you're here pt. v [exo]
title: you're here [pt. v]
author: himawarixxsandz
rating: pg-13
pairing(s): xiuhan, lukai, xiuyeol
summary: would we have changed?
a/n: hahahaahhahahahhaa (it's still not the last part. say nothing. n o t h i n g) but also, i promised i would eventually post this, right? so could you ppl who keep begging me to update just. like. stop? bc i have school and shit okay. and i promised sometime in december and look. it's december and here it is. so i don't mean to be rude but too bad stfu i'll update when i update and no amount of you asking will make me write any faster tbh.
[ part one] [ part two] [ part three] [ part four] [part five] [part six]
Chanyeol has been to Minseok’s apartment countless times. Minseok has been to Chanyeol’s apartment countless times.
And yet, somehow, Minseok only remembers ever keeping the minimal change of clothes at the younger man’s apartment. Somehow, Chanyeol only ever leaves a sweatshirt or his tie or a few notes for an upcoming case at Minseok’s apartment. They’ve slept over at each other’s apartments, in each other’s beds, countless times in the past months but it doesn’t feel like they’ve really spent that much time in each other’s homes at all. Minseok doesn’t know why this is what goes through his mind as he flicks on the lights, kicking his shoes off, listening with suddenly hyperaware of Chanyeol going through the same motions behind him.
They drove here in separate cars despite Minseok’s offer to drive Chanyeol over since tomorrow is Saturday anyway and Chanyeol probably means to stay the weekend again. In some honesty, Minseok wanted them to ride in the same car whether his or Chanyeol’s because then Minseok would’ve had another chance to gauge Chanyeol’s thoughts. The entire rest of the work day, Chanyeol had well avoided passing by Minseok’s office, even for lunch, even for breaks, only stopping by right before they left the office together.
Minseok realizes, when he turns to face the younger man in the middle of the living room, that Chanyeol hasn’t brought his briefcase in with him. His shoes are off, but he hasn’t loosened his tie or taken off his suit jacket or untucked his shirt. He’s just standing there in his socks, still in his work attire, right in front of Minseok, hands at his sides, expression utterly unreadable to the older man.
They stand there in silence, gazing into each other’s eyes for as long as Minseok tries to come up with something to say. He doesn’t understand why it feels like the atmosphere is slipping through his fingers-like he can’t get a proper grip on it, like he can’t figure out what’s happening right now because he’s just never seen Chanyeol like this and it’s almost frightening. He didn’t know Chanyeol could be like this.
or maybe I just never really knew you
Chanyeol’s hands come forward slowly, threading long fingers through Minseok’s own as the younger man steps closer. Minseok has to tip his head up to meet Chanyeol’s eyes at this proximity. “Hyung,” Chanyeol says quietly, and when his voice is soft like that, it’s deep enough for Minseok to feel it all the way to his toes.
Chanyeol tilts his head downward and, for just that moment, Minseok catches a flash of pain in the younger man’s eyes.
“You’re always honest with me, right, hyung?” Chanyeol squeezes Minseok’s hands gently and he smiles hesitantly, nose wrinkling, very Park Chanyeol-and Minseok smiles back unsurely.
no
“Of course,” Minseok says and that’s a lie. It’s a dirty, disgusting lie, but it comes out of Minseok’s mouth before he can turn it into the truth. He looks right into Chanyeol’s eyes and lies for the nth time as he tries not to think about Luhan’s eyes-he lies to Park Chanyeol even though all Minseok can think about is Luhan’s voice that night, Luhan’s eyes that night, Luhan’s body moving over Minseok for the first time in months, Luhan’s waist between Minseok’s thighs, Luhan inside of Minseok, Luhan, Luhan, Luhan and Minseok is lying to Chanyeol.
“Then,” Chanyeol says, licking his lips, “just this once-hyung-can you lie to me?”
Minseok stills, breath catching.
Chanyeol’s hands tighten around Minseok’s. “Tell me I don’t call you enough, hyung,” and a haunted sort of cheeriness has leaked into the younger man’s voice-a horrible parody of the usual sincere, genuine brightness that Park Chanyeol always speaks with. “Tell me I’m a bad boyfriend. Or that I’m clingy. Or that I bother you when we’re at work. Maybe I don’t clean up enough? I left socks on your bag that one time, right?”
Minseok swallows.
“Hyung,” Chanyeol whispers, and the smile fades. All that’s left is the sort of sadness Minseok thinks someone as bright as Chanyeol is never supposed to feel. “We have to break-up, right? No matter what, we have to stop now, don’t we?”
Minseok closes his eyes, slips his hands out of Chanyeol’s and the younger man lets go just like that-doesn’t try to hold on. He can lie to Chanyeol, but he’s not that good of a liar. He can’t lie when Chanyeol seems to know better what needs to be done than Minseok himself.
When he opens his eyes, he sees Chanyeol rubbing at the back of his neck, face towards the floor and the tiny laugh that Chanyeol lets out in the silence hurts more than Minseok would ever want to admit. He understands now why Chanyeol insisted that they drive their own cars separately to Minseok’s apartment. Chanyeol knew what he had to do tonight, and Minseok wonders what exactly the last straw was.
“Have you thought of a good lie yet, hyung?” Chanyeol asks then suddenly, and Minseok’s head snaps up, confused. “For why we’re breaking up, I mean.” Minseok’s eyebrows furrow because he doesn’t understand. They’re breaking up because Minseok is less than Chanyeol deserves, because Minseok can’t give Chanyeol what he deserves, and he doesn’t know how to lie about that.
“I’m sorry,” Minseok says and he’s so confused right now that it comes out as puzzled rather than apologetic and really-really-he can’t seem to do even this right for Chanyeol.
Chanyeol’s teeth dig visibly into his lower lip, and something of a smile is wrenched around his mouth. He shakes his head. “Lie to me, hyung. Anything. Everything. Just,” and his voice shakes a little then, “just-hyung-please don’t-just don’t say that you can’t love me because you love him. Don’t say that.”
Minseok can’t breathe. His mouth is open and he wants to say something now-something fast-something before he pauses for too long, before the silence stretches on and on and they can never break it.
“I don’t love him,” Minseok blurts out because it’s the first thing that falls on his tongue, it’s the first thing that strings together in his mind. He doesn’t know if it’s a lie, he doesn’t know if it’s the truth-it’s just the reaction he has to the pain in Chanyeol’s eyes. As if a flimsy sentence like this could ever make the hurt go away.
Chanyeol’s mouth tightens and his hand reaches out to cup Minseok’s face. The younger man’s thumb brushes along Minseok’s cheek, just beneath Minseok’s eye. “Hyung,” Chanyeol murmurs. “You suck at lying.”
Luhan doesn’t expect to see him at the airport.
He’d just been thinking about whether he should just take the bus to the stop nearest to his apartment or if it was worth paying the fare to take a cab there straight away. But he supposes that he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore as he meets Minseok’s eyes through the crowd walking through the arrivals doorway. Luhan wants to put his arms around him, but somehow Minseok’s gaze stops him from doing just that. There’s something in Minseok’s expression that keeps Luhan at a distance.
Something happened.
But Minseok hands Luhan a cup of steaming coffee, foamy and sugary just the way Luhan likes it in the mornings, and Luhan knows that the lawyer isn’t going to answer anything truthfully right now. Luhan takes it and tries not to stare too hard at how Minseok doesn’t seem to meet Luhan’s eyes right away. Luhan sips it and tries not to remember all the times Minseok picked Luhan up from the airport when they were in university-how every single time Minseok always brought Luhan coffee just like this, exactly like this.
(Luhan tries not to remember when he had to take a cab home from the airport during the few months he and Minseok didn’t speak to each other)
“Surprised?” Minseok asks, and they head straight for the parking lot because everything Luhan had brought, he’d brought in his one carry-on.
He takes in the way Minseok is walking with a good foot between them-the way Minseok is smiling lightly, but the underlying something in the lawyer’s eyes is just too there for Luhan to dismiss it. Luhan wonders when the last time Minseok tried to hide something from Luhan was. All the years they’ve known each other works against them whenever that happens. They know each other so well, too well, and by now, it’s more of a curse than a blessing. Both of them think that.
“No,” Luhan says finally. When they reach the car, Minseok takes Luhan’s suitcase out of his hands and rolls it to the back, flipping the trunk open. He watches as the lawyer lifts it into the trunk, slamming it down shut before heading for the driver’s seat. Luhan quickly slides into the passenger side.
Minseok doesn’t start the engine right away, and the silent pause makes Luhan shift in his seat, eyes lowering into his lap and then rising back up towards the windshield because he doesn’t know if it’s a good idea to look at Minseok. Luhan’s expressions always give him away but Minseok has always had a good poker face. It’s just that they’ve spent too much time with each other (Luhan has seen all of Minseok’s poker faces) for Luhan not to be able to read the lawyer.
And he hates that.
At a time like this, Luhan would rather he be able to believe the lie in Minseok’s eyes that everything is all right.
“No?” Minseok echoes, late enough that Luhan has to think for a moment before he realizes what the lawyer means. He’s pulling his seatbelt on now, though, and Luhan sighs a little in relief, pulling his own over as Minseok starts the car.
“You always pick me up from the airport,” Luhan says, and he makes his voice light-makes it playful, makes it a joke. He tries to smile, but it feels too unnatural and he just hopes that Minseok is watching the road and not the journalist.
not always
And now all Luhan can think about is the time he had to take a cab home from the airport because he had gone back to Beijing once during the few months he and Minseok weren’t speaking-the few months when the pain was still fresh and Luhan couldn’t even look at a soccer ball or walk past Minseok’s firm without clutching at his stomach, without wanting to throw up everything he’s eaten. Luhan stares out the windshield, blankly takes in the Korean road signs, a change from the Chinese he just barely started to become re-accustomed to a week ago.
He thinks about how he had gone home during those few months, not because his mother’s health was failing or because he missed home. He had gone home because he could spare a week off for himself and he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stay in Seoul for another moment when almost everything in the city-in the country-reminded him of Minseok. Just speaking the language, and Luhan will remember odd words and phrases that he picked up from the lawyer because his skills in Korean were still developing when he had met Minseok and somewhere along the line he had picked up the unique nuances in Minseok’s way of speaking.
there’s too much of you inside of me
He knew his parents at that time knew there was something wrong. But he knew that they also knew that it was nothing that could be fixed by talking about it, and Luhan was infinitely grateful that neither of them asked. He was grateful that neither of them acted like anything was wrong. He was grateful for his father’s grunted comments about how Luhan’s work is going, grateful for his mother cooking copious amounts of his favorite food and refusing to let him leave the table until he’d finished it all.
It was better when he returned.
There was still the fresh sting, the slap in the face, of having no one waiting for him at the airport. Of watching reuniting friends, families, and lovers and trying not to think about how just a few months ago, Minseok would have been there, taking Luhan’s luggage into his own hand and pressing a warm cup of coffee into the journalist’s palm. Of slipping into one of the cabs waiting at the airport exit, and trying to forget how a few months ago, Luhan would’ve been sitting in the passenger’s seat of Minseok’s car and kissing the lawyer over the gear shifts.
But it was better.
(It was better because a month later, Luhan runs into Minseok at a club and they fuck in the back of Luhan’s new car and they talk again and they’re friends again, but they both had to mess even that up)
They’re already halfway to Luhan’s apartment, coming out of the toll road, when Minseok suddenly looks to Luhan when they’re stopped at a red light. The lawyer’s smile is suddenly lighter, suddenly honest. “Always,” he says, and Luhan’s throat constricts.
There’s no more conversation in the car until they reach the apartment complex and Minseok brings the car around to park in one of the temporary spaces outside rather than going all the way into the parking garage. Luhan takes it as meaning Minseok isn’t going to be coming inside. He’s really just here to drop Luhan off.
(He knows it’s not the time to think about how, a year ago, Minseok would have parked in the parking garage and come up with Luhan into their apartment and they’d spend the rest of the day in bed, sex with lazy kisses and touches and afterward they’d lie, naked and sweaty and breathless over the sheets while Luhan tells Minseok about how his parents are doing and all the food he’d eaten and it was their apartment a year ago)
Minseok parks the car, and after he cuts the engine, he sits there again. Silent and unmoving in the exact same way he’d sat when they got into the car at the airport. Luhan doesn’t know what’s wrong-he knows that something is, but he doesn’t know what and he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know if maybe this is just the cue for Luhan to get out, take his suitcase, and go. He doesn’t know if maybe Minseok is upset with him.
They still haven’t talked about that night.
The silence stretches on for so long that it starts to prickle at something beneath Luhan’s skin, so he makes to open the door and just leave when Minseok’s hand reaches out and grips his sleeve-stopping him.
Luhan glances at the lawyer’s face-at the closed-off silhouette.
“So,” Minseok says tightly, looking straight ahead, “Chanyeolie broke up with me.”
Luhan double-takes, eyes widening, brows furrowing as Minseok’s hand slips off Luhan’s sleeve and back into the lawyer’s lap. Luhan turns completely in his seat, and Minseok is still not meeting Luhan’s eyes. “What?”
Minseok doesn’t respond, expression oddly blank except for the storm in his eyes that Luhan thinks he could have at least a chance in understanding if Minseok would just look at him.
Luhan swallows. “Why?” he whispers. “Did he say-”
“He said,” Minseok licks his lips, and this time, instead of just looking straight out, turns his head around and looks out the side window so that all Luhan can see of the other man is the back of his head. “He said-that-I can’t love him because I love-because I still love you.”
Luhan wraps his arms around himself.
He grips the sleeves of his own jacket and breathes out slowly, sitting back against the seat and thumping his head against the headrest, face tilted up towards the ceiling of the car. Minseok’s entire body is now turned around to face the opposite direction, every part of his position screams unavailable and distant and cold and unreachable and Luhan just wants to be able to breathe without it hurting.
He wonders if Minseok is like this because Chanyeol left or because of the words Chanyeol left him with.
And even though he knows he’ll regret it, even though he knows he should just leave the car right now and call Minseok later and pretend the way Minseok probably wants to pretend-pretend that Minseok is just grieving a break-up and Luhan should take Minseok out for consolation drinks and samgyupsal and that’s what Luhan should do, that’s how Luhan will keep Minseok, that’s how they’ll be safe and happy and painless.
That’s not what Luhan does.
“Is he right?” is what Luhan asks softly instead.
Minseok’s shoulders hunch, the lawyer’s entire body visibly stiffening.
“Minseok-ah,” Luhan says, this time louder because he’s had enough of this silence. “Kim Minseok, can’t you just look at me-”
“Get out.”
Minseok turns around.
Minseok looks at Luhan, shifting in his seat so that they completely face each other, and the lawyer’s eyes meet Luhan’s. Minseok’s eyes are raw and tinged with red and Luhan has only ever seen Minseok cry once (once in that hospital when Minseok’s father’s condition dropped horrendously for that one night), and the lawyer’s eyes aren’t wet right now-they’re just angry. Minseok’s expression is livid, tense and contained and all the barriers are up and Luhan knows he doesn’t have a hope in the world of getting through to him right now.
“Get out of my car,” Minseok whispers, “right now.”
He doesn’t know how he makes it back to his own apartment.
All he knows is he somehow makes it to the couch, curling up the same way he was curled up when he woke up the morning after that night-the night they still haven’t talked about and Minseok never wants to talk about it now. There’s no point. Just like there would have been no point to answering Luhan’s question. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Whether Minseok still loves Luhan or not is completely irrelevant in the end because all they do, whatever they do, they still destroy each other.
They’re better off apart.
Isn’t that what their friends all say?
(they couldn’t be in love without fucking up, they couldn’t be friends without fucking up-what can they be to each other?)
And Minseok doesn’t blame Chanyeol, and Minseok can’t blame Chanyeol because it’s true. Chanyeol’s right, but it doesn’t matter. It’s pointless even if Luhan still loves Minseok back and Minseok knows he does and that makes everything worse. That makes it harder, it hurts more, it’s worse worse worse and Minseok doesn’t want it-Minseok doesn’t want Luhan to still love Minseok back. Minseok just wants to be able to be with Luhan in a way that doesn’t hurt, in a way where Minseok doesn’t feel like he’s holding back, in a way that they can’t fuck things up for each other.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He just knows that he needs Luhan here.
(in whatever way works best, in whatever way hurts the least, in whatever way they can stand each other-Minseok needs him here)
Minseok straightens his legs, lifting them onto the couch and lying down across the cushions. He grabs one of the throw pillows and fluffs it beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. Hands retreating into his sleeves for warmth, he presses one hand against his stomach and the other over that hand, eyes closing slowly. It’d be nice if he could just sleep like this-dream away the months, turn back time to when he was still trying to climb the rungs of associate status. He wishes he could go back to the time when he was still vying for attention from one of the partners to mentor him for future promotion-when Luhan was still trying to make his articles headline-worthy.
He wishes he could go back to the time when he and Luhan were too busy for each other-when they couldn’t even spare a minute to kiss or smile at each other-and Minseok doesn’t think it was their careers. They lived through university finals and still smiled at each other and kicked a soccer ball around together and slept in each other’s arms and Minseok wonders what changed.
He blinks his eyes open again, taking in and letting out a deep breath.
Maybe they just aren’t right for each other.
but it feels wrong without you
On some level, Luhan had anticipated this.
He’d always anticipated it-just-maybe, not so soon.
Maybe not as soon as Luhan returned to work after being gone for a week. But he knows that Jongin definitely knows the real reason for Luhan’s absence, what with the younger man being friends with Zitao. He also knows from the way Jongin continuously seems to be staring at Luhan whenever he passes by the glass walls of Luhan’s office when the younger man thinks Luhan is staring into his computer. He knows from the way Jongin seemed to hang around Luhan’s door when Zitao marched in and asked Luhan, albeit in Mandarin and Jongin never could’ve understood, how Luhan’s mother was doing.
And he knows because of how, when he bumps into Jongin on the way back from refilling his mug with coffee, there’s the clear-cut conflict in Jongin’s eyes as he looks at Luhan’s face. Luhan knows Jongin wants to do it today-knows that Jongin thinks that if he doesn’t do it today, he won’t be able to gather the nerve or the heart to do it any other day and Luhan is a horrible person.
Luhan is terrible.
But then again-
Luhan can’t let it go on any longer either. Not when they both know that none of this means anything anymore-not when everything feels empty and Luhan knows that Jongin must know by now that Luhan has only ever used Jongin. And he wonders if, after this, they could be friends. He wonders if Jongin would ever want to be friends after this-wonders if that would be too much to ask-wonders if maybe Zitao and Sehun know and hate Luhan for it.
Luhan is terrible, so the least he can do is start it.
He pulls Jongin to the side later that evening, when almost everyone else has left and Luhan told Zitao to go on along without them for tonight-that he has to talk to Jongin about a draft, and Luhan thinks that both he and Jongin pointedly ignore the way Zitao’s eyes flash far too knowingly when he heads into the elevator without them.
Jongin looks at him.
(unlike Minseok, Jongin looks right at Luhan and even though there’s pain in Jongin’s eyes, Luhan doesn’t feel any of it in his own chest)
“My mom’s okay,” Luhan says with a small smile.
Jongin licks his lips, hands in his pockets, eyes hurt but steady-like he’s anticipated this since the beginning too. “Good,” he says softly. “I’m glad.”
Luhan doesn’t look away either-gives Jongin his full expression, gaze for gaze, because he’s not going to shirk away. Jongin deserves that if Luhan can give him nothing else. “You can say it,” Luhan says quietly. “It’s okay. Just-I’m sorry.”
Jongin ducks his head for a moment.
Just a moment.
And then the younger man’s head comes back up, a smile on his face like it hurts every fiber of his being to keep it there but it’s there and even though Luhan’s heart refuses to beat for Kim Jongin, Luhan still feels his chest clench when he sees that smile-a mangled and bitter version from what Luhan first thought he could have fallen in love with. “I don’t have to say anything, then, right, hyung?”
“I’m sorry,” Luhan whispers, and he backs away from Jongin until he bumps into the wall between the elevators. “I’m sorry.”
Jongin shrugs, and the smile shrinks a little. “It’s because of him, isn’t it? I never had a chance because of him.”
Luhan swallows.
He suddenly knows why Minseok looked so angry that day.
It’s infuriating.
It’s absolutely frustrating-maddening-to have someone assume, to have those words said to you. To have someone say it like a fact-an inevitable statement and truth-that the reason you can no longer fall in love with anybody else because one person in the world, on this earth, has already taken everything you are and become everything you will be. That one person has become too much of you that when he leaves (when Minseok left), he takes everything with him and there’s hardly anything left of you.
“We broke up,” Luhan says and his voice is shaking and he’s shaking and now he can’t bring himself to look at Jongin in the eyes anymore. “A really long time ago-we broke up a while ago.”
“He’s still here though,” Jongin says, and his tone is gentle now but somehow Luhan still can’t take his eyes off his shoes.
Luhan stuffs his hands into his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. He wants to leave. He wants Jongin to stop talking. He wants to never think about this again because it hurts and this is the truth Luhan has been trying to forget since the day Minseok drove away and left Luhan with too many memories only to come back years later with a smile on his face and Luhan’s heart still pinned to his hands.
“He’s my friend,” Luhan offers lamely-weakly-pathetically. “We’re just friends-we’re still friends.”
And Jongin is laughing.
Soft and muted and so bitter and disbelieving that it grates at Luhan’s ears to hear the sound, but it forces him to glance up-just to see what expression Jongin is wearing.
The self-deprecating sort, apparently, Luhan sees.
“Hyung,” Jongin says, looking resigned and amused. “No, I mean he’s still here,” and Jongin points to Luhan’s chest-right above the spot Luhan’s heart is beating. “He takes up a lot of room, doesn’t he, hyung? I couldn’t even get my foot in the doorway.”
author: himawarixxsandz
rating: pg-13
pairing(s): xiuhan, lukai, xiuyeol
summary: would we have changed?
a/n: hahahaahhahahahhaa (it's still not the last part. say nothing. n o t h i n g) but also, i promised i would eventually post this, right? so could you ppl who keep begging me to update just. like. stop? bc i have school and shit okay. and i promised sometime in december and look. it's december and here it is. so i don't mean to be rude but too bad stfu i'll update when i update and no amount of you asking will make me write any faster tbh.
[ part one] [ part two] [ part three] [ part four] [part five] [part six]
Chanyeol has been to Minseok’s apartment countless times. Minseok has been to Chanyeol’s apartment countless times.
And yet, somehow, Minseok only remembers ever keeping the minimal change of clothes at the younger man’s apartment. Somehow, Chanyeol only ever leaves a sweatshirt or his tie or a few notes for an upcoming case at Minseok’s apartment. They’ve slept over at each other’s apartments, in each other’s beds, countless times in the past months but it doesn’t feel like they’ve really spent that much time in each other’s homes at all. Minseok doesn’t know why this is what goes through his mind as he flicks on the lights, kicking his shoes off, listening with suddenly hyperaware of Chanyeol going through the same motions behind him.
They drove here in separate cars despite Minseok’s offer to drive Chanyeol over since tomorrow is Saturday anyway and Chanyeol probably means to stay the weekend again. In some honesty, Minseok wanted them to ride in the same car whether his or Chanyeol’s because then Minseok would’ve had another chance to gauge Chanyeol’s thoughts. The entire rest of the work day, Chanyeol had well avoided passing by Minseok’s office, even for lunch, even for breaks, only stopping by right before they left the office together.
Minseok realizes, when he turns to face the younger man in the middle of the living room, that Chanyeol hasn’t brought his briefcase in with him. His shoes are off, but he hasn’t loosened his tie or taken off his suit jacket or untucked his shirt. He’s just standing there in his socks, still in his work attire, right in front of Minseok, hands at his sides, expression utterly unreadable to the older man.
They stand there in silence, gazing into each other’s eyes for as long as Minseok tries to come up with something to say. He doesn’t understand why it feels like the atmosphere is slipping through his fingers-like he can’t get a proper grip on it, like he can’t figure out what’s happening right now because he’s just never seen Chanyeol like this and it’s almost frightening. He didn’t know Chanyeol could be like this.
or maybe I just never really knew you
Chanyeol’s hands come forward slowly, threading long fingers through Minseok’s own as the younger man steps closer. Minseok has to tip his head up to meet Chanyeol’s eyes at this proximity. “Hyung,” Chanyeol says quietly, and when his voice is soft like that, it’s deep enough for Minseok to feel it all the way to his toes.
Chanyeol tilts his head downward and, for just that moment, Minseok catches a flash of pain in the younger man’s eyes.
“You’re always honest with me, right, hyung?” Chanyeol squeezes Minseok’s hands gently and he smiles hesitantly, nose wrinkling, very Park Chanyeol-and Minseok smiles back unsurely.
no
“Of course,” Minseok says and that’s a lie. It’s a dirty, disgusting lie, but it comes out of Minseok’s mouth before he can turn it into the truth. He looks right into Chanyeol’s eyes and lies for the nth time as he tries not to think about Luhan’s eyes-he lies to Park Chanyeol even though all Minseok can think about is Luhan’s voice that night, Luhan’s eyes that night, Luhan’s body moving over Minseok for the first time in months, Luhan’s waist between Minseok’s thighs, Luhan inside of Minseok, Luhan, Luhan, Luhan and Minseok is lying to Chanyeol.
“Then,” Chanyeol says, licking his lips, “just this once-hyung-can you lie to me?”
Minseok stills, breath catching.
Chanyeol’s hands tighten around Minseok’s. “Tell me I don’t call you enough, hyung,” and a haunted sort of cheeriness has leaked into the younger man’s voice-a horrible parody of the usual sincere, genuine brightness that Park Chanyeol always speaks with. “Tell me I’m a bad boyfriend. Or that I’m clingy. Or that I bother you when we’re at work. Maybe I don’t clean up enough? I left socks on your bag that one time, right?”
Minseok swallows.
“Hyung,” Chanyeol whispers, and the smile fades. All that’s left is the sort of sadness Minseok thinks someone as bright as Chanyeol is never supposed to feel. “We have to break-up, right? No matter what, we have to stop now, don’t we?”
Minseok closes his eyes, slips his hands out of Chanyeol’s and the younger man lets go just like that-doesn’t try to hold on. He can lie to Chanyeol, but he’s not that good of a liar. He can’t lie when Chanyeol seems to know better what needs to be done than Minseok himself.
When he opens his eyes, he sees Chanyeol rubbing at the back of his neck, face towards the floor and the tiny laugh that Chanyeol lets out in the silence hurts more than Minseok would ever want to admit. He understands now why Chanyeol insisted that they drive their own cars separately to Minseok’s apartment. Chanyeol knew what he had to do tonight, and Minseok wonders what exactly the last straw was.
“Have you thought of a good lie yet, hyung?” Chanyeol asks then suddenly, and Minseok’s head snaps up, confused. “For why we’re breaking up, I mean.” Minseok’s eyebrows furrow because he doesn’t understand. They’re breaking up because Minseok is less than Chanyeol deserves, because Minseok can’t give Chanyeol what he deserves, and he doesn’t know how to lie about that.
“I’m sorry,” Minseok says and he’s so confused right now that it comes out as puzzled rather than apologetic and really-really-he can’t seem to do even this right for Chanyeol.
Chanyeol’s teeth dig visibly into his lower lip, and something of a smile is wrenched around his mouth. He shakes his head. “Lie to me, hyung. Anything. Everything. Just,” and his voice shakes a little then, “just-hyung-please don’t-just don’t say that you can’t love me because you love him. Don’t say that.”
Minseok can’t breathe. His mouth is open and he wants to say something now-something fast-something before he pauses for too long, before the silence stretches on and on and they can never break it.
“I don’t love him,” Minseok blurts out because it’s the first thing that falls on his tongue, it’s the first thing that strings together in his mind. He doesn’t know if it’s a lie, he doesn’t know if it’s the truth-it’s just the reaction he has to the pain in Chanyeol’s eyes. As if a flimsy sentence like this could ever make the hurt go away.
Chanyeol’s mouth tightens and his hand reaches out to cup Minseok’s face. The younger man’s thumb brushes along Minseok’s cheek, just beneath Minseok’s eye. “Hyung,” Chanyeol murmurs. “You suck at lying.”
Luhan doesn’t expect to see him at the airport.
He’d just been thinking about whether he should just take the bus to the stop nearest to his apartment or if it was worth paying the fare to take a cab there straight away. But he supposes that he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore as he meets Minseok’s eyes through the crowd walking through the arrivals doorway. Luhan wants to put his arms around him, but somehow Minseok’s gaze stops him from doing just that. There’s something in Minseok’s expression that keeps Luhan at a distance.
Something happened.
But Minseok hands Luhan a cup of steaming coffee, foamy and sugary just the way Luhan likes it in the mornings, and Luhan knows that the lawyer isn’t going to answer anything truthfully right now. Luhan takes it and tries not to stare too hard at how Minseok doesn’t seem to meet Luhan’s eyes right away. Luhan sips it and tries not to remember all the times Minseok picked Luhan up from the airport when they were in university-how every single time Minseok always brought Luhan coffee just like this, exactly like this.
(Luhan tries not to remember when he had to take a cab home from the airport during the few months he and Minseok didn’t speak to each other)
“Surprised?” Minseok asks, and they head straight for the parking lot because everything Luhan had brought, he’d brought in his one carry-on.
He takes in the way Minseok is walking with a good foot between them-the way Minseok is smiling lightly, but the underlying something in the lawyer’s eyes is just too there for Luhan to dismiss it. Luhan wonders when the last time Minseok tried to hide something from Luhan was. All the years they’ve known each other works against them whenever that happens. They know each other so well, too well, and by now, it’s more of a curse than a blessing. Both of them think that.
“No,” Luhan says finally. When they reach the car, Minseok takes Luhan’s suitcase out of his hands and rolls it to the back, flipping the trunk open. He watches as the lawyer lifts it into the trunk, slamming it down shut before heading for the driver’s seat. Luhan quickly slides into the passenger side.
Minseok doesn’t start the engine right away, and the silent pause makes Luhan shift in his seat, eyes lowering into his lap and then rising back up towards the windshield because he doesn’t know if it’s a good idea to look at Minseok. Luhan’s expressions always give him away but Minseok has always had a good poker face. It’s just that they’ve spent too much time with each other (Luhan has seen all of Minseok’s poker faces) for Luhan not to be able to read the lawyer.
And he hates that.
At a time like this, Luhan would rather he be able to believe the lie in Minseok’s eyes that everything is all right.
“No?” Minseok echoes, late enough that Luhan has to think for a moment before he realizes what the lawyer means. He’s pulling his seatbelt on now, though, and Luhan sighs a little in relief, pulling his own over as Minseok starts the car.
“You always pick me up from the airport,” Luhan says, and he makes his voice light-makes it playful, makes it a joke. He tries to smile, but it feels too unnatural and he just hopes that Minseok is watching the road and not the journalist.
not always
And now all Luhan can think about is the time he had to take a cab home from the airport because he had gone back to Beijing once during the few months he and Minseok weren’t speaking-the few months when the pain was still fresh and Luhan couldn’t even look at a soccer ball or walk past Minseok’s firm without clutching at his stomach, without wanting to throw up everything he’s eaten. Luhan stares out the windshield, blankly takes in the Korean road signs, a change from the Chinese he just barely started to become re-accustomed to a week ago.
He thinks about how he had gone home during those few months, not because his mother’s health was failing or because he missed home. He had gone home because he could spare a week off for himself and he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stay in Seoul for another moment when almost everything in the city-in the country-reminded him of Minseok. Just speaking the language, and Luhan will remember odd words and phrases that he picked up from the lawyer because his skills in Korean were still developing when he had met Minseok and somewhere along the line he had picked up the unique nuances in Minseok’s way of speaking.
there’s too much of you inside of me
He knew his parents at that time knew there was something wrong. But he knew that they also knew that it was nothing that could be fixed by talking about it, and Luhan was infinitely grateful that neither of them asked. He was grateful that neither of them acted like anything was wrong. He was grateful for his father’s grunted comments about how Luhan’s work is going, grateful for his mother cooking copious amounts of his favorite food and refusing to let him leave the table until he’d finished it all.
It was better when he returned.
There was still the fresh sting, the slap in the face, of having no one waiting for him at the airport. Of watching reuniting friends, families, and lovers and trying not to think about how just a few months ago, Minseok would have been there, taking Luhan’s luggage into his own hand and pressing a warm cup of coffee into the journalist’s palm. Of slipping into one of the cabs waiting at the airport exit, and trying to forget how a few months ago, Luhan would’ve been sitting in the passenger’s seat of Minseok’s car and kissing the lawyer over the gear shifts.
But it was better.
(It was better because a month later, Luhan runs into Minseok at a club and they fuck in the back of Luhan’s new car and they talk again and they’re friends again, but they both had to mess even that up)
They’re already halfway to Luhan’s apartment, coming out of the toll road, when Minseok suddenly looks to Luhan when they’re stopped at a red light. The lawyer’s smile is suddenly lighter, suddenly honest. “Always,” he says, and Luhan’s throat constricts.
There’s no more conversation in the car until they reach the apartment complex and Minseok brings the car around to park in one of the temporary spaces outside rather than going all the way into the parking garage. Luhan takes it as meaning Minseok isn’t going to be coming inside. He’s really just here to drop Luhan off.
(He knows it’s not the time to think about how, a year ago, Minseok would have parked in the parking garage and come up with Luhan into their apartment and they’d spend the rest of the day in bed, sex with lazy kisses and touches and afterward they’d lie, naked and sweaty and breathless over the sheets while Luhan tells Minseok about how his parents are doing and all the food he’d eaten and it was their apartment a year ago)
Minseok parks the car, and after he cuts the engine, he sits there again. Silent and unmoving in the exact same way he’d sat when they got into the car at the airport. Luhan doesn’t know what’s wrong-he knows that something is, but he doesn’t know what and he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know if maybe this is just the cue for Luhan to get out, take his suitcase, and go. He doesn’t know if maybe Minseok is upset with him.
They still haven’t talked about that night.
The silence stretches on for so long that it starts to prickle at something beneath Luhan’s skin, so he makes to open the door and just leave when Minseok’s hand reaches out and grips his sleeve-stopping him.
Luhan glances at the lawyer’s face-at the closed-off silhouette.
“So,” Minseok says tightly, looking straight ahead, “Chanyeolie broke up with me.”
Luhan double-takes, eyes widening, brows furrowing as Minseok’s hand slips off Luhan’s sleeve and back into the lawyer’s lap. Luhan turns completely in his seat, and Minseok is still not meeting Luhan’s eyes. “What?”
Minseok doesn’t respond, expression oddly blank except for the storm in his eyes that Luhan thinks he could have at least a chance in understanding if Minseok would just look at him.
Luhan swallows. “Why?” he whispers. “Did he say-”
“He said,” Minseok licks his lips, and this time, instead of just looking straight out, turns his head around and looks out the side window so that all Luhan can see of the other man is the back of his head. “He said-that-I can’t love him because I love-because I still love you.”
Luhan wraps his arms around himself.
He grips the sleeves of his own jacket and breathes out slowly, sitting back against the seat and thumping his head against the headrest, face tilted up towards the ceiling of the car. Minseok’s entire body is now turned around to face the opposite direction, every part of his position screams unavailable and distant and cold and unreachable and Luhan just wants to be able to breathe without it hurting.
He wonders if Minseok is like this because Chanyeol left or because of the words Chanyeol left him with.
And even though he knows he’ll regret it, even though he knows he should just leave the car right now and call Minseok later and pretend the way Minseok probably wants to pretend-pretend that Minseok is just grieving a break-up and Luhan should take Minseok out for consolation drinks and samgyupsal and that’s what Luhan should do, that’s how Luhan will keep Minseok, that’s how they’ll be safe and happy and painless.
That’s not what Luhan does.
“Is he right?” is what Luhan asks softly instead.
Minseok’s shoulders hunch, the lawyer’s entire body visibly stiffening.
“Minseok-ah,” Luhan says, this time louder because he’s had enough of this silence. “Kim Minseok, can’t you just look at me-”
“Get out.”
Minseok turns around.
Minseok looks at Luhan, shifting in his seat so that they completely face each other, and the lawyer’s eyes meet Luhan’s. Minseok’s eyes are raw and tinged with red and Luhan has only ever seen Minseok cry once (once in that hospital when Minseok’s father’s condition dropped horrendously for that one night), and the lawyer’s eyes aren’t wet right now-they’re just angry. Minseok’s expression is livid, tense and contained and all the barriers are up and Luhan knows he doesn’t have a hope in the world of getting through to him right now.
“Get out of my car,” Minseok whispers, “right now.”
He doesn’t know how he makes it back to his own apartment.
All he knows is he somehow makes it to the couch, curling up the same way he was curled up when he woke up the morning after that night-the night they still haven’t talked about and Minseok never wants to talk about it now. There’s no point. Just like there would have been no point to answering Luhan’s question. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Whether Minseok still loves Luhan or not is completely irrelevant in the end because all they do, whatever they do, they still destroy each other.
They’re better off apart.
Isn’t that what their friends all say?
(they couldn’t be in love without fucking up, they couldn’t be friends without fucking up-what can they be to each other?)
And Minseok doesn’t blame Chanyeol, and Minseok can’t blame Chanyeol because it’s true. Chanyeol’s right, but it doesn’t matter. It’s pointless even if Luhan still loves Minseok back and Minseok knows he does and that makes everything worse. That makes it harder, it hurts more, it’s worse worse worse and Minseok doesn’t want it-Minseok doesn’t want Luhan to still love Minseok back. Minseok just wants to be able to be with Luhan in a way that doesn’t hurt, in a way where Minseok doesn’t feel like he’s holding back, in a way that they can’t fuck things up for each other.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He just knows that he needs Luhan here.
(in whatever way works best, in whatever way hurts the least, in whatever way they can stand each other-Minseok needs him here)
Minseok straightens his legs, lifting them onto the couch and lying down across the cushions. He grabs one of the throw pillows and fluffs it beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. Hands retreating into his sleeves for warmth, he presses one hand against his stomach and the other over that hand, eyes closing slowly. It’d be nice if he could just sleep like this-dream away the months, turn back time to when he was still trying to climb the rungs of associate status. He wishes he could go back to the time when he was still vying for attention from one of the partners to mentor him for future promotion-when Luhan was still trying to make his articles headline-worthy.
He wishes he could go back to the time when he and Luhan were too busy for each other-when they couldn’t even spare a minute to kiss or smile at each other-and Minseok doesn’t think it was their careers. They lived through university finals and still smiled at each other and kicked a soccer ball around together and slept in each other’s arms and Minseok wonders what changed.
He blinks his eyes open again, taking in and letting out a deep breath.
Maybe they just aren’t right for each other.
but it feels wrong without you
On some level, Luhan had anticipated this.
He’d always anticipated it-just-maybe, not so soon.
Maybe not as soon as Luhan returned to work after being gone for a week. But he knows that Jongin definitely knows the real reason for Luhan’s absence, what with the younger man being friends with Zitao. He also knows from the way Jongin continuously seems to be staring at Luhan whenever he passes by the glass walls of Luhan’s office when the younger man thinks Luhan is staring into his computer. He knows from the way Jongin seemed to hang around Luhan’s door when Zitao marched in and asked Luhan, albeit in Mandarin and Jongin never could’ve understood, how Luhan’s mother was doing.
And he knows because of how, when he bumps into Jongin on the way back from refilling his mug with coffee, there’s the clear-cut conflict in Jongin’s eyes as he looks at Luhan’s face. Luhan knows Jongin wants to do it today-knows that Jongin thinks that if he doesn’t do it today, he won’t be able to gather the nerve or the heart to do it any other day and Luhan is a horrible person.
Luhan is terrible.
But then again-
Luhan can’t let it go on any longer either. Not when they both know that none of this means anything anymore-not when everything feels empty and Luhan knows that Jongin must know by now that Luhan has only ever used Jongin. And he wonders if, after this, they could be friends. He wonders if Jongin would ever want to be friends after this-wonders if that would be too much to ask-wonders if maybe Zitao and Sehun know and hate Luhan for it.
Luhan is terrible, so the least he can do is start it.
He pulls Jongin to the side later that evening, when almost everyone else has left and Luhan told Zitao to go on along without them for tonight-that he has to talk to Jongin about a draft, and Luhan thinks that both he and Jongin pointedly ignore the way Zitao’s eyes flash far too knowingly when he heads into the elevator without them.
Jongin looks at him.
(unlike Minseok, Jongin looks right at Luhan and even though there’s pain in Jongin’s eyes, Luhan doesn’t feel any of it in his own chest)
“My mom’s okay,” Luhan says with a small smile.
Jongin licks his lips, hands in his pockets, eyes hurt but steady-like he’s anticipated this since the beginning too. “Good,” he says softly. “I’m glad.”
Luhan doesn’t look away either-gives Jongin his full expression, gaze for gaze, because he’s not going to shirk away. Jongin deserves that if Luhan can give him nothing else. “You can say it,” Luhan says quietly. “It’s okay. Just-I’m sorry.”
Jongin ducks his head for a moment.
Just a moment.
And then the younger man’s head comes back up, a smile on his face like it hurts every fiber of his being to keep it there but it’s there and even though Luhan’s heart refuses to beat for Kim Jongin, Luhan still feels his chest clench when he sees that smile-a mangled and bitter version from what Luhan first thought he could have fallen in love with. “I don’t have to say anything, then, right, hyung?”
“I’m sorry,” Luhan whispers, and he backs away from Jongin until he bumps into the wall between the elevators. “I’m sorry.”
Jongin shrugs, and the smile shrinks a little. “It’s because of him, isn’t it? I never had a chance because of him.”
Luhan swallows.
He suddenly knows why Minseok looked so angry that day.
It’s infuriating.
It’s absolutely frustrating-maddening-to have someone assume, to have those words said to you. To have someone say it like a fact-an inevitable statement and truth-that the reason you can no longer fall in love with anybody else because one person in the world, on this earth, has already taken everything you are and become everything you will be. That one person has become too much of you that when he leaves (when Minseok left), he takes everything with him and there’s hardly anything left of you.
“We broke up,” Luhan says and his voice is shaking and he’s shaking and now he can’t bring himself to look at Jongin in the eyes anymore. “A really long time ago-we broke up a while ago.”
“He’s still here though,” Jongin says, and his tone is gentle now but somehow Luhan still can’t take his eyes off his shoes.
Luhan stuffs his hands into his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. He wants to leave. He wants Jongin to stop talking. He wants to never think about this again because it hurts and this is the truth Luhan has been trying to forget since the day Minseok drove away and left Luhan with too many memories only to come back years later with a smile on his face and Luhan’s heart still pinned to his hands.
“He’s my friend,” Luhan offers lamely-weakly-pathetically. “We’re just friends-we’re still friends.”
And Jongin is laughing.
Soft and muted and so bitter and disbelieving that it grates at Luhan’s ears to hear the sound, but it forces him to glance up-just to see what expression Jongin is wearing.
The self-deprecating sort, apparently, Luhan sees.
“Hyung,” Jongin says, looking resigned and amused. “No, I mean he’s still here,” and Jongin points to Luhan’s chest-right above the spot Luhan’s heart is beating. “He takes up a lot of room, doesn’t he, hyung? I couldn’t even get my foot in the doorway.”