Archive of Our Own

Despite having been blindingly sunny just days prior, the sky is overcast with heavy, looming clouds. 

For some reason, the hollow feeling in Minho’s chest only ever seems to get bigger and more all-encompassing whenever the sky is dark like this—and it only worsens tenfold when there’s rain. Maybe it reminds him of darker days when all he had to look forward to was Wookyung coming home from work and immediately setting out to rape him. Or maybe the gloominess outside brought him might to a smoky, dimly lit room, where pain radiated from his ankle, his raw throat, his torn asshole. 

Whatever it is, Minho needs it to stop.

It only brings about awful thoughts, flashes of memories, glimpses of nightmares. He squirms at the phantom grasping hands claiming every inch of his skin and clenched fists buried in his hair, the teeth in his neck and rough kisses stealing the breath from him. He can taste the salt from skin and tears, the metallic taste of blood. Minho shudders, suppresses a gag.

Put it away, Minho thinks to himself. Put it away now. Think of something else.

He crushes and folds his many horrible memories as much as he can and stuffs it so1mewhere deep in his chest again, but that ‘somewhere’ has grown fuller and fuller with each passing day. The dreary weather outside almost seems to beckon to those memories and self-deprecating beliefs, a siren song to bring them out in full force…

Sitting still will only encourage those thoughts to seep out again.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, he forces himself to take a slow walk around the apartment in an attempt to find a way to distract himself.

Truth be told, there’s really not much for him to do today. He’d already washed and folded all the laundry the day prior. It’s nowhere near dinner so he doesn’t have to cook for himself or Wookyung quite yet. The weather seriously sucks so he doesn’t want to go out grocery shopping. Honestly, he doesn't want to get dressed, let alone risk getting soaked outside. 

The bed is made. No need to do dishes or sweep. Not a speck of dust to be seen.

Everything is spotless.

Minho is bored, bored, bored. And what’s worse is that he doesn’t have the energy to dedicate his day to reading any of the books that Wookyung bought from the last time they went out to the bookstore on his day off. He could pick through whatever's on Netflix, but he's never been particularly interested in newer dramas or movies.  

His head feels heavy, his thoughts muddied and slow and dark.

So he paces on and on. Walks aimlessly. Thinks of nothing in particular. 

It’s astounding that he can be so bored that he can’t even think of anything amusing. The only thing that could make his thoughts less flat would be to let free every negative thing that he’d compartmentalized, and that's the one thing that he doesn't want to do.

Minho unthinkingly draws to a stop by one of the massive windows overlooking the city.

In the glass, tinted dark by the rainclouds, Minho can see his reflection, pale and tired. His hair is crushed flat on one side from having slept on it, and the only lights in his eyes are the ones from the skyscrapers in the distance outside, not from some kind of life burning bright in his chest.

He’s a mess.

A whole goddamn mess.

(Don’t think about it, he thinks to himself, a mantra for the neurotic that only grew louder and more frantic in his mind as time ticked by. Don’t think about it. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

It doesn’t work.)

Minho stares at himself. Stares and stares and stares.

How can a full-grown man look so pathetic? 

He watches as his reflection reaches up with him and traces his dark circles. 

How did he let things get like this?

He strokes the skin between his eyebrows, where a seemingly permanent furrow had placed itself there. Wookyung constantly teases him about it, saying that he'll develop wrinkles there if he keeps scowling all the time, but it's quite literally impossible to stop wearing a frown when he's around Wookyung. Stress builds and builds, and he feels himself unravel. A near constant scowl is just his defense against the constant stress. 

The way he lives now is obviously a far cry from when he was kept naked and literally chained to a wall, but that doesn’t erase all the little things that have happened, nor the invisible leash that clings to him. It’s stifling living here, knowing that every day will be exactly the same and knowing that Wookyung can change at the drop of a hat. 

But no matter how he thinks about it, it’s truly his own fault that he’s here.

A million if-onlys crowd his mind every time he thinks back to when he had a job, when he was in school, before he met Wookyung, and all roads lead right back to here and now. If Minho could redo everything again, if he could do right by the people in his life and carve out a more honest, more sympathetic path for himself, things would have been completely different. Less trauma, more simple joys. A well-paying job and a house of his own. Friends. Marriage to someone he loved with his whole heart, and maybe even a kid or two. Seeing the world, growing old, living a fulfilled life without harboring any regrets or grudges... 

Or perhaps not. 

What if he worked his ass off only for nothing to work out in the end? What if he tried his best—owned up to his mistakes, worked honest and worked hard, made nice with everyone he met—only to end up destitute and lonely again? 

Maybe he was destined to suffer here. Maybe even in Minho's best case scenarios, Wookyung would have clawed his way back into Minho's life and dragged him away anyway, kicking and screaming.

So was there ever a use in trying? Should Minho ever have bothered to be a better person at all?

Minho was at rock bottom when he came crawling back to Wookyung. If he'd been abducted and tortured like he had been now after all his hard work, it would have ruined him instantly. A fall from an even greater height—he'd kill himself in any matter he could, no matter how scared he was of the physical pain.

In some ways, Minho was almost proud of the fact that he was still here, even if it was a constant reminder of his failures. And in other ways, he can't help but to think himself a coward for staying not only here but staying alive. The fear of pain. The fear of death. The fear of being alone. The fear that in doing the right thing and killing himself, he'd manage to destroy two lives, not just his own—Wookyung, crying and unkempt, floated at the forefront of his mind every once in a while and left him feeling like he was suffocating. 

Minho sets his palm against the window. Curls his hand into a fist. Slowly knocks it against the glass, right where his face is, a dull thump resonating from the contact.

His mouth twists down into a frown.

That was a pointless action. If only he were stronger, if only he had more energy and the intense drive for life like he did when he first got here, he’d reel his arm back and lob his fist right at the glass. The glass, of course, is reinforced to hell and back, and he’d lost much of his muscle mass while living here, despite the occasional workout session he holds by himself in this lonely apartment, so it’s not like the glass would come even remotely close to shattering into a hundred satisfying, jagged shards, dripping with his blood—but maybe the physical pain resulting from his stupidity would snap his mind out of the angst swirling around in his chest. 

…But Minho, as he is, is too tired for that, and he knows better than to smash his knuckles against the window like that. Even if he had the energy. Even if he had the strength.

There’s just no point.

There isn’t a point for most things.

It's just sad that it took him all this time and suffering to realize that.

He pulls his hand away and slowly drags his gaze away. 

Wookyung had left the TV on before he left. Earlier, there was a show documenting the lonely life of some elderly woman running a farm by herself. Now, it looks like it's a daily variety show about a family sending their six-year-old on an errand by himself. Uproarious laughter of the show hosts bleeds from the speakers, the screen covered in all kinds of text and cutesy, exaggerated editing. 

What a headache. 

Minho reaches over to the remote on the coffee table and flicks the TV off.

Immediate silence fills the air. 

Not even the sound of the now sprinkling rain seems to breach the air around Minho in this massive apartment.

This is arguably worse. Everything feels still. Lifeless. The way that Wookyung has decorated his home does little to bring that cold feeling away. The furniture looks washed out. The place hardly looks lived in. It's too clean—Minho sarcastically pats himself on the back for that one. 

Minho sits on the couch.

The silence continues to hang heavy in the air, continues to encase him like he’s stuck in a tomb.

He feels like he can’t breathe—and maybe he shouldn’t be able to. Maybe he should be rotting in the ground with some unmarked headstone because no family claims him and no one but Wookyung would give a fuck if he was still alive and walking this earth or not.

This is a fate that awaits him in the future, whether he wants to acknowledge that fact or not. 

Minho sighs. 

For reasons he doesn’t quite understand himself, he unlocks his phone, taps the yellow KakaoTalk icon, then taps the only user that he’s friends with. But just as his chatroom with Wookyung opens, Minho’s mind blanks. His thumbs hover over the keyboard onscreen.

He hardly ever texted first. What was he supposed to say? 

Hell, what did he normally even text Wookyung about?

Minho idly scrolls up on their conversation, skimming the messages. As expected, most are messages from Wookyung, whether they’re him complaining about how bored he is at work or asking what’s for dinner, all of which were punctuated with cutesy tildes or playful Kakao stickers. Minho usually answered in short, straightforward messages, sometimes telling him to quit being such a little brat or get back to work.

Occasionally, interspersed between those rather practical messages were messages of Wookyung checking in on Minho, asking what he was doing at that moment or if he’d eaten.

As if on cue, his phone pings with a message.

Minho scrolls down to read it. 

Hyuuuung, the message reads, I’m so bored.

Then, a handful of follow-up messages, composed of nothing but useless thoughts and questions.

I miss you~ 

Oh, you’re reading these right now! Hi hyung~

What are you up to right now? Are you just as bored as I am? I wish I were home with you because I’m soooo bored here…

Did you eat already? What are you thinking about for dinner? Or do you want me to pick something up on the way home? Let me know what you want before I head home, okay?

Anyway, this weather sucks today, right? Are you doing okay?

And another message—though this one is just a sticker of some animated character peeking its head from the side with big, shiny eyes. The bubbly text dancing above its head simply reads staaaaare.

A standard barrage of messages from Wookyung, but somehow, it made Minho’s insides curl. The simple phrase Are you doing okay? reverberates around in Minho’s head, followed by the vicious, mocking voices that taunt him every now and again about the state of his life—of course I’m not. When have I ever been?

If I were okay, I wouldn’t be looking at these texts. I wouldn’t feel like there’s an empty pit in my chest. I wouldn’t feel like I want to smash open the nearest window and jump.

He isn’t sure what compels him to do so, but he answers Wookyung’s question genuinely, albeit in a very Minho-esque fashion.

No, he keys out slowly, watching the letters form on the screen as if they were doing that by themselves. He stares at the word on the screen. He stares at Wookyung’s messages, long and worthless. He knows Wookyung’s sitting there, watching the screen—it’s rare that Minho looks at his messages as soon as Wookyung sends them, the read receipt popping up immediately, so there’s no doubt that Wookyung is waiting with bated breath to read whatever Minho responds with. Minho stares blankly.

Then, he hits send.

Within literal seconds, a shorter timespan than the stretch of time between an exhale and an inhale, Minho’s phone begins ringing loudly, obnoxiously, and the screen lights up with Wookyung’s name under the caller ID. The sound makes him dreadfully anxious, his heart leaping up into his throat as it always does whenever his phone rings, but it doesn’t beat out the persistent dreariness plaguing his body. The phone continues to ring and ring, and for no particular reason at all, Minho lets it ring its way all the way to voicemail. 

The call drops.

Wookyung calls again.

Nothing has changed, but somehow, the phone seems to emit a nervous energy. It almost seems like it’s ringing louder, vibrating harder, matching Wookyung’s desperation. Minho doesn’t even need to see his face or hear his voice to know that he’s in full freak-out mode.

Minho sighs internally but eventually brings himself to pick up. 

Small breath in. Small breath out.

Somehow, even doing that much feels exhausting. 

He doesn’t even get to push out a perplexed “Hello?” before Wookyung starts talking.

“Minho-hyung, what’s wrong? Why didn’t you pick up?” Wookyung asks, clearly uneasy. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

Minho stays quiet a bit, awed as always at Wookyung’s complete and utter obsession with him.

He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. And he doesn’t want to think about it too much because it’ll only make him feel worse about himself, thoughts of how he’s really not worth it or anything at all because he’s just some pathetic loser who lost everything he ever worked for snowballing drastically until they all end with a simple sentiment: I should just die.

“Hyung?” Wookyung’s voice has taken on the sort of pitchiness that it does when he starts to get seriously worried about something. Usually Minho. That realization only furthers the awful amalgamation of guilt and dread and self-righteous bitterness churning through Minho. “Hyung, are you there?”

Minho swallows. “Aren’t you at work?” he asks quietly, his mouth feeling dry. What on Earth was he thinking sending that text? He really is just causing more trouble than it’s worth—than he’s worth. Or ever will be worth.

“That’s not important right now. You’re not hurt, are you? Should I come home? I can go right now.”

Minho sighs. “Stop being irresponsible. Focus on your job.”

“You and I both know I don’t do anything unless there’s some kind of huge corporate meeting that I need to attend—and there’s nothing like that today. I’m literally just eating lunch in my office and watching YouTube. So tell me what’s wrong.”

“We can talk about this later.”

They will, in fact, not be talking about this later. Minho is going to make Wookyung a delicious dinner consisting of all his favorite dishes and put on a distracting enough show, even if it requires him to strip naked and sit through a few brutal rounds of sex, and they’re not going to address whatever’s going on in Minho’s head at all. He was dead set on it.

“We can talk about it now. I’m free. You’re free. Just tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Well, you clearly do,” Wookyung replies, his voice a touch glib despite the anxiety very obviously teeming inside him. “Otherwise, you would have lied to me about being okay.”

He’s quick to chase away the cynicism lingering in his voice as he continues, “But that’s alright. I don’t mind hearing what’s bothering you at all. Ever. It can be anything. You can complain about the weather or something stupid you saw on the news, or tell me about a dream you had or what you want to buy the next time we go shopping, or—or anything. Everything. Anytime, okay? I’m here for you, hyung, so just tell me what’s going on, okay? You should just say what’s bothering you now…”

The rambling is going only to get worse unless Minho cuts in. And if the rambling continues, Wookyung is going to delude himself into thinking that Minho is shoeless on their balcony railing, wind whipping his hair around, his body just a few scant angles away from tipping forward and tumbling down the tens of stories until he smashed face first into the concrete and became nothing but broken bones, blood, and brain matter splattered along the sidewalk.

And if the rambling continues, Minho is going to delude himself into thinking that maybe he really should be up there, waiting to take the plunge.

“No. It’s fine.” Minho clicks his tongue. “Just forget it.”

“What? But—”

“You don’t get it. You won’t ever get it.”

Minho isn’t sure why he says that. He isn’t really sure why he says it like that.

But once those words leave his mouth, the damage is done. 

“What?” Wookyung’s voice goes taut. “Get what? What won’t I get? What does that mean?”

“I’m tired.”

“Hyung?”

While it pains him to cut off the only person who cares about him, no matter how superficial care must be, Minho hangs up. 

Wookyung calls back immediately.

Minho knows that if he picks up now, Wookyung will somehow manage to squeeze some kind of embarrassing emotions out of him and make him feel even more pathetic, pestering and begging and maybe even crying until Minho crumpled under the pressure. He’d half-assedly stammer out something vague about how he feels, only to get pity or promises to do better or light-hearted jabs, all of which would only serve to piss himself off. Getting angry. Frustrated. Lashing out. Wookyung bites back. An argument ensues—and hopefully doesn’t escalate. Minho would just end up feeling worse than he already did. 

The phone keeps ringing.

There’s really no benefit to Minho picking up. What Minho said earlier was already dangerously close to him mumbling out how much he hates his life and himself and all the little components that make him a shallow and embarrassing excuse of a man. All of his little insecurities and traumas and how he could point the blame around at anyone and everyone around him, but knowing that the blame would just fall right back onto himself. 

He didn’t say any of that, of course. But even acknowledging that he wasn’t feeling well… 

That much was already enough. Too much even. 

He wishes that he’d just kept his mouth shut and that he didn’t send that stupid message.

The phone rings and rings and rings and rings—

Minho finally declines the call. 

He mutes his phone, buries it under a couch cushion, and promptly flops down on the wide expanse of the couch with a loud sigh, heard by no one other than himself. 

He's alone. He tried to reach out, and he managed to isolate himself all over again. 

Why is he so bad at everything that he does? Why can't anything ever go right for him? Is he really just meant to die alone?

He isn't sure why tears are burning and brimming at his eyes, wetting his lashes, threatening to spill over. He's more numb than he is sad, but perhaps his body is feeling it more than his heart is.

I feel like I'm dying again, he thinks. Everything's hazy and uncomfortable. I feel numb.  

Minho shuts his eyes. 

Just stop thinking, Minho, he tells himself. Stop thinking about everything and just go to bed. Take a nap. Reset your brain.

He knows that he’ll only wake up drowsier and grumpier, but he knows that it’s the best that he can do. Pacing around won’t do much, and he still isn’t feeling good enough to get washed up and dressed up to go anywhere, even if it’s just the corner store, no longer than a five minute walk from the apartment complex.

It’s what he’ll settle for.

All he can do is settle.

That’s what he deserves.

He doesn’t deserve to have a choice or an opinion about anything anymore because he’s hardly a man. He’s just some deadbeat, a piece of property that stays at home all day and mopes around, with all his selfish little needs taken care of by someone who actually works and contributes to the world around them. He doesn’t get a say. 

And somehow, the dull ringing of his phone drags him away into a dreamless sleep…

Minho jumps awake at the sound of footsteps pounding against the floor, growing louder, growing nearer, until they finally stop right beside the couch. He lifts his head, sits up slowly, and looks up at Wookyung. 

“Hyung,” Wookyung blurts out breathlessly. 

Minho stares at him bleary-eyed.

Wookyung was home already? Was it time for dinner? Minho probably burned through a bunch of time taking that ultimately unhelpful nap and didn’t get to prepare dinner—he didn’t even have any rice prepared. He looks over at the kitchen, as if the food will magically appear to save him from Wookyung’s inevitable ire.

“Why weren’t you answering my calls?”

Calls? 

Plural? 

Minho blinks tiredly, then fishes for his phone from the couch cushions. He turns on the screen. The first thing he notices is that he’d only been asleep for fifteen minutes at most. Then, he notices that Wookyung had called him nonstop up to thirty times, leaving him a few voicemails and frantic messages in between. 

He looks back up at Wookyung.

His hair is askew, his coat flung off and limply piled on the ground. If Minho looks a little beyond him, he can see that Wookyung had carelessly kicked off his shoes as well, leaving them scattered around near the door. Red-faced, shaking hands, eyes wide with terror that was quickly becoming relief.

Well, Minho thinks, now that he knows I’m alive, he’s going to get pissed at me that I didn’t pick up. I wonder how mad he’ll be.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” His eyes dart all around Minho’s face. 

Minho sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” 

Hurry up and get it over with. Minho averts his gaze. Get mad and yell at me so we can move on from this.

“Are you sure? What happened?”

“I’m fine. Why are you here? You still have work.”

“Work is the least of my problems.” 

He grabs Minho’s hands in a crushing grip, but he’s looking around feverishly. If it’s a wine bottle or crushed up beer cans that he’s looking for, he won’t find any. Minho hasn’t been drinking. He hadn’t had anything alcoholic to drink in over a year now. Wookyung refuses to let him since his attempt on his own life. 

“What happened?” Wookyung stresses.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me. Something happened. That’s why you called.” Wookyung’s heavy hands start to wander, but for once, it doesn’t seem like something perverse. They wander up his forearms, gingerly touching and prodding at every inch of skin. Wookyung stares down carefully. 

Is he trying to see if I cut myself or something? Minho realizes, and something in his chest twists slowly like the idle formation of a vortex. It’s a sinking feeling, something rotten. It reeks of guilt and self-pity, as most of his emotions revolving around Wookyung do, but at the same time, it plants a sickening idea in him of maybe that really would help, a thought of maybe I should give it a try. So he starts to sink. Sinking, and sinking, and sinking, dragging his heart and his mind down into the dark recesses of his being…

“You wanted my help. That’s why you called,” Wookyung tries again, his voice just barely pulling Minho from his thoughts. Meanwhile, his hands slide up to Minho’s shoulders, past his shoulders, up to his neck. 

Minho flinches when he feels Wookyung’s fingers at his neck. His breath gets caught in his throat, but he forces himself to breathe. One last lungful of peaceful air before the struggling and the suffocation. Hands clenched around his throat, hard enough to bruise and force a horrible pressure into his head and behind his eyes. Flailing but trying to preserve what little air is left in his lungs, crying, drooling, gasping, fading…

But Wookyung never squeezes his throat. Doesn’t press, doesn’t crush. 

He instead turns Minho’s head gently, this way and that. A thumb grazes a line across the column of Minho’s neck where the fabric of a necktie had once embedded itself into Minho’s skin. There’s nothing there now, of course, but Wookyung seems intent on looking anyway.

A small breath of relief slowly and silently escapes Minho's nostrils.

“That’s why you called,” Wookyung repeats weakly. He swallows and gradually drags his gaze up to meet Minho’s, almost like he’s scared of what he’ll find there. What he sees must not be particularly good because he almost seems to fall paler, his eyebrows twitching, his lips pulling down.

“I called,” Minho agrees simply, but it feels like he hasn’t spoken in ages. His mouth feels dry. “But not because I needed your help.”

“You needed me,” Wookyung tells him. “You sounded sad.” 

I’m always sad, Minho thinks, and the words are there at the tip of his tongue, but he feels too pathetic about that to say, so he lets it sit in his brain and stew. I’m always sad. Lonely. Angry. And nothing about that will change until the day that I die here.

“Not just sad,” Wookyung amends, likely after seeing Minho’s face. “You sounded like you did the night before you—” 

Wookyung clamps his mouth shut with a sharp inhale. His expression wavers, ripples like water in a pond. 

Then, in one swift move, he scoops Minho into a hug and held him tight. Minho didn’t miss the strained, dark look on Wookyung’s face. Still, he wriggles against Wookyung’s grip.

“Let go.”

Despite his words, Minho makes no further effort to pull away. He just lets Wookyung cling to him tightly, one hand around his waist and the other softly holding the back of his head and carding through his hair.

“Were you lonely?” asks Wookyung gently, quietly, softly. As if asking too loudly would set Minho off. It probably would. Somewhere within the shattered remains of Minho’s ego, it still does, though less in a terrified way and more in an irate way.

“Did you miss me?” Wookyung buries his face against Minho’s neck. “Did you call me because you wanted me to come home? Because you were lonely? Did you need me here?”

Minho doesn’t speak. Wookyung takes it as a yes.

And maybe in another world it is a yes. Maybe there’s a possibility, some infinitesimal chance, that in another world Minho told him yes, whether it was a placating lie or some semblance of a dirty, pathetic truth. In that world, Minho would have thrown his arms around Wookyung and shut his eyes, pleading for some kind of protection from the horrors lurking in the recesses of his brain—and maybe Wookyung could have given it to him. Some way, somehow. 

But in this world, Minho doesn’t speak. And Wookyung still takes it as a yes.

And in this world, that's how it'll always be.

After a long beat of numbing silence, Wookyung slowly untangles himself from Minho—Minho, for some confounding reason, almost immediately misses the warmth of Wookyung’s body and the weight of his tight hug. He sates himself on the faint warmth of Wookyung’s hand on his forearm, holding him steady.

“How about a nice, hot meal?” Wookyung prompts. His voice is still quiet. The room is too quiet. Minho is almost hesitant to break the thick silence, like if he says anything too loudly, Wookyung’s reply will come out in a voice shattered into a million miserable shards, leaving them both in a painful, sharp silence. “Let’s do something nice afterwards. Want to go to the cafe? Or a bookstore?”

But Minho is too tired to raise his voice. He’s too tired to get properly angry at Wookyung for treating him like he’s fragile. He’s too tired to tell Wookyung to go to work and not come back until it’s time to clock out. He’s too tired to storm off and wait for Wookyung to apologize for something he did. Anything. Surely, there’s something that he did that warrants an apology.

There always is.

There always has been.

There always will be.

But right now, he’s just too damn tired.

“I’m… not hungry,” Minho manages lowly, almost stiltedly, like his brain is struggling to put the words together. “And I… don’t want to go out.”

Wookyung nods immediately. “That’s okay. We can stay home, but I still want you to eat something. When was your last meal?”

Minho turns his gaze to the expensive, chic clock hanging on the wall. It wasn’t too late into the afternoon, but the last thing he’d eaten was breakfast with Wookyung before he left for work. Even then, Minho quietly picked at his food, Wookyung playfully whining at him to eat. Minho ate as much as he could stomach before he told Wookyung that he was running late for work and basically shooed him out the door.

The silence speaks for him once more because Wookyung’s expression crumples briefly before he stands up straight and starts making his way to the kitchen. 

“You’re getting chicken porridge.”

“I’m not sick.”

Wookyung gives him a sidelong look. “...You don’t have to be sick to enjoy chicken porridge.”

Minho obediently reads between the lines: You are sick, just not physically.

How patronizing.

“Just sit there and relax, okay? I’ll make it for you. You don’t have to lift a finger.”

Minho doesn’t protest.

As Wookyung darts around the kitchen to prepare the dish, he intermittently comes over to fuss over Minho. 

Wookyung preps the chicken and dices some vegetables; he washes his hands before marching into the bedroom and dragging out an armful of blankets and pillows to the living room to dump onto Minho. He cooks the vegetables; Wookyung brings Minho a cup of hot tea and a handful of crackers to tide him over until the meal is ready. He brings the chicken broth, vegetables, and some rice to a nice simmer; Wookyung wraps Minho in a blanket and turns on the TV to something he thinks Minho would like to watch. Minho doesn’t particularly care for anything, so he sits and stares at some home renovation show that Wookyung left on as his mind tries to drift. 

Wookyung tries to put a stop to it in the only way that he knows how—idle, irritating chatter. 

Interspersed between his cooking and his random fussing, Wookyung talks to Minho. 

It’s closer to talking at Minho, given that Minho can’t bring himself to respond with anything other than a tired, monosyllabic hum or a shake of the head, but Wookyung doesn’t seem to care. After all, this isn’t the first time that Minho has replied like this, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

“Apparently, the new hire spilled coffee all down the front of his suit,” he says, laughing. “And when he tried to get some towels to wipe it up, he slipped on the coffee on the ground. He was apologizing the whole time. Who are you even apologizing to? The break room is empty. Just clean up your mess and move on.”

“You know, I saw a stray cat on the way to work today. It kind of made me think of you, hyung,” he says, smiling. “Maybe it was the fur color. It looked a little grumpy too, like you before you’ve had your morning coffee—in a good way. It was really cute. Not cuter than you though.”

“Ow. Stupid fucking pot burned my finger,” he mutters under his breath with a scowl. “Ah, but I’m okay! Wouldn’t mind if you kissed it better though...”

“How do you feel about going to Japan in the fall for a quick day trip?” he asks gently, peering over his shoulder at Minho. “It’s stupid hot in the summer, but it’s way too cold in the winter. I know you don’t really have much energy for travel, but I want to take you shopping there. Maybe see some sights. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“There’s this new drama that everyone in the office is talking about,” he says, idly waving his spoon in the air as he speaks. “Do you want to try watching it with me? It sounds pretty interesting. So it’s about this girl…”

Eventually, Wookyung finishes cooking, seemingly perking up in the kitchen as he shuts off the stove. He brings the porridge over to Minho on a tray as carefully as he can. A mug of hot tea, filled to the brim, wobbles precariously, threatening to spill. He sets everything on the coffee table, pulls it up to the couch, and waits. 

Minho just stares at it. 

He’d be lying if he said that the porridge didn’t smell really good. It’s a nice, milky cream-white color, glistening rice with vegetables and shredded slips of chicken. Wookyung also seems to have taken great care in plating the porridge nicely. The vegetables are nice pops of color and contrasting shapes against the gentle mound of rice in the dish, and the chicken sits nicely atop it all. 

Minho’s stomach growls.

But he makes no move to eat. 

Physically, he’s hungry. He’s sure that his body would argue ravenous, considering hours of mentally and emotionally taxing self-pitying misery have passed without a single bite to reenergize him. Yet, the idea of moving his body at all—lifting the spoon, chewing, tasting, swallowing, then rinsing and repeating until everything is gone—isn’t appealing whatsoever. Those little movements all seem too exhausting, not to mention that he’ll feel bloated and heavy and hot afterwards, potentially worsening the current state of his physical condition.

He doesn’t look at Wookyung, but he doesn’t need to. Wookyung’s eyes are silently boring a hole into the side of his head. 

Minho continues to stare.

He’s too tired to eat.

Wookyung must be able to sense this very sentiment because he shifts beside Minho, clearly uneasy. 

“Please eat,” Wookyung whispers in a tone too similar to the beaten-dog tone that he used when Minho first returned to him of his own volition. If Wookyung were any more despairing, if tears and snot fell freely from his flushed face, if his voice was louder and his shoes were missing from his scuffed and bloodied feet and his big body was shaking like a leaf in a storm… 

It would have been the same as that time.

And in that case, maybe the way that Minho reacted then would have been the same now too, a resigned sigh and outstretched arms, locking the way that he feels in some private box that he’ll never open up in the presence of another person. And maybe in that moment, that would have felt alright too, two broken souls caught in a fumbling embrace, trying to form one.

But Wookyung isn’t crying like a child and Minho isn’t quite as broken now, just numb.

“Hyung, please. Or do you want me to help you? I don’t mind…”

Minho moves almost on instinct, but it’s a laborious movement, sluggish and heavy, as if every little part of his entire body weighed a hundred times what it actually did. He lifts his unfeeling hands and takes the bowl with him onto the couch. He sits, cross-legged, and slowly spoons the porridge into his mouth, Wookyung watching in unveiled anticipation.

…It’s bland. 

Minho wants to say as much, but speaking sounds infinitely more unappealing than eating, so he shuts up and eats. 

Wookyung deflates, though not in a sad, defeated way; he deflates in the same way that an old tree gives way under its own weight—quietly relieved of pressure.

Wookyung busies himself by changing whatever’s on their TV to his liking—not that Minho’s general indifference to what they watch has changed any—and Minho feeds himself until he can’t be bothered to eat anymore. He makes it roughly halfway through his bowl before setting it down, and of course, Wookyung notices it.

“What’s wrong? Was it that bad?” Wookyung wilts. “Should I get you something else to eat?”

“I’m full,” Minho says simply.

“Are you sure? You barely ate anything.” Wookyung peers into the bowl, like it’ll change how much is leftover if he keeps staring at it. “You’re only going to be more tired if you don’t have enough energy.”

“I can’t eat anymore. I’m full.”

It’s not necessarily a lie. He’s physically tired of going through the motions of eating, sure, but once the food settles, he’ll feel full. He just doesn’t have much of an appetite. 

Wookyung sighs inwardly—or, he tries to, but Minho can see the worry eating at him anyway. 

“Well, I made enough for you to eat later tonight and tomorrow morning, so I guess it’s okay that you didn’t finish.”

Why’d you make so much? Minho thinks, watching Wookyung carry away the tray and clear the table. All of that just for me? What a waste.

How stupid. Cutting work short and rushing home just to feed me like I’m a child. All this effort and all this food being wasted on something like me. 

Something. It’s hard to call me a person. 

Shutting his eyes, Minho wraps the blanket around himself a little tighter. He can’t stop thinking.

I’m nothing but a body, and maybe not even that. 

I’m a thought.

An afterthought.

And that’s all I should be. It’s what something as pathetic and small as me deserves. Wookyung should stop caring so much about me. He should stop pretending that I’m worth anything. He should stop giving me this false sense of importance. We both know that I’m basically his stupid, incompetent pet. 

Worthless. Useless. 

Why couldn’t the world just let me die?

“Hyung.”

Minho opened his eyes.

Wookyung has returned from the kitchen and taken a seat beside him, wrapped in a blanket of his own.

“Can you move over?"

Minho sighs quietly but stands. "I need more water anyway," he mutters, grabbing his mug on his way to the kitchen.

At the needlessly overpriced, filtered water dispenser that Wookyung has installed in his kitchen, Minho takes his time filling his cup, watching the water rise slowly in his cup until it's just about overflowing. He takes a sip. It's purified and clean, yet somehow lukewarm and unpleasant. He needs more water to survive, and it's sure to do more good than harm. Still, it feels like nothing he eats or drinks in here will make him feel any better, physically or emotionally.

How utterly unsurprising.

When Minho returns to the couch, Wookyung has taken up a majority of it, lying on his side with his head on one of the throw pillows. His blanket, no longer thrown over his shoulders, rests on top of his body. Selfish as ever.

Minho makes his way to the edge of the couch, at Wookyung’s feet. He debates sitting on the floor. He debates sitting on Wookyung to get him to move over. He debates walking over to the bedroom to avoid him all together. None of these options sound particularly appealing. 

It isn't long at all before Wookyung takes notice of him. “Hyung, come here.” He shifts, his back pressed flush against the back cushions. He pats couch space in front of him. 

“Why?”

“I’m not gonna do anything weird,” Wookyung promises. “Just come here.”

“Why?” Minho stresses.

“I’m trying to make you feel better.” When Minho gives him a dead-eyed look, Wookyung continues, “I think that you just need some quality time and maybe some physical affection." Before Minho could react, Wookyung catches himself and amends, "No. Not even affection. Maybe just some touch.”

Wookyung almost seems to cringe at himself when Minho takes a small half-step backwards. "Not touch like that," he stresses quickly. "But just... touch. Regular touch. You know what I mean?"

“And what if I don’t want that?”

Minho says this, but for whatever reason, his legs have already moved him back closer to Wookyung again. And he’s apparently close enough for Wookyung to sit up and gently pull him down onto the couch with him.

At first, Minho’s mind freezes and goes where it usually does when Wookyung grabs him and twines himself around him. He braces himself for the worst, but instead of slipping his hands into Minho's shirt and pants, Wookyung pulls his blanket up over the both of them, draws the curtains shut using a remote, and turns down the lights, opting for a few lamps. 

"Wanna watch a movie?"

Not really is the immediate answer that comes to mind, but at the same time, laying together in completely silence sounds like it'd be vastly more uncomfortable. 

So he nods.

"What do you want to watch?"

"Don't care. You pick."

"Are you sure?"

"Mm."

"Okay, but you can't complain this time if I pick something you don't like."

"Mm."

Wookyung huffs. "I mean it, hyung."

"I won't."

Wookyung turns on a movie. It's not to Minho's taste whatsoever—it's flashy and exaggerated in a way that totally suits a younger, more naïve, and optimistic audience—but he promised not to complain so he holds all his grumbling inside. It's not like he would have had the energy to complain anyway. He's still tired. He's still foggy and numb. Not to mention that the blanket, Wookyung's arm slung over his torso, and Wookyung's bicep as Minho's pillow are surprisingly and scarily comfortable. 

It's warm. It's dark. There's a nice weight on him. 

...This feels weird.

It far from out of the ordinary for Wookyung to fuss over Minho and touch him in all sorts of ways. He did it all the time, from the moment that they woke up to the moment in the morning to the moment that they went to bed together. There are casual touches like when he pinches Minho's cheek and coos at him, or when he slings an arm over Minho's shoulders. There are scarier touches when it's Wookyung's hand tightening around his wrist—and there's scarier still, where Wookyung is pinning him to the bed and exploring a body that Minho hardly has any right to anymore. These are familiar. He knows these touches well.

This one feels the most foreign somehow. 

It isn't like Wookyung hasn't tried to play the part of the fawning, doting boyfriend—Minho grimaces at the moniker—but when he did, there was always an element of sarcasm. Playful and cute in Wookyung’s eyes, perhaps. Cruel and taunting in Minho’s. It was a show of ‘affection’ that existed to highlight Minho’s helplessness. 

But this feels… 

Genuine somehow.

And frankly, it might just be the most terrifying feeling Minho has ever felt around Wookyung. 

Minho tries not to think about it. He tries not to feel any way about it. This is another one of those uncomfortable experiences that he'll lock away in the confines of his memory and the secret patches of space in his chest, and he'll never think about it again. He's not sure what'll happen on the day when it all comes spilling forth, but it unnerves him to no end, thinking about what's going on and all the complex feelings starting to dart around in his head.

He pretends to watch the movie instead, his back to Wookyung.

Sometime into the movie, Wookyung speaks.

“Hyung.”

The word is so softly spoken that Minho swears that he imagined it. He only knows it was real because he could feel on his back the faint rumbling of Wookyung's voice reverberating in his chest. 

Regardless, Minho doesn’t reply.

"Are you feeling any better?"

He still doesn't say anything. He keeps his back to Wookyung, his body angled towards the TV. 

Wookyung doesn't speak for a bit, but he eventually leans over and presses lips against Minho's nape. Not in the excessively and obviously horny way or even the annoying, puppyish pay attention to me, hyung kind of way. It's a gentle touch, a chaste kiss so light that Minho hardly recognizes what had just been done.

"It's okay," Wookyung whispers. "You don't have to say anything."

For some reason, Minho feels something weird in his throat, something swelling and dully aching in the empty cavity of his chest. He swallows thickly and continues to leave Wookyung in silence. Minho doesn't have anything he wants to say anyway. He's not sure that he'll ever have anything honest to say to Wookyung, now or in the future—and honestly, they're both probably better off this way. It saves Minho the humiliation. It saves Wookyung the stress of trying to keep Minho in one piece. 

Wookyung lets out a small breath. Not annoyed, not relieved. A small puff of air, like he's trying to steady himself.

"I'm just happy that you let me know you weren't okay today." 

Minho continues to stare blankly at the TV. Colors and actors and settings all flit across the screen and somewhere into his eyes, but he doesn't process any of it. He can only process Wookyung's soft mumbling from behind him. He doesn't really know if he even wants to, but he does anyway. He curses his stupid brain for so desperately latching on to every little thing that Wookyung says. At the same time, he knows that it's something he does to keep himself safe. 

Wookyung can turn on a dime. He needs to prepare for if Wookyung's pseudo-sympathetic musings turn dark.

"Please tell me in the future if you're upset again, okay?" 

That makes Minho feel unpleasant. Weird. Stuffy. Like that aching something in his chest has finally blown up enough to get caught between his spine and his ribs, and all he wants to do now is wrench it out with his bare hands. Minho sucks in a small breath, like it'll make the feeling go away. It doesn't.

"I can't fix everything, I know. And I know that you aren't always happy here, but I'm happy you're here—and I want to make you feel the way that I do. I want to make you happy in any way that I can."

An unreadable emotion stabs into Minho's core, sinking deeper and deeper. He shuts his eyes tight.

"Stop talking," he rasps. Or, at least, he thinks he does. He doesn't hear himself speak, and Wookyung doesn't seem to acknowledge it either.

"Hyung, you're so important to me. You're the most important person in my life."

Minho opens his mouth to speak again. I said stop. No sound escapes his lips.

"And I want you to know that."

Stop, stop, stop.

"I'm always thinking about you."

Minho clenches his jaw. His chest is so tight that he feels like he can't breathe. Not to mention that an inexplicable warmth has now started trickling up to his face, leaving him dizzy. Oddly enough, his nose stings. 

"I am," Wookyung repeats quietly with another chaste kiss, this time pressed to the top of Minho's head. "I worry about you all the time because I—"

Minho shuts his eyes tight, but he finally finds his voice.

Wobbling and quiet and awkward, but it's his voice.

"Shut up."

And Wookyung does.

That doesn't mean he keeps himself distant. 

Throughout the movie, Wookyung silently toys with Minho's hair, combing it gently with his fingers, and pulling Minho flush against his own body. Sometimes, he leaves another one of those confounding, chaste kisses on Minho's neck, his head, his ear. And each time, Minho feels himself going a little more insane from the millions of conflicting and confused thoughts freely racing around in his head.

Why? is the most prevalent and pressing question, coming in all forms and flavors. Why are you doing this? Why me? Why can't you leave me alone? Why do I feel so weird? Why won't you touch me like you used to? Why do I want you to hurt me? Why can't I stop thinking about you? Why—

He needs to sleep it off, he decides. He needs to stop thinking, and he needs to ignore these weird things happening around him.

He settles down a little lower, lying his head on Wookyung's outstretched arm, and he shuts his eyes with a small sigh. Wookyung doesn't cease touching him, but he slows his movements, as if lulling a child to sleep. There's a faint stroke of his head or the occasional, rhythmic pat along the side of his body covered with the blanket.

"Stop that," Minho mutters. "Stop touching me. Just leave me alone."

"Get some sleep," Wookyung replies, tugging the blanket up a little higher on Minho.

"I will once you stop fussing with me."

Wookyung stops touching him. "Okay," he says, seemingly unfazed. He pulls Minho in tighter regardless, burying his face in the back of Minho's neck. "But if you need me, I'm right here, okay?"

Minho closes his eyes. "Whatever." 

If there's one silver lining out of his seemingly eternal stay with Wookyung, he supposes dryly, it's that he can practically fall asleep on command. The constant stress and surveillance he acquired while living here have primed him to wake at any slight shift in his surroundings, yes, but they have also run him so dry of energy that it's quite easy for him to drop into a nap wherever he is, just to preserve or even attempt to build up some energy.

(That's just because you're old now, hyung, Wookyung had teased once, and Minho scowled at him until his face practically hurt. Wookyung laughed then, and even though it was at his expense, it felt...

Minho doesn't know.) 

So, with that, Minho soon drifts to sleep with all of those endless questions and uncomfortable feelings building up in his core, tying his insides into a knot.

And when he wakes, Wookyung is pottering around in the bedroom. The slight crack in the door reveals that he’s pacing back and forth with his phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder and a small notepad in his hands, speaking in hushed tones about what’s likely some business deal. 

Because of course he is.

He’s someone with a name. With money, with connections. 

And he’s tied down, kept home, by someone who might as well not exist.

Minho watches from the couch as Wookyung walks around, occasionally penning something onto the notepad. Wookyung's expression switches from unimpressed to annoyed, then to something more neutral. Minho can't hear what Wookyung is saying from this distance, and whatever he's saying almost certainly has no impact on his life, but it looks serious. Not necessarily like trouble, but nothing particularly good. 

Minho wants to know. Minho doesn't care. Minho has no right knowing or caring about anything.

Frustration eats at him, and that darkness from earlier begins to creep into his thoughts again.

Wookyung hangs up the phone call with a sigh and tosses his phone over his shoulder onto the bed. Minho shuts his eyes once more in an attempt to feign sleep, to escape whatever Wookyung is inevitably going to spring on him.

Wookyung shuffles over, the sound of his footsteps gentle and slow.

“Hyung?” whispers Wookyung, voice close enough to suggest that he’s standing right over Minho, hovering like a cloud. 

Minho doesn’t reply.

Wookyung calls out once more. “Hyung? Are you awake?”

At Minho’s continued silence, Wookyung lets out a small huff of air. This one is audibly contented, almost like it was pressed through a subtle smile. He leans down and brushes Minho’s bangs out of his eyes, Minho just barely withholding the urge to flinch. Then, after a pause, with a featherlight touch that someone with his mean streak has no right having, Wookyung caresses Minho’s cheek with his hand. His thumb grazes the skin of his cheek, the pad of that finger just barely brushing the tips of Minho's lashes. 

It's such a startlingly soft action that Minho almost jumps awake to snap at him about it. If he were testier, he would have. But now, he's just sluggish and confused. Thoughts continue to dart around in his head, resuming at the breakneck speeds from earlier.

Why does he touch me like this?

Like I’m something fragile? Like I mean anything? Like I’m important? Like I’m sacred?

Why does he treat me so kindly when all I ever am to him is useless and cold? 

Why does he need me? 

(Why do I need him?)

These are all questions that Minho asks himself. 

These are all questions that he will never ask Wookyung, not necessarily because of the shards of his shattered pride that he clings to. It's because he knows what Wookyung will say—because I love you, he’ll say, like it’s obvious, like it’s his favorite set of words to sing-song at Minho—and he knows that it'll only make him feel weird again.  

Because I love you, Wookyung will say, and he'll say it regardless of whatever facial expression he has on. A smile, a pout, a frown, a glare. Because I love you, he'll say, and he'll say it anywhere and anytime that he can. In bed, at a café, in the bath, in the car, at the mall. Because I love you, he'll say, and he'll say it again and again whenever Minho asks why he's treating him like this, or why he puts up with him, or why he does literally anything with or for Minho.

Because I love you is a problematic phrase in itself, but not by virtue of it being some perverse and misguided explanation of why Wookyung is ruining his life and will continue to do so until one of them dies.  

The problem lies squarely in the fact that Minho is starting to believe it.

He likely won’t ever feel the same way towards Wookyung, no matter how much he may pity his unrequited feelings and no matter how weird Wookyung’s soft actions make his chest feel. Wookyung can cry and beg all he wants; he can beat Minho black and blue. None of it will make him feel any semblance of 'love' towards him, despite the weird stuffy feeling that clouds his mind and fills his chest.

But maybe, he tells himself as Wookyung silently clambers back onto the couch and gently pulls him back into his embrace with ease, living together doesn't need to be as bad as he thinks.

And maybe, he tells himself as he scoots closer to Wookyung and focuses on the welcoming warmth of his body pressed up against his own, he really did need Wookyung today.