Ship/Member: Minghao/Mingyu Major Tags: Idolverse, Implied canon divergence Additional Tags: N/A Permission to remix: Yes
A/N: Uhh I'm really sorry about this one. ***
“Surprise!” Mingyu stage-whispered when Minghao pulled open the sliding door of the black minivan to reveal him hunched over in the second row, dark sunglasses on even though the sun had already set.
It wasn’t a surprise, really, because earlier that week Mingyu had double- and triple-checked with Minghao about when his flight was landing, whether he had any schedules right after, if he knew which manager was picking him up. The second tell was that he’d clammed up when Minghao had sent a message before taking off from Beijing asking Mingyu if he was free for dinner that night, launching into an unnecessarily detailed description of his lunch menu instead. The two of them were similar, in that way – both lacking the penchant for subtle, minute deflection that made for the best liars. Minghao had rolled his eyes and texted the manager not to bother bringing him any food.
“Hi.” Minghao threw his bag into the back row and sat in the second, hesitating only for a moment before reaching across the space between their seats to rest his hand on Mingyu’s arm. Mingyu flexed at the touch, pleased, the contours of his forearm grounding Minghao after his long day of travel and the past few months of filming still swirling in his mind. Fondness and familiarity had a way of forming a positive feedback loop, an ouroboros that fed on its own confirmation bias in ever-tightening loops. Soulmates, they had giggled, once, hiding under the covers, sharing their hopes, egging on each other’s wishes, marveling at how the threads of their existence had been taken and woven together now so tightly that they could never be teased apart. You are a person who is just like me.
The thing about mirrors is that they reflect your own myopia. It may have been more accurate to say that there was a person they each wanted to be just like, that it was not one or the other but a third thing, a clear outline of an existence that they could see shining before them, and that they were both so determined in their desire that they mistook evolution for genesis, form for function, as the preachers and the old scientists had.
++
Minghao is the last person Mingyu talks to about contract renewals. He doesn’t know whether it’s because Mingyu thinks he’ll be the most difficult to convince, or because he assumes they’re on the same page. Either way, he resents it.
Speculation had always been a love language of sorts, for the two of them. In hypotheticals, it was easier to continue to orient yourselves in parallel without considering the mathematical implications of sharing a slope.
“It’s not that complicated,” Mingyu says, when they finally do sit down together. “Everyone should just say what they want, first – that way we all start on the same page. And then we work from there.”
“What if we don’t want the same things?”
Mingyu doesn’t falter. “Well, of course the members will have different terms. I mean, you should have seen Vernon’s spreadsheet about stock options – I don’t even know where he learned all that stuff. But that’s why it’s good to have it all on the table, so we can figure out the best compromise and how to leverage it with the company.”
Mingyu is no fool. Minghao knows this, truly knows this, but a part of him still can’t help but flicker with annoyed disbelief. Once upon a time, he would have been starry with admiration. He’s not sure where to direct the vague sense of disgust he feels now, deep in the pit of his stomach, churning in that hollowed out place for secrets that used to only be filled with ambition. Natural selection had done its work on both of them, after all.
“Mingyu,” Minghao says slowly. “What if there is no compromise?”
How do two people know that they’re looking at the same color, just because they both give it the same name?
++
Mingyu rides with him one more time to Incheon Airport. The cab driver showed no sign of recognition when they hailed the car down outside of the company, didn’t bother stepping out to help two perfectly able-bodied young men, one with a military-grade buzzcut, with their luggage. There’s nothing much to say in the last hour, really, and the way that the pop radio saws like a dull knife through the silence makes Minghao wish that Mingyu hadn’t offered to come at all. Still, he understands. It had always been important to both of them to see things through to the end.
++
“It’s not your fault,” Minghao had said, after the ink had dried and the old papers had been shredded and they found themselves alone in the conference room. The touch of his hand echoed on Mingyu’s arm. “You knew me as well as I knew myself back then. And I would have resented you for going any further.” He exhaled wrly. “Just look at me and Junhui.”
“We all changed, Myungho. You’re hardly the only one.”
Minghao shook his head. “Kim Mingyu, the best parts of you have stayed the same. You should be grateful.” He winced at his own choice of words. “I mean, it’s a good thing. I wish…” He stopped himself, deflated, the words momentarily stunned by the unfamiliar rush of free fall, wings still damp with amniotic fluid.
Mingyu looked at him for a long moment, then got up, his chair rolling soundlessly away from the table.
All nature in confusion
Major Tags: Idolverse, Implied canon divergence
Additional Tags: N/A
Permission to remix: Yes
A/N: Uhh I'm really sorry about this one.
***
“Surprise!” Mingyu stage-whispered when Minghao pulled open the sliding door of the black minivan to reveal him hunched over in the second row, dark sunglasses on even though the sun had already set.
It wasn’t a surprise, really, because earlier that week Mingyu had double- and triple-checked with Minghao about when his flight was landing, whether he had any schedules right after, if he knew which manager was picking him up. The second tell was that he’d clammed up when Minghao had sent a message before taking off from Beijing asking Mingyu if he was free for dinner that night, launching into an unnecessarily detailed description of his lunch menu instead. The two of them were similar, in that way – both lacking the penchant for subtle, minute deflection that made for the best liars. Minghao had rolled his eyes and texted the manager not to bother bringing him any food.
“Hi.” Minghao threw his bag into the back row and sat in the second, hesitating only for a moment before reaching across the space between their seats to rest his hand on Mingyu’s arm. Mingyu flexed at the touch, pleased, the contours of his forearm grounding Minghao after his long day of travel and the past few months of filming still swirling in his mind. Fondness and familiarity had a way of forming a positive feedback loop, an ouroboros that fed on its own confirmation bias in ever-tightening loops. Soulmates, they had giggled, once, hiding under the covers, sharing their hopes, egging on each other’s wishes, marveling at how the threads of their existence had been taken and woven together now so tightly that they could never be teased apart. You are a person who is just like me.
The thing about mirrors is that they reflect your own myopia. It may have been more accurate to say that there was a person they each wanted to be just like, that it was not one or the other but a third thing, a clear outline of an existence that they could see shining before them, and that they were both so determined in their desire that they mistook evolution for genesis, form for function, as the preachers and the old scientists had.
++
Minghao is the last person Mingyu talks to about contract renewals. He doesn’t know whether it’s because Mingyu thinks he’ll be the most difficult to convince, or because he assumes they’re on the same page. Either way, he resents it.
Speculation had always been a love language of sorts, for the two of them. In hypotheticals, it was easier to continue to orient yourselves in parallel without considering the mathematical implications of sharing a slope.
“It’s not that complicated,” Mingyu says, when they finally do sit down together. “Everyone should just say what they want, first – that way we all start on the same page. And then we work from there.”
“What if we don’t want the same things?”
Mingyu doesn’t falter. “Well, of course the members will have different terms. I mean, you should have seen Vernon’s spreadsheet about stock options – I don’t even know where he learned all that stuff. But that’s why it’s good to have it all on the table, so we can figure out the best compromise and how to leverage it with the company.”
Mingyu is no fool. Minghao knows this, truly knows this, but a part of him still can’t help but flicker with annoyed disbelief. Once upon a time, he would have been starry with admiration. He’s not sure where to direct the vague sense of disgust he feels now, deep in the pit of his stomach, churning in that hollowed out place for secrets that used to only be filled with ambition. Natural selection had done its work on both of them, after all.
“Mingyu,” Minghao says slowly. “What if there is no compromise?”
How do two people know that they’re looking at the same color, just because they both give it the same name?
++
Mingyu rides with him one more time to Incheon Airport. The cab driver showed no sign of recognition when they hailed the car down outside of the company, didn’t bother stepping out to help two perfectly able-bodied young men, one with a military-grade buzzcut, with their luggage. There’s nothing much to say in the last hour, really, and the way that the pop radio saws like a dull knife through the silence makes Minghao wish that Mingyu hadn’t offered to come at all. Still, he understands. It had always been important to both of them to see things through to the end.
++
“It’s not your fault,” Minghao had said, after the ink had dried and the old papers had been shredded and they found themselves alone in the conference room. The touch of his hand echoed on Mingyu’s arm. “You knew me as well as I knew myself back then. And I would have resented you for going any further.” He exhaled wrly. “Just look at me and Junhui.”
“We all changed, Myungho. You’re hardly the only one.”
Minghao shook his head. “Kim Mingyu, the best parts of you have stayed the same. You should be grateful.” He winced at his own choice of words. “I mean, it’s a good thing. I wish…” He stopped himself, deflated, the words momentarily stunned by the unfamiliar rush of free fall, wings still damp with amniotic fluid.
Mingyu looked at him for a long moment, then got up, his chair rolling soundlessly away from the table.