Ship/Member: josh/minghao Major Tags: past relationships Additional Tags: uhhh "rich SKY graduates" au, looking back on a former love Permission to remix: Yes
Dinner with Joshua is perfectly pleasant, but that's to be expected.
It had been hastily scheduled, too late in the evening to be considered anything but ye xiao. Truthfully, it's an imposition—Minghao's team is in the middle of a due diligence operation of some delicacy—but Joshua has always been like that: a cheerfully rude guy, smiling at his own audacity. Knowing that Minghao will always come, should he call.
"I missed you, Myungho-yah," he says, his foot like a brand against Minghao's silken pant-leg. "How have you been?"
Better since you left.
"Hyung first."
It isn't until they're waiting for the valet that the true objective of the meeting comes to light.
Joshua sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He says, casual as ever: "I'm getting married."
Minghao stares at him incredulously. "Married."
"She's a nice girl," Joshua says, that indulgent grin never leaving his face. The one that'd charmed half of Yonsei. "I don't fight with her like I used to fight with you. Actually, we don't fight at all."
"You mean," Minghao says steadily, "she doesn't have the stomach to fight with you."
A car honks and drives around them in the street, tires screeching.
"Never mind," Minghao mutters, and turns to go. Joshua tugs him back with a hand on his wrist. They're still obscenely large, the part Minghao hates most about himself notes.
"I'm at The Peninsula," Joshua says gently. "Until Seollal. You can call the front desk, I'll leave a message for them to put you through."
His eyes are clear. "You'll call, right? To let me know how I can put things right."
There are several things Minghao can say to that, but the only retort that comes to mind feels foolish, asinine. A petulant child.
The attendant hurries to exit the driver's seat as Minghao pulls open the door. Joshua is still talking, but the car engine drowns him out. It could be anything, Minghao tells himself. His Korean isn't as good as it once was, not that it had been adequate for anything other than taking taxis, ordering liquor, or reading the children's books that were assigned at hagwon.
(Sonagi, Joshua said once, head bent over the yellow chapbook, is about waiting to return—)
When Minghao undresses in front of his mirror later, his eyes catch on the ring that hangs in the center of his chest. A circle of dark silver—possibly fake, some kind of cheaper alloy. Joshua hadn't had a lot of money back then.
He undoes the clasp of the chain with numb fingers. The fish hook keeps slipping away from him, and he feels a surge of temper. He ought to just rip it off, fling it into the bottom-most corner of his boudoir cabinet where even the maids can't be bothered to dust. That's where the ring belongs, along with old friends and empty promises. Promises Joshua had broken as soon as Minghao was out of earshot.
In those days, they talked of it all the time. Joshua would join him in Hong Kong after graduation. There were all kinds of international firms, places where Koreans could carve out a good living with their wits and their language skills—especially if they were proficient at English. It would be an adventure, a thing Joshua had always maintained he desired most in the world.
Other than Myungho, he said, of course. On the day Joshua was supposed to arrive, Minghao had waited at the terminal for hours—through sunset, through the last night flights, the Boeings taking off bound for Dubai. But Joshua had never shown, and Minghao had too much pride to beg.
Sometimes he wonders if that's strength or weakness talking.
In the morning he tells his assistant to look up the number for The Peninsula Hotel.
"The general manager?" she asks, holding a hand over the receiver.
"Yes," Minghao says, then: "No. The front desk. Leave a message for one of their guests." Of congratulations.
Bury me in that dress, Joshua had said, reading deliberately so Minghao could understand. They had finished making love for the second time that night, and Joshua was finally unwinding, finally slowing so Minghao could catch up. The light caught in the lenses of his glasses and grew oily, rotating in a circle around the bifocal line. The dress I wore the day I met you.
[FILL] afterward
Major Tags: past relationships
Additional Tags: uhhh "rich SKY graduates" au, looking back on a former love
Permission to remix: Yes
Dinner with Joshua is perfectly pleasant, but that's to be expected.
It had been hastily scheduled, too late in the evening to be considered anything but ye xiao. Truthfully, it's an imposition—Minghao's team is in the middle of a due diligence operation of some delicacy—but Joshua has always been like that: a cheerfully rude guy, smiling at his own audacity. Knowing that Minghao will always come, should he call.
"I missed you, Myungho-yah," he says, his foot like a brand against Minghao's silken pant-leg. "How have you been?"
Better since you left.
"Hyung first."
It isn't until they're waiting for the valet that the true objective of the meeting comes to light.
Joshua sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He says, casual as ever: "I'm getting married."
Minghao stares at him incredulously. "Married."
"She's a nice girl," Joshua says, that indulgent grin never leaving his face. The one that'd charmed half of Yonsei. "I don't fight with her like I used to fight with you. Actually, we don't fight at all."
"You mean," Minghao says steadily, "she doesn't have the stomach to fight with you."
A car honks and drives around them in the street, tires screeching.
"Never mind," Minghao mutters, and turns to go. Joshua tugs him back with a hand on his wrist. They're still obscenely large, the part Minghao hates most about himself notes.
"I'm at The Peninsula," Joshua says gently. "Until Seollal. You can call the front desk, I'll leave a message for them to put you through."
His eyes are clear. "You'll call, right? To let me know how I can put things right."
There are several things Minghao can say to that, but the only retort that comes to mind feels foolish, asinine. A petulant child.
The attendant hurries to exit the driver's seat as Minghao pulls open the door. Joshua is still talking, but the car engine drowns him out. It could be anything, Minghao tells himself. His Korean isn't as good as it once was, not that it had been adequate for anything other than taking taxis, ordering liquor, or reading the children's books that were assigned at hagwon.
(Sonagi, Joshua said once, head bent over the yellow chapbook, is about waiting to return—)
When Minghao undresses in front of his mirror later, his eyes catch on the ring that hangs in the center of his chest. A circle of dark silver—possibly fake, some kind of cheaper alloy. Joshua hadn't had a lot of money back then.
He undoes the clasp of the chain with numb fingers. The fish hook keeps slipping away from him, and he feels a surge of temper. He ought to just rip it off, fling it into the bottom-most corner of his boudoir cabinet where even the maids can't be bothered to dust. That's where the ring belongs, along with old friends and empty promises. Promises Joshua had broken as soon as Minghao was out of earshot.
In those days, they talked of it all the time. Joshua would join him in Hong Kong after graduation. There were all kinds of international firms, places where Koreans could carve out a good living with their wits and their language skills—especially if they were proficient at English. It would be an adventure, a thing Joshua had always maintained he desired most in the world.
Other than Myungho, he said, of course.
On the day Joshua was supposed to arrive, Minghao had waited at the terminal for hours—through sunset, through the last night flights, the Boeings taking off bound for Dubai. But Joshua had never shown, and Minghao had too much pride to beg.
Sometimes he wonders if that's strength or weakness talking.
In the morning he tells his assistant to look up the number for The Peninsula Hotel.
"The general manager?" she asks, holding a hand over the receiver.
"Yes," Minghao says, then: "No. The front desk. Leave a message for one of their guests." Of congratulations.
Bury me in that dress, Joshua had said, reading deliberately so Minghao could understand. They had finished making love for the second time that night, and Joshua was finally unwinding, finally slowing so Minghao could catch up. The light caught in the lenses of his glasses and grew oily, rotating in a circle around the bifocal line. The dress I wore the day I met you.