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There was a certain kind of magic in the stillness of 2 AM, even in a city that never sleeps. Several feet below, the streets of New York are bustling with people, all with their own agendas. Cars with different destinations cause traffic up and down every avenue. If you look long enough, the trail of red and orange lights will start to make their own constellations.
In his hotel room for two, Kim Mingyu stretches his arms over his head as he finally allows himself to take a deep breath. The screen was hurting his eyes—there was only so much that blue light glasses could do. He straightens his back from where he’s hunched over the low table, wincing when he hears the pop of his bones realigning into their correct positions.
A cold hand brushes against the nape of his neck, pressing into the knot of tense muscles between his shoulder blades. Mingyu nearly jumps out of his skin, turning around and accidentally kicking the camera backpack by his feet in the process.
“Oh my god,” Mingyu says, hand on his chest.
Wonwoo smirks, steady as his hand continues to massage between Mingyu’s shoulders. “Last time I checked I’m still Wonwoo,” he says.
Mingyu reaches up to swat at Wonwoo’s chest. “Stop that,” he complains, pouting.
Wonwoo sits down on the wooden arm of Mingyu’s chair, squinting at the laptop screen. “Are those from today?”
“Yeah, wanted to get started before the other stuff piled up,” Mingyu says, frowning as he clicks through his meticulously organized files. “I’m not done filming the rest of the scenes yet and I have to color correct everything and make sure I have extra footage for filler scenes and—”
“Hey,” Wonwoo interrupts, his arm finding purchase around Mingyu’s shoulders. “Hey. Breathe.”
Mingyu stops talking, leaning back against the chair. The cotton of Wonwoo’s jacket felt warm against his neck, grounding him to the present. “Sorry,” he whispers.
Wonwoo shakes his head, shifting so he could look at Mingyu’s eyes. The glow from the laptop screen lit up Mingyu’s face, highlighting the tufts of hair sticking out from under his beanie. Both of them woke up early for their schedule-packed day. Even with a life of being constantly followed by cameras, it never gets easy.
Sometimes, Wonwoo wishes it was as convenient as hitting pause on a video, looking for pockets of time where they can stop and breathe and just be. Twenty-four hours never seems enough on their busy days, especially on long tours like this. They were grateful for each new thing they encounter, they always are. That still does not stop Wonwoo from fantasizing about his next sixteen-hour nap when he finds time to rest, right before he gets shuffled to the next practice, the next performance, the next stop on the tour.
Wonwoo has seen Mingyu’s schedule—he was there in the meeting room when they planned out the MV shoot, and had gone to the ward office with Mingyu to get his international driver’s permit fixed. Vernon had called him an almost constant shadow in all of Mingyu’s location shoots for the music video. He knows that Mingyu is running himself to the ground, and how hard he’s trying to not let it show.
It’s in the hidden yawns behind the palms of his hands. It’s Mingyu biting into the skin of his thumb as he previews the raw footage, quiet and unmoving as stress radiates from every molecule of his body. It's in the numerous times he has pulled off his beanie to run an agitated hand through his hair before putting it back on. It’s in the tense set of his shoulders, the way his tongue pokes into the insides of his cheek before he lets out a sigh.
Mingyu now slumps against Wonwoo’s side, the top of his head just about grazing Wonwoo’s collarbone. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t wanna complain, I’m having fun after all.”
Wonwoo tilts his head, knocking his side against Mingyu’s. “It can be fun and tiring at the same time, Mingyu-yah,” he chides, feeling Mingyu rest his cheek lightly against the warmth of his jacket.
He glances at Mingyu’s screen, taking a closer look at the open project on the video editor. “This isn’t part of the storyboards,” he realizes.
Mingyu nods in earnest and sits up, head almost hitting Wonwoo’s chin. “Yeah! I got more footage from today than I expected, so I wanted to make something else! The light made the clips a little too muted for the music video anyway, so I wanted to use it for something slower.”
He continues to chatter, stumbling over his words as his fingers continuously tapped an eager rhythm on the trackpad. Wonwoo smiles to himself, standing up to get himself a beer from the stash they had left to cool in the hotel refrigerator. He opens the can and takes a swig, watching as Mingyu picks up his phone to train the camera at his computer screen before pressing play.
The piano melody fills their hotel room as the song begins, the strings coming in as Wonwoo inches closer to watch the video with Mingyu.
It was New York, through Mingyu’s eyes. Wonwoo recognizes Mingyu’s trademark style in the mise en scene of the elements he used in the video, the way he arranged his day into the moments caught on film. It’s in the way he slowed down the footage that consequently made Wonwoo’s heart speed up when his brain catches onto what he was seeing, right as the song Mingyu used crescendos into the chorus.
It was all Mingyu, but it was Wonwoo, too, in Mingyu’s fleeting moments of New York—adjusting the strap of his bag, stuffing his face with pizza. He fidgets, tearing his eyes away after he sees his fluffy white jacket and upside-down headband onscreen for the third time.
Wonwoo retreats to his bed, trying to process what he just saw.
He knew Mingyu took those clips. He had often walked ahead, but Mingyu’s soft requests for him to turn around for the camera was always heard above the din of New York’s city traffic. He thought it was for light tests, not expecting… this.
What are you up to, Mingyu?
“What song is this?” Wonwoo asks instead. “Sounds familiar.”
“Hmm?” Mingyu asks, distracted as he watches the video he took on his phone. “Oh. It’s Fire On Fire. By Sam Smith.”
Wonwoo hums to the tune of the chorus under his breath, opening Naver on his phone to search for the song. Mingyu plays the song again, and Wonwoo squints at the translation of the lyrics he had pulled up before choking on his beer.
“Mingyu,” Wonwoo calls out, voice faint.
Mingyu looks up. “Yeah?”
“This is a love song,” Wonwoo states.
“...yes?” Mingyu says, biting his lower lip. Wonwoo watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down from across the room. “Every song’s a love song if you think about it.”
Wonwoo does not reply, watching as Mingyu ducks his head to stare at his phone screen. He sighs, letting himself fall back on his rumpled bedsheets. He raised his phone an arm’s length away from his face, the lyrics on his screen taunting the hummingbird thrum of his heart under his ribcage. Shutting off the screen of his phone would not stop Mingyu from playing the song on repeat, but he does it anyway. He sits up, burying the device under the fluffy hotel pillow. The pillow gets a couple of halfhearted punches, for good measure.
“What did the pillow do to you?” Mingyu asks with a chuckle.
Wonwoo keeps his face carefully blank, ignoring the way he could feel the alcohol coursing through his veins. He picks up his beer can and takes another swig. He was far from drunk, but the way Mingyu hums the lyrics under his breath makes him feel like he is—the good kind, the kind of drunk when he still feels like himself, a little bit braver than sober Wonwoo ever did in Mingyu's presence.
The song continues to play in the background as Wonwoo climbs down from the bed, pulling back the curtains to display New York’s night cityscape in its full glory. He can feel Mingyu watching him as he settles down on the small space between his bed and the window, nursing his beer can as he paces himself—both his drink and his heart rate.
The final notes of the song fade out. Wonwoo braces himself for another round, but he is met with silence. He leans back against the bed, carpet rough under his feet as he stares out the window. New York outside their hotel window was a blur of tall jungles made out of concrete and glass, of different colored lights blinking at them from all directions.
Wonwoo hears Mingyu close his laptop, letting his other sounds surround him. A groan as he stretches out his spine. A quiet curse, as Mingyu, trips over his camera bag. A muffled thump, as the refrigerator door opens and closes after a few moments of rummaging its contents. A soft click, as another aluminum can of beer is opened and the fizz of spirits evaporate into the air. A shuffle of bare feet against carpet, making their way, Wonwoo realizes, straight towards him.
Mingyu lets out a tiny huff of air as he settles down next to Wonwoo, the bed behind them dipping from their combined weight. Wonwoo looks straight ahead, but angles his beer towards Mingyu. The other giggles, toasting their cans together before they both drink. Wonwoo takes a small sip, smiling as he listens to Mingyu take a long gulp. Mingyu exhales happily, pulling his knees up to his chest.
“You’ve worked really hard today,” Wonwoo says. Besides him, Mingyu scratches at his nose, hiding a smile behind his hand.
“Thank you,” Mingyu says, voice shaking. He takes a deep breath, tipping his head sideways to rest on Wonwoo’s shoulder. Their bodies are reflected as shadows on the dark glass of the windows. Like this, they looked like they were being embraced with the lights of all of New York.
Wonwoo leans his cheek against Mingyu’s hair. He had removed the beanie before he joined Wonwoo’s front row seats to the New York city view in front of them now. He smells nice, most likely from the sandalwood-infused bath bomb he bought from the store they passed on Broadway.
Most of all, Mingyu is warm, like his body is preparing to sleep. He always has been warmer than everyone else, proud of being a human heater as they all find a way to stay close to him during movie nights at the dorms. Jeonghan says it’s because Mingyu has a kind heart.
Wonwoo agrees. People who did not know him had the tendency to treat him as a fire hazard, with one hand ready to pull the alarm at the first sign of smoke. It had made him protective at the beginning, always hovering at arm’s length. Soon enough, he finds himself drawn closer and closer, like a moth to a candle flame.
He remembers watching himself on film, a smile on his face that he does not remember drawing the corners of his mouth up as he stands in darkness. Onstage, Mingyu sings his lines, burning bright as he should. Right then, he understands how Prometheus must have felt, wanting to share the wonders of fire to the rest of humankind. How he felt he could do anything to keep that fire burning bright, to let everyone bask in its full glory.
The full force of his feelings hits him right then.
It has always been this nameless, shapeless thing, like the many blobs of light that was the New York skyline to him at this very moment. As he sits on the floor of the hotel room that he shares with Mingyu, Wonwoo stares at their reflection. It was hard to distinguish their faces, but even if Wonwoo closes his eyes at this moment he is confident that he can pull up a sketch of Mingyu’s face from memory. That is what Mingyu is to him: vivid in detail, vibrant in life.
Wonwoo’s grip tightens on his beer can.
Stupid alcohol. Stupid feelings. Wonwoo scolds himself in his head, tipping the rest of his beer can’s contents down his throat.
“Just tell me if you need help with anything, alright?” Wonwoo continues like he did not just have an emotional epiphany. “You don’t have to do everything alone. I can help.”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” Mingyu says. Wonwoo does not know why they started to whisper, but it felt right at this moment. Even Mingyu’s voice, usually amplified, is gentle in the quiet of the room.
Wonwoo shakes his head. “I’ve barely done anything,” he counters, sounding weak even to his own ears. “You do so much, I wish I could do more—”
Mingyu sits up, already shaking his head. “No, don’t say that!” he says. Wonwoo’s mouth hangs open at the sudden outburst, and Mingyu shrinks back, slapping a hand over his mouth.
“You okay?” Wonwoo asks, watching the other. Mingyu nods, one determined jerk of his head, and downs the rest of his beer in several noisy gulps.
“Don’t,” Mingyu starts, then pauses, like he was trying to find the right words that matched what he wanted to say. “Don’t do that.”
Wonwoo blinks. “Do what?”
Mingyu inhales through his nose, breathes out slowly. “Don’t pull yourself down,” he says. His voice is so small. “Not when I do all that I can just to catch up and walk right next to you.”
Several feet below, a car alarm sounds off.
“You don’t have to do that,” Wonwoo says. He sees the hurt flashing in Mingyu’s eyes and hastens to clarify himself. “You don’t have to catch up to me, I mean. We can… we can always walk together. Always.”
Mingyu hugs his knees to his chest. “Sometimes I ask myself if it’s okay,” he whispers into the crook of his arm. “If it’s okay to want to talk to you all the time, to have all these plans and dreams that had you and me in it. For some reason, making all those plans with you makes me feel like we could do anything.”
Wonwoo gulps, throat dry. He wishes he could get one more beer, but standing up feels a little too close to walking away.
So he doesn’t.
“I feel the same way.”
Mingyu looks up. Looks at him.
Wonwoo looks back, meeting his gaze.
“All these years, you’ve always had my back,” Wonwoo says. “If… if you’ll allow me, let me be by your side.”
The car alarm in the distance shuts off, the silence separated in beats by the steady rise and fall of their chests.
“...say something,” Wonwoo asks.
Mingyu laughs, a sharp exhale pushing out of his lungs. “...I imagined how I’d react if ever this happened, and I still can’t say anything.”
Both of them laugh, more nervous energy than anything else.
Wonwoo looks out the window again. “The moon’s beautiful tonight,” he says, letting the warm feeling spreading from his chest settle into every molecule of his body.
Mingyu giggles. “Can you even see the moon?”
Wonwoo glances at Mingyu, who was trying to drink from his empty beer can. “Wide and clear.”
“You don’t even have your glasses on—”
Wonwoo braces his hand on the carpeted floor, leaning in and bridging the space between them just as Mingyu turns his face towards him to meet Mingyu’s mouth with his.
Mingyu tastes like the beer he was drinking, and like all the moments that Wonwoo wants to freeze in time. Warm hands find purchase on Wonwoo’s jacket, warm lips moving against him, warm, warm, warm .
Wonwoo presses closer, Mingyu whimpering quietly against his mouth. They kiss, meeting anew, in moments that felt both instant and infinite.
They break apart, foreheads touching, breaths mingling.
Mingyu raises his right hand, tugging up Wonwoo’s jacket where it has slid off his shoulder. “You’ll get cold,” he mumbles. “Why do you even wear tank tops to bed, you always get chilly.”
Wonwoo knocks his elbow against Mingyu’s arm. “That’s what blankets are for.”
Mingyu snorts. “Whatever you say,” he agrees. His lips are still red. Wonwoo can still feel the shape of his smile against his mouth.
Wonwoo grins, looking out the window. “And you’re plenty warm for the both of us.”
He hears Mingyu groan into his hands and he glances sideways, smiling at the way the other’s ears are a bright red, even in the dim lighting.
“I walked into that one,” Mingyu says, hands still covering his face.
They continue talking, kissing to fill their silences until the sun starts peeking through the gaps of the tallest buildings. They retreat to their beds, curtains still pushed back, letting the blue and orange paint a landscape of new possibilities over their rumpled bedsheets. They continue to talk, about the other, about each other.
They fall asleep, and the distance between their beds does not matter. Eleven thousand kilometers, from Seoul to New York, finding their only direction, to find their final destination in each other’s hearts.
They have each other. They have time.