Ω┊ greenhouse.

@⤫ x. minghao [ xD ]

This feels like a mistake.

Junhui is well aware of that. The moment the word 'kiss' fell from their lips, they have already known that this may as well be a mistake. But why must such a mistake feel so right? If this is a mistake, then why do Minghao's lips feel so nice against theirs, albeit a little chapped and dry?

Junhui has had their own share of mistakes — a wide variety that they cannot find it in themselves to correct, starting from their increasingly becoming alcohol addicted self to the one night stands that have left their bed colder than it should be in the mornings. They find no reason to correct them, because, well, what use is there? Life has always been bleak to the eyes of the model, having nowhere else to be. Their mother has deemed them unfit to be by her side at death's door (even when, years later, Junhui thinks that she should have just brought them with her). The kids, growing up, thought Junhui had no place with them too. There's nowhere else to be, nothing that awaits them, not even a home or a family or someone who just wants them alive.

There is nothing, nowhere and no one.

And yet they feel just right, right here and now, with Minghao's lips pressed against Junhui's. The pace is slow and incredibly feeling, and Junhui thinks something bubbles within the cold, cold depths of their heart — a foreign, peculiar feeling that they have no knowledge of. The emptiness has always been familiar; it is when the emptiness begins holding something — anything — that has Junhui so intrigued and terrified, both at the same time, because this is unfamiliar grounds. They do not know what it is or what it's meant to be.

But it is because of that very same reason that has Junhui's curiosity piqued so infinitely, especially with Minghao. Minghao, who has always seemed like a breath of home, a subtle nostalgic aura that Junhui still struggles to understand. They kiss Minghao in hopes of remembering memories that may not even be there — because their life is not one for such warmth and hearth that Minghao seems to remind them, but they kiss Minghao anyway. They kiss him slowly, hesitantly, as though testing the waters, before liquid courage has Junhui moving to cup the man's cheek, fingers dancing down his jaw as they kiss him deeper. There is the aim to feel and be filled by Minghao's warmth, nostalgia and everything that comes with him. Junhui's curiosity is not sated, no — instead, it is only fuelled by finally getting a taste of what feels like a nostalgic past that they do not even have any memory of.

@⤫ w. junhui [ ] haven't replied in like a week so have a long reply xD

'What do you think I'm doing?' Junhui asks, and Minghao can't find an answer. Minghao's answer would likely fall along the lines of a question of his own, and at this rate, the back and forth will never end. What question would he even ask? How does he even begin to comprehend this situation that they've fallen into? He's about to open his mouth to say something — what that something is, he doesn't know — but Junhui counters with a different question, one whose answer comes more easily to Minghao: no, he doesn't hate it. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't hate it.

But he doesn't let that answer leave his lips, no. For now, the words remain trapped in his throat, because — well, why? Why doesn't he hate it, when he so often despises a mere brush of a stranger's hand against his palm in the streets?

Well, maybe because Junhui isn't a stranger. Junhui is familiar, the smile on their face often pulling Minghao into a sense of deep-seated longing that almost scares him — how does he explain this? This... affection he has for Junhui, when he so often despises anyone else that so much as dares to try and look at him?

He doesn't know; the answer is one that he's not ready to delve into, especially when Junhui is right in front of him, their gaze falling onto Minghao's lips. It's funny, he thinks — the word kiss already sounds like a kiss, coming from Junhui's lips — and if he doesn't know any better, he'd say that Junhui is practically already kissing him, their gaze almost unbecoming of the relationship that Minghao thought they had had. Simply letting the word fall past their lips is already crossing a line — a line that Minghao had never even so much as considered. And yet, he's tempted to say yes; to close that distance between them to find out what Junhui tastes like, what they breathe like. He's tempted to connect with Junhui, to discover the means behind this longing that Minghao feels for them — he's tempted to simply savor the sensation of Junhui's lips on his, to let his heart pound even louder than the way it does now, with Junhui simply gazing at Minghao's lips, the word 'kiss' simply leaving their lips.

And so, he does.

It's Minghao that leans in first, eyes fluttering shut before he can even register how close he is to Wen Junhui, a supposed friend — and the first thing he thinks, is that they're soft. And warm. Nicer than how Minghao thought it would feel — and so he lets himself fall into the rhythm of lips on his, soft, and warm, and nicer than how he thought it would feel.

@⤫ x. minghao Minghao isn't pushing Junhui away, and Junhui can only assume what this means. Junhui can see emotions form and change so quickly in Minghao's eyes, going from shock to hesitation, but Junhui doesn't find a hint of disgust. That sends another wave of confidence over Junhui's being, along with the liquid courage they've already gotten from the alcohol they consumed prior to this meeting. Their actions are only stopped by Minghao's hold on their wrist, but they keep their eyes on him. "What do you think I'm doing?" they ask back, tone a contrast to Minghao's, curious, questioning, as though they have no idea what it is exactly that they're doing. "Do you hate it?"

The two of them are so close, the lack of distance giving Junhui an urge — an urge to touch Minghao's lips once more, and not just with their tip of their finger. They ignore Minghao's next words, know full well that he's right anyway — Junhui has indeed been drinking a little too much, and alcohol may be clouding their supposedly sound judgment ( — it makes them think, actually, have they ever made a sound decision before? — ), but they think it is genuine when they say... "I want to kiss you." It comes out as a murmur, Junhui's gaze then falling upon the very lips they have just touched moments earlier. They want to feel what Minghao's lips would feel against their own. "Can I?"

@⤫ w. junhui Maybe it's just Minghao, but there's something about Junhui's attitude today that seems quite different... from the one he usually observes on the younger. Maybe it's the alcohol, but today's Junhui seems more forward, their tone teasing as their eyes are transfixed on Minghao — he's well aware of their gaze. "And how are you going to do that?" he asks, although it may present itself as more of a challenge than the genuine curiosity that it is. "You hardly leave any time in between visits for me to miss you."

It's only one swig of alcohol, but Minghao thinks he must be imagining things already. There's an odd sort of tension in the room, one that he's never associated with Wen Junhui's presence — and the mere fact that their hand inches ever so close, invading the personal space that Minghao holds so highly? He must be imagining things. He must be imagining things, because he finds that he doesn't mind all that much, when he'd normally flinch at the slightest brush of skin against his, and turn the other way, and clear his throat, and hardly anyone has ever dared to do something as touch him without his permission, and—

Oh. /Oh./

Junhui's thumb is soft, light against the plush of his lips, and he swears, it's the alcohol, because his pupils are blown, his pulse is racing ever so slightly, shock filling his veins as he stares, uncertainty and hesitation (partly because he's shocked that he's not recoiling in disgust, as he normally would) in his countenance. "What... what is this. What are you doing," is his immediate deadpan reaction, and he's quick to take Junhui's wrist in his palm, grip loose against their skin. He tries not to dwell on how close they are right now, and he tries to whisk the thought away with yet another frown. "You've been drinking too much, Junhui. And I'll have you know I can hold my liquor. I just don't want to."

@⤫ x. minghao On the verge of alcoholism — honestly Junhui can't even deny that, nor are they willing to try. But Minghao takes the bait anyway. Minghao takes the bottle from Junhui's hand, and the grin only remains on Junhui's face as they watch Minghao drink from it. Junhui lets out an amused chuckle as Minghao's visage contorts into one of grimace, and they tilt their head to the side. "Maybe I should make you miss me more," they say with a light, singsong tone to their words, and they turn their gaze down, eyebrows rising as though they're genuinely contemplating it. "Maybe you'll come to me first."

Is there even anything to miss? For Minghao who so values his solitude and tranquil silence, Junhui must be the outsider within that image. Junhui is loud, even when they try to keep their presence small, but they simply cannot stop themselves when they open their mouths. It feels as if they remain silent for even a minute, their existence would be forgotten as easily as the dandelions that dance in the wind. It's that thought that Junhui buries underneath the alcohol and they focus on the liquid courage they have gained from the liquor now running in their system.

"You always work," Junhui notes, moving their hand from underneath their chin to wave a finger near Minghao's face. "Would you have come to me if I had asked you to?" they ask, and their smile drops a little for the briefest of moments, before they grab the bottle back from Minghao's hold.

They move closer to the man, shifting in their place so that they're on equal eye level (even if, Junhui notes in the back of their mind, that they're taller than the older man), and to tease, the corners of Junhui's lips curl coyly, a hand then reaching out to place a finger on top of Minghao's bottom lip, running the tip over the soft flesh. A violation of personal space, an intimacy that Junhui's too used to giving, though they aren't certain about Minghao. "You don't handle your liquor well, do you?" they say, and their finger moves from Minghao's tiers to underneath his chin. "Should I teach you how to drink?"

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@⤫ w. junhui "A sin," Minghao deadpans, one eyebrow raised. "You're on the verge of alcoholism but I'm the one sinning here." Of course, this is a classic Junhui thing to say, drunk or not — yet, Minghao doesn't seem to think he can get used to it. This carefree attitude of theirs masks what's hidden beneath — and whether or not he wants to find out what it is, Minghao isn't sure.

But something tells him that maybe he won't mind what he finds, when all those layers of forced smiles have been peeled off. Something tells Minghao that maybe, they're more similar than they think. After all, why would Junhui keep coming here if not for this unspoken connection between them? And why would Minghao keep letting them in?

Junhui spaces out for a moment, but Minghao finds that he doesn't mind the silence. He's never minded silence, no — is in fact rather fond of it, so much so that he could sit in silence for hours with a loved one (not that he has any) on end. And he thinks that he wouldn't mind simply basking in Junhui's presence, even if the latter isn't of sober mind; this just speaks volumes about Minghao's silent tolerance of Wen Junhui.

"You're wrong," Minghao says immediately. "I'm incapable of missing you because I know you're going to be walking through that door eventually. Also, technically, I'm at work." Once again, his actions betray his words, and he's already reaching for the bottle, if only to silence Junhui's incessant grabbing — and one swig later, he's grimacing. "You should have invited me to the bar if you wanted to drink, not waltzed into my workplace."

@⤫ x. minghao Junhui shrugs their shoulders at the question,, but they move their gaze to Minghao, eyes a little more focused this time. "Who knows? Am I drunk? I can barely tell the difference sometimes," they say, and they can almost laugh at the all too familiar frown that plays on Minghao's lips. They grin, however, when Minghao comes closer, contradicting his own words. They tap a finger against the surface of the glass bottle, humming. "Of course you can never ignore me," they murmur, and once again their thoughts refocus on the man in front of them. "How can you? That'll be a sin!"

Truth be told, there is little to no reason for Junhui to keep coming back to the greenhouse that is quite out of their way back home. There is no reason for them to go out of their way just to visit Minghao whenever they can (or remember, which is, much to their own dislike, a lot of times). But Junhui gravitates toward Minghao in a way that they cannot fully understand, and a part of them doesn't truly want to understand what it is that pulls them back time and time again to a man who claims to dislike their company but tolerate them all the same. It is this sort of gravity that inevitably pulls Junhui back to Minghao's greenhouse, even when normally the model would choose to stay in their own residence, drinking the rest of the day away the way they always do.

Sometimes they'd wake up alone with a pounding headache, and often find it surprising to see that they haven't rotten away just yet. And the routine continues like a neverending cycle. It is only their job that is keeping them somewhat sane, somewhat normal, for they had to look pretty for them to sell. Being a human being feels so much like a pain, if they were being honest. (In the back of their mind, they think they'd like to become a cat in their next life, if reincarnations were even truly a thing.)

Junhui blinks, realizing that they have zoned out for a moment, and parts their lips to speak. "Thought you'd miss me already, so I decided to give you a visit," they say cheerily, and they fix their posture, rest their chin more comfortably against the palm of their hand. "I'm not wrong, aren't I? You can't tell me I'm wrong. So since your thoughtful friend here has so thoughtfully decided to visit your lonesome emo self, drink with me!" They turn the bottle toward Minghao's direction, lips curved into an expectant grin.

@⤫ w. junhui Minghao thinks he doesn't like color all that much.

Odd, isn't it? In a sea of green, green, and green, he sticks out like a sore thumb, his skin looking ever so pale clothed in black. It's always black with him — black is simple; it's plain. He'd always thought that maybe, by wearing black, he'd blend in with the crowd, one sheep among a flock of many. It had only been when one of his peers had poked fun at his unchanging choice in color that he realized: maybe black makes him stand out. Maybe it's his demeanor, combined with his choice in clothing that makes others poke fun and whisper, avoiding his gaze. Maybe it's his energy, accompanied with the fact that Minghao doesn't think he wears colors that are black, or dark gray.

But by the time he'd realized this, it became a habit. So even now, when he should be ducking his head down, wearing colors that aren't as dark as his usual attire — he's still dressed in black.

This is how Wen Junhui finds him.

Wen Junhui is a curious creature, one that's driven by whimsical impulses (or so it seems). Their first encounter had been a of luck (fate, a treacherous voice in his head whispers), and since then, Junhui had dropped by the greenhouse time and time again, often waltzing in with a lazy sort of swagger. They have that same gait now, except it's more loose, more carefree, more...

"Are you drunk?" is Minghao's first reaction to Junhui's appearance, nose scrunching up with a certain sort of disgust — alcohol had never been something he'd particularly enjoyed. And soon, Minghao's question is answered, his signature frown playing at his lips the moment Junhui offers him a drink. Does he even know he's speaking Chinese at this point?

"No to the drinking, and yes to ignoring the soul," he says immediately, but his actions betray his words. Already, Minghao is setting down his spade, leaning against the same table that Junhui's rested themself on, his lips forming a frown. "Have you come to bother me again, Wen Junhui?"

@⤫ x. minghao One drop of liquor is another drop closer to hell — or death, as some old lady used to tell Junhui before they left Seoul (and they think that might be their grandmother). Quite frankly, Junhui didn't care.

The closer it is, the more they feel alive.

And it is exactly for that very mindset that Junhui stumbles upon the greenhouse (now a little too familiar to their eyes by now) with a bottle of alcohol in one hand, under the sky in which the blues have turned into orange hues. So it's probably late afternoon — /only/ late afternoon, and here they are, drunk like they don't have to work tomorrow.

(But that's what makeup does, doesn't it? It hides the truth; makes the lie even prettier than the truth that is simply too ugly for the world to see — the same way painters paint things to hide the imperfections and call it beauty. It's the sad, sad truth behind beauty and perfection that so many mortals seem to aim for and fail miserably.)

Junhui doesn't sway — no, not as much as they'd initially expected (or perhaps that's just them at this point, because honestly what right do they have to ramble about balance when the world seems to shift regardless?) — and they somewhat manage to find their way through the viridescent scenery that surrounds them, decorates their path, fills their sight. But the person of their interest stands out quite too easily admist the bright colors, for the person of their current interest finds comfort and routine in a set of all black clothes. It feels as if death tries so desperately to blend in with the living, and Junhui honestly can't blame the man. There is a sort of captivating beauty in a world one cannot truly reach or capture within their hands—but then again, aren't most beautiful things only captivating when they weren't within one's hold?

Minghao finally enters Junhui's line of sight, and Junhui wastes no time in sauntering toward the other, lips curling into a simper that lacks the complete elegance needed to be a model. "Minghaaao," Junhui calls, and they lean on top of a nearby table, long slender arms a mess on the surface, chin trying to rest comfortably above their palm. "That's enough plants. Drink with me!" they say, slipping easily into their native tongue. "Or are you going to ignore a poor lonely soul in favor of your green friends?"