out you already sent him the file before Yu-ra's incident, oh and how he is mad is unbelievable because he also found out that his wife now already knew about it and didn't say anything.
He yells at her, and this is the one time everybody saw him losing his control, slamming the door right behind him, leaving the house hollow and cold because he takes the warmth from there.
While your family is having their problems, you're digging for Jamie– your cooking class mentor, if you'd remember, She “accidentally” tells all the students that she has a daughter but gets separated after an incident in her house.
And with that you're pretty sure she's your mother.
Her gestures, the way she talks and even the scars feel close to your mother, and she always gives you the warmth you had lost since your past incident.
After a few days of searching, the result of the DNA test you took with Jamie came in your mail.
Tears start brimming on the edge of your eyes, the test result is that you're 99,9999% share the same DNA with her.
Seungcheol is there too, watching all the scenes with both of his eyes, and when you start getting weak after reading the paper, he saves you from falling to the ground.
There's one question in your head: Why should she leave you alone with your hell of a father?
……………………
The time you confronted Jamie about your test result, she invited you to her house to talk about this more privately.
When you go inside her house, she immediately hugs you tight on her arms as if she is scared to let you go again.
She tells you about the incident details, that she was locked in her bedroom when the fire started, she's calling anybody for help, but the only one she can hear is your stepmother's voice that told her to stay put in her position and that she will have to die.
Your dad and you were getting groceries together and she can come because she has to finish her painting before tomorrow comes.
She got a second degree burn on her right hand but got out just right before the house exploded because of the gas.
And the left side of her hand has the exact same cat scratch you saw the first day.
She said that she moved to the states after that incident and after knowing you're in the hand of your father because she needs a treatment that only america has, not knowing that your father left you a month after she left to the states while you're at a foster home.
No words exchanged after that, just a comfort silence filled the room while you both cuddled up on her sofa, watching your favorite movie of all time— according to your 7 year old self and your mother who remembers it.
You already told Seungcheol about this, and he said that it's okay and you need to have a quality time after a long time not meeting your mother.
……………………
A month after you met your mother, she decided to move into the house beside yours and Seungcheol, wanting to be closer to you.
Your father finally comes to his senses and always shows up at your mother's front door while holding a bouquet of Daffodil and some peonies.
Yu-ra and her mother got their karma.
Your stepmother's crime was finally discovered by the media and police, she's doing fraud and selling fake pieces of art.
The one who reported her? Your family secretary— Kim Jae Won, and how does he know it? Because most of the art that your stepmother sells is his father's painting, and he always knows his father's signature and the pen he uses, he is not going to be fooled by her.
Oh, and Yu-ra? She gets pregnant and wont even come out of her hotel room because the baby is already 7 months old— you heard from the Taeja's group hotel receptionist while you want to visit your husband.
She eventually got kicked out because Seungcheol's brother doesn't pay for the room anymore— yes, Han Yu-ra fucked with Seungcheol's big brother.
That's why she comes again to the Choi's manor, wanting to tell them that it's their son's baby.
Wrong choice.
The only one who was at home that time was Mrs. Choi and Grandma Taeja, they're having a girls talk while smiling to each other when the others talk or even laughing.
That's it until Yu-ra comes with her big belly and also a big suitcase.
She confidently tells both of them that she is currently pregnant by the seed of their oldest son.
“Well, they have a machine that can test the DNA of your baby while it's still in your stomach, they have it in Germany, want to try them?” Grandma Taeja says, without any words and panics evident in her eyes, Yu-ra gets out of that house and goes to her other victim's house.
Mrs. Choi and grandma Taeja then laugh at her antics, how can she be that confident without thinking of other things ahead of her?
“Oh! Han Yu-ra you're pregnant? Who's the father?” Se-hee technically freaks out when she sees Yu-ra standing in front of her porch while dragging a big ass suitcase.
Without any care of the world, Yu-ra blurts out “Your brother” that makes Se-hee's brain start to stop functioning at the very second.
She says that loud enough to be heard by Se-hee's mother and Se-hyuk himself with a woman she doesn't want to know anything about (probably his soon-to-be wife) hears it.
Well, upon hearing that of course Mrs. Yoon doesn't want her son's possible marriage to be ruined by some girl, so she gets up from her seat and walks to her while telling her to go away.
but when she gets closer to Yu-ra, she just shoves her away and goes straight to Se-hyuk who's still sitting at the dinner table.
He stood up nervously, and then the bomb finally said out loud, more clearly, “he's your suitor? don't accept him,” then Yu-ra's eyes made eye contact with Se-hyuk's “I'm pregnant, and he's the father”
The girl storms out furiously while grabbing her purse, straight to the open door of the apartment.
Meanwhile Yu-ra dragging Se-hyuk to his room, she chuckles slyly, before asking him, “how can this baby live in this small house?”
Se-hyuk takes both of her hands and looks up to her, “Why don't we live in your house? It's good for the baby to live there”
Hearing that Yu-ra's blood started to boil again, she slapped his right cheek, leaving him with a bright red cheek.
“Why can't you take the hint? if i'm still living there i would not even step foot on this small freaking apartment! my father disown me and then he proceeds to fucking throw me out!” She yells at him.
Well that’s the ending of hee story, you would say pretty tragic, right?
Meanwhile, she's suffering.
You actually have a good life, and now you sat on the dinner table with Soojin— the same cousin who took the pictures of you and Seungcheol the first time and Seungchae who is now helping your mom in the kitchen with her cooking.
Soojin and Seungchae have a competition, which of their food that you'll love, and basically the winner gets free chicken and beer for a month.
But after they finish cooking and you start to pick up the food with your chopstick, you suddenly feel a lump going up your throat, and now you feel like you want to throw up.
So you ran to the bathroom, there you threw all your guts out without any hesitation.
When you got out of the bathroom, you found three of them looking at each other in silence, “what?” You break the silent atmosphere because they all suddenly turn their heads at you.
Soojin spoke first, beating Seungchae that just opened her mouth, “when is the last time you had your period?”
Then everything starts to kick in. Your period is late by 3 weeks now, and you always have that morning sickness.
“I'll grab you a test” Your mother said hurriedly, after a moment.
When she took it out of her bag— which you don't know why it's there, you went to the bathroom again, for checking.
The result came out positive, so when you tell it to everyone, they start hugging you like crazy, and your mom brings you to the dining room, insisting that you have to eat more.
……………………
“So, any news today?” Seungcheol just got off work and he's asking you while hanging his coat.
You fiddle with your fingers, confused how to tell the big news to him, so you just said, “I'm having a morning sickness and my period is still not coming today”
Without any warning, Seungcheol holds your waist and behind your knees, and now he's carrying you with bridal style.
“Maybe you need some refreshment?” You see what he's doing now, so you just blurt out, “I think I might be pregnant!” while closing your eyes, probably expecting him to drop you immediately.
Instead, he puts you down slowly then just stares at you very lovingly with his eyes brimming with tears.
He opened his mouth like he would say something, but nothing came out, just a big gummy smile from him.
And then he starts getting closer, his hot breath fanning at your skin and your lips just a few centimeters away while holding eye contact with you.
That soon breaks by him and he starts kissing you slowly, passionately, while thanking you and praising you between the kisses.
Revenge is complete, and now you have a loving husband besides you while carrying his and your love.
summary: in which a petty argument over doughnuts made you fall for your boyfriend harder than ever.
pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader
genre: fluff, established relationship
warnings: kisses, nicknames, funny mentions of the word crime and bomb as a joke.
w/c: 1k
nia’s notes: i loved writing this, it was so much fun. can you guys tell i'm craving doughnuts? anyways enjoy this fic!!.
Choi Seungcheol was a force on nature. He was terrifying. His members knew that, the staff knew that, even the fans. But if there was one person, who wasn't scared of Seungcheol, rather Seungcheol being terrified off, it was you.
The previous night, Seungcheol committed a serious crime and since then he was scared shitless of what was going to happen to him. Thankfully, he had left early in the morning, before you had time to figure out what he had done.
But now that it was lunchtime, he expected you to open the fridge in your house, only to find the last doughnut missing. Seungcheol shuddered in his seat as he thought about your reaction, at least he had the rest of the day to figure out how to fix his mistake, or that's what he had thought.
"Oh! I forgot to tell you guys but I invited yn to hang out after lunch, she should be here in around 10 minutes." Seungkwan dropped the bomb on the team and while everyone was happy to see the leader's girlfriend, Seungcheol felt his heart drop. He was done for.
"Why would you do that?!" Seungcheol's sudden shout confused the rest of the members. It was obvious he looked scared.
"Hyung, what did you do?" Dino asked bluntly, making the other snicker and laugh at Seungcheol's feigned offence.
"What makes you think that I did something? I did nothing." Seungcheol was lying straight out of his teeth and it was obvious. Everyone was staring at Seungcheol with a knowing grin, they were sitting in a circle on the floor of their dance studio, eating their lunch.
"We know for a fact, you could never be mad at yn and also you look super guilty right now, it's hilarious." Mingyu chuckled at the oldest's face but stopped when he felt the deadly glare directed his way.
Just as Seungcheol was about to rebut, the door of the dance studio opened and you walked in, smiling at everyone but your boyfriend. "Hi, guys!!" You beamed as you found a spot between Hoshi and Jeonghan to sit down.
Seungcheol almost immediately stood up and walked towards you, needy for your attention and ready to beg for your forgiveness for his grave crimes.
"Sit down." Your tone darkened immediately when you sensed our boyfriend walking towards you—all the smiles and happiness from talking to his teammates aka your friends, had vanished.
"Yes ma'am." Seungcheol turned around without hesitation and went back to his place with zero arguments. He knew he was in the wrong for eating your favourite doughnut which also was the last one in the household. The other boys in the room snickered at their scary leader's fear for his girlfriend.
The rest of the lunch went fairly roughly for Seungcheol. Every time he tried to make eye contact or smile at his girlfriend, you either scowled or rolled your eyes which earned a wince from Seungcheol. And every time, Seungcheol tried to talk to you, one of his members would pull you away for advice or to talk, it was infuriating.
An hour later, Seungcheol's pathetic attempts to make you notice him still failed miserably and it was finally time for you to leave. Just as you were about to leave the room and walk towards the elevator, Seungcheol caught your hand and pulled you to his private studio.
You looked at him expectantly, ready for him to talk. "What?" You crossed your arms and raised your eyebrow.
"I'm sorry baby. I know how much you wanted to eat that doughnut, I shouldn't have eaten it. I'll buy you all the doughnuts you want when we get home. Hmm? Please take pity on your obsessed boyfriend and forgive him." Seungcheol rested his arms on your waist, pulling you closer with each passing second. He raised one hand to move a stray strand of hair away from your face.
Even though you were angry at him, your boyfriend was very loving and attentive, to say the least. "No, I won't forgive you." But you small smile on your lips and your eyes that shone with humility and amusement spoke otherwise.
Seungcheol smiled as he knew he won you over. "Please. Please." He started to sway, taking you with him, and pout while looking at you with puppy eyes. You tried to look disgusted but burst out into laughter when Seungcheol started to do aegyo.
"Ok. Ok. I forgive you if you stop doing that thing you call aegyo, it's weird." You laughed and wrapped your arms around Seungcheol's neck to pull him in.
The both of you smiled and your boyfriend pulled you into a hug. "Thank you for forgiving me. I'll order 5 boxes of doughnuts to the house after you leave." Seungcheol muttered against your neck while your smile only grew.
"Remember, I'm letting you go easy today because you didn't know any better but next time," You pulled away for dramatic effects and became deadly serious. "You'll be sleeping on the couch for a month."
Seungcheol's smile dropped as fear overtook him. "No, you can't do that. I won't be able to sleep at all, you know that." Your boyfriend's voice wobbled at the scenario where he'd actually have to sleep elsewhere.
"Don't eat my food then, idiot." You smiled again, patting your boyfriend on his back.
"Lesson learned, baby." Seungcheol grinned looking at you with hearts in his eyes, which you reciprocated. Seungcheol leaned down to kiss you, and smiled when you kissed him back.
Later that day, you found the promised 5 boxes of doughnuts on your kitchen table and your boyfriend standing in your kitchen, learning the cooking process for your favourite food. You loved Seungcheol, but you fell harder in that moment when he went out of his way to make you happy, you knew you found the right one for you.
summary: in which you try to bake a cake for your hardworking boyfriend not realizing your dog had other ideas.
pairing: kim mingyu x fem!reader
genre: fluff, established relationship
warnings: kisses, nicknames, dogs.
w/c: 0.6k
nia’s notes: it's been so long since i wrote but hope you guys enjoy this and count this as my comeback.
It was not a widely kept secret, that Kim Mingyu was a spectacular chef. And him being your boyfriend, meant that he cooked for you...a lot. So, when the thought of making something for him crossed your mind, you were invincible.
And that's how you reached this situation. You were in the final steps of finishing the cake batter when you needed to use the toilet. You made sure everything was safe before you left to take care of your business.
You walked back into the kitchen, a few minutes later. The moment you stepped in, your heart sank and your jaw dropped. "Theo!!" You screamed your dog's name who could now be seen licking your cake batter which rested on the floor, splattered everywhere.
Sensing your dumbfoundedness, Theo ran into your room, making white footprints with your cake batter. You stood there for a good minute before a small laugh left your mouth. This was going to be a tiring day.
You reached the disaster site and started to clean up. You turned off the oven, not needing it anymore and began to put all the dirty dishes into the sink before you heard your puppy running back into the kitchen to lick the batter on the floor.
"Theo, come on. It can't be that good." You chuckled as you sat next to your dog, as he absolutely devoured the contents on your floor. The batter was dog-friendly and the floor was cleaned before you started to bake, so you weren't that concerned. "I guess I have to make another cake before your dad comes back. "
You pet your dog while smiling but that dropped when you heard the front door's code being punched in. Mingyu. He was back home. 4 hours early.
By the time you processed it, Mingyu had walked into the house and into the kitchen. "Babe! Are you okay? What happened?" You heard Mingyu place his bags on the ground and kneel at your side, carefully holding your hands to examine for any injuries.
"I'm fine, Mingyu, don't worry." You smiled at your boyfriend which seemed to ease his worries a bit.
"What happened here?" You could hear the slight amusement in Mingyu's tone as he looked over the mess and picked up your dog, whose attention had changed to his father.
"I tried to bake you a cake as a surprise. You always cook for me and Theo, so I wanted to do something nice. It turned into a mess now." Your ramble was cut off by Mingyu kissing your cheek. Red flooded into your face and neck as you blushed at the sudden action. "What was that for?" You tried to sound annoyed but the smile that graced your lips betrayed you.
"Thank you for thinking of me, it means a lot. Truly." Mingyu brought his hands to your face and kissed your lips. You smiled into the kiss.
You sighed as you pulled apart and looked at the mess in front of you. "Clean up with me?" You asked as you got up and extended your arm to your boyfriend.
"Always." Mingyu took your hand and stood up. "And after that, we can make a new cake, together."
You smiled at your boyfriend and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer for a hug. Mingyu reciprocated, his hand snaking around your waist, like muscle memory.
On the ground, next to the both of you, alongside the bag that Mingyu brought home, was a cake box. But Mingyu didn't acknowledge its presence, baking a whole new one was more fun anyway.
And at the end of the day, it was the thought that counted. Even if, you and your boyfriend had the same thoughts.
“being good to you is the easy part.”
# day eight of (the)8 days of minghao. ♡ happy birthday, minghao!
☆ includes: translator/interpreter!reader, idiots in love, yearning!!!, hurt/comfort, confessions. alcohol consumption, reader gets a [minor] surgery. mandarin & other languages are all courtesy of google translate. word count: 25,800+ (damn.)
Minghao learned early on that there were words that didn’t always have a translation.
He had grown up with Shenyang Mandarin, only to have to learn Korean, English, and even some Japanese. It was always such a frustrating feeling, to have the Mandarin word at the tip of his tongue then to need to swallow it or substitute it.
He’s never felt that way with you, at least.
You, PLEDIS’ skilled, multilingual interpreter-slash-translator. Minghao remembers the day you came in, nine years ago. How he had felt a spark of hope when you slid into the dialect that was all-too familiar to him. Finally, Minghao had thought.
He had started off as your pupil, your tutee for Korean. Over time, it blossomed into genuine friendship. He can count on one hand the things that he has in Korea. The group. The fans. The other Chinese idols. And you.
It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.
He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.
“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”
You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out.
“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”
You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”
“Ah.”
Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”
He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”
You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer.
“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.
He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.
"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."
You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge.
"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”
He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”
“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”
Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.
When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”
The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”
“Hm.”
Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.
But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.
He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.
He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”
A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender.
“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”
Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.
“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”
He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.
— take you to one, he had meant to say.
The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.
Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.
There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.
“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”
Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don’t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.
But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.
Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten.
“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”
“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”
Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.
“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”
“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”
For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.
He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.
It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.
And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.
There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.
By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.
You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.”
You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”
“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.
This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.
“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.
“So demanding,” you huff in the same language.
You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.
You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.
It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.
Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”
Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.
Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.
Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.
Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.
The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.
“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.
You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."
"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."
Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.
“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.
“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.
He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.
Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”
Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you.
“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs.
“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.
“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.
“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.
There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.
“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.
You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”
“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.”
There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.
The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep.
Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.
Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.
He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”
“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.
It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.
Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.
“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.
He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.
Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.
He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.
It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.
He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.
He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.
“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank.
For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks.
You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”
Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.
He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”
“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”
Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.
The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.
He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”
“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod.
“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”
Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.
Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.
He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there?
“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.
“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—
He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.
The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.
“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.
In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.
If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.
He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.
Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.
"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.
It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.
“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.
“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.
His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.
Shit.
He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride.
“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.
The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.
“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.
And just like that, he’s breathless again.
He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.
The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.
“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.
“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.
Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.
But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.
He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.
Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?
Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are.
“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”
You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.
You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.
“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”
Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.
He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”
“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.
The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.
It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.
“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”
If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.
“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”
He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.
He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.”
There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.”
“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”
“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”
Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.
The way you'd need him.
And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.
“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”
As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”
Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.
Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.
He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.
You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.
You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.
You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ
Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.
I'm coming. Don't cheat.
He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.
Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.
Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.
He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?
It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.
It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.
The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.
Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?
He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."
"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.
"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world.
The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too."
Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat.
"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."
He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."
"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.
"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."
Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.
"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."
"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.
The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.
In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.
"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.
"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.
As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.
Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.
"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.
That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.
He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.
Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.
"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.
You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"
He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."
The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."
Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.
"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.
Shit, he's so gone for you.
Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.
You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.
"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.
"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."
"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.
Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.
He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.
He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.
It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.
For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now.
And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.
As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.
He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.
The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.
It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.
Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.
He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.
But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.
The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.
You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."
"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."
He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.
Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.
Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.
"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."
At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."
The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you.
"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"
He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."
"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."
"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."
“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"
"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."
"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."
He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"
"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”
"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."
When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.
"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."
"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."
In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."
Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.
"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."
You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"
"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."
"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.
"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."
At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.
"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"
"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."
You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."
This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.
"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."
"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.
"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."
The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.
You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—
"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.
The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.
Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.
The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.
It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.
You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.
As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.
In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.
"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.
It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"
Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.
"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"
He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."
"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.
"I do."
"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"
He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."
"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."
The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him.
He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.
Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer.
"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."
The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.
This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.
"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."
He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."
"Like making it work," you concede.
You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"
Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze.
He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.
"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.
There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."
"Ah. Destiny."
Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.
"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.
It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.
He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for?
The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.
But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.
It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.
You smile softly.
Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful.
He just wishes he could have been more specific.
The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.
He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.
You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.
Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.
Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.
Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese.
And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.
Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.
He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.
Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.
For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.
He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.
Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.
The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.
You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.
Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"
Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.
You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.
Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them.
"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."
Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"
"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."
"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."
"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"
On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."
Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."
While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.
He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper.
"You look tired."
You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.
Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.
"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."
"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."
You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."
A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.
He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.
"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."
Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.
You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.
"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"
"Minghao."
The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.
"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."
His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral.
"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."
When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.
For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.
When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.
They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.
You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.
The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.
In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."
He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.
"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.
He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."
You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.
"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"
"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.
He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.
His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.
"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."
Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.
"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.
His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.
He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.
"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"
"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.
"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."
"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.
His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief.
"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."
A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.
When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."
"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."
This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.
But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.
He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.
"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."
It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.
The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.
"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."
"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.
He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.
He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.
"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."
You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.
"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."
But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.
He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."
People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.
"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist.
Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."
"Hao—"
"It’s not a sign of weakness—"
"You keep treating me like—"
"I’m not—"
"Minghao!"
You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean.
Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.
"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."
An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.
"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."
He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.
The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.
There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.
For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.
He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.
When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.
You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"
As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.
His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.
When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.
For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you.
"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."
Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.
"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.
He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.
"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.
There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.
"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.
That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds.
"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."
Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.
He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.
His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.
i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.
"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.
You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.
How are you? Are you okay?
i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.
A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.
You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?
A beat.
let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.
The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.
He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.
The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."
He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.
"Found you," he murmurs.
"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."
"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.
He was looking at you, and that was enough.
"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.
"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.
There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"
"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.
He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.
He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."
Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.
"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh.
Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.
"We do," he replies quietly.
There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.
It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.
But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.
"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"
The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.
He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.
Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them.
He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."
The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.
Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name.
can i call?
The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.
"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts.
He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"
Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.
"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"
Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."
The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.
"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."
His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.
The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.
He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"
You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."
There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.
An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.
"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.
Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.
"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."
"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.
"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"
He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.
"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."
There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.
Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.
After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."
You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."
Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.
The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.
"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."
He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.
You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.
"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."
"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."
As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.
He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—
"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.
"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"
"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."
A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.
"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment.
He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.
"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”
There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”
"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice.
It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.
"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly.
For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again.
The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.
Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.
Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.
Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."
It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.
Joshua offers the next best thing.
"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.
As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.
"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.
Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.
Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.
There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved.
Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.
Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable.
He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.
"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy.
You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.
One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.
You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."
Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.
"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.
The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.
When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.
"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.
"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.
He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.
He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.
"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.
Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.
Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.
"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.
And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.
When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.
"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."
He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?
"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.
He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?
Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.
And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.
There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.
But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.
"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"
The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.
He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.
A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.
But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.
Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.
He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.
"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao.
Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately.
When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.
"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."
The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.
It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.
"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.
The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.
Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.
As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.
He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.
See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.
He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.
But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.
That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.
Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.
That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.
Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.
Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.
"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.
Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.
"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.
Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye
"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.
There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.
"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.
He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.
"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"
There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."
You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.
"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.
The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"
"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.
He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.
"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.
You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.
As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—
"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.
When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.
"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."
There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.
You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.
You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.
As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.
Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.
The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.
But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.
After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.
"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."
"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.
"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."
"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.
Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.
She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.
Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.
Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.
He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."
The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.
"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"
"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."
Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.
He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.
Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.
But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.
"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.
The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.
Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.
It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.
Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.
"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"
Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.
He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.
He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.
"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.
"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.
He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.
He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.
Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."
The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"
"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.
Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.
Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.
"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"
Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.
He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.
"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.
"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.
The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.
Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.
It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.
"How much do you like them, Haohao?"
The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.
"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.
It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.
"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.
"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."
The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.
He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.
"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.
When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.
Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.
In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you.
"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.
He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.
He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?
The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.
By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.
When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.
You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.
It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.
Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.
He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.
He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.
You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.
You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.
It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.
He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.
By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.
You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.
"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.
Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.
The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.
He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.
He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.
The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.
Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.
Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction.
Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.
Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.
So he does the only thing he can think of.
Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.
"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.
Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.
The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.
There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.
No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.
And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.
When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.
"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.
And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.
It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.
Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.
It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.
He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.
And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.
He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.
"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."
That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.
You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.
Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.
His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.
"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.
Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.
"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."
When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.
And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.
"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.
Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.
There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.
This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.
Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.
Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.
For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.
Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.
But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.
When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.
The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.
As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.
"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.
The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.
His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.
"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.
And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—
Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.
"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.
Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.
"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.
The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice.
And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.
Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.
And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.
Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.
"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.
"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.
Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.
It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.
The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.
"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.
Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.
It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.
Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.
He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.
"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”
"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"
Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?
He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.
"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.
This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.
"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.
It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.
He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.
"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.
He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.
You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."
He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way.
He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you.
"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though."
"I'm never letting you go," he responds.
There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.
He just has one question that he wants an answer for.
"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"
Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.
It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"
With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."
The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.
"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.
"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face.
If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him.
"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.
The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.
A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.
"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."
"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.
He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.
"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.
"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.
It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak.
Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.
He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.
"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."
You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.
A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.
"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.
A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.
As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much.
And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué.
Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.
"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.
You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ.
But, no. Minghao is done.
He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath.
He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work.
"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.
He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese.
Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you.
It feels like forever before you respond.
When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over.
You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know.
Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something.
It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian.
“being good to you is the easy part.”
# day eight of (the)8 days of minghao. ♡ happy birthday, minghao!
☆ includes: translator/interpreter!reader, idiots in love, yearning!!!, hurt/comfort, confessions. alcohol consumption, reader gets a [minor] surgery. mandarin & other languages are all courtesy of google translate. word count: 25,800+ (damn.)
Minghao learned early on that there were words that didn’t always have a translation.
He had grown up with Shenyang Mandarin, only to have to learn Korean, English, and even some Japanese. It was always such a frustrating feeling, to have the Mandarin word at the tip of his tongue then to need to swallow it or substitute it.
He’s never felt that way with you, at least.
You, PLEDIS’ skilled, multilingual interpreter-slash-translator. Minghao remembers the day you came in, nine years ago. How he had felt a spark of hope when you slid into the dialect that was all-too familiar to him. Finally, Minghao had thought.
He had started off as your pupil, your tutee for Korean. Over time, it blossomed into genuine friendship. He can count on one hand the things that he has in Korea. The group. The fans. The other Chinese idols. And you.
It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.
He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.
“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”
You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out.
“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”
You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”
“Ah.”
Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”
He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”
You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer.
“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.
He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.
"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."
You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge.
"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”
He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”
“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”
Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.
When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”
The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”
“Hm.”
Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.
But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.
He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.
He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”
A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender.
“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”
Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.
“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”
He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.
— take you to one, he had meant to say.
The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.
Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.
There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.
“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”
Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don’t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.
But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.
Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten.
“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”
“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”
Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.
“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”
“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”
For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.
He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.
It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.
And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.
There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.
By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.
You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.”
You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”
“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.
This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.
“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.
“So demanding,” you huff in the same language.
You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.
You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.
It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.
Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”
Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.
Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.
Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.
Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.
The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.
“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.
You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."
"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."
Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.
“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.
“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.
He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.
Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”
Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you.
“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs.
“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.
“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.
“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.
There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.
“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.
You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”
“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.”
There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.
The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep.
Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.
Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.
He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”
“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.
It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.
Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.
“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.
He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.
Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.
He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.
It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.
He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.
He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.
“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank.
For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks.
You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”
Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.
He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”
“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”
Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.
The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.
He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”
“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod.
“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”
Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.
Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.
He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there?
“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.
“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—
He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.
The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.
“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.
In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.
If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.
He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.
Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.
"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.
It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.
“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.
“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.
His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.
Shit.
He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride.
“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.
The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.
“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.
And just like that, he’s breathless again.
He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.
The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.
“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.
“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.
Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.
But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.
He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.
Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?
Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are.
“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”
You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.
You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.
“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”
Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.
He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”
“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.
The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.
It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.
“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”
If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.
“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”
He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.
He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.”
There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.”
“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”
“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”
Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.
The way you'd need him.
And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.
“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”
As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”
Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.
Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.
He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.
You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.
You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.
You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ
Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.
I'm coming. Don't cheat.
He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.
Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.
Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.
He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?
It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.
It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.
The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.
Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?
He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."
"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.
"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world.
The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too."
Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat.
"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."
He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."
"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.
"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."
Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.
"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."
"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.
The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.
In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.
"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.
"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.
As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.
Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.
"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.
That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.
He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.
Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.
"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.
You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"
He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."
The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."
Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.
"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.
Shit, he's so gone for you.
Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.
You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.
"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.
"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."
"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.
Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.
He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.
He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.
It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.
For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now.
And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.
As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.
He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.
The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.
It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.
Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.
He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.
But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.
The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.
You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."
"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."
He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.
Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.
Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.
"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."
At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."
The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you.
"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"
He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."
"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."
"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."
“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"
"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."
"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."
He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"
"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”
"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."
When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.
"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."
"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."
In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."
Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.
"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."
You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"
"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."
"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.
"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."
At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.
"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"
"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."
You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."
This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.
"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."
"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.
"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."
The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.
You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—
"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.
The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.
Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.
The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.
It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.
You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.
As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.
In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.
"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.
It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"
Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.
"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"
He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."
"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.
"I do."
"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"
He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."
"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."
The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him.
He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.
Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer.
"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."
The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.
This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.
"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."
He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."
"Like making it work," you concede.
You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"
Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze.
He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.
"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.
There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."
"Ah. Destiny."
Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.
"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.
It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.
He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for?
The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.
But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.
It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.
You smile softly.
Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful.
He just wishes he could have been more specific.
The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.
He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.
You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.
Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.
Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.
Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese.
And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.
Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.
He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.
Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.
For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.
He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.
Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.
The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.
You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.
Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"
Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.
You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.
Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them.
"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."
Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"
"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."
"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."
"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"
On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."
Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."
While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.
He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper.
"You look tired."
You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.
Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.
"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."
"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."
You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."
A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.
He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.
"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."
Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.
You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.
"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"
"Minghao."
The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.
"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."
His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral.
"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."
When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.
For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.
When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.
They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.
You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.
The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.
In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."
He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.
"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.
He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."
You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.
"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"
"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.
He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.
His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.
"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."
Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.
"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.
His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.
He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.
"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"
"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.
"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."
"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.
His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief.
"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."
A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.
When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."
"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."
This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.
But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.
He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.
"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."
It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.
The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.
"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."
"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.
He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.
He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.
"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."
You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.
"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."
But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.
He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."
People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.
"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist.
Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."
"Hao—"
"It’s not a sign of weakness—"
"You keep treating me like—"
"I’m not—"
"Minghao!"
You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean.
Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.
"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."
An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.
"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."
He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.
The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.
There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.
For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.
He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.
When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.
You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"
As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.
His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.
When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.
For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you.
"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."
Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.
"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.
He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.
"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.
There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.
"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.
That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds.
"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."
Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.
He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.
His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.
i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.
"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.
You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.
How are you? Are you okay?
i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.
A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.
You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?
A beat.
let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.
The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.
He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.
The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."
He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.
"Found you," he murmurs.
"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."
"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.
He was looking at you, and that was enough.
"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.
"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.
There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"
"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.
He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.
He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."
Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.
"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh.
Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.
"We do," he replies quietly.
There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.
It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.
But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.
"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"
The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.
He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.
Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them.
He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."
The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.
Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name.
can i call?
The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.
"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts.
He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"
Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.
"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"
Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."
The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.
"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."
His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.
The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.
He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"
You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."
There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.
An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.
"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.
Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.
"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."
"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.
"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"
He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.
"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."
There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.
Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.
After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."
You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."
Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.
The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.
"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."
He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.
You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.
"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."
"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."
As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.
He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—
"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.
"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"
"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."
A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.
"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment.
He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.
"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”
There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”
"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice.
It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.
"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly.
For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again.
The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.
Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.
Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.
Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."
It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.
Joshua offers the next best thing.
"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.
As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.
"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.
Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.
Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.
There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved.
Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.
Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable.
He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.
"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy.
You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.
One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.
You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."
Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.
"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.
The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.
When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.
"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.
"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.
He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.
He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.
"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.
Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.
Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.
"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.
And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.
When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.
"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."
He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?
"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.
He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?
Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.
And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.
There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.
But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.
"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"
The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.
He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.
A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.
But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.
Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.
He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.
"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao.
Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately.
When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.
"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."
The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.
It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.
"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.
The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.
Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.
As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.
He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.
See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.
He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.
But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.
That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.
Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.
That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.
Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.
Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.
"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.
Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.
"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.
Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye
"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.
There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.
"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.
He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.
"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"
There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."
You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.
"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.
The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"
"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.
He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.
"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.
You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.
As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—
"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.
When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.
"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."
There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.
You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.
You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.
As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.
Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.
The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.
But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.
After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.
"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."
"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.
"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."
"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.
Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.
She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.
Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.
Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.
He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."
The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.
"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"
"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."
Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.
He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.
Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.
But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.
"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.
The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.
Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.
It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.
Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.
"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"
Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.
He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.
He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.
"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.
"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.
He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.
He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.
Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."
The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"
"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.
Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.
Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.
"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"
Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.
He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.
"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.
"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.
The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.
Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.
It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.
"How much do you like them, Haohao?"
The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.
"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.
It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.
"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.
"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."
The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.
He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.
"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.
When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.
Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.
In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you.
"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.
He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.
He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?
The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.
By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.
When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.
You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.
It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.
Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.
He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.
He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.
You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.
You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.
It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.
He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.
By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.
You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.
"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.
Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.
The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.
He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.
He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.
The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.
Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.
Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction.
Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.
Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.
So he does the only thing he can think of.
Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.
"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.
Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.
The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.
There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.
No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.
And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.
When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.
"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.
And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.
It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.
Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.
It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.
He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.
And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.
He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.
"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."
That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.
You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.
Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.
His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.
"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.
Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.
"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."
When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.
And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.
"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.
Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.
There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.
This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.
Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.
Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.
For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.
Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.
But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.
When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.
The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.
As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.
"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.
The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.
His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.
"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.
And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—
Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.
"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.
Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.
"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.
The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice.
And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.
Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.
And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.
Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.
"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.
"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.
Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.
It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.
The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.
"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.
Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.
It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.
Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.
He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.
"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”
"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"
Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?
He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.
"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.
This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.
"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.
It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.
He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.
"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.
He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.
You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."
He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way.
He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you.
"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though."
"I'm never letting you go," he responds.
There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.
He just has one question that he wants an answer for.
"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"
Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.
It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"
With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."
The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.
"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.
"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face.
If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him.
"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.
The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.
A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.
"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."
"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.
He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.
"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.
"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.
It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak.
Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.
He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.
"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."
You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.
A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.
"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.
A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.
As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much.
And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué.
Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.
"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.
You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ.
But, no. Minghao is done.
He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath.
He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work.
"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.
He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese.
Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you.
It feels like forever before you respond.
When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over.
You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know.
Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something.
It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian.
seeing people start to give up on the boycott when it hasn’t even been that long. please please pleek why can’t you just put two feet on the ground and stand up how hard is it to unfollow their platforms and stop streaming their music people post their stuff on google drive and reupload it to spotify and youtube and why are you still subscribed to their weverse and posting new content of them and interacting with their posts why are you giving up but saying you still care about seunghan you are lying through your teeth nobody said this was going to be easy it’s hard it’s not fun it sucks it will take a while to see results but why can’t you just try and help you have a chance to help and do something why don’t you want to do it like what are you not understanding about the fact that’s he’s kicked out of the group he’s not on hiatus he’s kicked out this is our only chance you say you care but your actions aren’t lining up with your words you value your own comfort over the greater good that boycotting itself is and what it could bring you don’t want to be uncomfortable and your excuse is that it makes the boys upset and it’s not supporting them how many times do people have to explain to you that it is helping them this is for them too this is for seunghan and better treatment for riize they want this just as much as we do and they’ve shown it countless times but you’re sitting here streaming their music and watching their content and buying their merch congratulations you are showing sm it doesn’t matter how awful they treat their artists people will still tune in and the numbers will be steady or keep going up and that’s all that matters to them it’s kind of extremely embarrassing for you i’m not gonna lie if you say you’re gonna do something do it for fucks sake
I am Ahmed, a doctor and a father of six. Before the war, my life 🇵🇸 was stable in the north, where I had a well-organized pharmacy next to our house. But with the bombing, we lost everything; the pharmacy was destroyed and the house was reduced to rubble. 🏚️💔
I had to move with my family to Deir al-Balah, where we lived in a small tent. 🏕️ I opened a place where I try to provide the few medicines I can get. The conditions here are very difficult; medicines are unavailable and the water is polluted, causing diseases for my children and the families. 💧😷
I set a goal to raise $1,000 through the "Go Fund Me" link, not only to provide medicines and medical supplies, but also to support my children's needs and alleviate their suffering in these harsh conditions. So far, I have raised more than half of the amount, and there is still less than $500 left to achieve the goal. 🙏❤️🍉
https://gofund.me/2a408c6f
hii!! i am unable to donate at the moment but i will pass this message on to contacts who would love to. i will include you in my prayers, so please stay safe and feel free to reach out again.
Hello my friends, I am hamdi Ayyad from Gaza talelhawa I have sought refuge with you because of the devastating war that caused me to lose my home and our displacement from one place to another and I lost my children's future and there is a severe shortage of basic materials,I hope that you will stand by us whether by donating if possible or participating widely,Please help me 🙏🏼 🇵🇸 🍉
hii!! i am unable to donate at the moment but i will pass this message on to contacts who would love to. i will include you in my prayers, so please stay safe and feel free to reach out again.
Please don't skip my message 🍉🇵🇸 to our honorable people in the world My name is Abdul Rahman from Gaza.. I lost everything in life.. My wife was martyred and my child and I were injured by a missile that fell on us.. My life was completely destroyed and I was severely injured all over my body especially my legs.. The missile tore my wife apart while she was carrying our child.. I ask for your support to start my life anew and overcome the tragedy I am going through.. Please help me with any amount no matter how small to treat my injury and my child's injury and get out of the Gaza Strip and start a better life.. And spread my campaign and my story so that everyone can see it 🍉🍉🇵🇸🇵🇸
Vetted by 90-ghost
hii!! i am unable to donate at the moment but i will pass this message on to contacts who would love to. i will include you in my prayers, so please stay safe and feel free to reach out again.
Hi 👋, My name is Mohammad, and I’m reaching out in a moment of desperate need. I’m a father of three young children living in Gaza, and we are caught in the midst of a catastrophic war. Our home is no longer a safe haven, and the future here seems increasingly uncertain. 💔
I’ve launched a fundraising campaign with the goal of raising $40,000 to relocate my family to a safer place where my children can grow up in peace and have a chance at a brighter future.
Unfortunately, my previous fundraising efforts were abruptly halted when my account was terminated without explanation. However, I remain determined to keep fighting for my family’s safety and well-being. 🫶
If you could take a moment to read our story, consider donating, or simply share our campaign with others, it would make an incredible difference. Every act of kindness, no matter how small, brings us one step closer to safety and a new beginning. 🙏
Thank you for your time, compassion, and support. ❤️🩹
https://gofund.me/fd1faea2 🔗
hii!! i am unable to donate at the moment but i will pass this message on to contacts who would love to. i will include you in my prayers, so please stay safe and feel free to reach out again.
