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Faith, they say, is Abraham asked to slaughter
his boy on a mountaintop. But sometimes
it’s just the peeling shed in gray weather,
the leather harness softened, then gone rough.
All day today the back pond will teem with carp.
The clover will brighten. For now we lie together
into late morning. Some days, it is enough.
They wake up together. The curtains neither of them had bothered to shut yesterday let in the glow of morning, and Minho thinks Seungmin is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
His vision is still fogged by dreams that have wandered just past his reach, taking residence not in his memory but somewhere adjacent, leaving fingerprint sensations on his soul along the way. This vignette of Seungmin is metamorphic and Minho is a man remade.
Seungmin’s eyes are irradiated by the sunlight, rendering the precise brown an indescribable shade. Minho, a mere mortal, will try anyway. Seungmin’s eyes are the twin iced americanos he brews each morning, carried in matching mugs, a half orange hand painted on each. Seungmin’s eyes are the honey-gold of his voice, the one that leaves Minho’s heart raw and cheeks salty. Seungmin’s eyes are the allaying words he layers over Minho until they seep past bone into marrow, like the chamomile tea he seeps on long nights.
When Seungmin’s eyelids flutter, they fan life into the universe, into Minho. Their bodies are pressed together and in each inch of contact he can feel the thrum and flow of Seungmin’s blood. He’s so alive. Minho’s own pulse works to resonate.
Aristotle believed that, drawn to the center of the universe, everything eventually comes to rest. The more pragmatic world has long outpaced Aristotle, but Seungmin and Minho’s bedroom is homage to a more romantic time. Perhaps no one values Aristotle’s work anymore because they never saw it in action. But, Minho does. Minho can feel it. What is the center of the universe if not their bed with Seungmin in its embrace? The thing is creaky and old and they had been so focused on fighting over the Ikea manual that one leg had ended up a half inch too short. There is nothing else in this world quite as worthy of being an universal polestar. One day, the both of them will come to rest here.
The bed groans when he shifts, already anticipating the marble weight of lovers petrified by age. Today, however, he can still fight the consuming pull.
They rise.
Their mornings are well practiced and begin with a quiet tussle for house slippers. Despite the fuss he had made purchasing his own slippers (Minho recalls how Seungmin had ribbed Jeongin into “putting his hours of mobile gaming to use” to help Seungmin maximize the chances of snagging his coveted limited edition Pochacco slippers), he seems to have decided he prefers Minho’s old pair. Today the battle ends in a draw; they shuffle to the bathroom together in mismatched footwear.
In all their time together, Minho has never seen Seungmin skimp on his dental routine. He loves Seungmin though, which is why he doesn’t think ten minutes is a little excessive to spend on oral care.
In any case, it gives him more time to watch. Seungmin is swaying slightly, humming to himself as he lays out Minho’s skincare products; he must be almost done monopolizing the sink. The bathroom vanity is far too small to accommodate two fully grown men, making the system they’ve developed very necessary.
(Seungmin giggles as he reaches over to float his hand over Minho’s head. “Hyung, fully grown?”)
Theoretically, whoever reaches the bathroom first gets first use of the sink. In practice, all Seungmin has to do is look at him with those eyes–half orange, salt, chamomile tea–and Minho is folding embarrassingly fast. Besides, he knows Seungmin delights in lining up all of Minho’s creams and serums in the correct order of use (Minho doesn’t even know when he memorized that) before rushing to have Minho’s coffee made just as he steps out the bathroom.
Breakfast is a peaceful affair. The front burner on their old gas stove has been broken for months, and it hasn’t yet become a large enough inconvenience to fix. The back cooktop works just fine anyways. Minho scrambles a few eggs and plates it with some strawberries and a quartered orange. Seungmin is decidedly unhelpful throughout the whole process, so Minho dumps his portion onto his own plate instead.
Unbothered, Seungmin only scoots his stool closer to Minho and waits expectantly. And what is Minho to do, let the dumbass starve? Seungmin had clearly orchestrated this anyway, seeing as there's only one fork on the table.
They eat together, Minho taking control of the fork and alternating between feeding Seungmin and himself. Every once in a while, Seungmin reaches over to grasp a strawberry, taking a bite before presenting the other half for Minho. It’s so stupidly impractical and utterly romantic and when Seungmin grins at him around a forkful of eggs, red-tainted fingers resting on Minho’s own, he feels his entire heart lurch. It’s a heady feeling, invigorating as if he’s been drinking ambrosia and not Seungmin’s americano. The room is full of resin, and Minho is both a hapless fly and a happy fool. It’s unfairly awful, the prospect of leaving this amber-filled sanctuary.
The morning must end, however. But he still has Seungmin by his side.
They head out together.
Minho returns alone.
It’s dark inside. Seungmin must not be home yet.
It’s tiring and frustrating to be outside in this confusing, unfamiliar world. The day carries the weight of several years and settles heavily into Minho’s bones. The comfort of the apartment smothers over him like an old quilt on a winter night: staving off the chill but rendering him stuffy and restless. But the quilt stays, maybe because Minho is sentimental or maybe because it was made by someone special. Maybe both.
He feels the draw again. It tells him to crawl into their shitty bed in their shitty shoebox apartment and never resurface. He can’t rest though, not yet.
Instead, he starts on dinner. The kitchen is dark as he moves around, the effort required to turn the light switch just too much. Besides, he knows where everything is just fine. He finds what remains of the kimchi Seungmin’s eomma had brought over a few weeks ago in the back of the fridge; it’s enough for tonight, but they’ll have to get more soon. Minho mourns the loss, the grocery store stuff is never as good as kimchi homemade.
He works a little harder tonight to drag the knife across tofu, pork belly, and onion. It’s been getting dull and Minho keeps forgetting to have it sharpened.
Minho moves through the kitchen slowly. The room has become filled with amber, intent on hindering Minho’s every effort. When everything has been transferred into the pot, he takes a moment to just stand and feel the buzzing in his head synchronize with the hum of the exhaust hood. He gets lost in it a little, letting the resonation take over and dictate the laborious functions of his heart and lungs.
When the buzzing relinquishes control of his organs, he finds the lights have been switched on and Seungmin has taken his place before the stove.
Seungmin’s body twists towards him, “It’s almost done,” he says, soft and pretty.
The words startle Minho into action. Seungmin is watching the stove which means he should set the table. Everything is still fuzzy and distant, but it’s less unsettling with Seungmin here.
The bowls his hands settle on are painted the most god-awful shade of blue. Minho hates them. They have nicer dishes; had received a rather pretty set from Chan when they moved in together. Minho doesn’t know why he keeps using the blue ones.
“Let's eat dinner, hyung,” Seungmin calls, drawing his attention back to the dining table. He looks at Seungmin. His hair is a little disheveled and despite the gentle smile gracing his face, his eyes are heavy with weariness. There is a splash of soup on his shirt from the five minutes Minho had left him unattended with the kimchi jjigae.
Minho is so, so fond of this clumsy, tired man.
“Ok, Kim Seungmin. Let’s eat.” While he portions out the soup, Seungmin disappears back into the kitchen, returning with rice held in their nice, pretty bowls.
Seungmin talks softly as they eat. A story about some cat he’d seen on his way home that Minho only half-listens to. Instead he basks under the gaze of Seungmin’s eyes–half orange, salt, chamomile tea–until he’s sticky with honey and his bitterness is tolerable once more.
Minho sets down his chopsticks. “I had coffee with my cousin today. She got engaged, wants us at the wedding.”
“Oh.” Seungmin replies, voice neutral, “I’m happy for them.” They've had this conversation a million times.
“Married, Seungmin, they’re getting married,” Minho repeats. He’s aiming for calm but it comes out a little pitchy. Suddenly he’s desperate to know that Seungmin understands.
“I know.”
“I just wish-” Minho swallows. “Maybe we could, you know, maybe it could be us.”
“I know, Minho. I know. I want it too. So much.” Seungmin’s voice is tense but firm. It doesn’t matter. Minho knows Seungmin. He can hear the longing and hunger that Seungmin keeps restrained just the same. It affects him just the same.
“Maybe someday, yeah hyung? We can, in the future.” Minho knows Seungmin, and he knows Seungmin isn’t an optimistic person. Isn’t one to make false promises. But he sounds so sure when he speaks, so hopeful.
Minho doesn’t know what gives him such conviction. What part of Minho is worthy of such faith.
“Do you think there's another universe? One where we’re something real? One where we can, like, get married for real? Instead of just…” Minho trails off. Instead of just what? Boyfriends? Partners? They’re only just Seungmin-and-Minho. They’ve never given it a real name.
Sometimes he wishes they could at least call it something real, even just within their own apartment. Sometimes he thinks if they did the dichotomy would kill him.
“This is real,” Seungmin pleads, “I’m sorry.”
Seungmin covers Minho’s hands with his own. It’s his Seungmin. His beautiful, steady Seungmin with broad shoulders and a tendency to apologize for the unchangeable. He thinks Seungmin is worthy of his faith.
It’s late. They do the dishes together. Wash up together. The evening passes by silently.
Seungmin is lying by his side in bed, jaw traced by the faint glow of moonlight, when he reaches for Minho’s hand.
“Believe in me. Believe in us. Please,” Seungmin whispers softly.
And he does. He believes in Seungmin.
It’s not something he’ll ever have. Seungmin-and-Minho don’t exist outside the safe haven of their apartment, but there’ll never be anyone else for Minho anyways. There’s just so much of what his childish, irrational heart wants that he doesn’t get.
What he does get is ugly blue bowls with paint that will chip until there’s no blue left. What he does get is tomorrow when Seungmin will labor over his knives until they’re all sharp again. What he does get is late mornings spent at the center of the universe.
Maybe someday. Or maybe this is enough.
They wake up together. Bed. Bathroom. Kitchen.
“Hyung.”
Seungmin hands him a coffee.
What a blessing. What a beautiful burden. Minho will be ok, if only to carry all his love for Seungmin.