Work Text:
Junmyeon stared at the chipped clay mug wistfully.
It had been a shared project between him and Sehun. Junmyeon had been more than a little clumsy and impatient with the clay, how it would dig into his nails, his lips jutted out in a frustrated pout as he’d tried and continuously failed to get it to look the way he’d wanted it to.
“Hyung, you’re such a perfectionist.” Sehun had tsked good-naturedly, taking over the wheel. His long, slim fingers, much to Junmyeon’s surprise, shaped the clay with ease. “You don’t have to get everything right the first try.”
What was initially a shared project ended up being Sehun making him a clay mug as he watched from the side, witnessing how the early afternoon light spilled into the studio, onto the tables of clay and brushes and the planes of Sehun’s face, features sharp but expression soft as he worked diligently. It was early spring, a little cold but the sun provided ample warmth into the studio anyway. Junmyeon wondered through the seasons how he’d managed to grow right under his nose.
As Sehun sliced the thread through the clay and gingerly lifted the mug, he chanced a glance at Junmyeon — at his intense yet dazed eyes, and meets it, snapping Junmyeon out of his trance.
“Do you want to do the handle?” Sehun asked, making a move to hand the mug over. Junmyeon scrambled to hold it steadily, straining as he placed it on the plate.
He’s looking at him expectantly, and the weight of it is heavy, for some reason. He stared down at the clay mug — it’s hardly a mug, a work in progress, and he looks back up to Sehun—
Sehun is looking at him so tenderly, a smile on his face as he anticipated Junmyeon’s next move.
He felt clumsy again, handling the clay with trembly hands. It’s not lost on him how nervous he’s being, how he feels like a newly birthed calf on shaky legs learning how to walk, and as he pressed the clay handle onto the delicate surface of the mug, he accidentally dents the rim beneath his fingertips. A flaw in Sehun’s otherwise flawless creation.
“Ah,” Junmyeon faltered, another pout on his face. Sehun’s laugh rang clear, though, hearty and whole, spreading warmth throughout Junmyeon’s body. It bloomed small and tentative within him — he wasn’t as hopeless as he’d thought.
Junmyeon stared back at the mug now, glazed and fired and finished. The small dent a piece that chipped off as it shrunk and baked.
He thought about Sehun, with all the grace he had in sculpting. With his crescents for eyes as he laughed at Junmyeon, and the feel of their hands touching as they pressed the handle into the clay.
That day it finished baking, Sehun had handed it to him with a small, proud smile, unbothered by the imperfections. “We worked on that. It’s cute.”
Maybe Junmyeon didn’t have to be perfect to be loved, either.