Chapter Text
Yuck.
Mingi wakes up with a god-awful taste in his mouth and a post-it note on his pillow. He rubs the blur from his eyes, and stares down in confusion at where his pants from the night previous are tangled at his feet and his arm is half out of his shirt.
He snatches the note and squints at it. In slanting, flowery handwriting, it reads:
hi this is jongho. last night after u dipped wy randomly ran outside and started threatening to pee in jeong’s pool out of spite so i had to deal with him. by the time i got back u were drunk? and that hongjun guy was trying to kidnap u. i told him to fuk off and sannie hyung drove us here. i tried to tuck u in and shit but u werent being cooperative. no one was home when we arrived btw do u have parents? drink water dummy bye
Mingi cooed over the note. Jongho was so heartfelt and sweet. Mingi was reasonably well-versed in the language of the maknae of their circle and he could tell that Jongho calling him a dummy was practically him saying he was his favorite hyung. He felt a little twang of guilt when his first reaction to reading that his mother had gotten home later than he had was overwhelming relief.
The color drained from Mingi’s face a moment later, as he reread the letter. Last night was…
He remembers karaoke, and Jiyeon, and dancing, and….spin the bottle. Wooyoung’s loud laughter. The scowl on Yunho’s face. Jongho taking a shot. The cacophony of teenage jeering. Hongjoong’s travelling eyes. Pushing past a boy standing at the doorway. Drinking; like an idiot. Everything after that is a blur. Mingi vaguely remembers traipsing up the stairs and lying down in a yellow room; he figures he fell asleep after that and Hongjoong must’ve found him and tried to take him home(to Jongho’s alarm).
With a miserable groan, Mingi fell back into his pillows. He desperately wished he could just burrito himself in his blankets and never have to face anyone ever again. The spin the bottle game...Hongjoong had been drinking and Mingi shouldn’t have agreed to kiss him. Mingi was perfectly sober and in his right mind - he could’ve refused and just left; what the hell was his problem? Mingi squeezed his eyes shut, berating himself. What if Hongjoong got made fun of at school for their little moment? What if he got mad at Mingi for taking advantage of him? What if he thought Mingi was creepy and weird for accepting his drunken proposition? Mingi wasn’t worried about Wooyoung - if anything the most the younger boy would do was tease him a bit about the previous night, but what Hongjoong’s reaction would be was a complete unknown.
The tall boy sighed noisily. The best he could hope for is that he’d keep his friendship with the older boy and that nothing would be awkward or stilted. It really was not his week. First the textbook thing….the textbook thing.
Mingi checked his alarm clock - 11:36. He’d already wasted so many hours. Mingi stumbled out of bed, freeing himself of clinging clothing - cringing when he realized Jongho must’ve seen his duckling-print boxers - and raced to the shower.
After freshening up and trying valiantly to get his hair, fluffy and rebellious, to look somewhat presentable, Mingi grabbed his phone and wallet and wandered out to greet his mother.
“Mingi-ah, darling!” his mom waved from where she was doing a standing stretch in front of their old television. She’d been on a bit of a health kick recently, doing all sorts of yoga to those motivational exercise demos you get in the mail. She smiled a big Saturday-morning smile at him, all strong cheekbones and crescent-moon eyes. “Did you stay up late studying again? Usually you get up so early,” she continued.
Mingi blanched. “Ah, the truth is, mom, I’m in a rush, so,” he flapped a hand. “I’m gonna go job-hunting! Loveyoubye!” Eager to escape the situation - she thought I slept in late because I was studying I’m a horrible son - Mingi put his phone and wallet down, snagged his overlarge jean jacket and threw it on, reacquiring his phone and and fleeing the scene.
Mingi closed the door behind him and took the stairs to the lobby three at a time, fishing his earphones out of his pocket and putting them in. He hummed along to his music as he descended.
Wait.
Mingi would recognize that blonde mullet anywhere - Mingi backed up into the stairwell as he spotted none other than Kim Hongjoong exiting the apartment building. Mingi was pretty sure the other boy hadn’t spotted him but it couldn’t hurt to make sure. Mingi counted down from 100 both to calm his beating heart and to wait till Hongjoong had probably gotten on his bike and left, then exited the lobby. Relieved, and feeling a bit horrible for deliberately avoiding his friend, Mingi went over to the bike rack and unlocked his.
Mingi blinked and registered that his friend’s red bicycle was still locked up at the same moment in time that a hand tugged one of his earphones out and whispered hey.
“NO!” Mingi yelped, jumping approximately a million feet in the air. He heard gasping laughter from behind, and whirled around to see Hongjoong.
“Oh, my god, I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d scare you,” Hongjoong managed, failing to smother his giggles.
“H-hyung!” Mingi bowed immediately. “Uh, hello, I’m sorry,” he said, awkwardly. Mingi wasn’t sure how to proceed.
“How’d you sleep last night?” Hongjoong inquired, unlocking his bike with a casual air.
Mingi stared at him, conflicted. His lips tingle with memory, and he licks them nervously before deciding to pretend as if nothing is wrong for the time-being.
“...good, uh, what about you? Like, how did you sleep?” he fumbles.
“Like a baby,” Hongjoong yawned wide and loud, like a big cat. “Honestly, I’m terrible with holding my alcohol, everything after that twister game is lost to me,” he laughs, light and airy, playing absently with the small gold hoop in his earlobe. He watches Mingi closely. “Did you have fun, though? I just remember you being there, but I’m not sure if I ever said hi.”
Mingi’s eyes widen. He had seen people playing twister way earlier in the party - definitely before spin-the-bottle. Hongjoong must not remember his blunder - that’s why he’s acting so carefree. Mingi thanks whatever power that’s looking out for him fervently.
“Ah, yeah, it was an interesting night, and I don’t think I’m very good at drinking either, I remember dancing a lot though! Then I think I fell asleep,” Mingi lies. Hongjoong smiles brightly at him.
“Oh! Actually, I should probably get going,” Mingi says sheepishly, nodding to his bike. “I’ve got to start job-hunting - that textbook fee won’t pay itself you know!” He rambles, unlocking his bicycle and sliding onto it - only to feel a sinking in his back tire. His face falls.
“Looks like you busted a tire,” Hongjoong hums sympathetically, kneeling down to inspect the back wheel. Mingi curses whatever power that’s picking on him fervently.
“Oh, geez,” Mingi frets. “If it were just a leak it’d be fine, are you sure it’s busted?”
Hongjoong nods his head solemnly. Mingi’s head thunks against his handlebars.
“Hey, hey, c’mon,” Hongjoong’s gentle hands urge him to make eye contact. “Let’s just take mine. I’ll come with you.”
Mingi’s eyes glisten. He really doesn’t deserve Hongjoong. “Really?! Thank you so much!”
A few minutes later, Mingi is staring at Hongjoong uncertainly.
“Get on, loser, we’re going shopping.”
“You’re….really embarrassing.”
“See if I don’t rescind my offer to give you a ride. Keep testing me, Song Mingi-ah.”
Mingi eyes the bike with unsureness. “Uh, hyung?”
“Yes?”
“...shouldn’t I ride in the front if I’m bigger?”
Hongjoong shakes his head sagely. “Nah. It’s all to do with center of gravity, and equal force.”
Mingi squints, thinking privately that those reasons sound kind of like bullshit but Mingi can’t articulate how.
“Are you sure that’s how it works?”
“Mingi-ah. Do you trust me?” Hongjoong stares at him, intense.
Mingi relents and climbs on the back of the bike, hesitantly clinging to Hongjoong’s waist at his urging. He's petite - Mingi knows this objectively, but Hongjoong is the type of person who's presence is so big you sort of forget he occasionally has to shop for jeans in the juniors section.
“Are you going to be able to peddle? I’m heavy and you’re so little,” Mingi hedges, jolting at the smack to his knee for daring to bring up Hongjoong’s height.
“You’re not even heavy. Now, stop doubting me and my calves and just believe.”
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The way to the commercial district was mostly downhill, luckily for their awkward arrangement. On a particularly big hill, they just glided, Hongjoong’s long hair lifting in the breeze and Mingi laughing delightedly at their speed. Once they got to the shop-lined streets they both got off, walking along and pulling the bike in between them.
“You’re actually pretty strong!” Mingi enthused. “That was so fun - I haven’t done anything so reckless and irresponsible on a bicycle in years!”
Hongjoong side-eyed Mingi for his subtle jab but chose to ignore it in favor of preening. He puffed his chest out. “Yeah? Was I cool?” he inquired smugly.
Mingly nods, genuinely. “The coolest,” he asserts.
Hongjoong smiles a small smile. “Yeah?” he says softly. “Was it like a scene from one of your dram-”
Mingi, not really listening, zeroes in on the flush on the older boy’s face.
“Joongie-hyung, you should tell me if you’re feeling dehydrated,” Mingi interrupts, scoldingly, securing the older boy’s wrist and tugging him and the bicycle towards a convenience store. “Come on, let’s get you a drink, I can’t believe you did all that work and weren’t gonna tell me you’re tired!”
Hongjoong protests loudly but Mingi ignores it. He was probably just embarrassed.
Inside the store, Mingi beelines for the slushie rack. His eyes linger on the blue raspberry, his favorite flavor, before surveying the rest. He turns to see Hongjoong staring at him.
“Hyung? Which one is your favorite? These things are super refreshing,” Mingi informs him.
“Huh? Oh, uh. The blue-raspberry. It’s my favorite,” Hongjoong says, tugging at his earrings. They grab the drink and head towards the counter.
Mingi’s face falls when he realizes belatedly that he must’ve left his wallet at home in the rush to leave. The employee behind the counter raises an eyebrow like she’s judging him unimaginably hard for not having money to buy a slushie.
“Geez,” Mingi mumbled. “I meant to treat you hyung, but I can’t even do that,” he begins to apologize, but Hongjoong smoothly slides over his own cash, grabbing the slushie and Mingi’s hand.
They walk around around outside, keeping an eye out for job posting. Mingi is pretty sure Hongjoong forgot to let go of his hand, but he’s too awkward to call him out on it.
“Hyung, don’t you like it?” Mingi gestured to the slushie Hongjoong still hadn’t touched.
Hongjoong startles. “What? No, this is my favorite flavor,” he sips at it enthusiastically.
“Mmmm! Tasty! Mingi-ah, you try it, I feel super refreshed,” the older boy enthuses, pushing the drink towards Mingi.
“Oh, no, it’s for you -”
“And i’m saying you should try it -”
“Really, how selfish would I be if I drank it -”
“Not at all! In fact I think it’d be more selfish to refuse”
“But it’s yours -”
“And I’m handing it to you!” Hongjoong pushes the drink more insistently at Mingi and he caves, slipping his hand out of Hongjoong’s grip to hold it and take a sip from Hongjoong’s straw. Delicious artificial sweetness coats his tongue, chill sending a pang of discomfort to his temples when Mingi drinks too quickly.
“These things are like crack to me,” Mingi says, with feeling. He drinks some more.
Hongjoong snorts at his dramatics.
“No, you think I’m joking, but these things are addicting,” Mingi whines.
“Like, there was this convenience store right outside my middle school back home, right? Every Friday, practically the entire second year class would flood the place, all armed with their mom’s pocket change. It was ridiculous. And then we’d sit outside on the curb after we bought our slushies - someone probably should’ve told us off for loitering, but no one ever did. God, I think I spent almost of a third of that year with chronic brainfreeze,” Mingi recounts fondly.
“...you really miss it, huh?” Hongjoong says, oddly serious.
Mingi laughs to lighten the mood. “Middle school? God, no. I’m pretty sure I repressed that entire chapter of my life. Or maybe my memory cells from back then all just froze to death,” he contemplates jokingly.
“No, I mean...your home. You miss living there, right?” Hongjoong asks again. They keep strolling down the sidewalks. A man in a suit walks by them, toddler laughing on his shoulders. Mingi watches them pass.
Mingi exhales. “I mean, a little bit,” he admits, embarrassed at his transparency. “I guess I miss some things. Everyone’s a lot more open, back home. A little kinder, maybe? And it always sucks being the new kid, especially so late in life. And a lot of the beautiful things back home you just can’t find in Seoul,” he lists, then backtracks. He doesn’t want Hongjoong to think he’s ungrateful for the once in a lifetime opportunity to study and network in the fastest moving city in Korea. “I’m glad to be here, though!”
“And besides; I’ve got you, hyung! So I don’t suffer too much,” Mingi finishes with a grin, nudging the blonde boy’s shoulder. Hongjoong’s eyes widen fractionally.
“Yah, and you were calling me lame earlier,” Hongjoong grumbles. “You’re so sappy.” he takes the slushie from Mingi and gulps several times in succession, suppressing a grimace.
Mingi shrugs, smiling.
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The pair get back to their apartment building by 4pm - they’d snagged several fliers for Mingi’s potential employment. One stop was a coffeeshop - the type of establishment that had an unfortunate sort of artsy appeal - mismatched furniture, plants in odd places, children’s drawings framed on the wall - exactly the sort of a place a SAEPA student would avoid like the plague. Naturally, Mingi loved it. And they were hiring. Aside from that place, there was a flier for a dog walker stuck to a stop-sign that Mingi grabbed - the black and white grainily printed photos of said dogs Mingi cooed over for a solid two minutes - and an ad for a babysitter in the window of a music shop.
“I feel like you’d be good with kids.”
“Honestly? They terrify me. Actually, I think kids have terrified me ever since I was a kid.”
“What do you mean was?”
“Hyung, you’re a dickhead.”
After wandering around the city for a while more, they returned to their respective dwellings. Mingi waved to Hongjoong after walking him to his floor, and went up the stairs to his own apartment with a skip in his step. Mingi hung up his jacket and slid off his shoes.
“Eomma?” he called. No answer. Mingi wandered into the living room, and there he saw it.
His mother was lying in fetal position on the carpet. She was breathing shallowly, one hand covering her face and the other clenched around her shut laptop. Stray post-it notes were scattered nonsensically around her sprawled limbs.
“Eomma,” Mingi intoned. “Why are you like this. I almost tripped over you.”
His mother sat up with an anguished cry. “Mingi-ah, don’t ever become an artist. They lie to you, they say it’s fun,” she seethed. “What’s fun about stress ulcers, darling? Absolutely nothing. Nothing is fun about stress ulcers.”
“Eomma. You’re an artist. You write for a living. I’m going to school...to enter an artistic field.”
“My poor, poor fool of a son. I’m so sorry for leading you astray.”
Mingi gave a mighty roll of his eyes and looped his arms under hers. “Up, up you go,” he instructed, pulling her onto a chair and setting her laptop in front of her. “When’s your deadline?” he questioned, gathering the hastily scribbled sticky notes he couldn’t even begin to decipher and putting them into a neat pile to her right.
She turned dead, sunken eyes on him. “I got the call this morning at around 12 saying that I have an economics column due a week earlier than I had agreed upon. Something something corporate bullshit.”
Mingi winced in sympathy, and set about making a coffee. When he was finished, he set it down in front of his mom, before raising a fist in a silent ‘fighting’ gesture.
“I believe in you,” he announced, then paused. “Also please don’t do your writer panic thing in the hallway again like you did last month the landlord was really scared and also I think there’s still coffee stains in that carpet.” he rushed out, narrowly ducking a flying slipper with a laugh.
“Writer’s block is a physical ailment and all you do is laugh at my condition!” came his mother’s outraged cry from the other room. Mingi snorted.
Mingi puttered around on his phone for a while, before rising from his bed and sitting down at his desk. Grabbing his stationary box, Mingi set about writing his penpal back. It had been a few days before Mingi had received the last letter, and he didn't want to get behind in their correspondence.
Hey, J.
Honestly, I feel the opposite. Life is going by a little too fast, lately, and sometimes it seems like - you know how when you look through a glass bottle, and everything is a little wonky? That’s what is is for me right now - everything’s a little strange. You’re not, though. You never are.
I went to my first high-society Seoul party. Honestly, I kind of expected more out of it - maybe kids swinging from chandeliers, a chocolate fountain, maybe a fancy calligraphy invite - nah. It was kind of underwhelming. I know you’re going to tease me for it but I think I’d have preferred to stay home and watch a movie or something. Oh - Mom’s doing alright. She’s in a bit of a creativity drought right now, but she’ll get over it. Your sister got another tattoo? Did your mom and dad hit the roof? Geez, I’m sorry you have to deal with that. They shouldn’t take it out on you, you know that, right? Just remember to write to me when you’re stressed. I find that always helps.
You’re so cheesy. Well, it’s funny you should mention it...there’s this guy, okay, and…
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Some weeks later, Mingi’s first day at work looms. He stands outside of that rinky-dink coffeeshop he first visited with Hongjoong, trying to sync his breathing with the sluggish flashing of the neon sign that reads Campfire Cafe in sickly orange.
Inside, it’s empty, but a woman croons softly to jazz instrumentals through speakers placed throughout the sitting area. On a shelf near the coffee-making stations, stuffed animals sit - the sign placed above the shelf says for solo drinkers. Some of the tiles in the floor are mismatched - alternatively greyish blue and greyish green. At the ordering counter, an actual bell sits. RING ME is written in black sharpie on the handle.
Psyching himself up, Mingi strides into the shop with confidence, walking up to the counter and ringing the bell. The guy behind the counter sets down a bag of coffee beans, wipes his hands on his apron, and turns around with a charming, easy smile.
“Welcome to Campfire Cafe, what would you like...to drink.” he trails off, eyes wide and mouth parted. Mingi is similarly shocked. His grip on the bell in his hands loosens in surprise and it lands upright on the counter with a clang.
“You?” Mingi gaped uselessly at Park Seonghwa, clad in a stained black apron and spectacles, looking regal and out-of-place despite his less-than-formal dress. The older boy stared perplexedly back at him, as if Mingi was the one in a place he shouldn't be. Mingi felt like he’d taken a step inside the cafe and fell right into the twilight zone - there was no other explanation.
Why would Seonghwa have a job? And, beyond that, why at such a...Mingi hated to say low class but this cafe, with its fairy lights flickering distressedly and secondhand-store bookshelves, was by no stretch of the imagination in Seonghwa’s income bracket. There was no feasible explanation as to why Park Seonghwa, the Park Seonghwa, untouchable from his gleaming pedestal of looks, grades, talent, and money, was standing stock-still behind the granite counter.
“Why are you here?” Seonghwa demanded, moving swiftly out from behind the bar and stalking up to Mingi. “Who told you to come here?”
Mingi raised his hands defensively, gaping at the older boy’s accusatory tone. “No one told me to!” Mingi reconsiders, and rushes to correct himself. “I mean, I was told to, by the boss? Because I kind of work here, now at least. Do you really work here? Why would you work here?”
Seonghwa makes a face like he’s just tasted something particularly sour. Mingi is so intimidated by how he remains photogenic in spite of this he almost forgets to be offended.
“Why are you working? What do you want to buy so badly that you have to get a part-time job?” The dark-haired boy responds, disgruntled. Mingi squints at him, not entirely sure how the hell his motives for getting a job are any of Seonghwa’s business, and even more perplexed as to why Seonghwa assumes Mingi is there frivolously, out of a desire for some spare pocket change.
Mingi opens his mouth to argue exactly that - before he remembers that the person standing in front of him is the reason Mingi has been so stressed about getting a job in the first place. Seonghwa was the reason Mingi was down a textbook and left with no other choice than to cram in a job in addition to his rigorous academic and family responsibilities. A spark of annoyance simmered in Mingi’s gut.
“First of all,” Mingi begins, eyes narrowing. “You wanna know why I’m working? Wanna know why I need the money?”
Seonghwa nods, slowly, looking wary at Mingi’s sudden shift in tone.
“You might not realize this, and I can’t blame you for it,” Mingi steps forward, getting into Seonghwa’s space this time, irritation giving him confidence. “But not everyone can afford to spend meaninglessly. Sometimes, an extra expense that hasn’t been accounted for can mean the difference between whether or not you and your family go to sleep with food in your belly. So, when some person -” Mingi licks his lips, and rephrases, poking a finger directly into Seonghwa’s chest. “- when some jerk decided to knock coffee all over my expensive textbook because of his ridiculous grudge, effectively ruining it and ensuring a hefty fine, getting a job was my only option because I can barely afford to live in this ridiculous city in the first place, even less so with that big of an additional expense.” Mingi finished, and pauses, before adding, with fake cheer, “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”
By the end of his little rant, Seonghwa is looking equal parts queasy and annoyed. Good. He’s been making Mingi uncomfortable since his very first day; it’s only fair he gets a taste of the feeling. The taller boy waits for Seonghwa’s response - he doesn’t know what he’s expecting, really. His shoulders are tense, almost expecting to get hit. The feeling of invincibility that came with his righteous anger has faded, and now Mingi is biting his cheek, worried about the potential fallout for starting a fight on his very first day.
“Quit.” is Seonghwa’s dispassionate response, face carefully schooled into a mask of indifference. “You don’t need to be here.” And with that, Seonghwa returns to his spot behind the counter, a tangible barrier between himself and the younger boy.
Mingi doesn’t even know what to say to that. It’s like everything he’d just said had flown in through one of the spectacled boy’s ears and out the other. Everytime Mingi thought he had the upper hand, Seonghwa came up with new and innovative ways to pull the rug out from under him. Mingi feels like he could cry - not out of hurt or sadness but just from the sheer frustration of it all. Taking a deep breath through his nose, Mingi shakes his head and marches determinedly behind the counter.
“The owner said that whoever was on shift today would help me learn how to make some basic drinks.” Mingi says, as civilly as possible. This could work. They’ll both just ignore the elephant in the room and do their jobs and it won’t be too excruciating. If, of course, Seonghwa plays along.
“And I said you need to quit.” Seonghwa offers, resolutely ignoring Mingi’s presence. Mingi’s eye twitched.
“You know what? Whatever, then,” he grumbled. “You’d probably be a crappy teacher, anyway.” he says under his breath, but judging by how Seonghwa’s hand tightened on the coffee pot in his grasp he heard it loud and clear.
The rest of their shift goes like this: Mingi uses his phone to look up recipes and barista tips on the great wide web, and Seonghwa pretends he doesn’t exist, only occasionally acknowledging the younger boy’s presence in order to urge him to quit. Mingi tries once to weasel out of him the reason as to why he’s working at Campfire Cafe, of all places, but he’s met with a scoff and more silence. After a while, he lays the subject to rest and just focuses on self-teaching as fast as he can.
This frigidity goes on for the next week - because they’re both part-timers, with the same schedule due to attending SAEPA, they’re always on the same shift, starting an hour afterschool. Mingi is more and more tired every day - it’s already dark by the time he rides home, and he stays up late completing his assignments and prepping food for the next day. Mingi isn’t proud of the frequency at which he’s been falling asleep at his desk.
The tension breaks, somewhat, the following Tuesday, and it’s by a complete stroke of luck - or perhaps misfortune would be closer to the truth.
Mingi had been frantically studying for English, his worst subject, till into the early hours of the morning previously. It was a combination of that and his growing frustration with Seonghwa’s silence and his own inability to correctly draw a stupid fucking latte art cat in his cup that he made the mistake he did.
Mingi has misjudged the amount of hot cream that was in the metal pitcher severely - so when he carelessly tipped the thing over to pour into his mug, the rush of liquid startled him and he lost his grip on the pitcher.
Instead of just letting it fall to the floor harmlessly - because the damn thing was spill-proof, anyway - Mingi’s first reaction was to grab it before it made contact. His hand closed around the searing hot neck of the pitcher, missing the handle completely.
Mingi let go of it just as soon as he had grabbed it, but the damage was done. He yelped, a sharp, hurt noise that jarred with the soft music playing over the speakers.
He cradled his hand to his chest, wincing up at the ceiling through blurred vision and steeling himself to look down at the burn and judge its seriousness.
Before he could gather the courage, a strong grip tugged his wrist out in front of him. Seonghwa, looking at frazzled as Mingi had ever seen him, inspected the angry red welting on Mingi’s palm for a moment before tugging him over to the sink and thrusting his hand under the cold water. Mingi instinctively tried to yank it back - it hurt, goddamnit, but Seonghwa wasn’t having it, just squeezed his wrist warningly and holding it in place under the flow of the tap. After a few minutes of awkwardness, the two boys crowded over the sink basin, Mingi speaks up.
“I’m probably fine now,” he said in a whisper, then wondered why the fuck he was whispering. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. “It’s not even that bad of a burn, to be honest. You can let go,” he lies. His hand is pulsing painfully, and Mingi's eyes are wet with tears that refuse to fall and instead stick around to cloud his vision. Mingi tries to blink them away.
And Seonghwa does let go - only to slip a finger into the loop of Mingi’s apron and begin pulling him over to the other side of the bar. Seonghwa crowds him onto one of the barstools, pressing Mingi back until the seat of it is pressing into Mingi's lower back, and he has no choice but to take a seat. The dark-haired boy turns around and beelines to the storage room.
Mingi stares after him, completely bewildered. Why was Seonghwa even bothering to make sure his hand was alright? He’d been ignoring his very existence for the past week but one measly burn and he wants to play nurse? Mingi really didn’t understand that guy.
Seconds later, Seonghwa returned with a small red first-aid kit in hand, and placed it on the bar, standing uncomfortably close between Mingi’s legs from where the taller boy was seated on the stool.
“Give me your hand, please.” Seonghwa said, almost softly. Mingi was so taken aback he complied instantly. Seonghwa immediately set about dressing his injury with the gauze from the first-aid kit, and Mingi stared at the ceiling. He felt abruptly and strangely embarrassed of his hands - they were rough at the fingertips, calloused from years of transcribing hundreds of essays and raps by hand for lack of a computer, and bigger than Seonghwa’s, if only slightly. His fingers were knobby. Seonghwa had what Mingi’s mom would probably dub ‘piano-hands’, deft and elegant. Mingi wondered if he played.
“Uh, thank you,” Mingi said, haltingly, after Seonghwa had finished wrapping his palm. The older boy lingered in his space, looking conflicted, before finally returning his hand to him and returning to the other side of the counter and beginning to rustle around.
Mingi sighed, audibly. So much for something having changed - Seonghwa must’ve just felt a brief pang of compassion and gotten over it just as quick. He’s back to ignoring Mingi, as usual.
“Why are you always telling me to quit? Do you really hate me that much?” Mingi thinks out loud, too exhausted and a little shaky from the shock of the burn to care about his filter. “I don’t know why you work here, and honestly, I think it’s kinda weird. Is this some sort of social experiment to see how the other half lives? Regardless, I haven’t gossiped about it to anyone at our school or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. But - like, it can’t be just this job. You’ve disliked me from the very beginning and I just want to know wh-” Mingi is working himself up, words falling carelessly from his mouth like water spilling over the top of glass, full to bursting.
Seonghwa turns and slides a white, ceramic mug across the bar to sit in front of Mingi. Steam rises from the cup, carrying a rich mocha scent that Mingi recognizes as his favorite of the options offered in the cafe. On the surface of the liquid, a cartoonish cat face smiles up at him from where it is drawn in cream. Mingi realizes, belatedly, that Seonghwa had been remaking the drink that Mingi had completely butchered before burning himself whilst Mingi had lectured and berated him from behind the counter.
Mingi’s ears flushed red, and he ducked his head a little, feeling a tad ungrateful even if he knew logically that his qualms were valid regardless of Seonghwa making him a drink.
“You didn’t have to,” Mingi says, bashfully, because his mother did indeed raise him with manners. He moves to accept the drink even as a paranoid thought about what if he spat in it flashes through his mind. It escapes his notice completely that to have realized Mingi was trying to draw a cat before he dropped the cream pitcher, Seonghwa must have been observing Mingi fairly closely before.
“Next time, if the pitcher is full and it’s that high of a temperature, you have to use the gloves.” Seonghwa demands. “You’re lucky the burn wasn’t worse.”
Mingi bows his head. “I will, I’m sorry. Uhm, thank you for your concern!” He adds the last bit on as an afterthought - perhaps, now that the ice has been broken, he and Seonghwa can get along a little better. Mingi smiles brightly at the older boy, cupping his drink in his good hand and taking a sip, mourning the death of his delicious feline friend. He thinks he sees Seonghwa swallow with difficulty before looking away.
“I’d prefer not to get involved in a lawsuit for not providing employees with proper safety equipment, is all.” comes his stilted reply. Mingi’s gut instinct is annoyance - but he takes a breath instead, accepting that maybe Seonghwa’s is just really, really bad at interacting with other human beings and has simply gotten away with it all this time because of his wealth and popularity. He tries again, valiantly.
“Still, I really appreciate your help, and, well, since we’re going to be working together anyway, at least, y’know, for the time being, I want to get along, so,” Mingi hems and haws. “....can I call you hyung?”
Seonghwa’s hand reaches up to adjust his glasses - Mingi wonders why he only sees him wear them at work - in what Mingi might call a nervous tic if he didn’t know any better. Yeah, right. Mingi wasn’t sure if Seonghwa got nervous about anything. People like Seonghwa had nothing to be nervous about.
“We don’t need to be familiar. Please quit soon.” Seonghwa says, that odd sour look crossing his face for a moment before he turns and ignores Mingi’s pestering, going back to washing dishes. Mingi feels horribly insulted that clean-up duty was preferable to speaking with him, apparently.
The now-commonplace rebuke stings, but when Mingi gets up to resume work, Seonghwa turns a withering gaze on him, shaming him back into his seat on the barstool. The duality of the dark-haired boy's random bouts of concern versus his overall disdain for Mingi is whiplash-inducing - he wonders how so many contradictions can exist in one person. He wonders if all those contrasting feelings give Seonghwa indigestion.
Mingi pouts about being delegated to the metaphorical bench for the rest of his shift, and gets back at Seonghwa by talking his ear off about all sorts of mundane things for the remainder of their time. Seonghwa can hate him all he wants - Mingi, for one, is tired of playing along with all the animosity. Seonghwa is his co-worker, and goddamnit Mingi is going to treat him as such.
Seonghwa never responds to him; not even with an occasional grunt of acknowledgement or a nod. One the flip side, though? He doesn’t tell Mingi to shut up once for the next four hours, nor does he bait him to quit again.
He decides to count it as a win. Seonghwa, 0. Song Mingi: 1.