Archive of Our Own ^beta

Originally, Minho had planned to tell his family over his dead body, through his will or a note of some sort to read once he had passed. He’d imagined them reading his tortured words while gazing longingly at his urn in the crematorium, or on the family mantle if they decided to keep it there. That vision died quickly, however, once he realised that the only chunk of his family that he cared to tell where all far older than him and much more likely to die sooner than he did. Statistically speaking. And considering that he had no intention of putting himself in harms way or offing himself anytime soon, tortured soul or not, he was fated to outlive them unless some freak accident swept him off his feet.

Then for a brief second, he toyed with just taking the matter to the grave (or ashes) with him, but that seemed a coward’s move and if anything his grandmother hadn’t pseudo-raised no bitch. He wasn’t ashamed of it, or even scared. Just not ready to deal with the emotional upheaval of it all, not ready to give up the steady evenings with his parents with the equal possibility of them accepting it or not. Schrödinger’s coming out.

After a war with his subconscious lasting roughly two years, running consistently in the background of his mind, he had settled on telling them when absolutely necessitated. Like when he was finally ready to take someone to Korea’s metaphorical altar (for lack of a real one being viable or legal for him), or tie the symbolic knot to a life-long commitment. Whenever he finally found someone who would be involved with him like that, and who he in turn wanted to be with for the long run.

With the current state of his own conservative society, and the current state of his own rotten personality, it was likely he wasn’t going to be finding someone like that for the foreseeable future anyway.

It gave him a good excuse to put it off.

To pretend his parents would still love him.

Note: insert heading

Here lies, Lee Minho – Let his homosexuality never be forgotten

              Nahhhh too long

Here lies, Lee Minho – As gay in death as he was in life

Lee Minho (1998-??? I don’t plan on dying soon) Surprise bitches, he’s gay

Lee Minho (1998-???) Surprise bitches, he was gay

Can we go even shorter

Lee Minho, Gay

……………………………………………………………………………………………………… wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

What am I doing I have a manuscript to write and grocery shopping to do

>refresh<

>refreshing…<

Note: grave inscription ideas cos im dramatic

But that was the plan, you see. And with Lee Minho, plans almost never executed as intended.

This time at least, it’s not his fault. (It most absolutely, certainly is). If he tries he can name a minimum of fourteen people to blame: his boss Lee Minhyuk, for looking the way he does; the abhorrent new intern Seungmin, for annoying him enough in the past month that he’s developed a loose tongue ready to quip at the slightest inconvenience; the cute boy at the milk bar, who has a particular way of curling his words that makes every sentence sound like flirting; Go Junyoung from fifth grade who kickstarted his gay realisation which he repressed for the next seven years; and his Grandma, who made him feel like it was all okay, like he’d always have one place where he’d be accepted no matter what – before she died three years ago.

Obviously the dying wasn’t her fault. None of this was anyone’s fault but his own. He’s got to learn how to take accountability for his actions but the good thing is he has a lifetime to do that, no need to hurry and pin his impatient coming out on himself. He’s already going through enough.

The going through is this: currently he’s sitting at his parent’s dining table the day before Chuseok – back for the first time after dropping out of college, leaving the campus dorm, forging a haphazard living for himself with the savings from online freelance and recently getting picked up by Blue Moon… where was he? Oh yeah, parent’s dining table. Day before Chuseok. Half-eaten bowl of rice, an almost full bowl of malatang at the centre of the table. Banchan not nearly finished. It’s unwritten rule that he’s hostage until the banchan are gone, but he wonders if this circumstance counts as special provisions.

Parent’s dining table, day before Chuseok, both sitting opposite him, a music program running in the background and wait Han Jisung could sing? Not the point, Minho.

Parent’s dining table, day before Chuseok and his stupid mouth.

“I’m gay, you know.”

It’s not the first time in his life his parents haven’t been able to form a response to his random musings buts it’s definitely the first time the lingering silence has been this pained. Or maybe that’s his imagination. He’s always known he was a difficult child.

Or perhaps, it’s because pained isn’t quite the right word. It’s strained for sure. There’s bafflement and reprehension and sadness? He expected the betrayal and that was where the prediction of pain stemmed from, he’d had enough hope to not anticipate hatred, but now he’s not quite so sure.

The moment of silence stretches out until its not just a moments. It’s several moments of silence stacked together to create an awkwardness bridge all the way from his nonchalance to his dread. Yeah, Schrodinger’s cat is both dead and alive until you open the box but you’re not supposed to wait this long to actually open it and find out.

Why does he have to wait so long just to figure out whether his parents hate him or not?

His mum lays her spoon down on top of her bowl and instead of saying something, anything to Minho, she turns and looks at her husband. Her husband, who has the most unreadable blank face he’s had in the entirety of Minho’s life.

Even when Minho told him he was dropping out, he’d had more expression in his voice. As it is now, he can’t glean a single thing. Not from the way his eyebrows are set. Not from the relative tight-looseness of his lips. Not from even from the way his body is held, his hands right where they were when the words came out of Minho. Haha, came out.

Oh god he’s so tired of the dread.

His father wasn’t always like this. His mum is different – in that she’s consistent, never changing. Always the same as the day before, always cheery, always happy, always quietly accepting of whatever Minho wants. His father too was like that, what seems like lifetimes ago. When Minho came back from school, passing by the dance studio on Samnang-ro, twirling around the living room about how cool it looked, it was his dad that surprised him that weekend by signing him up for a class. When his parents were called by the principal in the middle of the day, it was his dad that sat with him outside the main office, rolling up wads of tissues to press to his grazed knee and listened to him about how the other boy had pushed him first while his mum talked to the teachers. When Minho said that he wanted to find a part-time job, it was his dad who spent the night helping him write up his resume and it was him who Minho had called told first when he got the email back about the bowling alley cleaning job offer.

It was his dad who he clutched tight before stepping on the train to Seoul for university.

It was his dad who he told first about dropping out.

Don’t get him wrong, he absolutely adores his mother, loves both of them, but it was never just his mother who’s opinion he cared about.

Even if he knew deep down, she would likely be the only one to accept him.

Have a chance of accepting him.

She grew up with her mother after all and Grandma made her views plenty clear.

It was a bit selfish, but acceptance only from her would never be enough for him. At least now that he’s said it. At least now that he’s cracked open Schrodinger’s box and has no choice but to confirm the cat is dead.

His dad puts down his own utensils. Minho has barely taken a breath in the past five minutes. Mum puts her hand on Dad’s shoulder, as if in… Minho doesn’t know. Reassurance? Support? He’s pretty fucking sure he’s the one who needs support right now.

“Okay, son,” is all Dad says and then his chair is scraping back and he’s taken his half-finished bowl to the sink, abandoning the banchan in a distinctly hypocritical manner, and trudging all the way to his room as Mum and Minho are left in the room, Mum especially, with her supporting(?) hand floating mid-touch.

Finally, she allows her face to crumple and comes around the table to hug Minho. A hug. Minho can barely feel it, but by the time the sensation returns all he can pay attention to is how violently his hands are trembling. Wow, he’d barely even noticed seconds ago. He stares at them, fascinated at himself that he apparently cared this much and then scoffs at the thought immediately after. Of course, he fucking cared. He was monologuing in his head.

That’s the point where he gains enough self-awareness to observe that his mum is whispering her own reassurances into his hair.

“You know he loves you, honey, we both love you. Just give him some time to understand. We’re both not used to this.”

His life is a fucking cliché.

He swears he’s heard that exact line in a BL show he was bingeing just last week. It’s funny how patterned homophobia gets once you look around.

It’s not fucking funny.

It just means he and everyone else are living the same nightmare in the same horrible world. It’s just consistency to suffering.

His mum is hugging him and the heater is humming but the house is so cold and he’s shivering and he can’t control his body. It scares him.

He can’t bear the thought of the whole weekend being like this.

“Mum,” he says, voice hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in years. The last thing he said was I’m gay. It does not make him sick. He’s not unsure of himself, he hasn’t been since he was seventeen, but he’s also desperately wishing he hadn’t said anything. “Mum, I think I’m gonna go back to my apartment.”

He breaks out of his mum’s embrace, if a little forcefully, and doesn’t even bother retrieving his duffel bag before he leaves. There isn’t much in there to begin with, just a few clothes to wear over the weekend, his toothbrush and cream and razor, nothing he couldn’t buy again at a corner store. His transport card is in his wallet, lying on the coffee table, and his phone is already in his pocket.

He grabs any old jacket off the coat rack, and spares no extra effort stuffing his feet messily into his runners, and he’s out the door in twenty seconds flat and he doesn’t bother looking back at his mother and he doesn’t even know if that’s because he feels guilty or sad or both.

Mum

Yesterday

[5:24]

im almost there

are you home?

[5:26]

Yes!

I can’t wait to see you Minho, it’s been so long!

{read}

Today

Unread messages

[9:45]

Minho, I’m sorry

Tell me you’re okay honey

[10:03]

Sorry

[10:15]

Let me know when you get home

Billboards are a funny thing. Usually Minho barely gives them the appreciation of a cursory glance. It needs to be particularly special to get a straight-on look. Anything more than that, any additional second, means he’s truly enraptured. Why else would he pay attention to a billboard, the most apt symbol for how capitalism encroaches on every aspect of his life, when he has phone on hand ready to search up whatever he actually wants to look at?

Except his phone is at twenty percent now and he still has a trip of over two hours to make before he can charge it at home so he needs to play it smart because in his haste he left his portable battery at his parents’ house. Right now playing it smart means he’s trying to satiate his boredom while waiting for the bus by examining all the billboards in his vicinity. And holy hell there’s a lot. That’s capitalism for you.

The windows of the 7-11 across the street are plastered with promotions for a new sports drink, advertised by the up and coming volleyball player who Minho always hears about and then quickly forgets the name of. The hair salon two buildings down from that has the typical posters of all the popular idols, minus those with ridiculous hair styles. Far fewer people are dying their hair blood red in Korea than k-pop would make you think and for good reason. Minho tried it for less than a week before Kim Seungmin’s relentless teasing made him swear to never try such a bold colour again.

The actual billboard on top of the building, of which there are few this far out in the suburbs, is advertising a private academy on one half and a beaty brand on the other. Minho squints at the girl holding foundation and really searches his memory but he can only remember that she’s the actor from one of those dramas that was really popular for two months before no one talked about it again.

He hasn’t thought about his parents in more than half an hour and he doesn’t plan to do so for at least two more days. At least until Chuseok is over and he can get over the despair of missing the family occasion for the first time in his life.

The billboard comprising one half of the bus stop shelter is advertising Han’s new movie. And obviously because it’s Han, the promoters have gone all out in making the poster look as artistic as possible. Simple but artistic. The background is the plain outline of the entrance to a sub-basement home, but light with all the majesty of it being a red carpet event, with Han crouched in the centre donning the most strikingly normal hoodie of all time, tears frozen in the movement down his face. Across the bottom of the electronic screen, it reads, The Last Worst Day.

Deep.

It sounds like it’s meant to be, anyway. Minho doesn’t have the brain power to dissect what the hell it means, but it certainly sounds like someone put the effort into ascribing it meaning.

He spends the next few minutes getting up to check what time the bus is meant to arrive, slouching back in the seat and then brainstorming what plot he would write to a title like The Last Worst Day. The worst part is easy. Everyone wanting to write a memoir or biography, of which kind of request he’s obliged many a times, picks out their worst days to write about in great detail. That’s where the money is after all. The last part is what keeps tripping him up.

This is easily one of Minho’s worst days.

He checks the time on his phone, notes the battery has gone down another percent and clicks if off again.

A spit of rain dots the concrete, and he pulls his legs closer as another chilly breeze pushes past.

He wonders what Han’s worst day might be. Surely it’s nothing like his. He hopes so at least. If anyone, Han seems like he deserves good things.

Dad

[12:02]

I love you Minho

Give me some time