Work Text
changmin's curled on the windowsill ledge with a mug of coffee in hand, knees tucked in to his chest. he's wearing one of yunho's ugly (albeit comfortable) sweaters that curves around his shoulders and waist perfectly like it was meant for him, but it’s not his.just like its owner.every day is dull now. it’s not bad, it’s just not the same with yunho singing in the shower in the morning and the chaste kisses goodbye before either of them leaves for work. there’s a hollow part in his chest that hurts with numbness whenever changmin thinks about the simple days when they would just hold each other in bed and laugh, the days when they would disguise themselves with masks and sweats and go out to eat in hole in the wall restaurants for anniversaries, or just eat dinner together. it’s the same as living by himself like before, but changmin can taste the difference in the coffee he drinks, in the air he breathes in his home.yunho once asked him, as they ate dinner that night (it was past midnight and it was leftover vegetables and kimchi fried rice), that he doesn’t know how long they will have together—he didn’t think changmin would stay the first time, so what were the chances he would stay again?changmin responded, “if it means anything to you, for me, i knew i was committing to the end when I started, whatever that may be.” especially to you, hyung, are words he never said but wished he did. they went back to their food in silence, the air a little less heavy.at the time, changmin meant it; he really was committed to the dream they created together as five, nothing would stop him even if they were two. and to yunho? he knew, since the moment he saw him in the sm dance studio, that the boy with crooked teeth and sagging jeans of the 00s was his end goal. there were bumps, of course. no relationship, business or otherwise, cannot exist without conflict. conflict creates a bond between those involved and a space for growth. they grew, both as individuals and as artists, and with growth of any kind, comes a demand for space and with two stars involved, gravity does its job and lets them drift apart slowly.the good days have moved past, just like they have. changmin sometimes blames himself for everything going wrong. yunho didn’t have to take up a new job in gwangju, yunho didn’t have to leave, yunho didn’t have to agree to “take a break” because things got tough and plates were broken. maybe if changmin wasn’t such a rash person and more understanding in the moment, maybe yunho wouldn’t have left with red eyes and a stoic face and the door slamming close, leaving him to sweep the broken ceramic and their broken hearts into the trash.work is simply work. changmin packs a granola bar and a banana, his lips unpressed and loved before he goes. changmin drives to campus at 9, gives his lectures at 10, eats lunch at 1, leaves for home with assignments to grade at 6. the cycle repeats every day, except on fridays and saturdays (those were the days he would spend with yunho, and sundays were for finishing grading papers. now the three day weekend is for reading, sleeping, eating, drinking, and grading, and not necessarily in that order). changmin spends less time in the kitchen because he forgets he doesn't have to cook for two anymore, but ends up eating everything off the pan whilst sitting on the counter. he sleeps alone now, sometimes with a body pillow he brought out of storage. and even though it's nice to sleep uninterrupted by tossing and turning, the feeling of having a warm body who loves him sharing the same space in his most vulnerable leaves something to be missed. he takes a sip, lets the brown liquid warm his throat and chest, lets it seep into his soul and takes another. changmin ruffles his salt and pepper sprinkled hair. it’s not the same as when yunho used to run his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp just like he likes it. he stares out the window, seoul coming to life before his eyes, inhabitants rising from the various depths of sleep, only to burn out their lights by the end of the day. changmin lets out a sigh, a deep one that racks against his ribs, lets it flow out the crevices of his mouth, and lets the past go.