Work Text:
July 18th, 2017.
“Jongin-ssi, do you like attending weddings?” Junmyeon asks from his spot on the three-seater sofa. Sprawled out, actually, over the sleek gray canvas pillows, head tilted in a way that could be harmful for his neck if he spends another ten minutes in the same position. A stark contrast to the very first impression Jongin got of him, all polished to the nines, dressed in designer clothing and well-mannered to the point of coming off as stiff. Stiff and haughty.
The kind of person Jongin’s parents would love to be close to.
Frowning and pursuing his lips, Jongin closes the folder. He has no recollection of ever going to any grand wedding ceremony, the sole exceptions being his sister’s intimate wedding and the one of his father’s coworker, over six years ago. And also Chanyeol’s drunken rendez-vous with the chinese dancer during their last work trip to Macau, which ended with them signing a marriage certificate in a shady bureau and exchanging keychains as rings, and then showing them to the bar staff in order to get free drinks—although Jongin is pretty sure this one doesn’t actually have any legal validation.
“Yeah, I usually do. It depends on the proximity factor.”
Junmyeon looks at him, gaze both bored and intrigued. Understandable, given that he’s been lounging in the reception area for the past hour, waiting for a meeting that’s been going on for way too long to end. “Would you mind explaining?”
“I guess it depends on how much I appreciate the bride and groom. On how much I know them and I’ve been there, close to them during the development of their relationship. Isn’t marriage like the maximum proof of their compromise to each other and their love? And they are making us, the attendants, participate in it. They’re telling us that we matter to them too, that they appreciate us back enough to share their happiness with us. Love is the only thing that grows when it is shared , right?”
After blinking a few times, Junmyeon finally, finally , sits right.
If he were honest, Jongin isn’t quite sure about what he shared. It’s not something he’s ever thought too much about. Not exactly a romantic man, despite what he said. He wasn’t taught about love and affection when growing up, and then it wasn’t a priority. Whatever he discovered was through books and comprehended in between hurls of smoke.
At least, he’s given something to Junmyeon to muse on for the remaining time.
“I always found them more like a chore, you know? Attending, I mean. Weddings were as enjoyable as cleaning my bathroom,” Junmyeon explains in a softer tone. Jongin barely holds an incredulous look back as he tries to picture Junmyeon himself scrubbing a toilet instead of asking his maid. “But your point was well delivered. Thank you for helping me make up my mind.”
“Huh? You’re welcome,” Jongin mumbles, stunned. Curiosity gets the better of him, so he asks: “About what?”
“I’m going to propose one day.”
Jongin raises his eyebrows. Not so much at the words, but at the soft, decided tone. Conclusive. He wasn’t aware that their relationship is that serious. However, Junmyeon hasn’t moved from that Lawson couch for the last hour and a half now, unrelentlessly waiting for the meeting room door to open, so who is Jongin to judge?
“Nice! Cheering on you!” he says and raises his fist in an awkward fighting gesture, slightly out of obligation.
A voice that suspiciously sounds like Sehun’s deep, nasal and weirdly filled with both mirth and apathy chirps up at the back of his mind. Absolutely annoying. Bothers Jongin to no end, making his skin crawl. Maybe because it’s more of shameful remembrance than a hunch.
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
Jongin’s heard it many more times than he would like, sadly.
🥂💍✨
March 31st, 2012.
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea.” That’s all Sehun said in response to Jongin’s longest rant to date about college. Or at least it’s what Jongin guesses he tried to convey between large mouthfuls of food.
“Chew and swallow before speaking. Please ,” Jongin says, his whole face scrunched up in an expression mix of disgust and embarrassment. At least, no one else is there. Not by chance or luck, but because it’s Saturday morning and most students are sleeping off their hangover before midterm week starts instead of crowding the few nice mirrored studios. Jongin would love to be part of the large normal undergraduate population, yet his professor asked them to work on a new choreography if they want a duet in the upcoming showcase—they would be the only freshmen, if they beat Seulgi and Joohyun. “But, what else can I do? I have to take an elective for credits and that’s the only one that’s never full and is remotely close to my major. My other option is Intro to Biomechanics and nope. I’d rather read about thousand year old dead painters.”
“Jongin, I don’t think that's a good…” Sehun once again attempts to speak with his mouth full of the sandwich he brought to snack on while Jongin polishes the later half of their choreography project. If whatever Sehun is eating can be called a sandwich—that atrocity is banana bread, mayonnaise and orange jam. A blasphemy, an honest to God insult to good food. No one should take any advice from such a culinary sinner.
“ Swallow , please. You should take Basic Etiquette, Hun-ah. No matter what people say, college isn’t too late to start learning new thing–”
The floor disappears beneath his feet and the white artificial lights overpower their surroundings, growing brighter and brighter, until everything around fades away. Only darker snowy spots dance in his vision as he blinks repeatedly and moves his eyeballs to the sides. It lasts no more than a few seconds—the longest instant in his life.
Then everything comes back to him in a rush. Suddenly, sharp. A numbing pain explodes in his waist, his nerves damped with burning oil. It paralyzes him, shock and pain gripping his spine with their claws and shredding him from within.
The vague sound of a throat working, of swallowing, is registered by his mind amid
pain, pain, pain
.
“That’s what I was telling you, dude. Careful with that move, it seemed dangerous,” Sehun deadpans. And then: “Shit, you okay? Jongin-ah, are you okay? Can you stand up?”
January 14th, 2013.
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea?”
Well, Jongin is desperate. Growing more and more anxious as the days go by, sliding down an icy slope he fears has no end. And today, when the clock struck midnight and his sister congratulated him o’clock, thanking him for being born, he found himself biting his nails until they were damaged beyond repair. It doesn’t help that he’s been trying to cut back on his nicotine intake, which in the preview months had skyrocketed.
Clock is ticking. Ticking, ticking, ticking ; yet he had to miss most classes, except for his elective and Stage Lighting. He can’t afford to waste more time and money just because his back is injured. A whole year to recover, possibly more. He can’t afford to lose his mind .
Instead, Jongin shrugs. “I like the class.”
“Yeah, as an elective. But a full major? Like, besides Dance, a double major in Art History? Isn’t that like... a hundred more dead cuckoos?”
Jongin winces. He caresses the fur of the stuffed poodle that Taemin sent him as a gift. It reminds him of Monggu, the puppy that helped him tolerate his highschool years, the never-ending study sessions and the escalating abuse that reigned in that house. He misses him. At least, he’s confident that Monggu is fine under the care of his sister and her husband.
“You learn a lot more than just painters, Hun-ah,” he argues. “Also, not all of them were crazy, Some were just extremely self-absorbed.”
Sehun snorts. “Like every artsy rich kid.”
“Most were broke, like us. They got sponsors.”
“Sugar babies then?”
Without expecting it himself, Jongin bursts into laughter. Laughter and more laughter spills through his lips, a constant deluge that fills the small room and drains Jongin until all he’s left with is an ache at the bottom of his stomach.
“I'm about to lose my scholarship,” Jongin mumbles. His inner lip is wobbling. His best friend stares at him, jaw set and his usual blank face betraying concern. “I need a lot more good grades. So it's either this or something else. Fashion, maybe.”
Sehun inhales, as if he’s preparing to say something hard—to voice out and to digest. Jongin holds his own breath, expectant.
At the end, Sehun shakes his head and looks pointedly at his cargo pants. “Better hit me with these sugar babies fun facts.” And he smirks. Like he isn’t wearing two Louis Vuitton knockoffs.
May 7th, 2014.
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea?”
Jongin sighs. That phrase again.
“Too bad I’m not an idea bank. Or just damn rich,” he grumbles, irritated. What frustrates him the most is the many times he caught himself nearly craving for being wealthy, breezy and unpressured.
Sure, he could ask Taemin to lend him some money and his friend would do it without further questions, but it might somehow reach the ears of Jongin’s parents. Or worse: it could might the ears of the social circle Jongin’s parents had scurried themselves into. It would stir up the nouveau riches —raise suspicions about the happy family portrait in his father’s management office, about the loud proud claims about their smart son, a SKY student making it big in the metropolis.
Jongin’s done so much to detach himself from his family, not the clean cut he wished, but a jagged, taunt fracture. He still finds indentations, both deep within him and on the surface.
The last thing he hopes for is to feel in his nape the stale breath of his father or the punctuated gaze of his mother.
“I need the money. I haven’t paid my share of the rent the last few months and I don’t want to be more of a burden to Minseok hyung.”
A frown etches to Sehun’s thick eyebrows. Then, he clicks his tongue and nods profoundly, as if torn between further disapproval of Jongin’s decisions and comprehension, so he settles for being forbearing. On top of that, his stance towards Minseok is quite peculiar—on one hand, he's appreciative and grateful to him for taking Jongin in and providing him with a place to live; on the other, he blames him for the constant reek of cigarette smoke Jongin now sports everywhere.
“I’m pretty sure you are not. I mean, a bother? Yes, totally. A burden on Minseok? Nah,” his friend says and bats his hands in a careless gesture. “But, Jongin-ah, working full time on top of studying? Seems like a lot.”
It is. Jongin doesn't want to disclose what he already considered once, so he shrugs. “The post says it’s from an architecture firm. And the opening is for the Assistant spot. Or receptionist…?” He glances down again at the description in JobKorea. “Secretary.”
Sehun tilts his head up. “Aren’t all the same…?”
Once again, Jongin shrugs. “At least, my Art History major might come in handy.”
🥂💍✨
February 18th, 2018.
Baekhyun drinks his third cup of coffee that morning with the calm confidence of someone who is fully aware that he is his own boss and that his workaholic associate isn’t around. For legal and hierarchy reasons, Kim Jongdae is registered as the owner of the firm and Byun Baekhyun, his college best friend, as his senior partner and second in command. In reality, Jongdae acts more like a nanny, imposing deadlines into Baekhyun’s plate so he doesn’t procrastinate. It’s an agreement they’ve had since their freshmen days or so, as Jongin gathered.
However, Jongin does have a ton of work to do and he isn’t the boss, so he shouldn’t afford to entertain Baekhyun. Who, for some reason, loves to take his coffee break in the reception area, leaning against Jongin’s mahogany desk, instead of in his office, where he has a beautiful and comfy ergonomic designer chair.
“So what about that impromptu trip? Where did my best friend in the world go during the Lunar New Year that he had to ditch his family on the second day?”
“Why don’t you ask your best friend in the world ?” Jongin grumbles as he tries to rearrange the week’s schedule. Jongdae missing his return flight on top of the holidays brought a lot of inconveniences.
“No fun,” Baekhyun pouts. “Besides, he’s ignoring my texts. Even the one about the Macau client backing out of the new casino project.”
“What?” Jongin exclaims, stunned. He turns to the computer to check the emails and the calendar. “I haven’t been told anything about that? We have a mee–”
“Chill. The project’s okay. It was a white lie to get Jongdae’s attention and yet no reply,” Baekhyun explains, cheeky, and grabs his phone to show him his KakaoTalk—Jongdae’s chat still displays the little number 1 next to the messages, unread. “He’s a disgrace to the rest of the workaholic population. So, where did you buy the plane tickets to?”
Jongin sighs, relief flooding through his body. Every muscle in his back feels tense, though. The other doesn’t pretend to feel apologetic or even worried, as he scrolls down his phone and sips his coffee. “Maybe, if you’d stop crying wolf at every–”
“Singapore.”
Startled, Jongin looks up at Baekhyun. He’s not guessing, he’s voicing it like it’s a fact.
Baekhyun smirks and turns his phone around, Instagram app open. On the screen, a post from Jongdae’s private account. It’s a bunch of pictures of the city that Baekhyun’s long fingers swipe through carelessly—Garden by The Bay, NTU’s Learning Hub, Bishan’s Library, The Victoria Theatre, Marina Bay and lastly, a ring. Actually, the picture is of two hands with their fingers intertwined, a blue diamond engagement ring in the spotlight.
“No wonder he didn’t give a shit about Macau. Looks like we are having a party soon, Jongin-ah!”
December 24th, 2015.
So far, working in the architecture firm has been rewarding.
During the interview his now boss seemed a little weird, enough to make Jongin hesitate for a few seconds. However, in the past year and a half, Jongdae hadn’t seemed weird at all. Nice, actually. Really nice.
Perhaps it was his low self-esteem acting up, because Jongin believed he’d missed the chance. Especially when he saw the other candidate, serious and competent looking, with his big round eyes analyzing his surroundings. Later, he learned that Kyungsoo had applied for another position, as a junior architect for the urban design team. Yet Jongdae came across Kyungsoo’s specialty in model-making, so it’s quite usual to see him with Chanyeol, their architectural technician, working in models and mockups before a presentation.
Jongdae also discovered that Jongin isn’t as lithe as first impressions make him seem. Awkwardness oozes out of him in big waves and his clumsiness acts up more often than not. Which is a great source of distress for Jongin, who longs to not be considered unprofessional.
For the same reason, Jongin isn’t allowed beyond Kyungsoo’s office door whenever a presentation is coming up. He once tried to be nice and help him carry the fifty-two-story building scale model to the car and it somehow ended up with seventeen floors and no trees in the garden.
“He’s being weird,” Baekhyun says as soon as he steps out of the Jongdae’s office. “He dismissed us early because he has a Christmas’ Eve dinner to get ready for at the Kim’s.”
“So? The dinner’s been on his agenda since last month. He’s usually more against last-minute family events.”
“My dearest, naive Jonginnie. A dinner. At the Kim’s. Not just his family, but other Kims. The crème de la crème of the Kims.”
Then it dawned on Jongin. “Yeah. That’s odd. I’ll schedule fifteen minutes on the 26th for his rant.”
Baekhyun snorts. “Make it forty five. I bet he’ll describe Junmyeon as a stuck-up asshole at least nine times.”
“No betting. Besides, he hasn’t complained that much about him since that event in October.”
“Huh? That’s really weird.”
September 22nd, 2014.
Monday morning, Jongin finds a slice of cake on top of his mahogany desk. It’s from Jongdae’s birthday cake, Baekhyun explains, and hands him a spoon.
A chocolate sponge cake with a silky orange mousse filling.
His tongue is burning with the first bite.
Jongin rushes to the break room and drinks a whole glass of cold water. The pain doesn’t subside. On the contrary. Fire spreads across his whole upper body, his skin flushing red while sweat and tears begin to run down his face until someone takes pity on his soul and hands him an iced latte.
Capsaicin was the secret ingredient, he discovered.
Jongin will never ever try anything again that he didn’t prepare or bring himself.
March 27th, 2015.
Shock and fear churns in his gut as he sits at his desk and tries to get his computer out of hibernation mode, unsuccessful. He tries hitting random keys on the keyboard, pressing esc, closing and opening the lid many times, and as a last resort, pressing the power button. He didn’t want to reboot the machine and waste time opening once again all the programs and tabs he’d been using, but he had already lost almost half an hour between waking the computer and being yelled at in a mix of English and Tagalog by a very angry politician whose project had been rejected.
He deserves fried chicken for dinner tonight. Or lunch.
The moment his computer comes back up, filthy sounds boom through the speakers and resonate throughout the whole reception area. On screen, a video of a guy on his hands and knees, gazing directly into the camera with an eerie blush on his cheeks and a disheveled look, another man pounding into his ass relentlessly.
What the fuck.
If it were any other situation, Jongin wouldn’t have cared. Maybe even saved the link for a lonely night. But it’s ten in the morning, clients could arrive at any moment and he has work to finish. So he closes the window.
An error message pops up, instead.
What the fucking fuck.
Horrified, he clicks on the X button again and again and again, hits the esc key, presses alt and f4—and nothing happens. Filthy moans keep filling the room and now the guy is on his back, stroking himself to finish.
“Holy fuck! Kim Jongdae, some days you are insufferab–”
“Woah, Secretary Kim. Watching porn and insulting your boss during office hours? I should fire you,” a loud voice says behind him. When he turns around, Jongin is faced with a big, amused grin.
Maybe a year ago, Jongin would have been afraid of actually being fired. However, there’ve been many pranks and jokes at his expense for it to be concerning. Jongdae has even whined about not being treated as his hyung .
“I’m sorry, sir. I just don’t think this is an appropriate prank for a company as prestigious as this one.”
Jongdae scrunches his nose. “Stop talking like a stuck-up. I know you’re mad, but you remind me of Junmyeon. Why don’t you reboot the system?”
Schooling his face and tapering on his anger, Jongin sighs. “I already did it. That video appeared after rebooting. Wouldn’t it appear again?”
“Really? That’s genius,” Jongdae says, appreciatively. His praise sounds sincere and Jongin is about to snap at him again, when it dawns on him. Jongdae sounds sincere because he is. “Would love to take the credit for this, but I’m not good enough with computers. Technology in general, if you ask Baek.”
That enlightens him.
“Fucking Park Chanyeol,” Jongin grumbles and grabs his phone to text yelling at the architectural technician.
At his side, his boss reads the texts out loud and cracks up at every single insult Jongin writes. Then, Jongdae scolds him for being too demure.
June 8th, 2016.
The first rays of sunlight of the day stream through the balcony window when the alarm goes off in the room. A few moments laters, Jongin hears the soft pads and a yawn.
“Been up all night?” Minseok asks in lieu of a greeting. Then tries to hold another yawn, but fails. “How is it going?”
Jongin shakes his head. “I crashed on the couch. It was supposed to be only an hour to recharge, but Tan decided my chest was the best place to nap on and, well. We slept for like three hours. And now I’m behind. Finals are so going to kick my ass,” he huffs and flips another page of his Pre-Columbian and Colonial Latin American Art book. After that, he absentmindedly caresses Tan’s head—the cat is napping in his lap, despite the summer heat.
“Easy. You needed the sleep,” Minseok says and scoops Tan up, like the overzealous pet owner he refuses to admit he is. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.”
Wincing, Jongin gets up and stretches his back. Then he goes to the kitchenette to pour Minseok the coffee he brewed earlier. Jongin still can’t drink it without several ounces of milk, but the other appreciates it dark—he mentioned something about real taste and texture, so Jongin bought him Brazilian beans with his last paycheck.
“That’s the charm of living with a full-time student, full-time employee, hyung,” he jokes, yet misses in his own punchline. At the same time Minseok is doing grabby hands to the mug and nuzzling against the cat’s fur, his features twist into a frown. “Don’t make that face, hyung. You’ll see me the rest of the week.”
“Jongdae gave you the days?”
“Yep, two days for midterms, three for finals, like last year. I just hope nothing catches fire, unlike last year.”
Minseok hums, lips on the rim of the mug. “That’s quite nice of him.”
“I know! I think I’m kind of lucky to have this job,” Jongin says. A small chuckle escapes through his lips at the sudden memory of his interview. He barely remembers what went through, yet his entire body was tense and then disarmed at Jongdae’s questions. “I was kind of afraid he would be a tyrant, but he’s nice. As nice as a prankster boss can be, but nice nevertheless. Nicer since he started dating Junmyeon, even. Especially because he rushes to get stuff done on time, so neither of us work overtime.”
“It’s not luck, Jongin-ah. You deserve it.”
His fingernails are long enough to mark the thin skin of his palms when he tightens his grip on his pen. Jongin should trim them later—easier to do so than to trim the roots of the wild impenetrable jungle of mantra-like thoughts about how inept he is.
Still, hearing those words coming out of Minseok’s mouth, in his soft, unwavering voice feels like tender absolution.
“Did you know that Jongdae and Junmyeon are both freaking wealthy? Third generation chaebols, old money and private golf club members and all that?”
Minseok raises his eyebrows. He clearly noticed the change of topic, yet indulges Jongin.
“You told me Junmyeon was rich, yeah.”
“Well, according to Baekhyun, they aren’t related by blood, but their families come from some old Joseon noble, I think an Andong Kim, and they have close ties in anything business related. When Jongdae opened his firm and Junmyeon’s family found out, they were delighted because they own a bunch of resorts in Southern Asia and are planning to open more. Baekhyun says that the one time they met for a presentation, Junmyeon’s mother was fawning and praising Jongdae for branching out from his family business and carving his own path. But I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Jongdae say his own parents gave him shit for going into architecture.”
So I guess money unlocks parental disappointment , that is what he doesn’t voice out. What would Jongin’s own parents do if they knew that their runaway son was now in constant contact with the most powerful people of the country?
“I want to meet this Baekhyun guy. He’s turning you into a gossiper,” Minseok says, amused.
Jongin laughs and reaches for Tan once again, paying no heed to the other’s complaints.
🥂💍✨
November 2nd, 2018.
Jongdae calls him to his office the moment he comes back from lunch.
“I’m sorry to bother you with this favor, but my small, intimate wedding now has a select guestlist with the tiny number of merely 250 lovely guests and a full 5 hours long western-style reception,” he grumbles. His phone pings, he checks it and whines loudly. Again. “Somehow, our families found a way to meddle in and blow everything out of proportion. I’m about to lose my mind and take myself out of the inheritance. I always wanted to be called Oh. Oh Jongdae. Oh, enchanté Jongdae! Sounds cool right?” he rambles. “See? It’s not funny. I’m losing my touch. I’m losing my mind . So please , do this for me.”
“Sure,” he accedes. Jongdae sighs, relieved. “What do you need me to do, sir?”
“My wedding. Take care of my wedding.”
“I’m sorry, come again?”
This definitely wasn't in the job description when he applied. Not spilling coffee and not ruining the models are manageable for him now, but this sounds like a whole new level of potential fuck-ups.
“Help me with the organization. Look, Junmyeon’s parents hired some fancy wedding planner, so they’ll be in charge of getting everything we ask. And you know me, you know my likes and dislikes, so you’ll act as Junmyeon and I’s representative.”
“And Junmyeon is okay with this? It’s your wedding.”
Jongdae shakes his hand. “Yeah, don’t worry. I told him already. He trusts my taste and I trust you, so it’s okay. Look, I know I’ll sound like a hypocrite, but don’t stress over this. Just pick what you know I like and consult me if there’s any major decision. Okay?”
In the back of his head, Jongin can hear Sehun’s voice. Doesn’t seem like a good idea .
Despite that, he nods.
“Great! You are the best secretary, Jongin-ah! After this thing passes, remind me to give you an extra week of paid vacation.”
“I’ll hold you to that, sir.”
“Add it to the calendar,” he says, visibly more relaxed. “The only thing I want you to put emphasis on is the open bar. Please, make sure there's plenty of good booze. Wouldn’t want to have to go to the hospital again because my future grandfather-in-law fakes another heart attack.”
Jongin blinks. “I’m sorry, sir. Come again?”
December 14th, 2018.
It’s weird to see Baekhyun outside of the office, wearing comfy casual clothes instead of dress shirts and loafers. Suitable for a pub in Hongdae, close to Jongin’s university and where Minseok part-times on the weekends. He's aware that Baekhyun enjoys drinking, after all they've been to many company gatherings and Jongin’s had to serve him many shots, but perhaps he had expected to find him out of place in a pub setting. Granted, Jongin is the one who avoids bars—always too exhausted, too anxious to join crowded places.
Despite that, he told Baekhyun to meet there, in the only bar whose name Jongin never forgets, after all the non stop texts about how bored he was, to the point Jongin barely paid attention to the professor.
By the time Jongin gets out of class, Baekhyun is already there, drinking a cocktail and chit chatting with Minseok at the bar.
For some reason he can't pinpoint, the sight takes him aback, enough to slow down his steps towards them. A strange sensation tickles within his chest cage. His two worlds are colliding, converging together at an imminent gradual pace. It both overwhelms him and thrills him.
“Hey, there. You look like shit,” Minseok greets him and offers him a glass of wine.
A boxy, radiant smile appears on Baekhyun's face upon seeing him. He mutters a greeting and pats the stool beside him as an invitation.
“I feel like shit. I’ll never sign up for a Friday evening class again in my life.”
“Aren’t you graduating soon?” Baekhyun asks.
“Yep. Next year I’ll be writing my thesis, if possible. And then, never another evening class in my life, for real,” Jongin manifests and takes a sip of his wine. Rosé, sweeter than dry—Minseok knows him well. “So, hyung. This is Baekhyun, we work together. But you knew that…”
Sensing his sheepishness, Baekhyun chimes in. “What I didn’t know is that Minseok hyung is the one who makes the best version of Old Fashioned I’ve ever tasted,” he says, playing with the orange peel. Baekhyun is good at this—filling gaps, setting moods, keeping the conversation flowing. It was quite a surprise to find out that he would rather spend his weekends at home than befriending people. Makes Jongin feel important. “So you two live together? How did that happen?”
Minseok shrugs. “Jongin needed a place to live and I had a couch.”
“That’s it? You won’t tell me anything else?”
“What do you want to hear, Baekhyun-ssi?”
“A meet-cute? Something spicy? An enemies to lovers like Jongdae’s?”
Jongin chokes on his sip of wine and throws his head back. “Wait. You know how they actually got together? Because I only know something about a heart attack.”
A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of Baekhyun’s lip.
They spend the next half an hour listening to a story so detailed that it must mainly be bullshit. But Baekhyun takes breaks to wait for Minseok to serve other customers and come back, they snack on fried chicken and, by the middle of the night, Minseok puts his two dimes into the gossiping with a sly grin.
What a weird sensation—Jongin’s cheeks ache from glee.
April 11st, 2019.
Usually not a light sleeper, Jongin blinks his eyes open upon hearing his alarm. He fishes for his phone under his pillow, drowsiness clinging to his every action.
Instead of dozing off for another ten minutes as he intended, he opens the Notes app.
Flowers. link to the meanings , I think it wo….
Types of chandelier
Menu tasting Saturday 2pm
Open!!! Bar!!!
Schedule an appointment with a tarotist
Pick invitation papers
Hermès fitting
Junmyeon has some nut allergy
Jongin looks at his notes and groans. Then he types:
Get some Johnnie Blue for the fathers as gift
Get addresses for invitations
February 3rd, 2019.
Junmyeon walks into the firm with the poise and calm demeanor of someone who’s been raised to be a nobleman. Always composed, yet with a little bounce in his step whenever he crosses the doorway. After nearly four years of seeing him at least twice per week, Jongin has learnt that he’s just an overgrown polite child, with an strict upbringing, that’s comfortable with his surroundings enough to let his eagerness run wild.
“Good afternoon, Junmyeon-ssi! I’ll let Jongdae know you’re here.”
“Hello, Jongin-ssi! No need. I didn’t come for him.”
Disconcerted, Jongin blinks for a moment, racking his brain for another reason for Junmyeon to be there.
Airy giggles come out of the other’s mouth. They don’t sound teasing or taunting, much less derisive. If anything, Junmyeon’s face has a faint layer of fondness on it as he looks for something in his bag. Then, he presents it to Jongin to take.
A big golden box, from the new expensive chocolaterie in Gangnam that Sehun mentioned once.
“Thank you for helping us, Jongin-ssi. I hope it’s not so much of a hassle for you.”
Surprised, Jongin freezes for a moment. Something warm and fuzzy blooming inside of him. It’s not like is the first time he’s faced with gratitude, yet there’s something rather peculiar and sincere about the way Junmyeon bows his head and hands him the golden box.
Rushing himself, Jongin stands up and bows back, grabbing the gift with both hands. “Not a problem, sir. I’m glad to be of help.”
“Then I’m glad too. Now, I know my fiancé has pulled one too many pranks on you, but I swear, those bomboms are safe.”
Jongin can’t help, but snort.
January 19th, 2019.
Faced with the first weird question the wedding planner has thrown at him, Jongin looks at his phone, baffled
what type of white you want the napkins to be?
His first instinct is to reply, white, duh . But this is not Sehun, he is not Sehun, and he has worked in an architecture firm long enough to know that the color white spectrum is vast, and that each shade pairs better with different colors. He searches the color palette that Jongdae and Junmyeon chose, to see which fits best. Ivory, perhaps?
Jongin ruffles his hair.
For heaven’s sake, this is the wedding of two wealthy people, two highborn, and one of them is a highly respected architect ! What if ivory doesn’t pair well with sage? What would people think ?
Fortunately, he works at an architecture firm with other architects and designers who might be more qualified than a secretary—bypassing the fact that said secretary is an art history major.
So he knocks on the Urban Design Team office door.
"Hey, Kyungsoo-ssi, could you he...?"
"No,” the other blurts out, almost like a growl, not taking his eyes off the plan he’s drawing. Jongin freezes at the doorway, ready to bolt with a hushed apology when Kyungsoo straightens his back and faces him. “Oh, I'm sorry, Jongin-ah. I thought you were Baekhyun. You were saying?"
A few titters come out of Jongin’s mouth, more out of nervousness rather than joy. It’s an office-wide known fact that the senior partner adores to get on Kyungsoo’s nerves, even more than Jongdae likes to play jokes on Jongin. Something about their wildly different reactions, they once said.
Jongin gives him a strained smile. "Yeah, hmm, could you help me with something for the wedding?"
"Apologizes. Not my area of expertise,” Kyungsoo says and turns back to his drawing. Apparently, he reconsiderates it. “Jongin-ah. Just in case, it’s not Chanyeol's either.”
May 13rd, 2019.
Truth be told, Jongdae and Junmyeon aren’t completely disengaged from the organization.
Photography is a neglected hobby of Junmyeon, so he takes over the task of choosing a photographer and scouting different locations for their engagement shoot. Meanwhile, Jongdae's been very adamant about the furniture, contacting himself the wedding planner to veto Chesterfield sofas and any type of baroque designs from the options even before there was a list of options.
But when it came to the music:
“Just pick whoever you like or is famous now,” Jongdae directs, without hesitation. “Hey, are the mockups for the new Gwangju train station ready? I want to check something before the meeting.”
“I'll ask Chanyeol.”
“Thanks, Jongin. Also, Junmyeon likes band music.”
Jongin nods and leaves the room, going straight to the lounge area where Chanyeol prefers to work in—claiming something about more space than in his office and proximity to the coffee machine. A mere excuse to be loud and a hurdle to others. An actual chance to run from the feelings of dullness that being alone and far from the others bring—an undisclosed secret of his, which Jongin only suspects because Chanyeol grew up as the youngest sibling in a big, loving family.
Chanyeol takes off his huge earphones upon seeing him. “Wassup.”
“Jongdae wants to see the draft of the Gwangju station.”
“Oh, shit. I'll just add one final touch and send it to you in two minutes. Five minutes, top.”
Jongin nods, absentmindedly. His gaze is transfixed on Chanyeol's headphones, a mellow tune coming from them. Ever since he joined the company, he’s seen his coworker with different headphones, always listening to music. A melomaniac, Chanyeol described himself once.
“Hey, Chanyeol. Do you know any band or group that is famous right now?”
“I heard Stray Kids are on the rise.”
“Would they want to perform in the wedding?”
“Huh…sure?”
August 20th, 2019.
Jongin lights his second cigarette in a row and takes a deep drag. He holds his breath for a moment, until the bitter taste and the soothing feeling gets too vividly, and then exhales long vaporous plumes of bluish smoke. At some point during the first years of living with Minseok and sharing one too many cigarettes in the balcony, he figured out that what actually calmed him down was the practiced breathing.
Inhale, hold, hold, hold, exhale. Repeat. And again. And again. And again until all there was left was a stub.
By the time he realized it, he was already addicted to nicotine and to small, meaningful talks with Minseok.
And lately, he feels like he needs to add yoga too.
“Jongin-ssi? Could you please come inside? Mr. Kim would like your opinion on the tuxedo.”
October 30th, 2019.
Sehun walks at a steady pace to their meeting point, wearing one of those huge square-framed shades that make him look like an asshole rich kid and makes people turn their heads around to watch him. Sadly, his best friend is that handsome and he’s well aware of it, he enjoys it . Yet all his assholery ends there.
“So, what am I here to help you with, Secretary Kim?”
Jongin sighs. “Cake testing. I figured that we could catch up while eating freebies.”
Sehun nods, pleased. “And picking some weird filling, I like it. I heard there’s Roquefort cream.”
“Dude, I would really like to keep my job,” Jongin amends, putting an arm around Sehun’s wide shoulders to keep him still and grounded. “Come on, let’s ask for some free tea too.”
Inside the shop, the baker is already waiting for them. The moment Jongin introduces himself as Mr. Kim’s representative, a small fuzz happens and they are accompanied to a private table in the back garden.
They are offered a cup of tea or a glass of Pinot Blanc wine, both of which Sehun graciously accepts. Then, a small steady stream of different slices of cake are served, along with explanations about each flavor and texture, sprinkled with little fun facts.
Carrot cake with nutty brown buttercream, Blackberry and elderflower sponge cake filled with pistachio crumble, Lemon and blueberry cake with lavender cream, Chocolate cake with hazelnut mousse and coffee ganache, Red Velvet with rose cream, and, lastly, the always reliable vanilla sponge filled with salted dulce de leche.
Jongin barely holds back from cringing before grabbing the tiny fork. If his taste buds suffer, he’ll charge an extra.
“Tell me, on a scale from 1 to 10, how overwhelmed you are by all this?” Sehun inquires after asking the waiter to pour him a second refill of his wine glass.
“I think… 7.5, 8?” he mumbles, while checking his phone. Then he sees it, at the bottom of his notifications. An email sent an hour ago. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. Make it 12.”
“Woah, woah, hold on. What’s wrong with Secretary Kim?” And then Sehun crackles at his own joke. Since the drama aired, he finds it hilarious.
Jongin brings his palm to his forehead and massages his temple with more force than necessary. He would threaten to punch his friend for his silliness, but he’s more exasperated by other matters.
“The band canceled. Tell me, what kind of esteemed performers cancel less than a month before the event?”
“A very busy one?”
“Exactly! How will I find another famous artist who has an opening in this season, who isn’t touring, with less than a month of anticipation?”
“I’ve been working with NCT lately. They’ve like twenty-five members, I’m sure they can spare three or five for NIGHT,” Sehun offers.
Despite how ridiculous it sounds, Jongin considers it.
“Do they make music similar to Stray Kids? Because we listened to it, I liked it, my head hurt a little, but more especially, it’s not a sound the Kims would appreciate in their sons’ wedding.”
His best friend winces. It’s all the answer he needs. Jongin groans and closes his eyes. The sudden urge to slam his forehead against the table besets him, yet the cake leftovers convince him otherwise.
“Chill, dude. You’ll have this.”
Jongin groans once more. “Who are you . The Sehun I know would tell me this doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
“No, do not be mistaken. I think this was an awful, terrible idea. But it’s done,” his friend says, with a stony, inexpressive gaze and his best smug I-told-you-so voice. “And you’ll make it work, Jongin-ah,” he adds later, in a softer tone, filled with such confidence that leaves Jongin shocked into silence. Unsure.
As if it was too much sensibility on his part, Sehun puts his shades back on and downs his third glass of Pinot Blanc. “Besides, how else could we get these freebies meant for riches?”
September 6th, 2019.
pay wine vendor-ask for tuscany wine
get a First Aid box just in case
honeymoon flights–ICN>NRT>PPT>BOBprivate jet GMP>BOB
graff wed rings–spirals 5mm
book stylist
??? i forgot
WHITE ENVELOPS
October 31th, 2019.
“No Bowie this year?”
Jongin blinks a few times, tuning back to his surroundings. His waist is bothering him, a residual ghost pain. Perhaps he shouldn’t be hunched over his desk, staring at his computer so closely.
When he stretches and looks up, he’s met with Baekhyun’s curious gaze—which is quite curious and bizarre in itself, one eye red and the other white, the kind of heterochromia that is so artificial yet charming. Besides his eyes, he’s also wearing smoky makeup, a long black cape splotched with (Jongin hopes) fake blood and styled hair, looking every bit like those pretty vampires from teen fantasy movies .
“What’s your costume? Hot French actor from the ‘60s?” Baekhyun wonders and drinks a small bottle of yakult. He even has fake fangs.
“Overworked secretary.”
“That’s not spooky.” Baekhyun wrinkles his nose and bites the straw with his fake fangs. “What’s on your plate, dearest Jonginnie?”
Jongin sighs and massages the back of his neck. “The band canceled, so I’m looking for a new one.”
Baekhyun raises his eyebrows and hums. Then he sits on Jongin’s desk, his jaw set in the way that Jongin learnt it meant he was deep in thought. More often than not, Baekhyun conceals his pensive face. Being free of any worry is the true luxury of the rich, or so he said once. People don’t fawn over you for your problems, they praise the way you solve them.
Seeing him dressed in a costume yet stripped of every veily disguise, feels like a statement of their relationship. Of how close they’ve truly become. Jongin wondered where the edges were, where the boundaries were set.
“Don’t fret, dearest,” Baekhyun says and pats Jongin’s shoulder before offering him his bottle
of yakult. Jongin looks at it a little warily—but Baekhyun’s been drinking it for a while, so he assumes he’s safe. Baekhyun beams. “Ahjumma! Ahjumma! Come here, come to reception!” he then yells, startling Jongin.
Moments later, Jongdae emerges from his office dressed as a yakult lady, cooler bag included.
“Hey, ahjumma. Is Junmyeon still friends with Wendy? And she’s coming to the wedding?”
“I think so, yesh. We went for dinner last week and she said she cleared her schedule for it. Why?”
Astonished, Jongin hurries to open the guestlist—Wendy as the singer Wendy? OST princess Wendy? He scrolls through the list, no such name appearing. Did he miss it?
Baekhyun taps on the screen with his slender finger, nail painted dark carmine. Son Seungwan.
“We need a new music act,” Jongin replies.
Jongdae adjusts his boonie hat and tilts his head, as if considering.
“I’ll tell Junmyeon to ask her,” he says, easily and decisively. The same firm, gentle tone that won’t take no. Jongin leans back on his chair, relief washing him, and smiles upon catching Baekhyun’s wink. “By the way, Jongin. What are you?”
He shrugs. “Alain Delon, I guess.”
“Would Mr. Delon want a yakult?”
Hard to say no—unfortunately.
July 21th, 2019.
The small silver stud in Minseok’s nose glints under the bright midday summer sun. It distracts Jongin from the sharp feline eyes, the muffled conversation and notebooks strewn all over the balcony. The summer is harsh and scorching, merciless on their poor souls. Their aircon broke down on them last night, so they spend their Sunday away on the balcony, hoping for a forgiving breeze and relying on fans and iced lemonade.
Granted, they could go to a café, but that would imply stepping on hot as hell asphalt until they reach the nearest subway exit. And Jongin finds some comfort in just lazing around and not having anything important to complain or worry about other than high temperatures and humidity.
Minseok jolts the hem of his tank top, trying to produce any breath of wind.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he says, tone a mingle of admiration and frustration. “I can’t even think straight in this heat, even less study. Or whatever you’re doing.”
“Hyung, my secret is: I’m not doing anything. I’m just looking at the pages and hoping to suddenly develop some sort of eidetic memory.”
Minseok snorts. “Good luck with that.”
“Let a man dream,” he reproaches him, while fishing for an ice cube in his empty glass. When he grabs it, he presses it against the back of his neck. The sudden cold makes him shiver and a placid smile finds its way in his face. “I’m glad the wedding is in November and not now. I’d hate to work in this heat.”
“I thought the wedding was at Junmyeon’s five-star hotel? The venue doesn’t have aircon?”
“Yeah, but the rush leading to the date will quite possibly have me going back and forth.” It’s just a conjecture, not so far from the truth judging by his Notes app. Still, it’s Sunday and he doesn’t want to think about work. “Would you like to come to the wedding, hyung?”
“You need more waiters?”
Jongin laughs and closes his eyes as he leans his body back against the glass door. “I meant as a guest, hyung. As my plus one. I think I’ll need all the calm I can muster.”
Such ambivalence. His whole body is ranging fire and he couldn’t be more at ease. Inhale, hold, exhale . The burnt scent of ash, the honeysuckle of the neighbors, the humidity announcing the upcoming rain, the fresh sparkling citrus of the lemonade. Jongin basks in the moment and prays to never wake up from this tangible reverie.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
🥂💍✨
November 27th, 2019.
During the rehearsal, Jongin has the chance to meet the extended families of the Kims. All of them are unfailingly polite and sophisticated, from the way they speak to the way they move through the aisles of chairs in five inch heels or Oxfords. They are also ruthless and perfectionists, demanding to repeat the rehearsal over and over again.
Jongin stands next to the wedding planner, taking notes of requested changes or things they need to put emphasis on. At some point, he’s not sure if there’s anything else to scribble down.
By the fourth or fifth run, Jongdae starts whining and threatens to take Junmyeon with him and run off to get married in a sketchy chapel in Macau. Or, God forbid, Ulsan.
“Always so ridiculous, Jongdae,” Mrs. Kim huffs, before inviting everyone to join them in the hotel’s restaurant.
Overall, the rehearsal was smooth and the dinner after, pleasant. No one is likely to create a scene—all of them too involved to do so.
November 29th, 2019.
The moment Junmyeon and Jongdae voice out their vows, Jongin holds his breath. Forgotten is all the extenuation and frustration the preparation rush before the ceremony brought onto him.
I do , both of them said, their eyes sparkling with blazing sincerity and fierce tenderness and something else. Something so pure and charming—enthralling.
This is what devotion looks like.
Jongin never considered a promise could be so delightful.
November 29th, 2019.
“Enjoying the wedding, Jongin-ah?” Jongdae asks, almost three hours into the reception. He’s holding two flutes of sparkling champagne and offers him one with a kittenish smile. It only spreads wider the moment he notices the small quiver in Jongin’s lips. “Don’t worry, if I were you I wouldn’t be enjoying it either. There’s this tradition that the wealthier the grooms are, the more opulent, obnoxious and boring the reception is. It's no secret that I don’t give a shit about three quarters of the guests here.”
“So you are not enjoying your wedding, sir?”
Jongdae chuckles and shakes his head.
“I’m having a blast! The time of my life!” The yell is louder than the music and quite noticed by the rest of the crowd, people near them turning their heads to glance at the groom and whispering behind manicured hands. A big, beaming smile that turns Jongdae’s eyes into slits curved upwards is a greater statement rather than the outburst. “But not because of the music act or the expensive French champagne. It’s because… you see that dork over there? The one trying so hard to endure the drunken small talk? That dork just said yes to being my husband till death do us apart. Now he’s obligated to come to these boring events with me. And we’ll drink watered down booze and trash-talk the newlyweds’ families, and maybe we’ll take turns faking heart attacks just to get the fuck out.”
Jongin giggles at the words, wondering how many flutes the other has had. Not enough to be inebriated, neither sober. Perhaps his head is hazy, a pleasant buzz in his ears. Perhaps he’s just in love.
Nevertheless, a portrayal of Jongdae’s mischievous nature. And of Junmyeon’s enabling self.
“We agreed to this type of event for the sole reason that our families wouldn’t forgive us for wasting the chance to show off our wealth. And look how pleased they are!” He gestures around—the embroidered curtain, the floral arrangements, the gold ornaments, the proud little smiles of the elders. Under the dazzling lights, Jongdae himself exudes pride. “They got the event that the media and the people will be gushing about for the next year or so. And I'm relieved for them. But, honestly, I don't fucking care. We could’ve had the Lost Kindergarten perform and kimbap as hors d’oeuvres for all I care. We could’ve held the ceremony in a fish market and I would still be the happiest and sappiest man on this planet.
“What if the Hwangs make a scene? Or the Jangs yawn every five seconds or the Yus keep asking why not traditional attire and who’ll wear the hanbok and who the hwarot, or whatever? Fuck them. The only opinion I give many, many fucks about is Junmyeon’s. My only wish is that in the future we look back on this day and laugh together at how surreal it all is, and see the skin around his eyes crinkle with this… massive joy. In that expression he had when we met at the altar.”
A soft smile blooms in Jongin’s face, its root strong and deep, breaking through the muddy pond of agitation and concern he’s been stuck in since the day began. He too only wishes for Jongdae's happiness.
At some point during the first years of working for and alongside Jongdae, he came to really appreciate his boss and his impactful energy—thundering loud, yet soothing as long summer storms. More than that, with his humble confidence and genuine trust. Jongdae acted like a brat yet treated others like equals, like long lost child friends.
“Still no fake heart attack, tho,” Jongin reminds him.
“Still no fake heart attack,” the other repeats, beaming. “So, relax. Go, dance with that cute Plus One you brought, before Baekhyun monopolizes him. You deserve it. You’ve done an excellent job. As always.”
Jongin scoffs, but does as he’s told, peering around for the sight of either Minseok or Baekhyun.
At that moment, a strained scream comes from the other side of the venue.
November 30th, 2019.
Around 1 a.m., the doctor leaves the room with the promise to return if needed, they should only call a nurse. For now, they can only rely on painkillers, dosed gradually, first every two hours—a treatment Jongin is very familiar with. The pain is unforgettable, wired into his brain and his spine, throwing him off his axis then and even now.
The hardest part of recovery was to learn to always be gentle in his movements, careful with himself. Think twice before a twist, don't bend at odd angles, always have a hotpack at hand.
“Sorry for making such an inconvenience. You didn't have to come with me to the hospital,” Junmyeon’s grandfather mumbles, voice worn and full of sorrow.
“Please. We are delighted ,” Jongdae replies and steps closer to the hospital bed, his hand never releasing Junmyeon’s. If anything, he holds it tighter. The white gold wedding bands gleam under the harsh hospital lights. “This is where it began.”
“Still. Don't want you to miss your own wedding.”
“The honeymoon is what we are looking forward the most, grandpa. Maybe they can give us a ride to the airport in the ambulance later,” Junmyeon jokes. It’s hardly funny, yet he taints it with such enthusiasm, that comes out as endearing.
Junmyeon’s grandparent definitely thinks so. He chuckles and shakes his hands in a carefree manner. “Go. You two, flee to your wonderful honeymoon to have lots of dirty sex on paradisiac beaches and leave this old man here.” Before the others open their mouths to reply, he adds: “I need no babysitter. And if you worry so much, have the kid stay here with me for a few hours.”
It takes a moment of pregnant silence and Junmyeon’s fidgety gaze on him for Jongin to realize the elder is talking about him.
“I can’t ask him that, Grandpa. We can delay our flight until Dad and Mom…”
“Why not?” the older man cuts in and clicks his tongue. “It’ll take forever for your parents to do their damage control or whatever. The kid acted fast earlier. If it weren’t for him, I may have ended up with a spinal trauma or pinched nerves or something like that. You heard the doctor.”
Jongin ducks his head, embarrassment painting his cheeks red.
“I can stay,” he assures them, his voice still tinged with shyness, yet unwavering. “Besides, Baekhyun texted me that the party continues in full swing and that he'll swing by to bring Mr. Kim’s belongings. And Minseok hyung will come to make me company, if it's okay with you, sir.”
“Absolutely, kid. Tell them to bring the Johnnie Blue.”
Both Jongdae and Junmyeon look at him, hesitant—not about his competency, Jongin is sure, but about asking that much of a favor.
After a reassuring nod, Jongdae sighs. “Fine. Write down the amount of overtime you’re doing or take another two days off, then.”
“Thank you, Jongin-ssi,” Junmyeon says and bows, despite Jongin’s intention to stop him
“Just go, we’ll be fine. Don’t be disrespectful to your elder’s order.” The newlyweds scoff and shake their heads, faint smiles adorning their faces, before getting ready to leave. And then: “Hey, kid. How much is Jongdae paying you? I can double it.”
Without wasting a breath, Jongdae whines. Even before the words registered in Jongin’s brain.
“I don't think it’s very polite to try to steal your in-law’s secretary, grandpa.”
Jongdae sighs and whispers something along the lines of my dream man .
In the meantime, Jongin bends his upper body into a nearly perfect 90-degree bow. “I'm very grateful for your interest, sir, but I'm afraid I'm going to refuse it.”
I like where I am , he keeps to himself. On the right track towards happiness.
🥂💍✨
June 2nd, 2014.
“Why should I hire you, Jongin-ssi?”
“I am a keen worker, sir.”
“Aren’t we all at the beginning?” the man teases, a smirk at the corner of his lips. The sign above his desk reads Kim Jongdae, Chief Architect . “Here it says that you dance too and that you have no experience. A Secretary is a valuable position. You’ll have access to all my data, my schedule, my partnerships, my projects. The relationship between a CEO and its secretary is the closest thing to a marriage, without the romance and the sex. Tell me a reason why I should trust you with my life.”
A moment of pregnant, ruminative silence.
“I can’t, sir. A marriage shouldn’t be a reckless thing, no matter how much in love you think you are or how good the…romance is. It should be a celebration of their companionship, the mutual trust they’ve built together. One shouldn’t precipitate over this. But, sir… the person I trust the most now, that I actually trusted my life to, was then a stranger with a giant hoodie and a cigarette.”
Jongdae nods, slowly. “And if I make a terrible decision? Nothing illegal, I swear, but a terrible decision nonetheless. What would you do?”
Jongin bites the inner side of his lip, resisting the impulse to wince or look around.
“If I can foresee it, I’ll advise you. If not, or if you decide to disregard my advice… keep working. I’ve been told that I’ve had some poor ideas before, but here I am. Making the best out of them.”
Jongdae nods again. “Last question: if I do hire you, is there something you wouldn’t do?”
“Dance, sir. Not professionally, at least.”
“And you’re still applying?” A hint of disbelief crept into his voice.
“I’m still applying.”