Work Text:
When he wakes the sky is grey. Clouds bunch on the horizon, melting into fluffy wisps that colour a dim yellow with the sunrise. A muted light seeps into the room and paints the closet doors in an uncertain blue, so faint it looks… grey.
Minho always wakes up just a little too early when he’s away. Normally, with another body pressed against his own, he would awaken to feather-light kisses and the golden glow of the sun hovering above glass skyscrapers. Normally he would wake at eight, nine, eleven, skip all that came in between a 9 to 5 and breakfast. Normally… Normally.
The sheets beside him aren’t crinkled. There’s no warmth lingering in the pillow that should be overlapping with his own. There’s no body to keep him safe from the winter nights that win against the radiator pinned to the wall because they can’t yet afford proper air conditioning.
He pushes the duvet from his cold skin, crumples it to the bottom of the bed with his stiff toes. His arm curls up, clutches at the cold pillow opposite his own, and smothers his face with the coarse cotton. It’s still there, the faintest whiff of coconut shampoo and musky cologne. It’s not enough, it never will be.
Slowly, he drags himself from the comfort of the mattress they bought when they first moved in together; was it six, no, seven years ago. The closet doors slide smoothly beneath his fingertips, white paint collecting that pale yellow dawn in muted pastels.
For a moment his hands hover over that mustard hoodie with the faded image of that one band he always told Minho to listen to; he never did, at least not in front of him. His fingers twist in the soft fabric and he thinks that maybe the world was meant to be built on this. Then he unhooks his carefully pressed white shirt and marl grey trousers.
Dressed, he stares in the bathroom mirror. There are deep purple bruises below his eyes, the pattern of restlessness tattooed into his skin. His eyelids are red-rimmed and there is a patch of angry red acne against his right jaw. The shadows of wrinkles pattern his forehead and his hair falls in clumped strands that stretch towards his eyelashes.
The sigh escapes between his lips before he feels the breath leaving his lungs. Leaving him. Leaving his body… empty. He shakes his head, fierce and determined, until his vision is blurred and his brain rattles against his skull. Empty. He sighs again, warm breath misting the mirror’s surface so his reflection is nothing more than a grey ghost. Then he reaches for the concealer waiting beside his moisturiser.
And if he sprays the air with his cologne, until the bathroom is a thick fog that Minho can barely see through, that’s for only him to know.
For once work is easy. His boss merely nods at the statistics Minho has diligently inputted into the spreadsheet on his second screen and barely even glances at the live stream he has on his first. The relieved gasp he inadvertently lets free doesn’t even pull a raised eyebrow from Seungmin beside him.
There’s still a donut left in the pale pink and white box on the staff room table. He takes it, even though every bite feels like ash in his mouth. Maybe the donut has been sitting too long. Maybe it’s something else.
He types, until his fingers feel numb and Minho has to keep checking the spreadsheet to make sure he actually put in the right numbers. The glass at his elbow seeps a chill into his bones until he feels like he is shivering from the inside. The view doesn’t interest him, grey metal and rectangle-windowed skyscrapers reaching for a sky he only catches glimpses of. It makes no difference, he doesn’t care to look at the gathering clouds.
Nothing breaks his mind from black numbers on white cells until the first thunderclap makes him startle away from his desk adorned with smiling pictures collated in plain black frames. He always told Minho he needed a little colour in his life but Minho just picked another matte black frame and eventually he gave up.
Sometimes he’s right.
The thunder is highlighted a few seconds later by the bright flash of lightning that highlights the edges and corners of those damn framed photos. It sears through the cheap plastic cover so their smiles are lost for just a second in time. Just a second; it still feels wrong, like the shirt over his torso is just a little too big.
“Minho?” His gaze flicks to Seungmin, too quick to excuse, too wide-eyed to ignore. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough and distantly he realises it’s the first time he’s talked today. He’s too used to mumbled morning conversations in golden sunlight. Too used to waking his mind with him rambling about random facts and recollections of dreams that once seemed real. “I’m good?”
It comes out as a question when he knows it should be an affirmation.
“I know-” Seungmin’s face scrunches up until his nose seems like nothing more than a rock peaking above waves. “I know it’s hard when you miss him, but he’ll be back soon.”
Him. He. Him. He.
Soon.
Minho nods, sharp and jerky. He hopes Seungmin doesn’t hear the sound of his neck cracking as his body snaps into an automatic motion he doesn’t reflect.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, and when did his voice become nothing more than breath? “He will.”
Seungmin’s brow furrows as he returns the nod. And if he turns back to his monitor with a muttered ‘co-dependant fuckers’, Minho chooses not to hear him.
He’s perfectly fine on his own, thank you very much. Perfectly fucking fine.
Rain pelts the window at his elbow and all the world is overlapped by grey clouds. He's perfectly fine.
Minho wakes to butterfly kisses pressed against his fluttering eyelids. The world is golden, and yellow, and orange, and just the fingertips of red. The sun is rising, bright and hued in oranges and reds with his own awakening.
“Finally,” a voice speaks to his right, deep with fondness and barely a hint of impatience. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“Why should I care?” Minho grunts as he tightens his arms around the body that he has curled into at some point in his sleep. “You could have waited a little longer.”
“I could have…” the body trapped in his arms rumbles with laughter. “But then I wouldn’t get to see my grumpy kitten.”
“No’ yo’ ‘itten,” Minho mutters into the chest pressed so tightly against his lips he can barely get the words out. “‘Mma lion.”
“Yeah, baby.” A hand cards through his hair, ghosts against his nape and sends warm shivers down his spine. “You’re my lion.”
Sunshine bleeds through the curtains they never remember to close and patterns Minho’s skin in yellows and golds and oranges and every now and then there’s reds. He lifts his head, perches his chin on the strong chest beneath him. He listens to the heartbeat beneath his skin.his skin.
And his face curls into a smile, a little crooked from his position but so wide he feels his chest split open and spill his insides out upon that pretty tan body beneath him. He feels the bite of his front teeth as his bottom lip peels inward; feels the crease of his brow and the thickness of his cheeks curving his eyes into slits.
It’s all golden, golden skin and golden walls, golden sun playing upon golden walls and creeping upwards until the ceiling above them is nothing more than the surface of a golden pool waiting for them to run out of breath.
It’s a world in every colour. Everything. The first television set brought to 4k definition in round cheeks, sharp eyebrows, deep brown eyes, and red lips stretched like the heavens are opening up and welcoming them. Sunshine, spread across their bodies, spread across the world, spread across all that he sees.
Minho rests his chin upon his chest, and Jisung smiles back at him.