Ship/Member: MinWon Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: post-disbandment, idolverse, photographer wonwoo, model mingyu (majorly inspired by first look) meditation on change, loss of a friendship and tentatively re-bridging that gap, realizing how someone has grown into the person you'd expected them to be all along and finding you still love them anyway Permission to remix: Yes a/n: hello op! i've returned with something else for u! it's loose around the prompt but i tried playing with ideas of what's changed and what hasn't. i'm not so sure about this one or whether or not it's what you were looking for but i hope you enjoy anyway! ***
When Mingyu first walks in, orbited by stylists and makeup artists and additional staff, Wonwoo’s first thought is, oh how he’s changed.
Sharper angles, clearer-cut around the edges than any era of Mingyu he’s seen. A certain poise to his stance, a confidence to his gait that Wonwoo watched Mingyu meticulously curate. It’s become so natural for him.
Wonwoo watches as Mingyu shrugs off his coat and strides toward the set, face ticking up in brightness as he meets Wonwoo’s eyes. The ocean-wide smile that shifts his facial muscles like tectonic plates is one as familiar to Wonwoo as the imprint of a ring he no longer wears on his pinky finger. This hasn’t changed at all.
“Wonwoo-hyung,” Mingyu grins, voice canyon-deep and full of memory. Wonwoo feels himself smile almost like he can’t help it, like he’s been classically conditioned to mirror the amount of radiance Mingyu greets him with. That hasn’t changed either.
There’s a strange confidence and emotional certainty that emanates from Mingyu now; Wonwoo isn’t used to it. What happened to the kid who gripped his shoulders in the shadowed corner of a green basement and whispered his insecurities so brokenly that Wonwoo had felt a twin ache in his chest? That kid is no longer here, probably shed and left behind at that old building. This Mingyu he sees is different, but not at all surprising. Somewhere deep down Wonwoo has always known Mingyu would grow into this shape of him. It leaves him feeling bittersweet all the same.
“Mingyu-yah,” he acknowledges, tamping down the urge to get up and slide his arms around Mingyu’s waist. He almost can’t quite believe he’s seeing Mingyu in the flesh again after five years of bare-bones contact and conversations borderline straining and awkward.
The most visceral cost of separation, to Wonwoo, is the fraying of unspoken understanding. He no longer can determine whether Mingyu will allow him the privilege of his embrace. He can no longer surmise that that’s a boundary he’s allowed to cross without voicing a question for permission.
Wonwoo stays seated, hands in his lap, because remaining at arm’s length feels safer. “Go change,” Wonwoo prompts gently, inclining his head to the changerooms and the staff hovering around the area, arms loaded with clothing and make-up and additional touch-up materials. Mingyu’s face falls. Wonwoo looks away.
How do you tell someone that they, alone, have grown and filled out into the exact frame you envisioned five years ago? How do you tell them that you bitterly wish that you were there to witness it?
You don’t. You watch them change and don your dreams and you love them all the same. More.
Mingyu walks away. Wonwoo fiddles with the exposure settings on the camera, increasing shutter speed, to lessen the amount of light let in. Mingyu has always glowed more than enough for his own good.
Mingyu returns a second later, assumes his spot naturally in front of the paneled background made to resemble a modern home. A staff member fixes his hair carefully. Wonwoo sits down, looking everywhere but Mingyu. And in his head he convinces himself that it’s a self-protective reflex. Looking at Mingyu is like looking head-on at the sun: too much will result in damage, in more ways than one. It’s better for his personal health to keep it in the periphery. He raises the camera in front of his face like it’ll protect him.
But in reality, he’s just not ready to confront the fact that Mingyu is here and an exact reflection of everything Wonwoo calls home, despite the years that have accumulated between them. And Wonwoo had thought he’d let go of Mingyu already, that he’d taught himself how to move on as an individual and not a part of a team that had become his family. But there are always some things one simply cannot unlearn; amongst them, loving Mingyu.
And then, like clockwork, Wonwoo finds his eyes gravitating back to Mingyu’s face against his will. Old habits die hard, he supposes.
There’s a new fluidity to the way Mingyu changes poses now, movements like water, a river of experience absorbed into his veins. Wonwoo watches with fascination. He hasn’t been this engaged in a shoot in a long time.
They finish quickly. Wonwoo found his angles faster than he’d ever done since first taking flight tentatively as an idol-turned-photographer. He revolved around Mingyu, and with the way Mingyu positioned himself Wonwoo knew exactly where he should be. It was exhilarating to hum on the same energy level as someone again.
Wonwoo felt like the moon, locked in synchronous rotation with the home planet. He couldn’t have turned away if he tried.
Despite his newly crafted smoothness and the expertise that seems worn into his skin, Mingyu still gets flustered when the staff calls out in appreciation. Mingyu is still so humble when praise flows his way and works his cheeks into a lovely smile and raspberry blush. Mingyu is still beautiful. Mingyu still looks at Wonwoo like he’s the sun and it’s not completely the other way around.
Oh how he hasn’t changed, Wonwoo thinks. He hasn’t changed in all the ways that matter.
What has changed is the newfound hesitance in the way Mingyu approaches him now, hovering, like he’s undecided, like he’s unsure if he’ll be let back into Wonwoo’s vicinity. And it hurts more than he’d like to admit, with the knowledge that five years ago, this chasm never existed between them.
“Hyung,” Mingyu begins, fragile hope in his voice, “come to a cafe with me? Just for the sake of old times?”
Before today Wonwoo might have said no. It doesn’t seem a path worth revisiting if all he gets out of it each time is a longing of return so potent that it cleaves his chest in two. But today, he can’t find it in himself to refuse.
“Okay,” he says, voice small. When he looks up again, Mingyu is beaming like he wants to out-compete the sun.
[FILL] that, i know
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: post-disbandment, idolverse, photographer wonwoo, model mingyu (majorly inspired by first look) meditation on change, loss of a friendship and tentatively re-bridging that gap, realizing how someone has grown into the person you'd expected them to be all along and finding you still love them anyway
Permission to remix: Yes
a/n: hello op! i've returned with something else for u! it's loose around the prompt but i tried playing with ideas of what's changed and what hasn't. i'm not so sure about this one or whether or not it's what you were looking for but i hope you enjoy anyway!
***
When Mingyu first walks in, orbited by stylists and makeup artists and additional staff, Wonwoo’s first thought is, oh how he’s changed.
Sharper angles, clearer-cut around the edges than any era of Mingyu he’s seen. A certain poise to his stance, a confidence to his gait that Wonwoo watched Mingyu meticulously curate. It’s become so natural for him.
Wonwoo watches as Mingyu shrugs off his coat and strides toward the set, face ticking up in brightness as he meets Wonwoo’s eyes. The ocean-wide smile that shifts his facial muscles like tectonic plates is one as familiar to Wonwoo as the imprint of a ring he no longer wears on his pinky finger. This hasn’t changed at all.
“Wonwoo-hyung,” Mingyu grins, voice canyon-deep and full of memory. Wonwoo feels himself smile almost like he can’t help it, like he’s been classically conditioned to mirror the amount of radiance Mingyu greets him with. That hasn’t changed either.
There’s a strange confidence and emotional certainty that emanates from Mingyu now; Wonwoo isn’t used to it. What happened to the kid who gripped his shoulders in the shadowed corner of a green basement and whispered his insecurities so brokenly that Wonwoo had felt a twin ache in his chest? That kid is no longer here, probably shed and left behind at that old building. This Mingyu he sees is different, but not at all surprising. Somewhere deep down Wonwoo has always known Mingyu would grow into this shape of him. It leaves him feeling bittersweet all the same.
“Mingyu-yah,” he acknowledges, tamping down the urge to get up and slide his arms around Mingyu’s waist. He almost can’t quite believe he’s seeing Mingyu in the flesh again after five years of bare-bones contact and conversations borderline straining and awkward.
The most visceral cost of separation, to Wonwoo, is the fraying of unspoken understanding. He no longer can determine whether Mingyu will allow him the privilege of his embrace. He can no longer surmise that that’s a boundary he’s allowed to cross without voicing a question for permission.
Wonwoo stays seated, hands in his lap, because remaining at arm’s length feels safer.
“Go change,” Wonwoo prompts gently, inclining his head to the changerooms and the staff hovering around the area, arms loaded with clothing and make-up and additional touch-up materials. Mingyu’s face falls. Wonwoo looks away.
How do you tell someone that they, alone, have grown and filled out into the exact frame you envisioned five years ago? How do you tell them that you bitterly wish that you were there to witness it?
You don’t. You watch them change and don your dreams and you love them all the same. More.
Mingyu walks away. Wonwoo fiddles with the exposure settings on the camera, increasing shutter speed, to lessen the amount of light let in. Mingyu has always glowed more than enough for his own good.
Mingyu returns a second later, assumes his spot naturally in front of the paneled background made to resemble a modern home. A staff member fixes his hair carefully. Wonwoo sits down, looking everywhere but Mingyu. And in his head he convinces himself that it’s a self-protective reflex. Looking at Mingyu is like looking head-on at the sun: too much will result in damage, in more ways than one. It’s better for his personal health to keep it in the periphery. He raises the camera in front of his face like it’ll protect him.
But in reality, he’s just not ready to confront the fact that Mingyu is here and an exact reflection of everything Wonwoo calls home, despite the years that have accumulated between them. And Wonwoo had thought he’d let go of Mingyu already, that he’d taught himself how to move on as an individual and not a part of a team that had become his family. But there are always some things one simply cannot unlearn; amongst them, loving Mingyu.
And then, like clockwork, Wonwoo finds his eyes gravitating back to Mingyu’s face against his will. Old habits die hard, he supposes.
There’s a new fluidity to the way Mingyu changes poses now, movements like water, a river of experience absorbed into his veins. Wonwoo watches with fascination. He hasn’t been this engaged in a shoot in a long time.
They finish quickly. Wonwoo found his angles faster than he’d ever done since first taking flight tentatively as an idol-turned-photographer. He revolved around Mingyu, and with the way Mingyu positioned himself Wonwoo knew exactly where he should be. It was exhilarating to hum on the same energy level as someone again.
Wonwoo felt like the moon, locked in synchronous rotation with the home planet. He couldn’t have turned away if he tried.
Despite his newly crafted smoothness and the expertise that seems worn into his skin, Mingyu still gets flustered when the staff calls out in appreciation. Mingyu is still so humble when praise flows his way and works his cheeks into a lovely smile and raspberry blush. Mingyu is still beautiful. Mingyu still looks at Wonwoo like he’s the sun and it’s not completely the other way around.
Oh how he hasn’t changed, Wonwoo thinks. He hasn’t changed in all the ways that matter.
What has changed is the newfound hesitance in the way Mingyu approaches him now, hovering, like he’s undecided, like he’s unsure if he’ll be let back into Wonwoo’s vicinity. And it hurts more than he’d like to admit, with the knowledge that five years ago, this chasm never existed between them.
“Hyung,” Mingyu begins, fragile hope in his voice, “come to a cafe with me? Just for the sake of old times?”
Before today Wonwoo might have said no. It doesn’t seem a path worth revisiting if all he gets out of it each time is a longing of return so potent that it cleaves his chest in two. But today, he can’t find it in himself to refuse.
“Okay,” he says, voice small. When he looks up again, Mingyu is beaming like he wants to out-compete the sun.
Wonwoo doesn’t look away this time.