#codenamesecondtwin

Fem!Youngmin saying a line to each of the pirates for the Voice meme.

{ codename-secondtwin }

When Minwoo doesn’t see Kwangmin for a couple days, he knows something is wrong. He’s used to lurking, to being the shadow in the bunker that no one else sees. So not seeing Kwangmin? That’s not good. It’s worrying, something that sits deep in his gut and niggles at him with quiet demands for attention.

So he goes looking. It’s not hard. Minwoo knows his twins, and he knows Kwangmin is probably squirrelled away in his and Youngmin’s bedroom. And that’s where he is, of course, perched at his desk, looking somewhere between disheveled and distraught.

Kwangmin had thought that there wouldn’t be any more snow after Minwoo and him had gone sledding during the day. He didn’t expect that an ice storm would happen and that had made his demeanor look a bit anxious to say the least. He had went to hide in his bedroom the first chance he had gotten. While they had portable heaters that Jeongmin and him had gotten from stores before this, it was still colder than it should be and it didn’t help that Kwangmin only had the sweater his brother had given him and his blanket that’s wrapped around his body.

When the power had suddenly gone out was when the younger twin had started to freak out. Usually, the twins would be together during storms especially ones with thunder and lightning but Youngmin had stayed with Donghyun and Jeongmin with Hyunseong to keep company. He didn’t want to be by himself and had gotten off of his bed, bringing his blanket and pillow with him as he walked toward the youngest of the six’s room.

"Cold, cold, cold…" He mumbled to himself as he walked through the bunker, the floor was cold even with his socks on. When he made it to the other’s room, Kwangmin had knocked only to hear a groan and the bedroom door opening.

"What the fuck—" Minwoo said as he opened the door before seeing the taller. Yeah, it was dark seeing as the power they had in the bunker had gone out but it was obvious to see that Kwangmin was cold, anxious, but mostly scared and that had made the male motion the older inside his room, closing the door. It was silent but he didn’t mind, it looked like the twin had wanted company through this. The youngest had walked over to the older male before plopping onto his bed next to him, trying to think of how to help. "You know, we should go sledding again. Beat those kids to the hill and have it ourselves."

What better way to take the other’s mind off of the storm than talking and distracting him with things?

It was cold when Minwoo woke up. Colder than usual, which was enough to tell him that their meager supply of power had either run out or haas been shut off for some reason. It only took a moment of stillness and silence to hear the way the wind howled, the way the storm raged outside. They hadn’t expected there to be more snow, but apparently the reports had been wrong.

But no matter. Minwoo had plenty of blankets, and he burrowed a little deeper into them with a soft, breathy sigh. He’d be fine until morning, surely, wherein he would layer up and go out to solve the problem. It wasn’t something he was prepared to deal with in the middle of the night and in the middle of the storm.

He was almost asleep again when someone knocked at his door, and it was with a low snarl of frustration -- the floor was cold, fucking cold, obscenely cold -- that he shuffled over and yanked it open. “What the fuck--”

The sight of Kwangmin all huddled up and looking pathetic cut through Minwoo’s frustration like a hot knife, and he heaved a quiet sigh before pushing the door open wider and gestured for him to come in. And to hurry, because hello, cold. As soon as he’d kicked the door shut, he shuffled over and crawled back into bed, half-buried beneath his blanket and half-smothered by the pillow he’d promptly curled around.

Finally.

Minwoo heads for his room and kicks the door shut without missing a beat. Seconds later, he’s sprawled out and looking for a comfortable postion, sweats kicked off and boxers hiked around his thighs. It’s comfortale enough, but the rush of heat that comes as he wraps thin fingers around his lenth is the real pleasure. Even with the position putting a bit of strain on his still-heaing ribs, and even with his non-dominant hand doing the work — his right wrist still fucking hurts and twinges with a pain that shoots up through his shoulder if he moves too fast — it’s nice. It’s stress relief. It’s enough.

He doesn’t notice he sound of he bunker’s door opening and closing, or the sound of feet stomping through the bunker. Minwoo just doesn’t notice because he’s so preoccupied with himself. And that’s his downfall, really.

It is only when the door to his room is shoved open that Minwoo stills and glances up, a hand still curled around his length. His eyes meet Kwangmin’s, and his cheeks flush with heat. There’s no real good way to handle this, but there are plenty of okay ways. Unfortunately, Minwoo has a bad habit of picking the worst way to handle events when Kwangmin is called into question. Close friendship or not, the worst fucking ways possible. Always.

“Can I help you?” Minwoo snaps after a moment of staring, his voice hardly more than a rasp. “I’m kind of busy here, Kwangmin.” To his credit, Kwangmin does finally look away, voicing a set of awkward noises that make him sound as if he’s choking.

Minwoo kind of hopes he is.

Serves him right for coming back early and not knocking first. Punk.

“Get out and give me ten minutes. I’m busy.”

Kwangmin doesn’t respond. He’s too busy turning and fumbling with the wall as he searches for the door he’d just burst through. If Minwoo weren’t so fucking horny, it would be funny.

They know better. All of the pirates know better than to wake Minwoo when he’s finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep on the couch. Especially when he hasn’t slept in well over a day.

It wasn’t that long ago that Minwoo nearly stabbed Youngmin, after all. Because even though Youngmin had forgiven him, Minwoo never really forgave himself.

So it’s common knowledge. It has to be. And yet Minwoo finds himself lurching out of his sleep in one fluid, violent motion, a flurry in the dark and silence as his fingers dip beneath the edge of the couch, as they grab for the blade that lurks there, as they twist tight, pull, as Minwoo hauls ass and slams all of his weight into the person hovering over him.

It’s a force to be reckoned with. He’s a force to be reckoned with.

He’s acting on instinct, on the primal terror that’s been feeding him since Peter Pan’s resurfacing, and Minwoo doesn’t stop to think or question. He just moves. He’s been trained to survive, and he’s going to, goddamnit.

All it takes is five seconds, if even that long, and then it’s over.

It’s not until Minwoo has the other underneath him, neatly pinned and the blade at their throat, that he recognizes the set of their eyes and the curve of their face. Around the static that shrieks in his ears and the way his heart hammers an irregular cadence, Minwoo can hear a stunned babbling. And that, too, is familiar. It’s the voice that does it, though, the voice that clues him in and adds the final piece to the puzzle of an identity.

Kwangmin. It’s Kwangmin.

Not Pan, or even one of his thugs.

It’s been hours since Minwoo dropped down beside Kwangmin on the couch, a book in one hand and a blanket in the other. It’s been hours since Kwangmin’s pain killers finally kicked back in, settling the elder against Minwoo’s side as the relief of sleep finally overcomes him. It’s been hours, and yet Minwoo is still there on the couch, his blanket now draped over Kwangmin’s form and the book open in his lap. He’s no longer reading, though, having stopped paying attention to the content — something about camping and wilderness survival — about thirty minutes ago when Kwangmin began to shift in his sleep. By Minwoo’s count, it’s almost time for another dose of medication.

But he makes no move to wake the elder, rereading the same page over and over again in hopes that the information will unknot and form some semblence of coherency. And every so often, as Kwangmin shifts or makes a noisea noise of discomfort, Minwoo reaches around to drag gentle fingers through soft hair.

It’s another half hour before Kwangmin’s eyes ease open, another half hour of tossing, and turning, and pained grimaces, before Kwangmin makes a noise of awareness and sits up with a slow, sobering gracelessness.

Minwoo doesn’t comment at first, just tucks a scrap of paper between the pages and shuts the book before twisting to eye Kwangmin in speculation.

There’s a wry “you look like shit” on his tongue, but it’s captured by his teeth, caged in until what comes out is, “Morning, twinkletoes.” The dry humor remains, but it’s softened, laced with the same bite as Minwoo abandons his post and leans forward to snag the bottle on the table before them. He passes it to Kwangmin with a noncommital hum and settles back down without further comment, knowing that he might as well get comfortable now while he has the chance to.