#mmweiqin

[maracmm]

♠

♠ for a drunk text

( TXT LI WEIQIN ) omgg g 

( TXT LI WEIQIN )  mcdonalsdasds ): 

[mmtaesung-blog]

* be there.

mud-splattered robes drag behind him as taesung leaves the pitch exhausted, hungry and, perhaps most distressingly, looking like he lost a wrestling match with a feral niffler. his broom functions as part-walking stick during his trudge to the dorms, eager to wash the sweat and filth off his body. laundry is a different story; he’ll let one of his roommates handle that problem later. domestic work is not taesung’s forte. the last time he attempted to be helpful by washing everyone’s clothes, he flooded their room and then some. expecting him to do anything beyond quidditch and pass his classes is cruelty, regardless.

barely a few weeks into the semester and varsity practices already have him by the balls, leaving him no room for anything else. not that taesung minds. the familiar ache settling into his muscles is a good one. he welcomes the bruises, the sore limbs, the sweat-plastered hair and the grass stains dominating his clothes. if he’s not miserable and more than a little dinged up, he’s not working hard enough. and if he’s not working hard enough, the chollimas won’t win. and if the chollimas don’t win… taesung refuses to entertain the thought. he’s aiming for no losses this year. with a team as good as theirs, why settle for less?

but—he’s only human, not even half as indestructible as he pretends to be. as satisfied taesung is with practice, he’s also dreaming of climbing into the shower and letting the scalding water wash the fatigue from his body. after that—who knows? studying isn’t on taesung’s agenda and he’s flown enough today, so all signs point to sleep. if he were smarter and less proud, he’d head to the medical ward to get his ankle looked at from when he landed hard earlier, but he doesn’t have the energy to force his stiff body to listen.

taesung stomps into his room, the door carelessly thrown open behind him, and puts his broom away before peeling his dirty practice clothes off. the pile grows with every minute: gloves, greaves, robes—his fingers fumble with the clasps, clumsy and heavy with exhaustion, but he barely pauses until he’s stripped to the waist and about to go further when he hears it. crunching. crunching of chips, finally alerting him to the other presence in the room. “enjoying the free show?” he asks wryly, certain of who it is without even stealing a glance. “qin, you could’ve said hi.”

when he turns, it’s with a shrug. weiqin’s seen worse. or more, to be precise. he’s never been shy around him. never had any reason to, when weiqin is his best friend and probably forty percent of his heart. taesung is not surprised to find him lounging in his bed, the neatly made surface now a mess. although he doesn’t live here, with how much time weiqin spends in their dorm he might as well. perhaps taesung takes it for granted that weiqin will end up here eventually, like a wayward cat who always comes home at the end of the night. perhaps he takes weiqin for granted, period. either way, his first reaction is a steady, solid sort of warmth blossoming in his chest despite his tiredness.

the second is horror.

“are you eating doritos in my bed?” those are doritos. in his bed. “what the fuck, bro?” 

for @mmweiqin.