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Of course, things had to go wrong at some point.
Up until then, the trip had passed relatively pleasantly, even with him nearly getting into a skiing accident, the fact that he forgot to pack his film camera, Yunho and Wooyoung doing next to nothing to hide their fervent sexual activity, and all of this unprecedented proximity to Mingi. Despite hesitation he was enjoying having the time off, especially since most of it was taken up by playing in the snow and eating home-cooked meals and forcing everyone into sitting through his movie picks when nobody else could come up with something better. After the autumn he’d had, he was grateful to have a week to unwind and, uncouth behavior aside, to Wooyoung and Yunho for cajoling (threatening) him into tagging along.
On the fifth day, he awoke to steady snowfall, which was no matter, since he had intended on staying in for the day, anyway. Yunho and Mingi had day plans at a sauna, and then Yunho was taking Wooyoung to some nice restaurant later, decadent and romantic, their treat. Hongjoong was personally keen to crack open a book he had been intending on reading for months and gorge himself on ginger cookies. The forecast shouted all sorts of scary words at them, blizzard and special weather warning and wind chill and shit, but it wasn’t supposed to get bad until much, much later, and everyone proceeded with their plans with no intention of stopping.
It was around 13:00, when he was down one sleeve of cookies and admittedly only thirty pages into his book despite being awake for four hours, when Mingi and Yunho returned, smiling and snow-dusted. Wooyoung had slept in and shown his face only to grab a melon soda and box of cereal from the kitchen before disappearing back into his shared room, giving Hongjoong reign to melt into the couch and play his yearly amalgam playlist through his phone speaker while trying his very best to focus.
Mingi had recently dyed his hair blonde with the aid of one of his odd Canadian friends and now, coming in from the storm, flakes clung to every long, honeyed lock, making him look soft and stupid pretty, and Hongjoong could have throttled him if he were any nearer. Annoying. He was very annoying. He was shrugging off his sherpa-lined jean jacket that always made him look like some kind of dorky male lead in a cookie cutter Christmas romcom and Hongjoong found that incredibly annoying, especially when Mingi turned his way to call an enthusiastic, “Hey, hyung,” broad palm waving and crooked teeth on smiling display.
He jerked his head in vague response and turned back to his book, looking at the same sentences and willing them to register to his brain, even though they had failed to do so maybe five times by now. Yunho and Mingi were carrying on loudly in the kitchen, something about lunch and Mongolian beef, the way that coating them in flour and frying them first made the recipe way, way better, according to Mingi, it had been so good the last time he’d tried it. Hongjoong readjusted his hold on the book with a frown, staring, focusing—
“Hyung, have you eaten?”
“Hm?” He looked up to see Yunho leaning over the breakfast bar, cheeks rosy and bangs pushed back from their face, while Mingi rummaged around in cabinets behind them.
“Mingi’s making lunch if you’re hungry,” they said.
He looked at his box of cookies, his half-full glass of water, back to Yunho, realizing it was really all he had eaten today, and shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
Mingi began unpacking ingredients, requested Hongjoong turn up his music, and sang along loudly to the Day6 album Hongjoong settled on as an agreeable soundtrack the whole time he cooked, while Yunho joined Hongjoong to gossip. Every piece of industry drama from Yunho made Hongjoong’s professional nightmares seem like bedtime story material; truly, nothing he dealt with, no picky clients or no-show stylist assistants, was anything in the face of authors faking their deaths and capitalizing on trends just to covertly peddle Shincheonji bullshit.
Unsurprisingly, his book was left abandoned on the side table.
Once lunch was done, Wooyoung joined them, and he and Yunho sat on one half of the sectional while Hongjoong shared the other with Mingi and they all watched an episode of a romance drama Wooyoung was into. They picked up from a few episodes in, and no care was given to fill in any past context, but that was fine; it was enough to occupy Hongjoong for the time being, as gear-grindingly heterosexual and melodramatic as it was.
One episode turned to two, and halfway through, Hongjoong took his restless hands and left the three of them to coo and yell at the screen while he tackled dishes. Eventually, Yunho and Wooyoung left to go get ready and when Hongjoong reentered the living room, after having scrubbed down the counters for good measure, Mingi had switched to some anime, something Hongjoong was sure he should recognize but had never watched himself.
He slumped into the back of the couch, knees achy and irritated from standing still for so long. Minutes later, when Mingi turned to look at him, he blinked his gaze briefly over and then back, watching the characters mill about in the pools of a hot spring, itchy with the unceasing scrutiny. Mingi broke his stare eventually, hands fidgeting peripherally, only to look right back, asking, “So, what are we doing tonight while those two are gone?”
Hongjoong turned to glance at Mingi’s soft baby-chick hair, the gleam in his eyes, the mole beneath one of them, the fine point of his nose, he did not look at his mouth, undoubtedly soft and pouting expectantly and very frustrating on the eyes; he bypassed that to drop his gaze to Mingi’s hands, then his own, and shrugged. “No idea. My thoughts arrived at ‘break out the edibles’ and stopped there.”
“Shit, I forgot you have weed,” Mingi gasped, his round eyes getting rounder, their shine more lustrous. “This is why you’re my favorite. Don’t tell Yunho-yah. It’s true, though.”
Hongjoong scoffed and shoved him with his foot. “Yah, quit it, Song Mingi. Lying like that won’t get me to share with you,” he grumbled.
“I’m serious,” Mingi asserted, grinning, sitting up from where he’d been pushed over. “And you were already going to, don’t lie.”
“Maybe,” Hongjoong said, “but don’t push it.” He fought against the smile curling his lips, but Mingi’s subsequent, throaty laughter wrenched away all the fight in him, bringing him to cross his arms over his middle and settle back once more in a semblance of retained composure.
Whether consciously or not, Mingi had shifted closer when he righted himself; his shoulder bumped against Hongjoong’s easily and his palm was tangibly warm even through cotton pants. “Ah, we’ll just see how things go, then,” he said, smiling and rubbing Hongjoong’s thigh like the most inconsiderate friend-you-shouldn’t-want-to-kiss in the world, like he didn’t care to consider the places where Hongjoong was sensitive, but mostly just like the easy, thoughtless way he extended affection to anybody. His hand lifted off eventually, back to fiddling with a bracelet he had slipped off his opposite wrist, and Hongjoong nodded, albeit belatedly.
Yunho and Wooyoung, cheekily citing a loss of the track of time, left around ten minutes later than intended, into the snow and final dregs of orange sunset. Hongjoong and Mingi had gotten through a handful of episodes by then, and he was admittedly decently invested, more so than he ever had been in things he caught bits and pieces of via Mingi’s will, though he was clearly missing a lot of vital lore. He didn’t watch a lot of television on his own, so it was fun. It was only when Mingi nudged their shoulders together again that Hongjoong broke from his focus.
“So, it’s just us now,” Mingi said, like that wasn’t the single most terrifying thing he could have said.
Ten minutes later, after they had ingested a combined half of a brownie, the power blew.
Jumping in his seat, Hongjoong exclaimed, “Son of a bitch.”
“Um…” Mingi said, “I don’t think this place has a backup generator…?” His eyes were detectably wide even in the darkness; Hongjoong looked from them out the wide window to their left, a wall-length portrait of the blustery conditions outside, billowing blurs of white against stark night clearer than before.
“Hold on,” he said, picking at a hole in the thigh of his sweats. “Maybe it just needs to kick in.”
“The appliances in the listing—”
“Shhh.”
A minute passed, then a minute more, and nothing happened. Sound stopped entirely between the two of them. Hongjoong trailed his gaze from the window around the living room, its bare walls cast dim, shadows smudged around every corner, everything utterly still. They waited. And nothing happened.
Hongjoong sighed. “Somehow, this is your fault.”
“What? How?!”
“I just feel it,” he grumbled, standing from his divot in the couch and twisting his torso, spine cracking loudly in the sudden quiet. All that remained in the wake of charismatic shounen voice acting and the gentle hum of electronics was wind beating at the walls of the house, his own breath, and Mingi behind him, inhaling, exhaling, sliding his bracelet back on, beads clacking against another. Whatever heat remained in the house would go soon; in a space this open, he could already feel a faint chill prickling his arms. Carless and halfway up a moderately sized mountain, there was nowhere for them to go, though. The neighbors were close enough that the outage would undoubtedly have affected them, too. Hongjoong resigned to simply take precaution, wait it out, and hope for the best. Stretching his arms, he turned to Mingi and asked, “You know if there’s any candles in this place?”
So they raided kitchen and bathroom cabinets, the dressers, and the hall closet, coming up with two cotton-scented jarred candles and an unopened pack of tealights, yet no tealight holders; they settled for lighting them in clusters atop ceramic plateware. Hongjoong had to fight Mingi, after an unbelievable amount of failed attempts with the matches, to just let him light them instead if they ever wanted to actually see, and Mingi whined at him but relinquished all the same, and seriously, dictionaries should feature his face alongside the word difficult. Despite all tribulation, soon enough, the place was considerably lit up—enough, at least, to not knee oneself on a table.
They then pulled excess blankets from their beds and those same closets and piled them onto the couch for inevitable future use. Hongjoong was pleasantly bundled in his hoodie and sweats set, a t-shirt underneath, and ankle socks, but Mingi was still in the jeans he had on since that morning, so he went, phone flashlight in hand, to change while Hongjoong texted Wooyoung to check in.
We’re fine!!! he sent back almost immediately, continuing on to tell Hongjoong that their restaurant still had power. A nearby resort hotel was offering temporary shelter to anyone who couldn’t or shouldn’t travel home through the storm, so they would be heading there soon, after finishing what he purported to be a magnificent dinner, perhaps boastfully. He was not unconcerned for their plight, however, earnestly telling them to stay warm, text if they needed anything, though who knew how long cell communications would last, Hongjoong lamented. Apparently, allegedly, though, power shouldn’t be out too long for anyone in the area. Hongjoong wasn’t optimistic, especially considering the information came from Wooyoung, but, true or not, there was nothing more he could do about it. With the comforting assurance of his friends’ safety, all there was left to do was spend the ensuing indeterminate stretch of time in near-darkness, high, and alone. With Mingi.
He could do that. He could totally do that.
Then Mingi trudged back in, wearing a baby blue pajama set that irritated Hongjoong so much he considered pouncing upon him like a provoked, feral cat, and he wasn’t so sure anymore.
He slid until his back was almost horizontal against the couch cushions, burying his face in his hands and letting them muffle his groan as Mingi sat beside him, close, smelling clean. “You okay, hyung?”
“Mhm.”
“Are they okay?” he asked, shifting in his seat, sounding almost amused.
“Yes.” He sighed, scrubbed his hands down his face to rest over his cheeks as he spoke. “They have somewhere to stay. Wooyoung sends his sympathy. Said the dinner was nice and whatever.”
Mingi nodded in his periphery. “Good to know.”
Hongjoong glanced over and saw him smiling, small but there, looking right at him already. “What?” he asked, dropping his hands to cross over his chest.
“Nothing, just,” he laughed a little, in that high-pitched tone that always came out when under the influence. “Nothing. Nothing. We should find something to do.”
Hongjoong hummed in vague affirmation. His mind quickly cycled through typical options—all infeasible with the situation’s limitations—before remembering that the owner of the place listed a supply of board games in their amenities tab. He considered it a bit lame at the time—what kind of adult would be itching for some Chutes and Ladders when the place came with a Netflix account—but now, he had exhausted all other options, and he thought he had seen a stack of them in the cabinet underneath the television.
Tonally tasting defeat, he relayed the idea to Mingi, who, with another light laugh, expressed his approval and made his way over to crouch by the TV stand. Taking sufficient effort to stand, Hongjoong joined him, pretzeling his legs beneath himself and assessing each game Mingi pulled out with mild, scowling disinterest, passing them along and waiting for the next.
What most excited Mingi seemed to be a plain old deck of cards, held up in his hand next to a sweetly crooked smile, and Hongjoong scowled deeper as he asked, “Do you know how to play Bullshit?”
“You can’t do that game with two people, silly, it doesn’t work,” Hongjoong said, haughtily placing down a box he had been scrutinizing that looked like it hadn’t been opened since the nineties. “It doesn’t work, you just, you know the other person has all the cards you don’t already. Gets boring after, like, the first round. Think of something else.”
Mingi nodded. “Okay, okay,” he said, “uh, Go Fish?”
“Really?” Hongjoong’s brows arched. “Really. Go Fish?”
Mingi was already standing and pulling the deck from its box, a soft-smudged and looming figure in the flickering candlelight. “Do you have any better suggestions?”
Trying as he did to wrack his brain, Hongjoong came up empty. He didn’t know a lot of card games—again, adult with much better methods of entertainment at his disposal. If he had known this trip would end with him and Mingi getting stuck in the middle of a blizzard together, maybe he would have studied up, but it was nice, sometimes, to go into situations without first accounting for every possible disaster. Never again, then.
He sat beside Mingi, this time on the floor in front of the couch since there was no table to set their cards on. The quiet itched at him more and more with every passing minute, not even any monotonous, guaranteed background noise to soothe him, no ASMR-worthy rhythm to the falling of this precipitation. He reached over to slide his phone down off the couch where he had left it, squinting at what felt like blaring brightness to see where the day of distracting himself via Sudoku had left his power. Just above halfway down, luckily enough. He knew he should have conserved it, but he also knew he would turn into a very actually mean version of himself left understimulated, and so he opened a streaming app.
Mingi, having shuffled the cards and begun to deal their respective hands, noticed his course of action and said, “I packed a portable charger if you need it. Also,” he set down the final card, Hongjoong’s seventh, “please don’t play any Taylor Swift.”
“You dick,” Hongjoong said, swiping his arm vaguely in Mingi’s direction yet ultimately hitting nothing. “I wasn’t going to, anyway.”
“I just know you always get into her shit, like, an unreasonable amount this time of year,” Mingi reasoned, brows set in a sincere, determined line. “I had to protect myself.”
“Protect this dick,” Hongjoong grumbled. He pressed play on a Se So Neon album that he had actually been playing an unreasonable amount lately and slid his phone off to the side so it wouldn't be too loud, too close. He pulled a blanket from behind him on the couch, then, soft and woolen, and wrapped it around his shoulders, warm air having mostly diffused from the space by now.
As he spread the rest of the deck into an amorphous pile between them, Mingi remarked, “I didn’t know you listened to them,” with a jerk of his head towards Hongjoong’s phone.
“Yeah, you told me I should,” Hongjoong said. He grabbed his set of cards. “Um,” he cleared his throat, “how do you play this again?”
Mingi fell over with his consequent bout of laughter.
They figured it out quickly enough, and even though Hongjoong’s entire body felt like a pot of hot soup, thick and liquidy and boiling over every time Mingi failed to curb the impulse to hit his thigh in frenetic amusement, every time the light hit him just right and rendered him in painterly view, Mingi didn’t seem much more coordinated, either, which was comforting. Their first two games lasted them through the length of the album, and Hongjoong didn’t bother moving to change it when it started playing similar, algorithm-suggested tracks, letting whatever run while they went into another game, then another.
With their fifth game upon them, Mingi had the sudden realization they hadn’t eaten since lunch, and the subsequent one that they would have to make do with pantry perishables. Standing and shivering in the candle-flicker of the little kitchen, they soon realized that wasn’t much.
“Wait a minute,” Mingi said, around when Hongjoong was starting to consider eating the raw onion Wooyoung had left on the counter, “this is a gas stove. I could cook something. Something… something…” He looked back into the cabinets they had already thoroughly perused, eyes squinting. “Something. What do we have.”
Hongjoong shrugged. “Jjajangmyeon.”
“Jjajangmyeon it is.”
They pulled out more packages than they reasonably needed, which was exactly what they needed, really, with Hongjoong’s hunger-and-weed-addled brain bringing him to salivation at the mere sight of the dried noodles. He sat atop the breakfast bar as Mingi worked, legs folded under him and blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, head bobbing slightly out of time with whatever song was filtering through the quiet.
Mingi was capable in the kitchen even while half faded and with little light. Part of Hongjoong’s brain reasoned that the instant noodle process was one of such practiced muscle memory to anybody that his prowess begot no praise; the other part was preoccupied by the sight of him, pink-faced from the heat, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and falling periodically, yes, but it was additionally nice to watch his hands push them back up.
They ate on the floor too, talking and laughing over the steady beat of the music while Hongjoong gradually closed the gap between them. Mingi never minded. Hongjoong was always the problem, being so particular with physical contact, preferring to initiate so he could set and maintain his own boundaries and extract himself from the situation when needed. Settling too long made him itch, restriction made him panic like prey bound, having to voice things like please leave my neck and ears alone, no, not even in a fake-reluctant way, I’m serious made him feel stupid; it was stupid. He was that friend. The can’t-express-affection-without-shriveling-up friend. The one you were hesitant to land a reassuring hand on, who ran on anxiety towards how he came across and if he didn’t appear so constantly cold and uncaring.
If drugs made Mingi giddy, though, they stirred in Hongjoong an avarice for affection, manifesting in searching hands and the not-very-subtle bestowing of his body weight upon whoever was nearest. Especially Mingi, though, like a primal brain urge had washed away all reservation and self-preservation instincts. It became so easy to just give in to that urge, lean in, broadcast enjoyment in clear language. Besides, he reasoned, even beyond the demolishment of his reasoning skills, it was cold. Wasting all that body heat would be more foolish than not.
By the time they both finished eating, he had an outstretched leg thrown over one of Mingi’s and a big hand in between both of his to hold and fidget with. They shared a blanket, or two, or three, soft fabrics blending together over his lap and shoulders, thick and pleasant with their weight. He watched with dazed interest as Mingi dabbed jjajang sauce from the corner of his mouth. In the sparse lighting he almost seemed to glow, with his downy-looking hair, the wet of his full lips, and soft satiation on his features. Stupid pretty. If not for the sludge-feeling constricting his muscles, Hongjoong could have tackled him then.
He didn’t remember when they had cleaned up or decided to sleep, but when he woke, he felt all compressed and stable and warm, strangely, and there was, to his sleepy dismay, an insistent knocker terrorizing the door of their rental.
He rubbed his eyes and went to sit up but found his body wouldn’t budge—and of course, things got even worse, they could only ever get worse for him; his entire life would upend by the end of the week at this point. Most of his body was pinned down by Mingi’s, an easy feat given their disparity in size, and being faced with that knowledge so directly stirred hot irritation through him, steam rising in his core and curling around his lungs, right in his chest where Mingi’s blonde head laid restfully. He was going to do something very, very irresponsible and friendship-ruining if they stayed like this much longer, with Mingi’s stomach pressing down against his crotch and long, long legs stretched out between his, toes just brushing the couch’s armrest. He couldn’t yet say whether that something skewed violent or more towards waking Mingi up with a big, stupid kiss on his big, stupid mouth, but either way, he needed to keep his cool, and he needed to get up because whoever was outside their door was not letting up.
“Mingi,” he said, gentle before he remembered himself, repeating louder, “Mingi-yah.” He placed a hand on Mingi’s shoulder and shook firmly. “You’ve gotta let me get up.”
No sign of life. Not even a noise. Even an unconscious Mingi was dead set on inconveniencing him.
“Minnnnnnn-giiiii-yah.”
His brow twitched, head rubbing over Hongjoong’s sternum the slightest bit.
“Mingi,” Hongjoong said, patting him with force now. “Let me go.”
“Why.”
His voice was all thick, globs of honey spinning into the mire of Hongjoong’s boiling liquid self, smeared in a way that meant he likely wouldn’t remember any of this later. Hongjoong sighed. “I need to get up. Somebody’s at the door.”
“Don’t need to,” Mingi reasoned, his arms shifting where they were trapped beneath Hongjoong’s torso. “They’ll just go ‘way.”
Hongjoong said, “I doubt that,” cringing at the rate and intensity of the sound. They didn’t even know anybody in the area; Wooyoung and Yunho had a key to get in if they had gotten back, too, so whoever it was and whatever their purpose, it was probably important. His crawl into wakefulness had at last brought with it the awareness of the house’s eerie quietude: no humming fridge or buzzing wires. Beyond the shared heat suffusing him, layered in Mingi and multiple blankets, the air was cold, too. However long they had slept, it had not been enough to outrun the outage. “Seriously, Mingi, I can’t—” he squirmed— “I need to move.”
Mingi heaved a big, bleary breath, and Hongjoong didn’t want to think about the fact that Mingi was right up against his heart, every sharp beat and spike and stutter, as Mingi craned his neck to look up at him. One of his broad, bodywarm palms wormed its way free to pat thoughtlessly over Hongjoong’s cheek, preceding an, “Okay, hyungie,” that landed like a rock to an exposed eye. He leaned on that hand as he pulled the other one out and slid back to sit on his heels, rumpled in baby blue, downy blonde and pink cheeks and squinted eyes, falling on his side against the armrest so he could curl up again, and Hongjoong’s life was upended already, in perfect, unfathomable, speedrun-record time.
He pulled his legs in and sat up quickly now that he was freed. Two feet on the ground and a cursory bit of post-couch-sleep stretching later, he was shuffling down the hall towards the door, wrapping his arms around his midsection to shake the nascent chill.
Beyond the door was the bright, brilliant white of a snowy morning, pulling at the threads of his already shoddy composure with its harsh reach, and a woman around his height, maybe taller, in a dark green parka. She looked to be about the age of Hongjoong’s mother, with short, stubbornly ungreyed hair and prominent crow’s feet. As Hongjoong fit himself into the gap of the open door, she bowed and said, “Hello, sorry to bother you. You all still don’t have power, yes?”
“Ah, yeah,” he answered, rubbing his face and willing the light to be less of a bother. “Since last night.”
“Ahh, I figured as much,” she said. “Ours has been out too. I’m the neighbor next door to this property, I don’t know if you’ve seen me around? My husband and I have lived here for a few years now.”
Hongjoong may have seen her getting into her car when they had arrived, he wasn’t sure, but either way, he nodded. “Sure, yeah, um,” he rubbed his arms, “is there something I can do for you?”
“Right, well,” she started, smoothing down the side of her bob cut, “we’re heading to the community center down the road to get out of the cold. They have heat and power there and they’re letting people wait out the outages and whatever’s left of the storm for now. They’ve done it for any major storms in the time we’ve lived here. They’re good people. Anyway, there’s room in our car if you want to tag along.”
Something snapped in him at the generosity, like the glass in a glow stick breaking to set the whole thing alight, relief flooding through him, though hesitant. “Room for how many?” he asked. “I have a friend in the house with me.”
“That’s fine!” she assured, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s a five seater, four is no problem.”
“Ah, thank you so much, um…”
“Miyoung.”
“Miyoung-ssi.” He returned her smile, powering through the shiver that wracked his body via sheer hope. “Thank you, really, thank you. Um,” he laughed, “do you want to come wait inside for a bit? I may have to wake my friend up.”
She followed him in the door, kicking off snow-crusted boots but leaving her coat on as she shuffled behind him down the hall. As predicted, Mingi was still slumped on his side, but it took only a few shakes to the shoulder to rouse him.
“Hey, Mingi,” he said, crouched to his eye level, “we’re gonna go somewhere that has power. Come on.”
From the look of him, it didn’t seem like he had understood a syllable of that sentence, but he nodded anyway, pushing himself to sit up, and Hongjoong retracted his hand and stood. Mingi greeted Miyoung with inarticulate words and a thoughtless wave, bringing that hand then to rub both of his eyes, shaking out his bedhead. This was one of the many ills of the proximity the trip had brought upon them: morning Mingi, undone and barely there, adorably askance with his naturally pouty qualities dialed up a degree. Even provided with the lengthy slumber he required to be human he never woke quite too well, always mumbly and slightly offended that he had to be awake at all. Hongjoong was glad they had gotten that part mostly out of the way before allowing Miyoung in, but Mingi still appeared weary, surely worse by the second as the cold sank in.
The sudden shame of being witnessed while definitely looking for too long struck him—stupid, stupid, both of them—and he signaled to Miyoung that he would only be away for a minute before exiting the room. First a stop to the bathroom, lit in its windowlessness by his waning phone’s flashlight, then to grab a few essential items from his room, including warmer socks, which he pulled up over the hems of his sweats.
By the time he got back, Mingi was gone. Miyoung was staring out the window; it had stopped snowing at some point, but winter wind still whipped through the trees and spurred waves of snowdust from their branches.
Shrugging a coat on, he asked, “Do you know if there’s any cell service?”
She turned to him with a hint of bewilderment in her eyes. “I wouldn’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t had to try and reach anyone. If it’s out here, there’s still wifi at the center, though.”
He hummed. “Okay, that’s good. Thanks”
“I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve noticed you two coming and going with that other couple,” Miyoung said, which took Hongjoong by surprise. He had specified that he and Mingi were friends, and around other queer people, sure, they would easily catch on to how close Yunho and Wooyoung were, but anybody else was a gamble between not noticing or being too uncomfortable to acknowledge it at all. Slowly, he nodded. “I assume it’s them you’re trying to reach? Do you know where they are?”
“Ah,” he breathed, shivering, hearing the sound of Mingi closing the bathroom door from the hallway. “Last we heard, they were at dinner and everything was alright for them. They mentioned going to some resort? Um, a resort hotel? It was giving stranded people shelter.”
Wind rattled the windows. She inclined her head. “I’m glad they’re okay, then.”
“Me too.”
Mingi shuffled back in, still in his pajamas but looking slightly fresher and with his coat slung over one arm. He dug his phone from between the couch cushions and slid that along with his portable charger into the jacket’s inner pocket before putting it on, and Hongjoong wanted to growl, bury himself in the snow and stay there, squeeze Mingi until his eyes bulged out of his head, anything, because if seeing him in that jacket and those sleep clothes separately was difficult, this was enough for his teeth to hurt where they clenched down.
Adjusting his collar, Mingi asked, “We good to go?” and Hongjoong just nodded, turning to leave the house first.
Even with sufficient observation of and mental preparation for the wind’s effect, the conditions outside were less bearable than he had anticipated. His nose and ears were decently red by the time they got to Miyoung’s sedan, grey and idling at the end of the shared driveway with a short-looking man bundled in the passenger seat. Hongjoong expressed sincere gratitude and repentance for having kept them waiting, but Miyoung waved him off like the uber-generous winter godmother of rescue she was, and introduced the two of them to her husband, Gongchan, who was unexpectedly incredibly excitable. The weather seemed no deterrent to his mood, even as they had to drive slowly to descend the peak they were atop, and he cranked the radio volume high; there was a stack of CDs in a box attached to the center console.
They made small talk on the way over, Gongchan asking where they were from, were they enjoying the visit, had they seen Odaesan, and Hongjoong learning that he was a dentist, while Miyoung illustrated for children’s books, and then both of them were very interested in hearing about shoots he had done. It was nice. Things may have been terribly derailed for them, but they could have been worse, and these strangers were evidence of that, and Mingi was singing under his breath when he wasn’t having his own minimal say in the conversation, low and warming as much as the car’s heating.
It took a careful twenty-or-so minutes for them to reach the center, outside of which a woman and two small children were presently walking their way up, all connected by held hands. Hongjoong stepped out and shivered, Mingi stepped out sniffling, hovering close to him, and they both allowed their companions to lead the way through the barely abated breeze. Inside the building was even warmer than the car, with a number of people displaying varying levels of residual chill hanging about, chattering steadily, many of them sipping from steaming paper cups.
“Thank you again,” Hongjoong said as Miyoung and Gongchan set to depart from them, clearly spotting familiar faces among the fray.
“Yes, thank you, really, I don’t know what we would have done without you two,” Mingi emphasized, smiling crookedly.
The two of them smiled in return, twin statures stuck closely together in cutely matching coats. “Of course,” Miyoung said. “We’ll find you two again when we know power’s back, okay?”
With a nod and a bow from each of them, Mingi and Hongjoong turned to locate an empty spot to sit, preferably along a wall, they both agreed, for hopeful outlet access. Two corner chairs nearby a group of raucous older men were the best they could find, and Mingi sat down to text their group chat while Hongjoong went off to acquire some coffee.
Most people in the center were in some sort of sleep-or-lounge-wear as well, with many pajama pants or sets to be seen, some folks in fleece-looking nightgowns, some, as he was, opting for hoodies or sweaters and sweatpants. The woman at the front desk and the two volunteers handing out coffee and snacks looked the most put together in their casual workwear, sweaters and jeans and long skirts, all smiling brightly despite the no doubt overwhelming scenario. Hongjoong just bowed and grabbed two cups to fill, one with additional vanilla creamer for Mingi, and weaved his way back through the throng, past wound-up, wandering children and groups of people playing cards to pass the time. He had to laugh. The whole thing was strangely charming.
“They’re okay,” Mingi said as he was approaching, setting his phone on the arm of his chair to accept the proffered drink. “Thanks. They’re still at that hotel, everything’s been going okay, minus Yunho’s neck suffering from sleeping in a hotel armchair.” He was grinning, wide and still a little sleep-soft. “The place was letting people have breakfast and everything, too. Crazy.”
Hongjoong hummed. “They have food they’re offering over there, if you’re hungry,” he shared, settling back into his chair. “I think it’s from the convenience store across the street, but it’s better than nothing. And free.”
“Ah,” Mingi nodded, “good to know.” He took a sip of his coffee and sighed.
He couldn’t say what drove him to such an admittance, but Hongjoong was quick to add, “Nothing as good as what we’ve had the past few days. I’ll miss that when we leave.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Mingi’s eyes were wide when he looked over, lips pursed over the lid of his cup. Steam left the skin of his nose a little damp, a little flushed, and his hair had been smoothed into something more presentable by way of snuck glances in the rearview mirror. Hongjoong extended a lazy hand to hit at his arm. “You’re a really good cook, you know. It honestly surprised me.”
Shaking his head and lowering his cup, Mingi laughed, “Hyung, I know I’ve cooked for you before.”
“Yeah, but,” Hongjoong started, “I don’t know, that was ages ago, I think. You’re, like, good good now. You know fancy European recipes and shit.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to try new things for myself,” Mingi reasoned with a single-shouldered shrug. “Having greasy takeout for dinner half the week isn’t as fun when you’re alone. It just feels kind of sad.”
“Yah, Song Mingi, what are you trying to say,” Hongjoong accused, leaning back to size him up, eyes squinting.
Mingi froze, stuttering before easing into a laugh, cadenced and chesty. “Come on, hyung, you know what I mean,” he said, taking another sip and swallowing wetly. “Not—like—ah,” he stopped and shook his head. “Why are you so difficult?”
Hongjoong’s laughter had reached its own peak, delighted, tumbling giggles that made him feel light and too-warm. As he wiggled out of his coat, he said, “Please, you’re one to talk.” Mingi scoffed at that, downing some coffee; Hongjoong picked his own cup back up and drummed his fingers along its outside. “Has it been hard being alone, though? I don’t think you and Yunho have ever not lived together since I met you,” he mused, “until now.”
“A bit,” Mingi said. “It’s mostly just weird to not have someone to talk to all the time. But I do appreciate not having to hear them yelling at dudes on League all the time.”
“Oh, Christ, I get that,” Hongjoong sympathized wryly.
Things between them fell mostly silent then, with Mingi soon downing his coffee and eventually leaving to get more, along with a handful of onigiri that he offered to share. The bustle of the full space got to Hongjoong soon enough, a head-pounding cacophony, and he stuck his earbuds in as he sat back, eyes closing, music at significant volume. There was, again, not much more to do than wait.
He didn’t realize he had dozed off until Mingi was shaking him awake with a big palm on his arm, eyes wide when Hongjoong blinked his face into view. Swallowing in an attempt to curb his dry mouth and willing his heart to relax, Hongjoong pulled an earbud out and asked, “What?”
“Hyung,” Mingi said, parted lips easily revealing that too-long front tooth of his, stupid endearing, “come see the snow with me.”
“What?” Hongjoong repeated, pausing his music and taking out the other bud. He scrubbed his palm over both eyes, letting the situation and environment re-register to his brain, not entirely addled, but a bit fuzzy.
“The snow. We should go out and see it,” Mingi said. He was leaning both forearms fully onto the armrests separating them. “It started up again, like, ten minutes ago.”
Hongjoong sighed. “Oh, great.” Canceled plans and time stranded away from the comfort of their accommodation was exactly what he had been looking forward to this week. Hand running up through his hair, he asked, “Why do you need me to go out into the cold with you?”
“Oh!” Mingi exclaimed, reaching for his discarded jacket, slung over his chair’s opposite arm. “Well, I mean,” he said, hand dipping into a side pocket, “it would be nice, for a bit. It’s pretty. We’ll get out of the noise.” When he turned back to Hongjoong, his expression was even brighter than before, annoyingly pleased, hands toying with something Hongjoong couldn’t see. “But, um, I got you this. I know it’s—I mean, it’s nowhere as good as the one you have, but…”
He held out a disposable film camera. Hongjoong could practically feel the size of his heart swelling.
“I just—” Mingi scratched the back of his neck, watching Hongjoong take the camera from him— “I know you wanted to take pictures while we were here. It isn’t the best camera, but Yunnie and I stopped somewhere on our way back yesterday—I figured it’s better than nothing.”
“No, Mingi, I really appreciate it,” Hongjoong said, reaching out to place a hand over Mingi’s. “Really, I do.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he lifted his head from the camera in his hand to look at Mingi. If the mild daze he felt showed on his face, he couldn’t care. “It is better than nothing. Thank you.”
Both jacketed once more, they headed out of the center and into the snowy street. The wind had lessened and a steady barrage of snowflakes was falling, not enough to obscure visibility completely, but a lot, still. He had never been good with the cold—neither of them were, now that he thought about it—but there was a certain enchantment to this sort of weather—a stilling, encompassing force, subjugating the world entirely to its whim. Even in a banal, suburban setting, it affected beauty on the landscape before them. He had been looking forward to photographing it for a reason.
He let Mingi walk ahead of him while he hung back and considered what to capture with the shots he had; more than that, perhaps, what to capture at all, because there was not much to be seen out there but lifeless storefronts and, well, Mingi.
Presently, he was standing in the middle of the empty street with his head tilted towards the sky and his tongue stuck out of his mouth. So annoying. It would be just like him to do something juvenile like that. Hongjoong raised the camera to his eye, making sure Mingi’s frame was fitted within the viewfinder, and snapped a shot. He couldn’t even say how well anything he took would come out with the density of the snow. Time would tell, but now, he could only give in to creative, or lovelorn, impulse and hope for the best.
He backed up a bit to get a shot of the adjacent convenience store, glass walls glowing with fluorescence through the wall of white, snowflakes collected atop the raised signage; he then crossed the street to get a similar shot of the community center. Memories, or something, whether fond or not. Ways to look back on this whole thing in a few months or years and laugh. Those were good to have.
Standing in the middle of the road, he took a shot in one direction and then turned around to do so in the other, catching Mingi standing a few meters away, perfectly center, face raised still but mouth closed now. His eyes were closed, too. A dusting of snow was quickly accumulating on his hair, face, and the surface of his jacket, white sherpa and blue denim, faded near the elbows from wear. Gorgeous, angelic, romcom love interest supreme.
Hongjoong’s own story was one of pure comedy. Maybe something like an old style cartoon, with him as a salivating, lovestruck wolf, eyes widening to dinnerplate size every time he caught a glance of Mingi, the unattainable sex-on-legs figure who would spare nary a glance his way. Look, here, see him making a fool of himself at every turn. See him run face-first into a pole in his path. See his heart beat right out of his chest.
He raised his camera to take the shot. It was too nice to miss.
“Hey,” he said as he approached Mingi, jogging carefully over the layer of snow that had covered the previously plowed road. “You wanna walk around a little? There’s not much to shoot here. I could at least get different buildings a street over or something.”
“Sounds good,” Mingi said. He shook out his hair and brushed moisture from his face and then they set off, no aim in mind, ambling past dimmed buildings.
He stopped a few times to take some pictures, mindful of his limit and considerate of what was worth capturing. A quaint couple of buildings, barren yet laden trees, a wicked set of icicles, Mingi, again, and again. The neighborhood was silent save wind, emptied of other pedestrians or cars, affecting a strange feeling to the day: comforting solitude, stillness that was a rarity for him. He and Mingi walked in relative quietude, kept company by occasional sniffles, the crunching beneath their shoes, and, simply, each other.
Eventually, Hongjoong realized the footsteps beside him had disappeared, and he turned to see Mingi crouched by the side of the road, hands messing around in the snow.
“What are you doing?!” he called, to which Mingi’s head shot up, eyes round, stupid big lips parted. He waved Hongjoong over enthusiastically, and Hongjoong went, though slowly.
Mingi was packing snow into a small sphere on the ground when Hongjoong stopped beside him; the skin of his ungloved hands was deep red, likely numbing. “I’m making a snowman,” he declared. “Can you snap a few twigs off a tree branch?”
Hongjoong laughed, crouching down a moment to inspect Mingi’s work. He had gotten to work on the snowman’s head, shaping a smaller amount of snow into another sphere diligently, briefly glancing sidelong at Hongjoong, wide smile, pink cheeks. “Twigs?”
“Twigs,” Mingi parroted, nodding, fitting the soon-to-be-head atop the body. “For his arms. And face.”
“Okay.” Hongjoong stood, located the nearest tree, and made his way over. Mingi called through the little distance to remind Hongjoong he would need around four, maybe five, and Hongjoong’s affirmation was exasperated but still he followed suit, reaching up to a low-hanging branch and snapping off some smaller protrusions.
He returned with hands laden and even colder than before. Mingi immediately stuck one stick each into either side of the body, angled classically outward, affording the tiny snowman an excited demeanor even in his present facelessness. Hongjoong stayed standing, hands shoved in his coat pocket where he had stocked hand warmers, watching as Mingi broke a branch into four semiequal pieces to create something of a smile. With a few others left in his hold, he took a second to deliberate over how he would execute the eyes; ultimately, he ended up breaking a twig in half, splitting the half into quarters, and placing those two pieces vertically as equal-sign-smiley-face-esque eyes. It was amusing to watch his big, pawlike hands move with utter precision and handle such miniscule materials, putting the utmost care into his impromptu creation, smoothing out the sides, shaping the snow around its base.
The whole scene was so cute it made Hongjoong feel sick, even more so when Mingi stood, stepped back, and said, “He’s perfect. Look at him. Look, hyung.”
“I see him,” Hongjoong assured. “You did a good job.”
“Fucking hands are freezing now,” Mingi whined, like it had never occurred to him that would happen, because of course it wouldn’t, and Hongjoong had to laugh; as he was wiping wetness off onto his pants, Mingi added, “Can you please have some sympathy.”
“You brought this upon yourself,” Hongjoong admonished, but he was pulling the hot packs from his pockets and pulling Mingi’s hands towards him, a pack placed in each, his own hands atop those, then.
Mingi huffed, breath leaving his nose in clouds, and took a few steps closer. “Like you don’t know what it’s like to suffer for your art,” he said indignantly.
“Right, right,” Hongjoong laughed, gladly carrying on, “this is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen. Truly your magnum opus.”
Mingi hummed, and that was that, leaving them to swing their heating hands in silence, snow falling over them and everything around them, homes and shops and little schools, the community center, their rental miles away, the hotel that Yunho and Wooyoung were at, probably, too. And among it all, the encompassing chaos and chill, was him, shivering but warm in his chest and where he was connected to Mingi, who he could feel trembling, but stood still anyway, just being there, with him, in rough weather.
It was strange to have such grand feelings now, even stranger when Mingi suddenly said, “Hongjoong-ah.”
His irritation flared at that, all aggression with no cushioning cuteness modifier, and he shot his head up to say, “Yah—”
“I really wanna kiss you right now.”
Grand feelings grew grander, and he almost felt his heart stop, recoiling to release a breathless, “What?”
Mingi looked down at their hands, still joined, then back up at him, wearing one of those stupid smiles, supple lips and paired crooked teeth and everything else about him that annoyed Hongjoong to high heaven. “I want to kiss you,” he said. “Can I?”
Hongjoong properly stepped back now, hand warmers left with Mingi. “I…” he started, attempting to swallow his disbelief, yet it came up anyway: “Yeah? Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” Mingi laughed, depositing the hot packs into his pockets, hands going to fidget with the edges of his jacket, then. “Because you’re cute. I—I don’t know how anyone could manage to get snowflakes on their eyelashes, but of course, you would, and it makes you look like a little winter fairy. And I like how into it you get when you’re taking pictures.” He scratched at the base of his neck. “And I’m trying to really go for things I want, if that means anything.”
Every breath felt arduous; how could Mingi just say this shit so plainly; how could he so wholly and continually upend Hongjoong’s life like that? “Things you want?”
“Mhm,” Mingi affirmed, and he was being stunningly patient through Hongjoong’s difficulty and bewilderment, Hongjoong almost could have cried, maybe keeled over right at Mingi’s feet because he was so good, so precious and kind, blunt and too goofy for his own good sometimes and unexpectedly sensitive, tall and unreasonably pretty and of course Hongjoong wanted to kiss him. “Why deny myself potential happiness, you know. Even if things don’t work out, having closure is better than sitting around and doing nothing and wondering, you know.”
“Yah,” Hongjoong said weakly, “Song Mingi. What are you trying to say.”
Smiling again, a little flustered, Mingi shrugged. “That one of us had to make a move sometime. And I’m fine with it being me.”
Hongjoong really could have melted, face practically warm enough to combat the cold, heart a hummingbird thrum in his chest, Mingi’s gaze unflinching where it met his. “Yeah,” he managed, intelligently, “yeah, yeah, of course,” and every moment that led up to him kissing Mingi was ice-clear: wiping his clammy palms on his jacket, stepping forward as Mingi did, too, pushing up onto tiptoe and grabbing his shoulders, feeling Mingi’s hands settle on his waist, nudging Mingi’s face with his nose until, finally, their mouths were pressed together.
He slid further up and in to Mingi, feeling wounded, cracked in two and held together only by this contact, Mingi’s lips on his, beneath nipping teeth, nose denting Hongjoong’s cheek and hands broad on his lower back, warmth developing between the two of them even as they shivered. One of them broke it soon enough, and Hongjoong stole one more kiss, chaste and gentle, before letting his head drop to Mingi’s shoulder, right between his own arm and Mingi’s neck as it pulsed with his heartbeat, soft and there, skin cold to the touch like Hongjoong knew his was, too.
Mingi brought a big hand up to push Hongjoong’s head back, cupping his face, leaning in and kissing him again. His smile bloomed against Hongjoong’s mouth, a full and brilliant thing when they pulled back enough to look at each other, and Hongjoong was so, so gone, because what kind of grown man got butterflies over a crush, and who called them butterflies, and who called it a crush, even? He needed to disappear already. Let the wind take him, for all he cared.
Instead, he said, “You know, this jacket always makes you look like a stupid romcom character.”
Eyebrows arching, Mingi pulled back to glance down his front, then up at Hongjoong. “Does it?”
“Yeah,” Hongjoong said, lowering onto his heels because it hurt to stand like that for too long, annoying, annoyingly tall boy, stupid boy that he liked so much. “Like some homegrown small town love interest in a movie about how the true meaning of Christmas is love, or whatever, and you seem like such an unattainable golden boy but your secret is that you were orphaned when you were a kid and you need someone to teach you how to be loved again.”
“That’s really specific.”
“Yeah, you catch a lot of those when you work with your TV on random stations at odd hours of the night,” Hongjoong said. “Anyway, it pisses me off.”
“Huh?”
Gaze trained on the collar of the jacket itself, he nodded. “It’s so cute, I just wanna, like, bite you. And shake you around. Like a little squeaky toy.” Shame flared and he hid his face again, over Mingi’s chest, with his own arms hanging limply around his shoulders still. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
Mingi’s laughter rumbled pleasantly through them both, his hand soothing circles over Hongjoong’s back. “It’s okay, hyung,” he said. “I get it, kind of. I mean,” he sniffled, “I like you a lot, too.”
Hongjoong just nodded, skin brushing against snow-dampened denim.
He would have liked to say that fate turning a kind eye on him meant miracles were possible; he would have liked to say that, upon returning to the community center, they received news of their restored power and could get out of there and he could attribute the outcome to the enduring Christmas romcom power of love. He was counting his blessings as it was, though, slightly anticipatory of the other shoe dropping to bring him back down to reality. As much as things may have played out in successively eerie good fortune, he was no romcom protagonist. He wasn’t a comedic punching bag either, really. Real life was much more mundane.
What did happen was this: they walked back, Mingi only releasing Hongjoong’s hand from its entwined position in his pocket when photographic inspiration struck (he did, of course, document Mingi’s snow-son), and when they got back inside, their previous seats were occupied, so they grabbed some coffee and found an end of a couch to sit on, staying close for the warmth, of course. Mingi texted with Yunho about how things were going for them both, kiss omitted by Hongjoong’s request, because he so badly wanted to see Wooyoung’s face when he found out and Yunho could not well keep things from him, seriously, Hongjoong emphasized, they’re impossible. People talked, and sang, and corralled their children and played games that they invited the two of them to join, nearly cliche in their geniality, even as Hongjoong failed entirely to understand the rules.
The day steadily waned and Hongjoong dozed off eventually, head resting against Mingi’s shoulder; Mingi ended up following suit not long after. They woke later to the smell of soup, hot and aromatic throughout the center’s common space, and Hongjoong graciously accepted a bowl for each of them from the workers that had prepared it—dakgomtang spooned over rice. It was exactly what the weather necessitated, a simple comfort, fulfilling every corner of him and soothing his worry somewhat in its nourishment.
While temporary sleeping arrangements were being laid out for the rest of the sheltered citizens, their nap and meal had left the two of them rather awake. They huddled under a blanket with an earbud in each and resorted to watching YouTube videos of people raising tadpoles, suggestion courtesy of Mingi, who made care to intermittently nudge him and deliver mumbled fun facts, chuckling when Hongjoong teased him for being so into this shit, like, what kind of nerd was he getting himself involved with. When their capacity for those ran out, Hongjoong wiggled his head free from the blanket’s confines and took one of Mingi’s big hands in both of his, urging Mingi out as well, grateful for the relative seclusion their corner afforded him to speak just above a whisper.
“This week has been fun,” he said, like a secret set free. “I’m glad they made me come along.”
“Believe me, so am I,” Mingi said with a little smile. “I don’t know how long I could have lasted without someone to keep me sane whenever those two left me alone. Or while third wheeling. Can you imagine?”
Feigning dramatized sympathy, Hongjoong responded, “Terrible. Just awful.”
“I don’t know what would have been worse, actually,” Mingi mused, then shook his head, as if to dispel. He placed his free hand over their entwined three, rubbing momentarily before pulling it away and into his lap. “But, yeah. It worked out well that it ended up being you.”
There was a single bulb lit in a far corner, along with the distant fluorescent of the hallway leading to the bathroom and dim reflections from snow filtering through the windows, none of it much to see by, but enough for Hongjoong to make out Mingi next to him. He appeared irrationally handsome even while so fuzzy, sweetly smiling and relaxed, his blonde hair ruffled against the backrest. Hongjoong had a leg slung over one of his where it was folded up onto the cushion and he didn’t have to think anything of the contact, really, not with Mingi being so patient and kindly understanding, happy just to be near to him, tucked cozily into the corner of some place in an unfamiliar town, surrounded by unfamiliar folk, awake past one in the morning like Hongjoong knew Mingi was often not.
Come to think of it, the only times he could remember Mingi breaking his bedtime routine so drastically was during video call sessions with him, rambling while he edited photos or hacked away at pieces of clothing while Mingi laid with a pillow under his chin and droopy eyelids, mostly just listening, laughter intermittent and low through Hongjoong’s shitty speaker. He always started slipping off on call but insisted on staying, no matter how long it had been, how tired he was, or how strongly Hongjoong compelled him to sleep.
Hindsight may have been infinitely more clear, but really, he should have noticed a while ago; Mingi was serious after all. He really was his favorite.
He knew he was smiling stupidly right now, but for it to dim he would have to uproot the fondness branching through his body, and he hadn’t the tools for the task. His hands were busy, anyway. “Yeah,” he said, properly lacing his fingers with Mingi’s, “I agree.”
“Fuck, yes!” Wooyoung shouted, arms in the air akin to how he acted watching football matches. Startled, Hongjoong recoiled, exchanging wide-eyed looks with Mingi; he knew Wooyoung had been rooting for them, but surely not this fervently. “This was my plan all along, fuck, I can’t believe it actually worked out.”
“Your plan? Don’t just steal credit from me like that,” Mingi protested. “I made this happen.”
Loudly, Wooyoung shushed him, properly abandoning the clothes he was folding to gesticulate as he spoke. On the floor next to him, Yunho was shaking their head but grinning still, busied with their own packing. “No, no, no, we knew you’d need someone to keep you company this week, and, like, Sannie was an obvious choice, so was Yeosang, in like a best-friends-trip kind of way,” Wooyoung explained, “you know.” The look he was leveling the two of them with fell just short of wild. “So Yunnie and I discussed that, but I, like the good and wise friend I am, realized this was the perfect opportunity to force you two to spend time one-on-one. There you go.”
He looked supremely pleased with himself, tight-lipped smile rounding out his cheeks, and Hongjoong was torn between succumbing to hysterical laughter and reaching out to flick him on the forehead, really hard, just for good measure.
Mingi beat him to any possible response. “Sure, okay,” he started, looking wearily to Yunho, who just shook their head again, brown bangs bouncing puppylike. “It’s not like you caused the outage, though.”
“Unless you have evil weather controlling powers,” Hongjoong grumbled.
“Evil?” Wooyoung sneered. “You literally got a boyfriend out of this whole mess. I think you suffered the least out of all of us.”
Hongjoong did flick him now, leaning off the edge of the bed to direct the impact of his fingers right to the center of Wooyoung’s forehead. He relished in the offended yelp that followed. “It was cold. You guys had working heat the whole time. Mingi and I had to huddle together for warmth here.”
“Like that was so bad for you,” Yunho commented, and as Mingi and Wooyoung broke into laughter, Hongjoong stood to get them, too.