Work Text:
Seungkwan has been exhausted for a while now.
There’s the kind of exhaustion that comes from a long day, a tiring shift, perhaps an overextended game of volleyball. That’s the easy stuff, easily remedied by skipping the shower, crashing into bed straight from the door and postponing life for the next 12 hours through a self-induced coma. The next day, he might order a shit-tonne of junk food to recover from the damage, caloric math be damned, and usually by evening he feels settled enough to get back to normal life, call his mother and check up on Bookkeu. Easy peasy lemon squeezy or whatever Le Sserafim say.
This is exhaustion of a different kind. One too many bad days. Way too many schedules, logistical errors, run-ins with aggravating stalkers in places he had gone to for just a moment of peace, snapping at his loved ones and overthinking every thing he has done or is going to do for hours before he can get himself to sleep. Every bite of food he eats these days seems loaded with calories, and every work-out makes his chest hurt. When he tries to sing, the song doesn’t sound right, and it is only through Woozi hyung’s quiet reassurance that he doesn’t tear his hair out in studios (some tears are still shed back home in the quietness of his room, but Woozi doesn’t need to know that. Neither does Jeonghan. The frequency would worry him.) Seungkwan sometimes sees his gallery and wonders at the lack of selfies, or photos of himself. Wonders when life got so hectic the roll became company images and random memes. Where are the sunsets and the occasional photos of his own face smiling through flushed cheeks? Clear photos that could signify he had a moment to pause, to look. To document. Has he had time at all this year?
Evidently no. The next schedule pops up before he can even scroll up to earlier photos for some comfort. There’s news of a filming. One of the permanent guests had taken ill, and they’d offered Seungkwan the guest slot for two episodes. First shoot is tomorrow, which means he’ll have to be in for hair and make-up tomorrow morning and reach early for prep. Off-site too, which means he’ll need to pack tonight, as if things couldn’t get any worse. His manager says he’ll move practice schedule around, and that it’s a win-win close to comeback season. Not something one can say no to, is how Seungkwan reads it. And not something he would say no to anyway, since it’s him, and he has not been able to say no to a schedule ever. He has been chided for it often by those who care (“Everyone needs a break, Seungkwan-ah” from a well-meaning Seungcheol, and “The maths doesn’t math if you need three cups of coffee to complete a two-hour schedule” from an exasperated Woozi). But there’s something so compulsive about saying yes, something so easy about working your life around what’s handed to you, even if you have been sitting in the backseat of a car quietly wiping your tears so the driver won’t see as you return from and contemplate the need of another content filming, even if your bones hurt and your camera roll is devoid of a single happy memory.
Cue the go-to packing playlist. Seungkwan starts preparing his mental check-list for what to keep and discard in his duffle as he enters the apartment. It’s late and and dark, and Jeonghan hyung is probably asleep, but Seungkwan is not worried about making any noise. His brain has done this enough number of times, reminded him to carry his travel-friendly toothbrush bag often enough that he picks it up first thing when he enters his room to pack. He rushes to the walk-in in socked feet, pulling out clothes for tomorrow morning as well as night, hoping there’s no night-cam situation where he has to wear proper pyjamas. Toiletries are extracted and put into the toiletry pack he got for himself and Jeonghan from an online store (a lifesaver). Socks and hand warmers are pulled out from a separate chest, all muscle memory to him now.
It’s probably this muscle memory that makes him miss the six foot something presence on his bed. He was too busy moving, it’s quite impossible otherwise. Mingyu is big in a big way. When he walks towards them Seungkwan sometimes giggles at how the shorter ones crane their neck. When he hugs him Seungkwan feels covered fully by the man’s body, and it would be sexy how he’s capable of swinging two of the members around on his arms at any time if it wasn’t so funny. But that’s how the man is, too funny to be sexy. Or perhaps Seungkwan has just known him long enough to not see it (or, if he sees it, not act on it. What would he even say? Sometimes I’d like you to lay fully over me in a romantic semi-sexual way Mingyu-hyung? What if Mingyu heard him??) Either way, Seungkwan should’ve seen this for sure. It’s a little embarrassing how loudly he yells, definitely enough to wake Jeonghan up, when the man’s arms circle him as he’s going through a drawer and whisper in his ear, “Surprise!”
The slap to Mingyu’s chest was deserved.
“What the fuck are you doing Kim Mingyu?”
Said man, who’s rubbing his pec like he it was lashed, frowns like a kicked puppy in answer. “Seungcheol hyung and I had come over for dinner. But you were late. Are.”
That explains Kim Mingyu’s presence in his room. Nobody would have wanted to be in Jeonghan hyung’s room witnessing whatever body-worship kink their leader was getting down to once dinner was done. Some things are better left to the imagination — or best, out of it as well.
“Don’t you have a house of your own to go back to?” Seungkwan huffs. “If it’s late then you should’ve gone home. Wonwoo hyung probably had to water the plant again.”
“As if. Hyung is a certified plant killer,” Mingyu answers with a characteristic smirk (and his characteristic lisp, which Seungkwan will never admit he finds cute), before pulling Seungkwan to the bed like he owns it, pulling him in a seated hug. Seungkwan lets it happen for a minute, scrunching his nose at the post-gym smell emanating from the other. Still, it matters little in face of the strange, grounding feeling this is bringing. He really needed a hug.
“You should have at least taken this time to shower,” he nags gently.
“Seungkwannie’s clothes won’t fit me. You’re too small, and I’m a potato.”
Seungkwan wishes he had not responded with the automatic “I’m so puffy even now” that he did. He should’ve told Mingyu he wasn’t a potato, and if he was then he was a very hot one. Anyway, potatoes are the cornerstone of food, practically. Versatile and healthy and on a cold day, life-giving. Who even decided potatoes were an insult? There must be nothing to insult Mingyu about if he’s being called a potato. Which is true anyway. What is the idiot hyung missing except a sense of balance? He’s perfect, Seungkwan wants to tell him, but no words come out.
See, Seungkwan’s frustrations are too jumbled from his rough day and rough life and irritation at internet comments. He’s barely able to string words together enough to say he needs rest. The minute he had relaxed from his autopilot state in Kim Mingyu’s sofa arms he had realised he would not be able to get back up until tomorrow. That he wouldn’t get back up for a week if it was possible. He’s so tired. And now he’s feeling bad about it. Which means his eyes are about to water and his nose is about to get really red, and he really doesn’t want Kim Mingyu to see that. So he follows up his lame complaint with “You’re pretty, hyung. Potatoes are the best.”
He expects Mingyu’s chuckle, but doesn’t expect fingers wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. He didn’t even expect the tears, didn’t know when they had slipped past. Mingyu doesn’t ask, which is perhaps the best thing about him, among many other great things, and just holds him closer instead. “What do you need, Seungkwan-ah?” he asks gently, quietly. As if he’d spin the world backwards for him.
“Just…” Seungkwan can’t say. What does he need? What does he even want?
Words fail him, in the end, and he takes a deep breath instead, saddened at the thought that though he knew he shouldn’t be running, he didn’t know how to stop. “Steps,” Mingyu tells him then. “Baby steps, Seungkwan-ah. Let’s go eat.”
12 in the night finds Seungkwan in his and Jeonghan’s shared kitchen, patiently seated at the dining table as Kim Mingyu cooks him some jjampong. Seungcheol hyung’s faint snores fill the silence of the night, and Seungkwan likes it that way. He doesn’t want to use words, is grateful that Mingyu isn’t coaxing him into conversation today. This way, he can shut his mind off to the world and enter his own happy place, where he’s not so full of flaws and not always running towards his problems when he tries to run away from them (the world is round after all, if flat-earthers needed any more confirmation). In this quietude he’s thinking of songs he’d like his life to look like, singing them to thousands and not feeling exhausted when he gets off stage. He’s holding hands and kissing sleepy eyes, and laughing at a hyperactive Bookkeu. Seungkwan wants every day to be like that.
“One jjampong for Seungkwan-ssi,” Mingyu hyung says before sliding the bowl and some rice in front of him. The utensils must have appeared in the middle of his reverie too. Seungkwan thanks him for the food before digging in, feeling his eyes tear up again at how familiar the warmth feels. He takes a few more bites greedily.
Mingyu slows him down. “Eat properly, tsk, you’ll burn your tongue,” he coos, taking the spoon from Seungkwan to feed him. “I know the food is great but still,” is whispered through a gentle smile, the teasing giving way to something more tender.
Seungkwan feels too drained to question it when his hand holds Mingyu’s empty one across the table, squeezing it in thanks for each morsel. Only, when the meal is done and enough stew consumed to flush his cheeks, Seungkwan does not let go. He drinks a glass of water to stabilise himself, but the fear that his hands will start shaking if Mingyu pulls his away is too strong, making him grip the man’s large palm even more. Mingyu, ever so kind, reassures him by holding him with both his hands instead, gently rubbing over the skin. Smiling at him when he looks up.
“I’m here,” he says.
The bowls are left discarded on the table as Mingyu guides Seungkwan to his room, his bed, never dropping his hold on him. Seungkwan always has a little bit of Mingyu to touch, and he utilises that fully as he places his palms on the expanse of Mingyu's shoulders as the man prepares him for bed. His shirt and pyjamas are changed. His face is wiped with a wet-tissue, and his usual night cream handed to him. Mingyu lowers Seungkwan on the bed and lies down with him, keeping his promise.
Seungkwan feels selfish. Isn’t it, to hold this much of someone? Of someone as giving as Kim Mingyu on top of that? What would he feel about Seungkwan needing him so much sometimes? What would he feel about Seungkwan looking up at him one day and telling him whatever he gets of Mingyu is not enough? That he just might want it all. Seungkwan has never thought of asking for more than what Mingyu gives, and he often rejects what he gets to keep it that way too. Too much is an imbalance in a carefully constructed work-family-best friends dynamic. Too much is the possibility of hearing a no, just as too much is the possibility of saying one. Too much is too much.
“I sometimes want a Christmas miracle,” he whispers to the man lying next to him, snuggled into his arms. “I think that’s what I need. A miracle to fix me.”
“Hmmm, it’s a little early in the year but…” Mingyu pulls an eyelash which could have been lint out of nowhere from Seungkwan’s face. “Make a wish then,” he whispers. Seungkwan is staring at the man and his unending optimism. It frustrates him often, and makes him nag at the taller even more, but Seungkwan is tired and at his spontaneous worst. He closes his eyes and wishes for something he had wanted to do the minute he was jump-scared by Kim Mingyu in his room.
When he opens them, Mingyu is kissing him.
—
[Posted on Weverse from Seungkwan's camera roll, a few months later]
