Work Text:
...Already what I remember
most is the happiness of seeing you. Having tea.
Falling asleep. Waking up with you there awake
in the kitchen. It was like being alive twice.
I'll try to tell you better when I am stronger.
–The Defeated, Linda Gregg
Minghao slams the door of the truck.
Time is running out. The sky is a peach-and-plum sunset; the streetlights flicker to life against a hazy dusk. When he turns to look at Mingyu on the steps of their apartment building, he can’t keep eye contact. He ducks his head and notices, heart lurching, that his goddamn shoes are untied.
Mingyu darts across the sidewalk. There are no pedestrians this time of evening, and no one who would care about two overdressed recent graduates anyway.
Still, Minghao flushes from head to toe when Mingyu gets on one knee to tie his shoelace. Even their last moments together—unbearably intimate. His hand falls to Mingyu’s shoulder. Denim scratches roughly against his palm. Minghao slides forward until he’s cupping the soft nape of Mingyu’s neck, where the groove of his spine fits against Minghao’s fingers perfectly.
How many times have they held each other like this? How many nights has Minghao wanted to pull him closer—but never did?
Mingyu looks up, brows furrowed, and for a split second Minghao thinks, he knows. It must be painted all over his face in pinks and reds.
But Mingyu stands and shuffles back, a friendly distance between them.
“Have a safe flight,” Mingyu says, his voice low.
“Thanks,” Minghao says.
What he means is, I’ll miss our morning routine. Lemongrass tea and sleepy gossip. Will you call me while you’re watching those shitty reality shows? I want to hear a running commentary. And don’t let anyone take advantage of your generosity when I’m not around to watch your back. Thanks for sleeping in my bed when I was too drunk to be alone and thanks for always greeting my parents on video chat when you came home during our calls and thanks for teaching me Korean idioms about love and for teaching me about love—
Minghao doesn’t say any of that. It feels like a flock of unruly sparrows is gathering in his throat, and he’s not sure if he wants to confess or cry. Either way, there’s no point now. A plane ticket to Shanghai is weighing down his phone.
“I’ll call you when I land,” Minghao says.
He reaches, and so does Mingyu. They meet in the middle. This is what he’ll remember—how underneath that scratchy denim jacket, Mingyu is warm and pliant. Smells like fancy Saint Laurent cologne. Squeezes too tight for comfort.
When they separate, Mingyu is making a Herculean effort to smile. His bottom lip catches on his teeth. “I’ll come visit.”
“You better.”
He walks backward until his body collides with the truck. In the driver’s seat, Seungcheol is thumbing away at his phone, offering as much privacy as he can. It worked. Minghao forgot anyone else existed, for a moment, just he and Mingyu on the precipice of loneliness.
Minghao’s throat constricts tighter. He turns to fumble with the door handle, but Mingyu says, “Wait!”
From his pocket he unearths the Fujifilm. Minghao hasn’t seen it in weeks. They were both busy with final exams, graduation, the rancid confusion of adult life. Then all the packing set Mingyu on edge, made him pouty and sullen. Not in the mood for photos.
Minghao indulges him—poses leisurely, one foot kicked up against the side of the truck, hands in his pockets. He looks over the empty street so Mingyu won’t catch the strain in his eyes, the tension as he keeps himself from crying.
The shutter clicks once, twice. Mingyu lowers his hands. His lips part, but he says nothing, and the sky darkens like the end of a movie. Fade to black.
“Bye, Mingyu,” Minghao mumbles, and the wetness of his voice must carry because the last thing he sees is Mingyu’s face fall.
He rips open the door and climbs in. Seungcheol doesn’t waste a second, pulling away from the kerb, eyes kind on Minghao in his peripherals.
Minghao sinks into the fresh leather and sighs so loudly that Mingyu probably hears it from where he stands on the far end of the street, miniaturizing in the rear view mirror. Seungcheol turns at the intersection. A life falls away from Minghao like he’s a crab in molt. There was childhood, then university, and now… whatever the hell comes after.
Rubbing both hands over his face, Minghao collects himself. Maybe when he lands in Shanghai. Maybe then, with nine hundred kilometers between them, he’ll have the courage to call Mingyu and open his heart like a birdcage.