Work Text:
Xiumin stared at himself on the mirror for the twentieth time that morning. It was still early. REALLY early, his friend Baekhyun would laugh at him. He didn’t mind, though, he liked the peace and quiet only the night owls or the early birds could enjoy. He formed part of the second group, he’d always been an early riser.
He poured some water into his hands and splashed it into his still drowsy eyes. He started his daily routine, shaving first, making his face look neat and clean. He looked at the bags under his eyes, which had become a friend of his after being impossible to make them disappear. He’d had a nightmare… again. He shook his head to prevent his brain from thinking about that… yes, again.
He finished shaving and started with his skin-care routine, mechanically, like a robot. He remembered Jongdae used to make fun of him whenever he applied his moisturizing face mask. Then he would give him a peck on his neck and leave him to start making breakfast. The smell of coffee would spread all around the house, and jazz would start playing softly, just the way he liked.
He stopped dreaming awake and forced himself to the kitchen. The deep silence that now flooded the house made him uncomfortable, but he was getting used to it. Rusty pictures all around the floor, dust piling up on every corner. He opened the fridge and grabbed the only apple that wasn’t completely rotten. He let himself fall into one of the kitchen’s chairs, still on his underwear. He didn’t remember the last time he washed his clothes – not that he cared. Dawn’s light was starting to show its first rays, but it wasn’t strong enough to light the room yet, so only shadows could be seen, making the whole atmosphere even more depressing. Of course, he didn’t care about that, either.
After biting the apple twice, he got up and threw it on the overflowing bin as if he was a basketball player. It went in. It always goes in. Xiumin almost heard the giggles coming from Jongdae’s mouth, repeating that sentence as he had done every morning since they got married. He would then tease him about being so boringly perfect, his cute Minseok. And that cutie would tickle Jongdae to death, only to smooch his cheeks right after and leave with a satisfied smile.
He guided himself to his bedroom, following the steps Jongdae would make while running after him. He would jump on his back and throw him on the bed, making it hard to even breathe, choking on his own laughter. Minseok would turn around then, and look at Jongdae in the eyes. “You’ve come this far and you’re not even gonna kiss me?” “I swear you always repeat the same, and then I always feel the obligation to kiss you. I’m the victim of this situation, Minseokie”, would cutely laugh Jongdae every morning at him. And then they would kiss, softly at first, tenderly, becoming more intense a few minutes later, more real. Rawer.
When he arrived at the bedroom, though, no one pushed him to the bed. No one kissed him. Wrinkled shirts and lots of creased trousers waited for him on the floor. Those hadn’t been ironed for at least two months. Even more. He chose the most boring combination, a grey shirt with some grey trousers, picked his cigarettes -what an expensive way of killing yourself, he was sure his husband would have said- and saved them on his pocket.
He finally led himself to the doorway, where Jongdae would bring him his suitcase, still half-dressed and running late to work… again. "I love you", he would say. "I love you more", the other would answer. They would share a smile, a hug, a moment of sacred intimacy, and ultimately, he would leave, knowing he was loved, knowing he was the luckiest man in the world.
Now, however, he brought his suitcase himself. There were no signs of affection. There was nothing but a grey, lonely, empty house surrounding him. Minseok opened the door, waiting, hoping someone would finally appear.
No one did.
Jongdae had left one year ago.
He left and closed the door behind him.