g/ hospital!au: angst, hurt/comfort, friendship, slice of life
w.c/ 1.6k
a.n/ inspired by âhospital playlistâ, i originally wanted to post this on mingiâs birthday but decided to save the angst for a different time. i also didnât finished it on time.
t.w/ character death
âI make paper hearts because I want and will keep on loving. This body might wither but I donât want my love to go with it.â
Song Mingi, third in the line on the heart transplant waitlist, always surprises you. Third might not seem bad for many but within the healthcare system, there are more patients needing transplants than there are donors. The third could be fatal, so does the second and first. Simply with the state of preserving organs before its expiration time of mere hours, it could go to a different centre first.
The colour of a heart is red, the anatomically correct one that is. To Mingi, pink is a heart colour. All the origami hearts in the mason jar, a little bit fuller every time you see it, are a pretty shade of cherry blossom. You see him during your break when youâre not busy, he is often accompanied by his parents during early visiting hours and his friends in the evening hours.
You should have been in the night shift room, napping in the top bunk, close to the ceiling where you bump your head on every waking time. Yet here you are folding paper cranes next to Mingi who is folding paper hearts. Colourful cranes because he never uses any other colour when making his hearts. He scribbles a wish onto the papers before folding them, keeping a tight lip whenever you ask what he wishes for because it wonât come true if he says it out loud.
âHow often do you make them, Mingi?â
His hands have long stopped moving and you are on your twelfth cranes. Before Mingi is discharged you want to make a thousand cranes. Doctors donât believe in superstition or myth like such but itâs a charming thing. You hope to make one wish for Mingi and youâre halfway there. Thirty-three cranes a day, more the following day if you donât meet your quota. You donât know where this newfound passion is burning from mayhaps Mingiâs habit rubs off on you. His to remain loving and you to remain hopeful. Something controllable in the constant of uncontrollable.
âTwo per hour. I make more in the morning to catch up on the hours Iâm asleep.â
No wonder the jar fills up so fast. 48 hearts a day. If only they have that many donors. A life for a life, a recycle or living beyond death in another person, from the brain dead to the living, humans are fascinating. âWeâll do our best.â âWe donât know yet.â Because truly there are many unexpected variables. There are many miracles and losses in a hospital.
You smile, reaching for another paper, Mingi slides the stack towards you with a grin. Youâre both the same. He fondly shoo you out to get your sleep after the thirty-third cranes of the night are threaded through the strings. The bunch hangs by his window, bringing much colour to his room instead of the fake plants.
Exactly eight hundred cranes later, Mingi starts to look thinner but his smile is still radiant as ever. You start to worry, thereâs no change on the list. His friends and family are still desperately hopeful yet so are you. âWe still have time.â How much time does Mingi have?
âDonât get too attached.â
You close the door of room four silently, nodding at the blue scrubs clad man waiting outside. The nurse accompanying him looks appalled at the blunt words but you know he means well. Mingi is not giving up and neither is the doctor in front of you, you too are far from giving up. Even if hoping hurts, you keep on hoping. Thereâs no other way other than to stay strong.
Mingiâs laughter reaches you as he greets the new guest, the nurse bowing slightly before disappearing behind the door. You walk out of the VIP ward with a lighter heart. His words ringing in your mind as clear as the blue sky outside.
He has a hand over his chest, feeling his heart beating with the assistance of the VAD machine. The jar of paper hearts is almost full, the lid is never screwed on.
âDonât you think itâs amazing? You can be hooked up to a VAD or ECMO to help the heart pump blood. Cardiopulmonary bypass to artificially keep the body alive while the heart is temporarily stopped. Modern medicine has come a long way.â
He folds another pink heart, taking his time and you observe his hands, soft golden skin from being kissed by the sun and long fingers that bends gracefully. You diligently watch how he folds his paper heart. He holds it up between his fingers and against the light, he peers into it with searching eyes. The same gaze pierces through you almost as if heâs looking at your soul. He probably is.
âMetaphorically, it can be broken many times and it will still beat. Mended and stitched together with time, a salve of healing words and acceptance. It always seems to know when something is starting and when itâs ending. Terrifyingly brilliant.â
Mingi isnât in his room when you loop through the final crane. The only pink crane in the bunch. He pouted when you asked for a leaf of pink paper but gave it to you nonetheless with a bright grin. One thousand cranes for one wish. You know your wish for him at that moment but you didnât tell him.
You sit on his made bed, staring out of the window. The sky is painted in many different shades, only a few visible to human eyes. Other than blues and oranges, the sky is overtaken by a gentle pink. Heart coloured. You glance at the jar of paper hearts, full to the rim and still not closed. You smile, knowing Mingi he would say, âlet the love overflow!â You continue to watch the sun slowly sinking beyond the horizon, lighting the other half of the works while yours turn dark. When the light disappears, your phone rings. Your heart knows before your mind does.
âGet your suit.â
Amongst the sea of black and white, Mingiâs soft smile shines the brightest and unmoving. His eyes were in permanent soft crescents, still twinkling even in monochrome. A pile of white chrysanthemums lay unobtrusively around the photo frame. When the rest of the hospital staff, families and friends have left to a different room for their bereavement meal, you stay behind to bask in the comfortable silence between you and Mingi.
You sit down in front of the long table with flowers. Pulling out a heart coloured origami, his smile seems to brighten slightly though it is all in your mind. Your fingers mimic his movements, folding them into what he folds diligently. A heart. You place them on the table. You donât know if your heart feels heavy or light. It might not feel like anything at all. Youâve braced it for this moment.
âYou should eat, he told me to make sure you eat. He got your favourite.â
You think Mingi just smiled. You look up to one of his closest colleagues, he is looking straight at the monochromatic photo with a slight frown. Mingi is a vibrant person after all. He holds a fist out, he nods toward the photo. From Mingi.
A pink paper heart lands on your palm. A gift that keeps on giving. You can only chuckle at the âopen my heartâ scribbled neatly on it. You unfold it gently, his handwriting speaking to you with the deep voice you can hear in your mind.
âHello! Knock knock! Can I come inside your heart? Now you have my heart in your hand. I donât want you to be sad! I went happily under much loving care and precious time. I donât have any regrets even though I wrote my will at such a young age, itâs still a blessing to be able to write one. I have a selfish request to ask of you, itâs mentioned on the other paper too⌠Will you take my position as the chief of cardiothoracic surgery? You have every reason to turn it down, I will respect your decision. This is burdensome but I now live through you. Thank you for housing me within your hopeful heart even when you know how it would end. Your heart is strong! Keep on loving for me!â
âIt was a match, the donorâs heart. But due to complications during the procurement, it had to go to a different centre. I suppose he wants to love with his own heart till the very endâŚâ
You nod, eyes blurring momentarily before you blink the haze away. There are many unexpected variables in a hospital. Even if the margin of human error is minimised to its barest existence, life and death will always be out of human control.
âHe left the jar for you.â
Of course, he would and you canât help but laugh, out of the sheer preparation and endless thoughtfulness Mingi put forth.
âEveryone always thought of what they have achieved so far and what they want to or will leave behind, Iâm lucky enough to be able to think of that. Donât be sad for me. Donât grief for me for too long. Let there be more hearts to open in your good days than in bad. The sun will always shine again just like how the heart will warm and beat once more.â
Standing up, the dizziness almost makes you think Mingiâs eyes are twinkling. The unmoving gentle smile somehow warms you. One thousand cranes for one wish. Your wish for Mingi has been granted. To keep on loving.
Mingi taps his finger on the side of his Camaro, arm out over the window and the wind ruffles his hair. The highway toward the Wharf is empty, no heavenly bodies are visible in the storm clouds covered sky. No one goes to the Wharf this late. No one wants to meet their untimely end. Yet here he is driving through the exit with the sound of water crashing against the infrastructure.
He glances over to his seat beside him, his passenger sleeping soundly, his jacket tucked securely under your chin. You live the farthest out of the entire crew. You probably woke up at the crack of dawn and catch the first train in the morning and goes home at the latest. He reluctantly wakes you up when he reaches your apartment. The industrial building makes him question its security but there never seems to be a scratch on you. No infernal energy signature on you. He takes a fleeting look at your hand, maybe except for the band of runes on your finger.
You blink at the change of location, a tad confused, and the warm jacket covering you. Mingi smiles when you duck your head down slightly, looking away from him almost shyly. âSorry for falling asleep on you.â
âItâs alright.â He unbuckles his seatbelt and exits the car, jogging over to your side and opening the door for you. He walks you to the entrance, watching the surrounding so no unexpected infernals could nab you in his sight.
âIâll see you tomorrow at the guild?â
You nod with a smile. âThanks for the jacket.â He could smell the faint scent of citrus on his jacket and your hands when you drape it over his shoulder. It is the little things for him. You wave him bye, âDrive safe!â
Mingi didnât leave the Wharf until he hears the locking beep of your security system. He starts his car and pulls away from the Wharf, the prying eyes of infernals within the shadows watching him. Youâll be safe. The rune on your fingers made sure of that. His grip tightens on the steering wheel. One day. One day. Itâll be his instead of the Underworld Kingâs. Itâs a long way from home for him.
a.n/ an off the scene interaction post interviews and manifesting chess player mingi! the queenâs gambit inspired.
t.w/ alcohol and cigarettes
playlist/ play the king
âGood game.â
Mingi only raises his whiskey glass in acknowledgement before downing the amber liquid, the burn warming his throat. His mind is delightfully mushy, a bottle of Hennessy is almost empty next to the wooden board on the table. His opponent vacates the booth as he perches a cigarette between his plush lips, someone lights his cigarette but he doesn't see who it was, his eyes slip shut and he slumps into the leather seat. He takes a drag of the menthol nicotine into his lungs and smoke dances out of his mouth.
When he is not busy mixing drinks, dealing with drunk patrons and gathering intel, he finds escape within a board game. Chess, a controllable eight by eight zone yet uncontrollable, humans are predictable and unpredictable. A side hobby, guilty pleasure, however they like to call it. It has been so long since he was beaten in the game.
He hears the faint sound of moving chess pieces, rustling fabrics and glass touching the table. The whisper of âbossâ makes him sigh out the rest of the smoke from his system, he stubs the fire in the ashtray. Him playing chess always attracts a crowd, itâs not often he sets up his board when he works but the itch to indulge needs to be scratched every once in a while.
Mingi opens his eyes to you, his breath almost got knocked out of his lungs. He knows you. A friendly face in the Seoul elusive shadows. He watches you fix the board with the same elegance when you played him last, giving him the white pieces for old time sake. If heâs being honest, he misses you. He misses your observant eyes and listening ears, the camaraderie and mutual understanding. He misses playing with you into the early hours of the morning. He misses the escapism space you provide for his mental state.
There are gasps and murmurs through the crowd, you lean over the table and fish the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He only smirks as the striking of a match alights the cancer stick as you often refer to it as. Smart of you to use such a method to keep time. He moves Kingâs pawn to e4, the butt of the lit cigarette faces you. Knight to f6, the Alekhine Defence. Thereâs a reason why he likes playing with you. Youâre unconventional. Itâs not often he sees Alekhine Defence crop up in his games, itâs not necessarily the best counter for black.
âAre you asking to lose?â He asks, the threatened white pawn advances one square. You shrug with an easy smile, knight to d5, âNo, I came to win or at least pull a draw from you.â Mingi scoffs in amusement. The pieces on the board shift into Modern Variation, the cigarette passes to and fro. You are buying time with lax movements and hope the man across the board doesnât notice. He recognises the gameplay youâre leading him into, Spassky and Fischerâs Match of the Century. The last game both of you discussed over coffees and resin-cast flowers ashtray, a token of friendship from you.
âThe article is doing well, I see.â You laugh at his comment, kicking him good-naturedly under the table and your leg immediately trapped between his. God, he misses that laugh, so free and joyous, not many things are like your freedom in his life. His liquor induced mind is making him sentimental. Heâs been in the business long enough but a taste of freedom has him softening. He spends the most time with you in your stay at the mansion, sticking to you like your own shadow, first out of duty then willingly. Mingi reaches for his rook, he could do with a draw. The game is a bloodbath, he forgot how viscous you can get on the board. Quite the dichotomy from your temperament but a testament to your sharp mind. Not a journalist who lived to tell the tale for nothing.
You stop his hand. He snaps his attention at you, intelligent eyes lock into yours with bewilderment. âTimeâs up, Mingi.â His fierce gaze shifts to the cigarette in the ashtray, all burned out on his side. You check your watch, exactly ten minutes. He recognises the woven steel strap, it was the one he gave you after the accessory was mangled in a bullet scuffle. He leans back and stares at you with an unreadable expression, eyes fleeting back and forth from the board to your face. He thinks he knows what Spassky felt when he lost to Fischer. Spassky missed his chance for a draw but Mingi lost on time. I came to win.
For the first time in many years, Mingi lays his king gently on the board. He holds his hand open, waiting and inviting yours to shake it. Your hand slots easily to his bigger one, not a perfect match but safe and somewhat familiar. An almost peaceful smile grace his sharp features, plump lips brushing against your knuckles. He is content with the lost.
a.n/ in which upcoming astrophysicist and model song mingi is in a dilemma over the soon to be love of his life. a part of âback to schoolâ writing event with @kpopscape
t.w/ swearing
âThe universe is under no obligation to make sense to you.â
Well, fuck. Mingi thinks his luck is the worst. The one time he needed the universe to make sense of course it wouldnât. Then again turning to his astrophysics texts for guidance in the matter of love is the wrong place to start. Love doesnât make sense like the universe, much of it still undiscovered and will continue to remain so. Thereâs only so much humans can learn and that by no means is little. Heâs simply too finite to understand all the ways the universe has to offer. The perks of being mortal in his opinion.
His phone lights up, a notification appears on his screen. Donât be late, Min! Right, he has to model for his friend tonight. He sends a quick confirmation text, a little cute onomatopoeia of âang!â Out of place with his stoic exterior yet thatâs how he is, best of both worlds. Mathematics and astrophysics. Fashion industry and music. He could make it anywhere he wants to be. Mingi is confident in himself, he knows he has most of the skills set required to pursue all of his dream occupations. So he straightens the loose pages of a printed pdf file and tuck them into its folder. He could buy the textbooks but why would he do that? He likes to eat the rich so to speak. All his earnings go to tuition and he would live smartly to make it through another year.
The chair squeaks in the quiet library and he winces, slightly apologetic at the flinches from students studying in the library. He doesnât dwell much in it, he slings his back over his shoulder and pushes his chair in, lifting it a touch to prevent the grating noise. He nods at the librarian and mouths his, âbye.â And itâs just him and his little kidney beans, AirPods, pumping music into his ears. He makes his way around the ground, weaving through passing students going to different classes, the stares he receives are not foreign. Heâs used to it. Heâs always a head and some more taller than the average or maybe itâs his clothes or his colourful hair or the way he carries himself is out of place within the Department of Astrophysics. Mingi looks like someone from the Department of Arts. A fashion or music student. Some would say heâs here because of an athletic scholarship. He is simply exercising his freedom to wear whatever he wants.
Sik-Kâs âHabibiâ starts playing and he mumbles his curses, a love and hate relationship he has with his playlist. He just managed to distract himself from thinking about love and here he is, back to wallow in his one-sided pining. Pitiful. Youâre pathetic, Song Mingi. His strides languidly back to his shared apartment, not too far off from campus, he could take the car but he likes to walk when the weather is nice. He wonders when did he begin liking you. The first time he sees you is in the Arts building when you were fitting his feline-like friend into a stage costume. He thinks he fell for how your brow knits together in concentration as your fingers deftly repaired loose embellishment of pearls on the velvet suit jacket. He vividly recalls how inky the fabric was, similar to the sky that night, Mars was visible from the big window at the fashion studio. He would catch glimpses of you here and there and because of that, his visits to the Arts building increased. His friends caught on immediately and they wouldnât live it down.
Before he knows it, heâs already punching the security codes on his door. A happy greeting of his name falls short with an amused laugh. Even his best friend could tell, heâs wallowing in his feelings. Mingi whines, kicking his shoes off before unceremoniously taking all the space on the couch. Good thing his playlist has come to its end, he takes out the little kidney beans from his ears and let it rest on the coffee table.
âLove doesnât make sense, Yunho,â he groans, burying his face against the giant brown bear plushie. A hand pats his head, âLove doesnât make sense and so does the universe yet you love them the same.â Mingi thinks Yunho has been skimming through his astrophysics texts but highly unlikely, Yunho doesnât enjoy reading. He sighs and nuzzles deeper into the belly of the soft toy. Hell, he much rather snuggle with you but alas youâre a distant star out of his reach. He could only see you behind the lenses of his telescope. He will make do with the bear and his friends for now. He likes being alone, he likes his space but he hates the feeling of loneliness that comes out to play every once in a while. More often now since he has you to pin over. His friends could only do so much for him.
Fuck you, Kim Hongjoong. Mingi keeps his head low and skirts around the photographer. You. He isnât not aware youâll be shooting him today, figuratively and literally. Yeosang has a shit eating grin on his face when Mingi sits on the chair to get his makeup done. âNot a word, Yeosang,â he mumbles and the grin widens. His friend only wipes his face clean before starting off with a quick skincare. Heâs used to this, the gentle toner in white and blue packaging and the light cream patted into his skin. His friend went the length to purchase them specifically for him. He keeps his eyes trained on the mirror, tracking your movements all over the studio, talking to Hongjoong, toying with the navy and silver camera strap. He remembers buying the strap for Jongho when the old one was too worn out for use. It reminds him of the starry sky and itâs now in your hold. He bites his lip, it shouldnât feel intimate yet here he is almost astral projecting because it feels as if you are holding part of his universe. Stop it, Mingi!
His pseudo makeup artist taps his abused lip with a warning tut, a red stain is smudged lightly before a clear gloss is patted over them so it doesnât dry out his lips. Yeosang always scolds him for having chapped lips and this time Mingi sports dark smokey eyes, he could see hints of burgundy mixed into the brown shadows. Yeosang gives him a wink before sending him off to change. Hongjoong is a genius for designing outfits and heâs honoured to be one of the models walking in it. He wishes nothing but the best for the clothing line launch to be successful but he would be lying if he doesnât want to wipe the smirk off the designerâs face right now.
Your fingers graze the skin of his back, his shoulders tensed and he presses his lips together to prevent any noise from escaping his mouth. Fuck this shoot. Youâre just pinning his jeans because itâs slightly too big. Mingi wants to run home into the comfort of his bed and screams. Your radiating body heat is so warm and perhaps this is as close as he would ever to touch you, the human embodiment of the universe. He shouldnât be this hypersensitive yet here he is flustered beyond his imagination. His lungs feel like they are collapsing. You are the 3-degree temperature difference in intergalactic space he learned about. His body couldnât manage to reach equilibrium. Being around you makes his blood cells want to burst, the lack of atmospheric pressure puts a dizzy spell on him. Mingi thinks youâre an amazing being like the supercharged subatomic particles travelling almost just as fast as the speed of light. Thereâs only 0.1% difference. Magnificent.
Hongjoong and Yeosang smirk at his struggles. They are no strangers to his âinternally screamingâ countenance. Mingi would have book it if they let him suffer any longer. He takes one look into the mirror, the long leather coat adds some invisible height to him, he appears taller than he already is and the chunky ribbed turtleneck accentuate his long neck. He glances over to the few more pieces hanging on the rack. Hongjoong kills it with the A/W capsule collection. He couldnât wait to get into the patchwork trench coat and the purple overshirt that catches his attention since the prototype era. The universe has expanded further into infinity since then.
A gentle call of his name and the barely there touch on his back jolts him out of his reverie, eyes boring into yours almost bewitched. Your hand is right over where his birthmark is hidden under the layers of fabrics. âMingi?â Your voice. Damnit, itâs so soft to his ears and the way his name rolls off your tongue raises the hairs on his arms. He dazedly hums in response, âYes, stars?â The composition of a human being is as old as the universe itself, there are stardust running in the veins of mortals. He sees the brightest stars in your eyes. He doesnât realise what he just called you, the term of endearment he refers you as in his head slips out to be immortalised. Sound waves travel into space and beyond, he canât take back what he said. Your cheek is hot under his fingertips, in moments of bravery or stupidity, Mingi manages to string together a sentence, âLetâs take some pictures shall we?â
Bless Hongjoong for hooking up the music. He would run away if Taeminâs âCriminalâ didnât start playing. Donât explode now. One more step to the front of the red backdrop. What foolish action did he do? How did he have the courage to talk to you and more over actually feel your skin under his fingers? He wants to scream and curl up on the floor. I did not just do that! Yeosang gives him a thumbs up for the corner of the studio. Thank heavens for his friends. He lets the electronic beats fill him and he loses himself in the act. His friends once told him, heâs a good actor. Now is the time for him to maximise the skill. A teasing drag of his bottom lip between his teeth, the smouldering gaze as he pierces through the camera lens straight at you just as the lyrics spews, âDestroy me more.â Two can play this game and Mingi finds it relieving to find heâs not the one who is affected. It doesnât quite make sense to you how he likes you and it doesnât quite make sense to him how you like him. Heâs not built for chasing love but now he knows you do have an interest in him, he takes the liberty to pursue it. He wouldnât pour his love onto you yet. He has class and heâs not going to do anything that might spook you. Yes, he acts like an idiot sometimes but heâs not an idiot. He wants to make sure if you really have taken a liking of him or if heâs merely a passing interest. He doesnât like getting hurt.
One wardrobe change and then two, the playlist continuous on, the hours blurred together. Mingi is in his last outfit, lying on the brown leather couch covered with colourful rugs and youâre hovering over him with the DSLR. He gives you, no, he means the camera, his best smirk and provocative lift of his eyebrow. From the corner of his eyes, Yeosang and Hongjoong are curling into each other to stifle bubbling laughter while monitoring all the shots appearing on the computer. The addictive riff of âTeethâ by 5 Seconds of Summer has him unbuttoning the purple overshirt. His friends are slapping each other and he hears you take sharp intake of breath. He is enjoying this way too much and he might as well. If heâs going to explode now is the time. Before the night ends, before the sky lightens, he would explode like a supernova, powerful and bright enough for its light to glow for more than a week. Itâs rather selfish of him to make himself linger in your mind in a rather unorthodox fashion but he couldnât help it, the opportunity is there for the taking. At some point the two nuclei would collide to create a new element, Mingi hopes itâs his and yours.
The following day Mingi wakes up to a series of texts in the group chat. The sheer amount of caps lock yelling are not anything new so he didnât check it yet. He raises his arms and lets his muscles sing with the stretch. His feet kiss the cool floor and he makes his way out to do his day off routine. âMorning, Yunho,â he greets, his voice still rough from sleep, it sounds deeper even to his own ears. He hears his roommate rustling about in the living room and feet padding hurriedly to his direction, âAfternoon already, Min! And you canât say that nonchalantly after what you did last night! You didnât tell me this!â What did he do last night? Ah, right! He was modelling for Hongjoong, saw you and flirted with you indirectly through the camera lens. Yunho shoves his phone in front of him.
An A-cut photograph from the shoot is attached in the chat by Hongjoong. He was in the half open purple overshirt and sunglasses hanging between his teeth, glaring straight at whoever is looking at the picture. Consecutive texts from his friend group are under it, nothing but praises and Yunho is always first to compliment him. My best friend right there! Following the trail of text bubbles, he finds a short video. He presses the play button and immediately blushes, hiding his face in his hands with an exasperated sound. Last night model Mingi was brave enough to reach for the camera. In fact, he reached past it and cradled your cheek in his palm. âIt was for the shoot!â Yunho pockets his phone. âMingi. You eye fucked the camera through and through. In fact, itâs not the camera, itâs your âstarsâ.â The mirth in Yunhoâs voice is enough to draw another whine from him. He couldnât find fault in his best friendâs statement.
He has to go back in again today and how is he supposed to face you? I should call in sick. Yet with that thought he still works the coffee machine, his body moving rotely and his friend sidles next to him to help him with lunch. He could still sense the excitement radiating from the puppy-like man. An avocado toast later, Mingi is sent out with a cheery, âHave fun!â The little kidney beans are back in his ears, a mellow summer song soothes his pounding heart. The moon peeks between buildings as if to tell him itâs rooting for him. In such an aspect, he thanked the pile of regolith and dead volcanoes hanging in space.
His takes longer strides to the campus ground, arriving earlier than expected, his body understands the excited energy simmering under his skin. To see you standing in front of the Arts building entrance sparks something in him. Donât do or say anything weird, Mingi. He breaks into a jog, calling your name properly this time. Itâs an exaggeration but this is what he thinks being struck by a space debris must feel like. The shy wave of your hand and the sunlight blanketing your skin are enough to set his heart racing. âYou look different today.â He supposed he does look different to you. Your encounters with him are always within the confinement of Hongjoongâs studio. You never see him in his casual state, so the messy, half wet hair from the shower earlier, the all sweats get-up he is in and the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose are foreign to you. Hell, you never see him cooing at a soft toy or notice how slow he eats. âHave you eaten yet?â Thatâs good, Min, thatâs a safe question. You nod with a smile, pocketing away your phone, âJust enough to get through the meeting.â Mingi wants to curl up on the floor, what is he going to do with your undivided attention on him?
âShall we grab something together afterwards?â He curls his hands into fist within the pockets of his sweatpants. What the hell did he just ask you? He needs that space debris to smite him out of existence right now. The endearing shy smile on curving your cheeks upwards has him biting his tongue. Mingi thinks a space debris really has vaporised him, your answer leaving him a stuttering blushing mess. âItâs a date then.â
âThe universe is under no obligation to make sense to you.â
