Ship/Member: Junhui/Minghao Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: vaguely canonverse, projecting my personal pain onto wen junhui Permission to remix: Yes
sorry op for hijacking your prompt part 2... not a single part of this fill relates to any other part of it
***
Junhui gets canker sores in his mouth often. Wo you shang huo le, he’ll whine to Minghao, opening his mouth up wide and jabbing at the puffy, inflamed insides of his oral cavity no matter how many times Minghao makes it clear it’s not a very pleasant sight to see. Little white pus-filled circles ringed around the edge in a vicious scarlet. Just looking at them makes the skin on the inside of Minghao’s cheeks sting a little.
Again? Minghao will ask, not even pretending to be surprised. Any old lady off the street back home could tell Junhui that it was because he eats too much spicy food, especially in Seoul’s more temperate climate. But Junhui never listens. It’s because my body constitution type is bad, is his perpetual excuse, to which Minghao can’t help but fire back with then stop eating things that don’t match with your body constitution!
Did he apply ointment to the sores? He did, but then he licked it off. Did he try eating more cold foods? He would, but he’s suddenly picked up an irrational fear of cucumbers. Did he at least try drinking chrysanthemum tea? He will if Minghao makes it for him.
This is how Minghao finds himself boiling tiny dried flowers in a strainer at two in the morning every other week, watching the petals slowly unfurl.
Last week, in the waiting room half an hour before their last music show performance before their promotions ended, Junhui had been playing a game on his phone with his legs stretched out to the other end of the couch and his head pillowed on one of Minghao’s thighs. Minghao had been resisting the urge to comb an aimless hand through Junhui’s already-styled hair and valiantly trudging through the Korean translation of a novel originally written in Chinese, pretending that he didn’t desperately want to switch to the original version instead.
Just as he was about to set the book down and pull up Taobao, Junhui let out a loud cry of despair. LEVEL FAILED was all Minghao could see on the screen before Junhui dropped it onto his stomach with a sigh. Then, without missing a beat, he looked up at Minghao and asked, “Why do you never bring me to museums with you?”
“Huh?”
“You always ask Wonwoo, or Hansol, or Mingyu to go with you,” Junhui pointed out. “But never me.”
Minghao hadn’t known what to say, at first, to what was an objectively correct observation. He finally settled on, “You wouldn’t like it.”
“You don’t know that,” said Junhui. “I could love it.”
But Minghao already knew he wouldn't. He’d do a very good job of pretending to, for Minghao’s sake, but he wouldn’t really enjoy it for himself.
Still, Minghao said, “Okay. I’ll ask you next time, then.”
---
“If you complain too much I’ll send you home early,” Minghao threatens. Jokingly.
“Promise I won’t,” says Junhui, holding his pinky out. Minghao completes the connection. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
This time it’s some contemporary abstract art museum he’d found on Instagram. He’d shown Mingyu the profile and Mingyu had laughed, eyes shooting open wide as he covered his mouth with his hand. “You’re taking Jun-hyung there?” he’d asked. “That’s like throwing him straight into hard mode.”
“Art is art,” Minghao had grumbled. He’d wanted to visit, and Junhui had wanted to come with him. So they’d both get what they wanted.
True to his word, Junhui doesn’t complain at all. He follows Minghao around obediently and takes a billion pictures on his phone and pulls Minghao into blurry selfies and reads all of the borderline incomprehensible descriptions on the wall and asks engaging questions like he really cares about what Minghao thinks about all of this art, all the way up until they’re about to exit the last exhibit. It’s a different experience from going with Wonwoo, who brings two lenses for his DSLR and takes discerning pictures with the quiet click of the shutter going off in the background, or Hansol, who bounces off Minghao’s comments with observations of his own, or Mingyu, who takes it all in quietly and then argues with Minghao about it on the way home, but Minghao finds he enjoys it all the same.
“What’s this one supposed to be?” asks Junhui, pointing at the last piece on the last wall.
Minghao loves art. He believes in the value of every piece, no matter how simple or silly it may seem. He always tries to scope out the artist’s meaning and intention, careful eyes picking out each careful detail, and thinks of his own personal connection to it.
But sometimes he has to admit that he truly doesn’t know.
“No clue,” he says, and laughs.
An hour later finds them at a restaurant they stumble across on the way back from the museum. After the hotpot goes cold enough for the oils to float to the top of the broth and Junhui wins the obligatory fight over the bill by slapping his card down on the plastic tray first and quickly ushering the waiter away before Minghao can even argue, Minghao slumps down into his side of the booth and rubs his belly, feeling the heat from the soup spread through his body. Junhui had wanted their spiciest mala broth, as usual. He’ll be complaining to Minghao about another canker sore soon.
“I like you a lot,” Minghao tells him. Junhui’s still drinking the broth like it’s water. “You know that, right?”
Junhui sets his bowl down to blink at him. “Are you saying this because I treated you?”
“Because you treated me? I was supposed to treat you!”
Junhui laughs. “I like having you in my debt, Xiao Hao.”
Minghao makes a face. “So I can make you more tea?”
Junhui laughs again. He rests his elbows on the table and cups his face in his hands, uncaring of the thin film of oil covering his palms. “Because I like you a lot too.”
“You didn’t have to come today,” Minghao says, feeling warm. He thinks about the color of sunlight seeping into freshly boiled water and dried, wrinkly petals turning sleek and soft once again.
“But did you like that I did?” asks Junhui.
The answer, surprisingly—or unsurprisingly—is yes. Minghao nods and receives a lazy, satisfied smile from Junhui in return. Mouth curled up at the edges like a cat out in the sun.
“Then I’m glad,” says Junhui. “I liked it a lot. It’s always fun hanging out with you, Xiao Hao.” He pauses. “Let’s go to a different place next time, though.”
Minghao barks out a surprised laugh and agrees. Next time, they’ll go somewhere else.
[FILL] 画蛇添足
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: vaguely canonverse, projecting my personal pain onto wen junhui
Permission to remix: Yes
sorry op for hijacking your prompt part 2... not a single part of this fill relates to any other part of it
***
Junhui gets canker sores in his mouth often. Wo you shang huo le, he’ll whine to Minghao, opening his mouth up wide and jabbing at the puffy, inflamed insides of his oral cavity no matter how many times Minghao makes it clear it’s not a very pleasant sight to see. Little white pus-filled circles ringed around the edge in a vicious scarlet. Just looking at them makes the skin on the inside of Minghao’s cheeks sting a little.
Again? Minghao will ask, not even pretending to be surprised. Any old lady off the street back home could tell Junhui that it was because he eats too much spicy food, especially in Seoul’s more temperate climate. But Junhui never listens. It’s because my body constitution type is bad, is his perpetual excuse, to which Minghao can’t help but fire back with then stop eating things that don’t match with your body constitution!
Did he apply ointment to the sores? He did, but then he licked it off. Did he try eating more cold foods? He would, but he’s suddenly picked up an irrational fear of cucumbers. Did he at least try drinking chrysanthemum tea? He will if Minghao makes it for him.
This is how Minghao finds himself boiling tiny dried flowers in a strainer at two in the morning every other week, watching the petals slowly unfurl.
Last week, in the waiting room half an hour before their last music show performance before their promotions ended, Junhui had been playing a game on his phone with his legs stretched out to the other end of the couch and his head pillowed on one of Minghao’s thighs. Minghao had been resisting the urge to comb an aimless hand through Junhui’s already-styled hair and valiantly trudging through the Korean translation of a novel originally written in Chinese, pretending that he didn’t desperately want to switch to the original version instead.
Just as he was about to set the book down and pull up Taobao, Junhui let out a loud cry of despair. LEVEL FAILED was all Minghao could see on the screen before Junhui dropped it onto his stomach with a sigh. Then, without missing a beat, he looked up at Minghao and asked, “Why do you never bring me to museums with you?”
“Huh?”
“You always ask Wonwoo, or Hansol, or Mingyu to go with you,” Junhui pointed out. “But never me.”
Minghao hadn’t known what to say, at first, to what was an objectively correct observation. He finally settled on, “You wouldn’t like it.”
“You don’t know that,” said Junhui. “I could love it.”
But Minghao already knew he wouldn't. He’d do a very good job of pretending to, for Minghao’s sake, but he wouldn’t really enjoy it for himself.
Still, Minghao said, “Okay. I’ll ask you next time, then.”
---
“If you complain too much I’ll send you home early,” Minghao threatens. Jokingly.
“Promise I won’t,” says Junhui, holding his pinky out. Minghao completes the connection. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
This time it’s some contemporary abstract art museum he’d found on Instagram. He’d shown Mingyu the profile and Mingyu had laughed, eyes shooting open wide as he covered his mouth with his hand. “You’re taking Jun-hyung there?” he’d asked. “That’s like throwing him straight into hard mode.”
“Art is art,” Minghao had grumbled. He’d wanted to visit, and Junhui had wanted to come with him. So they’d both get what they wanted.
True to his word, Junhui doesn’t complain at all. He follows Minghao around obediently and takes a billion pictures on his phone and pulls Minghao into blurry selfies and reads all of the borderline incomprehensible descriptions on the wall and asks engaging questions like he really cares about what Minghao thinks about all of this art, all the way up until they’re about to exit the last exhibit. It’s a different experience from going with Wonwoo, who brings two lenses for his DSLR and takes discerning pictures with the quiet click of the shutter going off in the background, or Hansol, who bounces off Minghao’s comments with observations of his own, or Mingyu, who takes it all in quietly and then argues with Minghao about it on the way home, but Minghao finds he enjoys it all the same.
“What’s this one supposed to be?” asks Junhui, pointing at the last piece on the last wall.
Minghao loves art. He believes in the value of every piece, no matter how simple or silly it may seem. He always tries to scope out the artist’s meaning and intention, careful eyes picking out each careful detail, and thinks of his own personal connection to it.
But sometimes he has to admit that he truly doesn’t know.
“No clue,” he says, and laughs.
An hour later finds them at a restaurant they stumble across on the way back from the museum. After the hotpot goes cold enough for the oils to float to the top of the broth and Junhui wins the obligatory fight over the bill by slapping his card down on the plastic tray first and quickly ushering the waiter away before Minghao can even argue, Minghao slumps down into his side of the booth and rubs his belly, feeling the heat from the soup spread through his body. Junhui had wanted their spiciest mala broth, as usual. He’ll be complaining to Minghao about another canker sore soon.
“I like you a lot,” Minghao tells him. Junhui’s still drinking the broth like it’s water. “You know that, right?”
Junhui sets his bowl down to blink at him. “Are you saying this because I treated you?”
“Because you treated me? I was supposed to treat you!”
Junhui laughs. “I like having you in my debt, Xiao Hao.”
Minghao makes a face. “So I can make you more tea?”
Junhui laughs again. He rests his elbows on the table and cups his face in his hands, uncaring of the thin film of oil covering his palms. “Because I like you a lot too.”
“You didn’t have to come today,” Minghao says, feeling warm. He thinks about the color of sunlight seeping into freshly boiled water and dried, wrinkly petals turning sleek and soft once again.
“But did you like that I did?” asks Junhui.
The answer, surprisingly—or unsurprisingly—is yes. Minghao nods and receives a lazy, satisfied smile from Junhui in return. Mouth curled up at the edges like a cat out in the sun.
“Then I’m glad,” says Junhui. “I liked it a lot. It’s always fun hanging out with you, Xiao Hao.” He pauses. “Let’s go to a different place next time, though.”
Minghao barks out a surprised laugh and agrees. Next time, they’ll go somewhere else.