#mingyuxmi

“well, you’re not wrong.” though wonwoo takes one look at his wall of their growing daughter’s bedroom and thinks maybe mingyu could have married someone a little more skilled with a paintbrush, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

when she’d gotten in the car after school earlier in the week and declared at the ripe age of seven that she’s too old for the zoo animals mingyu had lovingly painted on her walls before she came home for the first time, wonwoo knew what they’d be spending their belated weekend doing. still closing on sundays and mondays, they headed out in the week to look at colours and patterns and deciding on a soft pink had been both wonwoo’s doing and undoing. on one hand, at least it wasn’t the banana yellow she’d initially honed in on, but on the other, it could have been something more neutral, like a white or cream, that he wouldn’t likely have to redo again in another few years. 

mingyu’s working on the feature wall as they speak, beautiful flowers and greenery and all the things a totally-grown-up seven-year-old loves. she’s a princess, the kind that sings to birds and has daisies plaited into her hair and her room will apparently reflect that once they’re done, shades of baby pink ( poorly ) painted onto three walls and the mural on the fourth opposite her bed. every morning, she’ll wake up to the sight of the sun shining and the birds chirping even if the story outside is an entirely different one. 

wonwoo wipes at his forehead, smudging a little paint from his sleeve across his skin. 

“I mean, look at this paint job. you basically married the picasso of decorating. remember the time we built her bed? you hit the jackpot, I’m a hunk.” even after all these years, wonwoo has never lost his humour. 

“you’re beautiful.” 

“please, I have paint all over me. I’m basically the 102nd dalmatian.” though wonwoo rolls his eyes, mingyu’s fond grin only grows. he’s put his paintbrush down to move across the room towards him, letting the piece he was working on dry before he can layer another colour on top. he’s almost a quarter of the way through what wonwoo thinks he has planned, whilst wonwoo is probably half-way done with the first coat of one wall. visual creativity has never been his strong point. expletives, however... 

“the most beautiful one.” it’s cheesy, ridiculous, but wonwoo’s cheeks burn bright and his eyes shift away. he should be used to these comments by now but they still make his heart race as if it’s the first time. he can almost predict it from the twinkle in his eyes before the words leave his mouth and yet, he still feels surprised to hear them each and every time. “you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

“I won’t tell sujin.” 

“wonwoo.” 

“you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, too.” he finally returns once his light giggles have resided and the fingers tickling his sides have stopped to wrap around his waist. “I love you so much. I love sujin, I love our home, our work, our lives together. hate the feeling of his paint drying on my forehead, though.” mingyu laughs. 

“I love you, too. you should probably sort that out...” wonwoo wishes he’d been paying closer attention to what mingyu was actually doing instead of how pretty his smile is when he tells him he loves him, or how his hair had started to stick to his forehead, because then maybe he’d have seen it coming when his boyfriend rubs more paint on his right cheek this time. he gasps. “now you don’t have to worry about the bit on your forehead.” 

“you’re so fucking dead, kim gyu.” 

Seulgi feared the mere thought of the day that she might find the name Kim Mingyu on her list; that the trusted Black Lotus assassin would be ordered to do the impossible—to take the life of someone she had only wanted to protect. To take a life she had left once already, as a frail attempt to save him from the inevitable heartbreak she seemed to carry with her wherever she went. And it would be a lie to say that she hadn’t imagined what the reverse would be like — but that had never scared her as much. They lived in a cruel world…but Seulgi had always trusted Mingyu; had felt as though they trusted one another to somehow best the system if something had ever put either one of them on a path to a grave ending.

But she never imagined things would turn out this way.

A woman who had once only wanted to watch the world burn, who never wanted to care for anyone, not even herself. She had watched countless of her own fall with anguish in their eyes and blood on their hands, watched those she despised fall to their knees. 

She was no hero, no, she had never been, and in this case, she never really was in the end.

Gang tensions would never cease; and then it seemed as if Black Lotus and Vanguard had the highest, strongest, the most lethal intentions towards one another. Field work wasn’t something she typically did, but at the time of the break out, she had no choice. 

But she had a choice in who she saved, or if she saved anyone.

The old bitter and jaded Seulgi would have saved herself. She wouldn’t have thrown herself in the path of a bullet for one of her own. Yet, the Seulgi that thought she had a chance to make something good of a dangerous situation wanted to be more thoughtless; clueless as to the fact that how fatal the blow would be.

It wasn’t instant, no, she had expected that her downfall would not give her justice—that she would suffer just as she had made many others. And it seemed that she would make one more person in this world suffer, one that she had only ever wanted to see free of pain and hurt.

Her hands pressed against the bullet wound in a feeble attempt to stop any bleeding that she could, her vision with her long enough to see the face that had been behind the trigger; the face that she knew had meant her no harm, that was at her side despite the rivaling positions, and despite chaotic, dying senses; the face that she could tell regretted the actions that had taken place despite the true result being unknown until the moment it had happened.

Grim nights in the past had always made her wander what her last words would be when the time came; if she would even have any, to who they would be. But she had never imagined this, though the words that left her as she used what little strength she had left to press herself closer to Mingyu, a bloodied hand of hers grasping onto his.

( █░ biggest and smallest short term goal? )

{&; he holds up one finger, a grin actually on his face } primary goal one, for short and long term: stay alive. {&; he lets his arm fall back to his side, then tilts his head from side to side in quick consideration } or figure out the best way to die, but that’s more of a longterm goal, as is being dead to everyone but actually alive, finally living the life i want to. {&; a story for another day, certainly } smallest short term goal is to get information on the target i need to tomorrow, pass it along to the necessary hitman, and have a job well done. getting more than 3 hours of sleep sounds like a nice goal, too.

and find out for sure if yoongi is dead or alive!

( █░ biggest and smallest long term goal? )

{&; apparently it’s not a story for another day, it’s a story for now. protocol’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but then he snickers– more like a quick exhale of air through his nose } okay. {&; he considers this longer. truth be told, he doesn’t now how to separate goals and dreams. what are the things he aims to do, and what does he just wish he could? there are plenty that fall into the latter that he’d never consider actually pursuing…right? } biggest long term goal: stay alive, again. or maybe that’s the smallest…i don’t know. it’s the most obvious one, anyway. {&; his eyebrows furrow, and he scrunches up his face. he’s coming to the slow realization he doesn’t have any small longterm goals. in a life like this, he’s learned you go big or you die } getting out of vanguard. i don’t know if that’s an actual goal or– even a possibility at this point, but it’s– something, alright. {&; he blinks a little faster, and clears his throat } i want to keep improving. i want to learn more, especially how to defend myself without a computer, or something. {&; he can’t think of anything small at all. } get in top 500 for a season of overwatch? {&; his voice drops in volume, and he whispers, begrudgingly } without cheating, i guess.

( █░ if they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal? )

{&; he blinks rapidly, a little caught off guard, and then he’s tense. he alternates between fidgeting and balling his hands into fists, then shakes his head } that’s the stupidest question to ask me. i haven’t thought about it because i don’t have time for any of this– i can’t. {&; he doesn’t even want to humor the question, but he also doesn’t know the answer. he’s really never considered it, and it’s terrifying to even spare a thought on this, so he doesn’t. he just mutters } someone that won’t die. everybody is going to die, so i can’t. everyone i care about dies. 

he really hates fighting with mingyu. he hates more that it’s almost always his fault, his temper and impatience getting the better of him. he hates that it’s usually him doing all the shouting, him making everything ten times worse than it needs to be. he hates that he could easily just apologise and not experience any of the pain but his ego somehow won’t let him, as if admitting defeat even to mingyu is still something he can’t quite swallow. 

at this point, he can’t remember what they’re even arguing about. he recalls coming home agitated already, not being greeted at the door like always because mingyu was busy with something else. between then and now, it’s all a blur, a mess of vocalised disappointment and annoyance pointed at the only other person around — even if mingyu had never been the cause of it in the first place. 

he hates, too, that mingyu always just accepts what he throws at him at first. he hates that it’s so easy for him to place the blame and so easy for mingyu to assume he’s right, that he’s done something wrong. he knows what it does to him, what cogs it ticks in mingyu’s mind and he hates it. he really hates himself. but he doesn’t know how to stop. 

( maybe that’s what he hates the most. ) 

there’s venom on the tip of his tongue and he knows that somewhere along the path he’s venturing down, he’s going to say something he regrets. he can feel it churning in his stomach; the anxiety, the worry, both mixing together with the rage, the anger. it’s a dangerous combination, but one that can be soothed. if mingyu’s brows weren’t furrowed back at him, his own seemingly limitless patience finally wearing a little thinner, maybe he could find that calm, but wonwoo knows there’s little hope now. instead, his frustration grows for a new problem. he’s no longer mad at mingyu for whatever it was he had been shouting about — now he’s frustrated with himself for not having all the answers. he runs fingers through his hair, messes already tangled locks and misses the way mingyu’s eyes soften. his own turn watery, tears forming in the corners because everything is wrong and he can’t piece anything together; like he’s somehow jamming the wrong piece into the last space in a jigsaw. 

he registers the hand on the back of his head only barely before the lips against his. parted in shock, mingyu kisses him so deeply — as if he’ll fade to nothing if he doesn’t, as if he’s been waiting years to taste his tongue against his. mingyu pulls him in close to his chest, rests his spare hand on the small of wonwoo’s back. he should hate how cliche it is, but as they fight to take control, his anger slowly dissipates, replaced by passion and love and a calmness only mingyu can bring him in those moments where he rests his head against his chest to hear his heartbeat or he rubs circles into wonwoo’s shoulders, massaging out the tension. but he doesn’t. he loves it. he loves mingyu — loves how forgiving he is, how he speaks in actions ( in tongues, should he say ) rather than words. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles himself as they eventually break to breathe. “I’m sorry. I know you’ll say it isn’t my fault but I really wish I could control it better— myself better.” mingyu kisses him once more, softly and shortly, a smile to his plump lips. 

“you’re right; it isn’t your fault.” wonwoo rolls his eyes. “feeling better?”