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For the first time, Mingyu felt like he no longer fit in his childhood bedroom.
He figured the change was inevitable. He'd moved out at fourteen, seeing the place maybe once a year, twice if he was lucky. Still, he'd tried when he could to make it feel like home: rearranging his furniture to reflect the ways he felt he'd changed, updating his wardrobe so the things in his closet fit him, keeping the drawers stocked with things he considered essentials, all so he could properly live in the house when he was there. But none of that was helping him now, because the lack of belonging wasn't coming from the stuff in the room, but the size of it. The walls were closing in.
He sat heavily on his bed, curling his fingers into the dark duvet under him, his eyes sweeping over the rest of his room—light blue walls, a cracked-open closet door, a wooden dresser topped with knick-knacks: broken watch, odd number of stud earrings, cologne with a scent that he definitely did not identify with anymore—but he couldn’t focus on any of it, bending to push his face into his hands.
Deep breaths. Deep, steady breaths. He'd never felt like this, never felt so nervous, anxious, scared, in his own room before. He didn't know what to do.
Incredibly soft footfalls met Mingyu’s ears, looking up just in time to see Jihoon entering the room. His eyes didn't leave Mingyu, giving the door a light nudge with his shoulder, coming to a stop in front of him. His eyebrows were angled in worry, his hands slightly raised, looking like he wanted to touch Mingyu but hadn't yet figured out where. Mingyu decided to take the guesswork out of it for him, taking hold of the bunchy green fabric of Jihoon’s hoodie sleeves and placing Jihoon’s left hand on his chest, the right one on his cheek, keeping his fingers looped around Jihoon’s wrists. Jihoon responded with a small, soft smile, stroking Mingyu’s cheekbone with his thumb.
“Do you want to leave?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but incredibly matter-of-fact. “We can totally just leave.”
Despite himself, the words made Mingyu smile a little, and the sight had Jihoon smiling too.
That was an option. They could just leave. They were busy people, with a schedule that Mingyu knew his parents didn't really understand; it would be easy to lie to them, to just say something came up and they had to go. Mingyu knew they wouldn't hold it against him.
“We're in the middle of dinner,” he said.
“I'll package some food for us,” Jihoon responded. “We'll take it home. Eat it in bed.”
Mingyu was able to manage a single shaky laugh.
“I think we eat food in bed too much, hyung.”
It happened at minimum every two weeks, as long as they weren't too swamped with practice. It was their own little version of date night, shutting the other members out of one of the bedrooms so they could have dinner together, often while they watched a movie or episodes of a television show. Jihoon shrugged, unbothered.
“Helps us remember to wash the sheets.”
Mingyu scrunched his nose. “Helps you remember.” Then he realized the successful distraction and sighed. “No hyung, I… I want to stay. I want to—I came here to—”
“You don't have to,” Jihoon told him. His voice was gentle again, leaning in and kissing Mingyu’s forehead.
Mingyu had come back home for dinner because he wanted to come out to his parents. He'd brought Jihoon with him because he wanted to tell them—show them—that he was in a loving relationship. His parents hadn't questioned the extra guest, just happy to again be able to care for someone whose parents weren't nearby. They hadn't gotten much further than some small talk, updating each other on life and work, making it about halfway through the meal before the way Jihoon was holding his hand under the table just wasn't enough, Mingyu apologizing and excusing himself, all but running from the room.
He'd thought that he was ready. He'd run the scenario over and over in his head, and had come out fine. The timing couldn't be better, with how it was a few weeks after he and Jihoon’s three hundred day anniversary, and things between them still felt good. They felt so steady, so comfortable, so exciting in a way that was safe; the way Mingyu had always thought love should be. He'd jokingly proposed three times now, and Jihoon had even done it back once. When Jihoon had steadily loved him throughout the blond hair he'd had for Boom Boom promotions, Mingyu had known it was time to say something.
He'd felt good about the decision when he'd gone out to lunch with the rest of the Hip Hop Unit to talk it over, telling them his plans. That he was bisexual—with a preference towards men, though Wonwoo advised that he probably didn't need to share that part—and had fallen in love. That he was the same person, the same son they'd always had, but just knew himself better now, and was growing into who he was meant to be. He'd even texted his sister to tell her about Jihoon, because she was busy tonight and wouldn't be home, and she'd congratulated him.
Then he'd stepped over the threshold of his childhood home and into his mother's arms, her hug tight, her voice affectionate and just “so, so proud” of him, and he'd felt so sick with anxiety that he'd swayed on the spot, gripping at the wall, not able to get grounded until Jihoon placed a light hand on his lower back, concern in his eyes.
Jihoon drew back now, his fingers scratching lightly at the front of Mingyu’s shirt. His smile was simple and soft, understanding and sympathetic and kind, and Mingyu was so full of love that he felt it in his throat.
“I want them to know,” he said quietly, because he did. “I just…”
“They'll find out eventually,” Jihoon pointed out with a shrug. His lips quirked cutely as he considered his statement, head tilting to the side. His hair was a similar brown to Mingyu’s, and while it was comparatively less damaged, it had also been treated to a perm that had very nearly worn off. Mingyu missed the curls a little. “You can let it happen that way, if you want. It might be easier. The only person that I actually told was my mom. I let her tell my dad, because I didn't think I could say it again.”
That, again, was true. They would find out. The day before, in preparation for tonight, Jihoon had video-called his parents. He'd set the phone on the table in front of himself as though he were doing a live stream, a reflexively anxious grin on his face, his ears so pink that it was all Mingyu had not to reach over and cover them with his hands.
“This is… new,” he began, sounding so awkward that Mingyu had to work not to laugh. “But I wanted to tell you… I'm dating someone. I have a boyfriend.”
He'd gestured to Mingyu, who swallowed down his own tinge of nervousness as he leaned into frame with a wave. They'd explained things: how long it had been and who knew, telling them that among the inner circle of family—the members, their parents, and siblings if possible—it wasn't being kept as a secret anymore. With how often their parents all talked and hung out, Mingyu knew that eventually, it would be casually mentioned somehow, and his parents would hear it. Mingyu also knew he would much rather tell them himself.
“No, I think… I want to do it tonight. Not knowing when they'll find out… That's too much.”
“Okay.” Jihoon nodded, easy and accepting, reaching up and running his fingers through Mingyu's hair. It was short, light brown, and still badly damaged from the bleach. “Do you want me to be the one to say it?”
Mingyu blinked at him in surprise. Of everything, he hadn’t expected that. Jihoon was the anxious one, the quiet one, the one that, between the two of them, did not mind that he had to love Mingyu in private. The one that shied away from PDA, and had a hard time with heartfelt moments, and had previously broken up with Mingyu, purely out of fear. And here he was, holding Mingyu’s head in his hands, offering to do the hard part for him, something he'd just confessed to only being able to do once before.
“Hyung,” Mingyu murmured. His throat ached, eyes just starting to sting, and Jihoon ran fingers through his hair again.
“I can, if you need me to.” Mingyu let himself reach up, let his arms wrap around Jihoon’s waist. “You've done so much, Mingyu-yah. You've been so brave. I was able to become who I am because you helped me. You held onto me, and you loved me through it.” One of Jihoon's hands cradled his jaw, thumb resting beside his lower lip. “You can always put some weight on me, if you need help carrying it.”
Mingyu opened his mouth, but the only sound that managed its way out was a small sort of whine, pressing his forehead into Jihoon’s shoulder.
“You lyricist,” he mumbled accusingly, and Jihoon just laughed, kissing his head again. “I love you.”
The affection in the response was both heavy and soft. “I know.”
Jihoon knew. There was always a small flush of pride when Jihoon said that, that Mingyu was able to love Jihoon so well that the feeling was a fact, steady and sure as a thumb on the middle C piano key.
Mingyu wanted everyone to know. It was such a dearly-held, fiercely-protected part of him that he wanted people to be able to see it. He wanted the association, wanted people to look at him and think of Jihoon, too. To have Jihoon there, as a part of him. As someone Mingyu loved.
“I can do it,” Mingyu said, sitting up straight. “I can tell them. I want to. I want my parents to know we're dating. I love being with you, hyung. I'm proud to be with you, no matter what. I'm—I just—” A small laugh left his mouth, more happy than amused as the feeling rushed through him, and Jihoon smiled. “I love being your boyfriend.”
Jihoon’s smile grew, so fond that the dimples in the corners of his mouth appeared, pressing a quick kiss to Mingyu’s lips. When he pulled away Mingyu chased after him, lifting off the bed to do so, tugging Jihoon close, holding on tight. He kissed Jihoon back, Jihoon letting out a happy hum as he did, the vibration ringing true in Mingyu’s chest.
Sharp whispers caught Mingyu’s ear, along with a short gasp, Mingyu’s entire body feeling dunked in cold water as he turned. Aji, who had been sleeping on the living room couch the whole time Mingyu had been home, had apparently decided to wake up, ignoring some desperate urgings from the other side of the wood and nosing Mingyu’s door fully open, trotting in. Jihoon had given the door a push, sure, but had been too distracted to notice if the knob had actually clicked, and the door swinging open revealed both of Mingyu’s parents, crowded in close, hunched together and very clearly listening.
Quick as a blink, Jihoon sidestepped himself between Mingyu and his parents. It didn't change the way his father was able to meet his eyes over Jihoon's head, but the action still made Mingyu’s breath catch, Jihoon reaching one hand back, Mingyu tangling their fingers and squeezing tight.
“We were worried,” his mother said, while his father glanced away. Her hand was half over her mouth, her voice soft, and Mingyu had the feeling that despite his media-training, Jihoon likely hadn't done much to assuage his parents before leaving the table to follow after him. “The door wasn't closed.”
At least the two of them had the decency to look chastened at being caught eavesdropping.
“Um.” Aji scratched insistently at Mingyu’s pant leg with one of her tiny paws, but he felt too frozen to look away from his parents. None of that explained how much they'd heard, or how they felt. There was a small, achingly awkward beat of silence. Then his father spoke.
“Is your boyfriend going to lunge if I come in?” he asked. His tone was light, but he wasn't fully brushing off Jihoon’s defensive stance, hanging back in the doorway. Hearing him casually call Jihoon “your boyfriend” knocked loose some of the tension in Mingyu’s chest, giving Jihoon’s hand another squeeze.
Jihoon glanced back at him, and after a quick search of his face, squeezed back before fully letting go. He stepped away, and as soon as the path was clear, Mingyu’s father entered the room and pulled him into a hug.
Mingyu had always considered his father to be the one who taught him how to hug. The man had always worked a lot, always worked hard, Mingyu's love of domestic tasks like cooking and cleaning and sewing coming from the way he helped his mother with them when his father wasn't home. When he did come home though, the first thing he always did was find his wife and wrap his arms around her, almost entirely engulfing her body with his, doing the same with Mingyu and Minseo too. Using firm but gentle strength, patient, always holding on as long as the other person might want or need. Mingyu closed his eyes and let the man’s warmth seep into him, and though he’d grown to be as tall as him—taller, really, when he straightened his back properly—he suddenly felt like a child again, standing in this room, being hugged by his dad, ten years old with short black hair and perpetually scraped knees and just so, so loved.
“So Jihoon-ah, you two are, ah, dating?” his mother asked. Mingyu opened his eyes in time to see Jihoon duck his head in a nod, his face so pink that Mingyu itched to touch him, just to feel the warmth in his cheeks. “How long?”
“It was just our anniversary,” Jihoon said, quiet and stilted. “Three hundred days. Nineteen days ago.”
If the length of time surprised her, she didn't show it. “How nice! Were you able to do something fun?”
Jihoon went even redder.
“We had work, but Mingyu cooked.”
It had been two days shy of the 31st Golden Disc Awards, so the group was busy with practice. Actual celebration took place later, going out to eat and even booking a hotel room for the night.
“Oh!” The words seemed to have jogged something in Mingyu’s mother's memory, turning to touch Mingyu’s shoulder. Mingyu stepped from his father's arms to give her his full attention. “I have a recipe book for you. It has that yukgaejang recipe you like. Here, let me get it.”
She took his hand and led him from the bedroom, Mingyu’s father bending to pick up Aji, he and Jihoon trailing behind but stopping in the living room while she carried on into the kitchen. She released him to begin digging through a haphazard shelf of cookbooks and clipped recipes, Mingyu deciding to speak.
“I'm bisexual.” It felt important to share, a scrap from his now-lost script for the evening that he felt he shouldn’t leave abandoned. “So, it's…”
He trailed off, unsure of what he was trying to say. It was what? Different? Better? More of something? Less? It was the factor that he'd puzzled over the most, that he still felt unsure of, that he'd settled on simply because he felt the need to have an answer. His mother turned to him, placing a book in his hands, the cover splotched with years-old gochujang stains.
“I'm going to be honest,” she said. “I don't really understand what that means. But you've told us stories about that boy since the day you two first met, and he looks like he's good for you. He cares for you.”
“He is,” Mingyu said, his voice quiet. “He does.”
She took his free hand in both of hers and held it close, a compromise they'd come to when he was too tall for her to kiss him on the head anymore.
“Then I'm happy,” she said simply. “And I love you.”
“Mom—” he had to cut himself off then, too afraid of crying, pulling her into a hug. She hugged back, clicking her tongue.
“You silly boy.” She petted his hair, smoothing her hand over the rough strands. “I thought you knew this already. Use your head.”
The laugh he returned was a bit too choked, but he was able to smile at her when she pulled away.
“Let's finish dinner,” she proposed, and he nodded. “Get your father and your boyfriend at the table. I'll warm the food back up.”
She gathered the stew pot from the table and clicked the stovetop on, Mingyu poking his head into the living room. Jihoon and his father seemed to be talking, genuinely talking about something, and though there was a lingering flush still on Jihoon’s face, the laugh he gave at something his dad said was genuine and comfortable enough as he leaned in to pet Aji on the head. Mingyu felt his heart squeeze, his smile widening when they noticed him.
“We’re going to finish dinner,” he explained, gesturing to them both. They all sat as Mingyu’s mother gave the pot a few stirs before hefting it, still steaming, onto the middle of the table.
“Alright! Let’s eat.”
Jihoon reached over under the table to put a comforting hand on Mingyu’s thigh. Mingyu took a deep breath in, chest feeling light and open, giving Jihoon a smile. Thanking her, they did.