Work Text:
❤❤❤
The dorm was wrapped in the deep, muffled quiet that only settles long after midnight. Every sound was amplified. The hum of the refrigerator, the creak of a floorboard down the hall. For Yunho, the silence felt heavier than usual, pressing down on his shoulders as he padded down the familiar hallway.
He’d passed the others’ doors, knowing that behind them he’d find sympathy, but he’d still have to perform some version of being okay. With Mingi, he didn’t have to perform anything. He could just be.
Inside, the room was cast in a warm, soft glow from a lamp on Mingi’s bedside table. It pooled on the rumpled sheets and caught the edges of the comfortable chaos of his creative process. A notebook, a tablet, a crumpled hoodie. Mingi was sprawled across his bed, propped up on his elbows. He was wearing a pair of thin-framed glasses that sat slightly askew on his nose, his focus entirely on the phone in his hands. A low, muffled beat bled from the headphones resting loosely around his neck. It was a scene Yunho had walked in on a hundred times before.
He knocked lightly on the doorframe, a soft, two-rap cadence that was their unspoken code.
Mingi’s head snapped up, startled. He pushed his glasses up his nose as his face broke into a wide, unguarded grin.
Yunho felt a matching smile tug at his own tired lips. He cleared his throat, the sound intentionally loud in the quiet space. "Yo," he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble that was layered with a deep-seated weariness. "You gonna ignore me all night for that phone?"
"Yunho-ya, you scared me!" Mingi exclaimed, pulling his headphones off completely and letting them drop onto the comforter. His grin didn't falter. "I'm in the zone, man. This verse is fire."
He felt a spark of his usual energy return as he stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. The soft click of the latch sealed them in, shutting out the rest of the dorm and creating their own private bubble. The air inside smelled faintly of Mingi’s cologne and clean laundry.
"Fire, huh?" Yunho countered, the mischievous glint in his eyes sharpening. "Bet I could distract you from it. Come on, Min, take a break."
Mingi looked up at Yunho. "You think you're more interesting than my rhymes?" he retorted, his voice a playful drawl. "Big talk for a tired-looking pretty boy."
Yunho’s control, usually reserved for leading practice or managing the group’s morale, now asserted itself with a playful dominance. “You owe me a break, Min,” he said, his voice low but firm, a stark contrast to their earlier teasing. “Been carrying the team all day.”
Mingi raised an eyebrow, the smirk on his lips widening. The challenge was accepted. “Oh, the big man needs a break, does he?” he shot back, his tone laced with amusement. “Alright, what’s the plan?” This was why he’d come here.
Yunho’s lips curled under the familiar heat of their banter. His gaze swept the room before landing on a pair of oversized foam finger toys from a recent fan event, discarded on Mingi's desk. An idea sparked. He snatched them up, the foam squeaking softly in his grip, and tossed one to Mingi, who caught it with a puzzled look.
“Game time,” Yunho declared, a mischievous glint in his eye. “First one to ten points wins. Loser owes the winner a favour.”
Mingi looked down at the foam finger and then back at Yunho, a grin spreading across his face. “Okay, I’m in. But what’s a point?”
“A point is…” Yunho pretended to think, tapping his chin dramatically. “A clean tap on the shoulder. One point.”
“You’re making this up as you go along,” Mingi accused, though he was already getting into a playful crouch.
“My game, my rules,” Yunho shot back with a wink.
The match began in a flurry of hushed, chaotic energy. The space was tight, forcing them into close proximity as they dodged and weaved around the bed. The only sounds were the soft thwack of foam, their muffled giggles, and whispered insults. Mingi, with his quick reflexes, managed to land the first two taps, his deep voice rumbling with a triumphant, “Too slow, Yunho-ya!”
On the third rally, just as Mingi lunged forward, his foam finger aimed perfectly for Yunho’s shoulder, Yunho sidestepped and held up a hand. “Wait! New rule!”
Mingi froze mid-lunge, his brow furrowed. “What? You can’t just...”
“A tap on the head is worth three points!” Yunho declared, and in Mingi’s moment of confused hesitation, he reached out and gently tapped the top of his head. “That’s three for me. Score is three to two.”
Mingi’s jaw dropped in mock indignation. A dramatic pout formed on his lips. “Hey! That’s cheating! You can’t just change the rules to benefit yourself!” he whisper-shouted, swatting Yunho’s arm with the foam finger, not for a point, but in pure protest.
Yunho just laughed, a low, breathy sound. “I told you, my game, my rules.” He loved this, the way Mingi got so genuinely, theatrically pouty. It was one of his favourite things.
The rule change made the game more intense. Now they were aiming higher, their bodies brushing and bumping against each other constantly. After a particularly wild swing from Mingi, he stumbled, and the soft thump of his hip hitting the desk sounded deafeningly loud in the quiet dorm.
Yunho froze instantly, his eyes wide. He reached out, grabbing Mingi’s arm to still him, and brought a single finger to his lips. His head tilted toward the wall they shared with Seonghwa’s room, every muscle tensed as he listened.
Mingi understood immediately, his body going completely still. They stood there for a long moment, not moving, barely breathing, their chests pressed together in the middle of the room.
It was a familiar proximity, the kind they found themselves in countless times while monitoring choreography or whispering in a crowded green room. Yunho could feel the steady, reassuring thrum of Mingi's heartbeat against his own. After a few seconds of uninterrupted silence, Yunho let out a slow, silent breath, a look of relief passing between them before he broke the stillness.
“Okay, new rule,” Mingi declared, seizing the opportunity. “A tap on the knee is five points.”
“Fine,” Yunho agreed instantly, a dangerous smirk on his face, “but you have to get to my knee first.”
This new rule was their undoing. The game devolved into a clumsy, tangled mess of limbs. They were no longer trying to score points but were simply wrestling playfully, grabbing at each other's wrists and trying to trip each other up. The foam fingers were all but forgotten as Yunho used his height to try and pin Mingi, who used his sturdy strength to resist, their laughter becoming harder to suppress. It was this final, chaotic tangle that sent them tumbling sideways, collapsing onto the bed in a heap.
When their laughter subsided, the energy in the room shifted. The playful chaos evaporated, leaving something heavier and more potent in its wake. They were a mess of arms and legs, Yunho partially sprawled across Mingi’s chest, their faces inches apart. Mingi’s deep, steady breathing was a warm puff of air against Yunho’s cheek. The air grew thick, charged with the familiar, unspoken chemistry that always hummed just beneath the surface of their friendship.
Yunho propped himself up on an elbow, his eyes locking with Mingi’s. The teasing glint was still there, but now it was layered with something more deliberate, more intense.
“Told you I’d win,” Yunho breathed, his voice a low, husky murmur that was just for the two of them. “You’re not getting out of that favour.”
"Win? We were tied, you cheat," he retorted, his voice equally low. "But I’ll give you the favour… if you admit you just wanted an excuse to tackle me."
A low chuckle rumbled in Yunho’s chest. “Maybe I did,” he admitted, his voice laced with fond amusement. He pushed himself up and rolled off Mingi, flopping onto his own back with a sigh that was equal parts exertion and relief.
They settled into the mattress. The silence that fell between them wasn't empty; it was a soft, weighted blanket, thick with years of unspoken understanding. It was the quiet of the van after a long schedule, the hush of a hotel room in a foreign city. There was an unspoken treaty in this position, staring up at a nondescript ceiling: all guards down, all pretences dropped. A lazy heat bled from Mingi’s side, warming the small channel of space between their arms. It was the perfect confessional, with the shadows on the ceiling as their priest, a space where words could be offered up without the weight of meeting an expectant gaze.
Yunho was the first to speak, his voice soft. “They had us do that one transition in ‘In Your Fantasy’ seventeen times today.” The complaint was small, mundane, but it was the tip of the iceberg of his exhaustion. “The camera director kept saying my angle was off. By the last take, I think my smile was painted on.”
Mingi snorted softly beside him. “Don’t even get me started on that guy. He has a personal grudge against my left side. Every time I turn, he’s yelling about shadows.” He paused, and his voice, when he spoke again, was lower, more serious. “At least I’m allowed to look annoyed. It’s part of my ‘charm’ or whatever.” He turned his head on the pillow to look at Yunho’s profile. “It’s worse for you. You have to keep that million-dollar ‘Energiser Yunho’ smile plastered on even when you want to tell them to shove it.”
That was it. That was the thing. It wasn’t just a shared complaint; it was Mingi seeing the specific weight that only Yunho carried. The pressure to be the unwavering, positive force. Hearing it acknowledged so plainly, so effortlessly, made something in Yunho’s chest unclench.
He felt a wave of gratitude so potent it made him move. He rolled onto his side to face Mingi, the mattress dipping with his weight. As he settled, his arm naturally draped over Mingi's side, his hand coming to rest gently on his waist, just above his hip. It was a place his hand had been a hundred times before while guiding a dance move, but this was different. There was no choreography here. His thumb began to trace slow, idle circles against the soft fabric of his t-shirt, a quiet, possessive rhythm.
Now they were looking at each other, the warm lamplight catching in Mingi’s dark eyes.
“You noticed that, huh?” Yunho asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Mingi gave a small, lopsided smile, his gaze unwavering. “I always notice, Yunho-ya.”
The words hung in the air, a soft, perfect truth. A long, slow breath eased out of Yunho’s chest, a sigh of surrender. He relaxed more fully into the mattress, into the quiet space they shared. The air between them was warm, smelling faintly of Mingi’s shampoo, something clean and sweet, like green apples.
“It’s not just that,” Yunho admitted, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the space between their pillows. His thumb, which had been tracing circles on Mingi’s waist, stilled. “There’s that magazine shoot next week. The solo feature.”
Mingi waited, his gaze patient, letting Yunho find his words.
“The concept they sent over… It’s a lot,” Yunho continued, a note of unease creeping into his voice. “Leather, mesh, that wet-look hair. They want 'fierce,' 'unapologetic.' I can do that on stage, you know? It’s a performance. It’s for a three-minute song. But a photoshoot… it feels more permanent. Like you’re supposed to be embodying that feeling, not just acting it out. And I just…” He trailed off, frustrated with himself.
As he spoke, Mingi’s expression softened. He shifted closer, his own hand coming up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from Yunho’s forehead. The touch was light, a silent punctuation mark in Yunho's confession, but the warmth of it remained, a tiny ember against his skin.
“You’re worried you can’t pull it off?” Mingi asked, his voice a low, steady murmur.
“No,” Yunho said, shaking his head slightly. “I’m worried it won’t be… me. That I’ll just look like I’m trying too hard.”
Mingi was quiet for a moment, his fingers now idly tracing the line of Yunho’s jaw, a mirror of the gesture Yunho had been making on his waist. “So don’t try,” he said simply.
Yunho looked at him, confused.
“Don’t try to be ‘fierce’ like you think they want,” Mingi explained, his eyes clear and direct. “They didn't hire a model; they hired Jeong Yunho. They already know what you look like. Your 'fierce' isn't like mine, all loud and in-your-face. Yours is quiet. It's in the way you hold yourself, the way you can command a whole stage just by looking at the camera. You don’t have to put on a show.” He leaned in a fraction closer, his voice dropping. “Just be you. Let them try to capture that. I promise you, they won't be able to look away.”
The words landed like a balm, soothing an anxiety Yunho hadn't even fully articulated to himself. Mingi wasn't just offering a generic platitude; he was showing him a mirror of his own strength, a strength he sometimes forgot he had. The simple, repetitive motion of Mingi's fingers on his skin became a grounding comfort. This was it. This was the recharge. The easy complaints, the shared annoyance, the deep, unwavering understanding. It was the complete lack of pretence, the feeling of being fully, completely seen.
The last of the tension drained from Yunho’s body, leaving only a profound sense of gratitude. The knowing look in Mingi’s eyes held him captive, and Yunho let out a slow breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.
“I’m glad I came here,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. The confession felt heavy, more vulnerable than complaining about a camera director. “I don’t think I could’ve faced my own room tonight. Too quiet.”
Mingi didn’t offer platitudes or easy reassurances. Instead, he acted. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he shifted, rolling onto his back and creating an open, inviting space beside and slightly on top of him. His hand, which had fallen away, came back to rest on Yunho’s hip, giving a gentle, insistent tug. It wasn’t a question. It was a command, a quiet, “Come here.”
Yunho didn’t hesitate. He let himself be guided, moving with the pull until he was half-draped over Mingi’s sturdy frame, his head finding its natural resting place in the warm, soft hollow of Mingi’s neck and shoulder. He was enveloped. The world narrowed to the solid rise and fall of Mingi’s chest beneath him, the scent of his skin, and the steady, grounding beat of his heart drumming softly against Yunho’s ear.
He breathed in deeply, Mingi’s unique musk filling his senses, and his lips brushed, feather-light, against the sensitive skin just below Mingi’s ear. It was an accident of proximity, a consequence of his sigh.
But then Mingi responded. A soft shiver traced its way through him, a barely perceptible tremor that Yunho felt in every point of contact between their bodies. Mingi’s head tilted, a minute, silent gesture that bared the line of his throat, granting access, giving permission.
That was all the invitation Yunho needed. It felt just like it did in the practice room, when Yunho would physically adjust Mingi’s form, his hands on Mingi’s waist or shoulders, guiding him through a difficult move. Mingi never resisted; he would just go pliant, his body trusting Yunho’s lead implicitly, letting Yunho position him exactly where he needed to be. This was the same. The same silent permission, the same unwavering trust. It was a dance they’d always known the steps to.
There was no hesitation. Yunho’s hand slid from Mingi’s hip, up his side, his fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He leaned in again, and this time, there was no accident. He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the spot his lips had grazed before, lingering, tasting the salt and warmth of his skin.
The kiss lingered, a warm pressure against Mingi’s skin. Yunho didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the moment stretch, mapping the new territory he was claiming. This was what he needed. Not just the comfort, but the ability to take it, to lead them into this space and feel Mingi yield to him completely. He pressed another kiss, firmer this time, to the pulse point just below, feeling the frantic beat against his lips.
A soft, shaky breath hitched in Mingi’s throat. His fingers, which had been resting loosely on Yunho’s back, clenched, gripping the fabric of Yunho’s shirt. That was it. That was the signal. The silent, undeniable permission that Yunho had been waiting for, the proof that this dance was a duet.
Emboldened, Yunho’s exploration grew more possessive. He traced a slow, wet path with his tongue along the line where Mingi’s jaw met his neck, learning his taste. He followed it with a gentle suckle, a quiet act of claiming that was both a question and a statement. The sound was shockingly loud in the silent room, a stark contrast to their hushed laughter from moments before.
Mingi’s response was immediate and visceral. A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest, a noise of pure, unguarded pleasure. His grip on Yunho’s shirt tightened, his knuckles pressing into Yunho’s back as he arched ever so slightly, seeking more pressure, more contact. His free hand came up, not to push Yunho away, but to tangle in his hair, cradling the back of his head and holding him firmly in place.
He was giving everything. Trusting Yunho completely.
The raw, tangible proof of Mingi’s enjoyment was the final piece Yunho needed. He trailed a final, soft kiss up to the sharp angle of Mingi’s jaw and then paused, pulling back just enough for their eyes to meet in the dim light.
And in that shared gaze, a thousand unspoken conversations passed between them. There was no surprise in Mingi’s eyes, only a deep, unwavering recognition. A quiet "finally."
Yunho had always known there would be a ‘when’ for them, just not the ‘how.’ He’d imagined it in a rush of post-concert adrenaline, or maybe fueled by too much soju after a hard week. He had never, in all his imaginings, pictured this. This slow, quiet slide from one kind of intimacy into another, as natural and easy as breathing. It was infinitely better.
His free hand came up, the one that wasn't tangled in Mingi's hair, and cupped his cheek. His thumb stroked over the smooth skin, a tender, grounding gesture. Mingi leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as he let out a soft sigh. Keeping his palm gently against Mingi’s cheek, Yunho used his fingertips to slowly slide the glasses from his face. He carefully placed them on the bedside table, the small click of the frames against the wood the only sound in the room. When he returned his gaze to Mingi, his eyes were open, unguarded, the invitation clear.
Yunho closed the final inch of distance, capturing Mingi’s mouth with his own.
The first kiss was soft, a question and an answer all in one. It was a gentle press of lips, hesitant for only a heartbeat before melting into a slow, deep exploration. It tasted of familiarity and discovery, a conversation they’d been having for years, finally given a new language. Yunho’s hand remained on Mingi’s cheek, his thumb stroking.
Mingi’s hands, which had been tangled in Yunho’s hair, slid down to grip his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. The kiss deepened, growing hungry. Yunho’s tongue swept against Mingi’s, and the soft, guttural sound from before returned, a vibration that Yunho felt all the way to his core.
They broke apart, but only for a breath. Their foreheads rested against each other, lips still tingling, still brushing with every slight movement.
“You taste like that peach soda you’re obsessed with,” Yunho murmured, the words a low rumble against Mingi’s mouth.
A soft, breathy laugh escaped Mingi. “I had one before you came in,” he admitted, his voice husky. He didn’t pull away, just tilted his head and captured Yunho’s lips again, the kiss sloppier this time, more urgent.
This was the rhythm of their dance. A heated kiss, a moment to breathe and touch, and then back again. Yunho’s hands began to roam, rediscovering what they already knew by heart but had never felt like this. He slid one hand down the strong column of Mingi’s back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his palm, before letting it settle low on his waist. He allowed his fingers to dip lower, cupping the firm, round curve of Mingi’s ass through his sweatpants. He’d playfully smacked it a hundred times during practice, but this, this slow, possessive squeeze, was entirely new.
In response, Mingi’s leg hooked around Yunho’s hip, pulling him into the cradle of his thighs. Yunho groaned into the kiss, a sound of pure appreciation for the strength he could feel even through the layers of cloth. He’d always admired Mingi’s thighs, the power they held on stage, but feeling one lock him into place like this was a revelation.
He shifted, using his leverage to roll them slightly, pressing Mingi more firmly into the mattress beneath him. He was still leading, still guiding their choreography. As they moved, Mingi’s oversized t-shirt rode up, and Yunho’s questing hand found the prize. A sliver of smooth, warm skin just above the waistband of his sweats.
The contact was electric. His fingers splayed against the bare skin of Mingi’s hip, tracing the dip of his waist. It was the first true skin-to-skin touch of the night, and it felt more intimate, more earth-shatteringly real, than any of the kisses that had come before.
That first touch of bare skin was an anchor, pulling them from the frantic heat into a slower, deeper current. The kisses continued, but their urgency bled away, replaced by a languid, thorough exploration. They were no longer ravenous, but savouring. Yunho’s lips moved from Mingi’s mouth to his cheek, to his temple, mapping him with a gentle reverence.
He felt the shift before he saw it. Mingi’s responses grew heavier, his kisses softer, his body melting more fully into the mattress. The hand that had been gripping Yunho’s side went lax, sliding down to rest limply between them. A soft, sleepy sigh escaped him, his head lolling back against the pillow.
Yunho pulled back, his own desire still a potent thrum beneath his skin, but a stronger, more familiar instinct took over: the need to care for Mingi, to ensure he was safe and comfortable. He looked down at the man sprawled beneath him, his face peaceful in the dim light, and a wave of profound tenderness washed over him.
“You’re falling asleep on me,” Yunho murmured, his voice a soft tease.
Mingi’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused. “Mmm, s’comfy,” he mumbled, his words slurring slightly. He made a weak attempt to shift, tangling himself further in his own shirt. “Too hot, though.”
“Here, let me help.” Yunho sat up, gently manoeuvring Mingi with him. “Arms up.”
Mingi complied with a sleepy, trusting obedience. Yunho gathered the hem of the t-shirt and pulled it up and over Mingi’s head, their movements slow and practised. But as the fabric cleared, revealing the familiar, broad expanse of Mingi’s chest, Yunho’s breath caught. He’d seen it a thousand times in changing rooms and after practice, but it had never looked like this. It had never been his to look at, to touch, in this context. The soft glow highlighted the gentle curve of his collarbones and the strong lines of his pectoral muscles. It was beautiful. It was his.
A shiver ran through Mingi in the cool air, and it snapped Yunho back to the task at hand. He tossed the shirt aside and, without a word, swung his legs off the bed. For a brief second, a flicker of uncertainty crossed Mingi’s sleepy features, a silent question of ‘where are you going?’.
Yunho answered it immediately. He shucked off his own jeans, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and slid back into bed, now just in his t-shirt and boxers. He reached for the duvet tangled at the foot of the bed and pulled it up over both of them, cocooning them in warmth.
The unspoken question was answered. I’m not going anywhere.
He settled behind Mingi, his body naturally curling around the other’s back. He drew Mingi in against his chest, one arm wrapping securely around his waist, the other tucking under the pillow beneath Mingi’s head. It was the perfect fit. Yunho buried his face in the soft, clean hair at the back of Mingi’s neck, inhaling his scent. He felt Mingi relax completely into the embrace, a final, contented sigh escaping him as sleep finally claimed him.
Here, in the quiet dark of Mingi’s room, wrapped around the man who was his anchor and his release, Yunho finally felt his own emotional tank overflow. He listened to the sound of Mingi’s deep, even breathing, the steady rhythm a grounding force in the silence.
His mind replayed the night, not with the frantic energy of a new memory, but with the slow, easy satisfaction of a puzzle piece clicking into place. There had been no shock, no jolt of surprise. It had felt less like a leap and more like the next logical step on a path they’d been walking for years.
He thought of all the moments that had led them here, the thousands of casual touches that were never just casual. The hand he’d place on the small of Mingi’s back to guide him through a crowded airport. Mingi falling asleep on his shoulder in the van, his full weight a trusting burden. The way they’d end up on a couch watching a movie, a comfortable tangle of long limbs that felt more natural than sitting apart. Each one had been a quiet negotiation, a silent agreement that this, this closeness, was theirs.
It wasn’t that they had been fighting it. There was just never the time, never the space. Their lives were a relentless forward motion of comebacks, tours, and recording sessions. There was always another schedule to prepare for, another stage to conquer, another flight to catch. The roar of their career always drowned out the low, constant hum of whatever existed between them.
But tonight, the exhaustion hadn't been a barrier; it had been the key. It had stripped away the performance, the pressure, the noise, leaving only this fundamental, quiet truth.
Yunho tightened his arm around Mingi’s waist, a small, possessive gesture in the dark. It wasn’t a grand, cinematic moment. It was just a Tuesday, after a long day. And it was perfect. He closed his eyes, not with a feeling of finality, but with a quiet sense of rightness, letting the steady rhythm of Mingi’s breathing pull him into sleep. The hum had finally become the whole song.
❤❤❤
The first thing Yunho became aware of was the stripe of pale morning light cutting across the room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The second was the solid, warm weight of Mingi still curled against him, his breathing a deep, steady rhythm that Yunho had apparently synced his own to during the night. He felt… settled.
He lay there for a long time, watching the light crawl across the wall, content to just hold Mingi, to feel the simple reality of him in his arms.
Eventually, Mingi stirred. He made a soft, sleepy sound, nuzzling his face deeper into Yunho’s chest before his eyes fluttered open. He blinked a few times, his gaze hazy and unfocused until it landed on Yunho’s face. A slow, lazy smile spread across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the softest, most unguarded expression Yunho had ever seen on him.
“ Morning,” Mingi mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
“ Morning,” Yunho murmured back, his own voice a low rumble.
Mingi shifted, propping himself up on one elbow just enough to lean in and press a soft, simple kiss to Yunho’s lips. It wasn’t hungry or demanding; it was a kiss that felt as normal and necessary as a morning greeting. It was a confirmation. A quiet, “Yes, this is us now.”
When he pulled back, Yunho’s hand came up to cup his jaw, his thumb stroking the faint stubble there. “Did you sleep okay?” Mingi asked, his smile still in place.
“Better than I have in weeks,” Yunho admitted, and it was the truest thing he’d said in a long time.
They lay like that for a few more minutes, wrapped in a comfortable silence, until Mingi broke it with a groan. “What time is that fitting today? My back is killing me from that floor choreo yesterday.”
Yunho’s lips curved into a smile. The triviality of it, the mundane complaint whispered between them in the intimacy of Mingi’s bed, felt more significant than any grand declaration. “Eleven. We have that content shoot before it, though. The one with the weird board game.”
“Ugh, right.” Mingi flopped back onto the pillow with a dramatic sigh, then turned his head to look at Yunho, his expression turning into a playful pout. “Can you get me my water bottle? It’s on the desk. I can’t move.”
Yunho looked at him, the artfully tousled hair, the sleepy pout, the sheer audacity of the request. A wave of overwhelming affection washed over him. It was so perfectly, unapologetically Mingi. He let out a soft chuckle.
“Alright, alright, hold on, Princess.”
The nickname hung in the air, laden with all the history of their friendship but now colored with the intimacy of the night. Mingi’s pout instantly melted away, replaced by a pleased, slightly flushed grin that he tried and failed to hide by biting his lip. He loved it.
Yunho untangled himself from the sheets and padded across the cool floor to retrieve the water. When he turned back, Mingi was sitting up against the headboard, watching him with a look of pure, sleepy contentment. Yunho passed him the bottle and then bent down to pick up his jeans from the floor where he’d left them hours before.
He didn’t say goodbye. There was no need. Mingi was watching him, the water bottle held loosely in his hand. Their eyes met across the room, and in that silent look, a decade of friendship and a night of discovery settled into a simple, easy promise. Yunho gave him a small, private smile, which Mingi returned without hesitation, before he finally turned and walked out. The sounds of the dorm waking up, a shower running, and San’s voice calling from the kitchen greeted him. Nothing had changed. And yet, as he walked down the hall, he felt the quiet, unshakeable confidence of a new foundation settling firmly into place.