Work Text:
Mingi's notifications light up with a flurry of texts at 10pm on June 3rd. From his family — biological, the ones he hadn't had a say in, the ones he hadn't voluntarily seen in years. He's sitting next to Yunho on their shared couch, Mulan on the TV and chocolate caramel wrappers scattered across their laps. It was supposed to be a nice day, had been before his phone became a vibrator.
Wooyoung would have told him to use it as one and to post a picture of him making out with a guy so the orgasm comes quicker. But it's kind of difficult for Mingi to get hard when he already knows what the messages are going to be like.
His father: angry, accusing, how dare you taint the family name; his mother: inconsolable, heartbroken, you're going to go to hell— my baby—
Yunho leans over, catches a glimpse of the preview from his father. (This is disgusting. How can you—) He turns off Mingi’s phone with a sharp click.
Mingi doesn't react, staring at the dark screen like he's seen a ghost. Just an hour ago, San had sent a picture of the annual pride parade with the text look !!! it's us !!!, accompanied by rainbow hearts, which was then followed by a text each from Seonghwa (aww <3) and Wooyoung (👨❤️💋👨👨❤️💋👨👨❤️💋👨🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🥵).
He didn't think his parents would see, not after he moved out after an argument about his degree and a heavy allusion to his sexuality. Maybe a relative sent it to them.
“Mingi,” Yunho says quietly, pressing their shoulders together. His name sounds different coming from Yunho's mouth, smooth and round with love instead of the jagged snaps that cut his soles. “Just ignore it. You should block them.”
He says that every time, when Mingi's family goes on one of their Mingi is doing something wrong again sprees. Doesn't matter that to them, Mingi is always doing something wrong. Heck, breathing is wrong. His dad sure thinks so. Every breath he takes is a horrid reminder of the straight-A student his parents could have had, one that kisses the right gender and isn't riddled with anxiety.
And Yunho's right. Yunho's usually right. It would be the healthy, sane option.
But because Mingi is neither healthy nor sane, he doesn't. And because somewhere in there is still the father who taught him how to patch up his wounds, the mother who taught him how to sew up his clothes, and the brother who taught him that you can't use too much salt, Mingi-yah, are you trying to poison us?
“I know,” Mingi says anyway, and his voice is strained and hollow and a little too sad.
I know, he says, but come Christmas and he'll be back on the coffee-stained couch, listening to his father and brother throw financial numbers across the table, a mug of bitter tea clutched between his sleeves because chocolate is for babies.