Work Text:
On January first of this year, Minho stormed into their room and said, with finality: “Enough is enough.”
It was two thirty in the morning. Minho had just returned home from MBC Gayo Daejejeon. He was delirious with exhaustion - wrecked, really - ears still ringing from the roar of the show, light spots dancing around his field of vision, voice hoarse from exclaiming and laughing with 110% enthusiasm all night long. He hadn’t really seen Kibum all month - nothing more than the briefest glimpses of him, tangled up in the sheets late at night or early in the morning, a perfunctory ghost of a kiss hello, goodbye. They hadn’t carved out any time to see their respective families or frankly anyone else that mattered. Minho’s heart had leapt upon seeing Taemin ever so briefly before the show, had swept him up in the biggest, tightest hug, but there hadn’t been time for any real conversation, just a little teasing, a pat on the bum, a “good luck, you’ll do well, I’m proud of you.” Minho and Kibum had worked, and worked some more, nonstop schedules, back to back, all over the city, overseas, back and forth and in and out of Incheon, and for what? He hadn’t yet exchanged gifts with Kibum, they hadn’t had sex in weeks other than a few half hearted handjobs late at night. It was unacceptable, ridiculous. Minho was done with making these choices as if his life wasn’t his to control.
“Okay honey,” Kibum agreed with his eyes closed, hardly coherent after being woken in the middle of a REM cycle. “Turn off the light.”
And Minho, who had opened his mouth to begin what he knew was going to be a very convincing treatise on why they both needed to quit their jobs and just chill the fuck out for a week or month or 20 years, abruptly closed it. Because he was a simp, and - damn - he was tired, too.
-
They hashed it out the next morning. Or, more accurately, early the next afternoon. Kibum had woken Minho up late into the morning with his mouth on his cock and - well - that and the ensuing activities had taken precedence over any life altering plans to quit idolhood.
Kibum had been resistant. “You're just over tired right now. Our schedules have been absolutely insane this past quarter. But this is how we like it. You, of all people, like it. No one is forcing you to work out sixteen times a day - you do that of your own volition.”
It didn't take much to walk Minho back from the cliff’s edge of calling SM to break his contract prematurely. He wouldn't have, anyway. Minho was nothing if not a man of his word. The concept of backing out of a commitment didn't exist in his brain. But he continued to insist that something had to change, that not seeing each other or their families over the holidays wasn't a choice they should be making now that they were this established in their careers. That they would regret it on their death beds.
“We spend an outrageous amount of time together. It's honestly a miracle I still like you,” Kibum said. “People pay us to be together.”
“That's not the point!” Minho was so worked up that he couldn’t even appreciate the fact that Kibum just freely admitted to liking him. “And don't say it like that. It makes this -” Minho gestured between the two of them, “feel cheap.”
“I'm not cheap, honey. You of all people should know that.”
“I'm trying to have a real conversation and you're being impossible.” Minho said, frowning. Kibum could tell he was about two minutes away from having his feelings hurt, and they couldn't have that. It was only January 1st.
“Ok fine. Come here and spoon me. We can do whatever fulfills your domestic fantasies next Christmas, within reason.”
And so it was decided: they would both turn down any and all offers of work on December 24, 25, and 26, no matter how appealing or career altering. They would, together, spend a day with the Kims and a day with the Chois. And then they would spend a day together, just the two of them.
-
How they would split up the holidays between their two families was a major point of discussion, not because Kibum cared even remotely but because Minho, for all of his insistence on being easy, was utterly obsessed with fairness.
"I know we see my family way more than we see yours," he began, apologetically.
It was a rare Tuesday evening when they were both ready for bed before 10pm, and the last thing Kibum wanted to do was have a Conversation about their various familial obligations, of which there were none. Kibum was washed and dressed and perfectly content to mindlessly scroll social media until bedtime.
"That's because my parents live in Daegu,” he said, reasonably, hoping the conversation would end there.
“We should prioritize what your parents want to do,” Minho continued. Apparently, he was only capable of reading Kibum’s mind when it was convenient for him.
“They don't care, not even a little.”
“Ok, well, my family is getting together on December 24th to celebrate my grandmother’s 90th birthday along with Christmas - should we go to that?”
“Sure. If you want to.”
“We don't have to, um, if you or your parents prefer we visit them on that day. Don't you want to check with them first?”
“Minho,” Kibum said, finally looking up from his phone. “I'm telling you they don't care. The two of us turning down work to go all the way out to Daegu to see them is already too much for them. I think my mother would perish if I tried to tell her that we would miss your grandmother’s 90th birthday party in favor of her preferences.”
“But we could! It would be fine. I’ll just buy my grandmother a very nice gift, she would understand.”
Kibum took a moment to appreciate how Minho’s grandmother could be bought in the exact same way as Kibum could. The woman had good taste.
“Stop pacing and come to bed. Can you tell me what the point of this conversation is?”
Minho sighed and obediently sat down on the edge of the bed, but his shoulders remained tense.
“I want to prioritize your family,” Minho said, frowning. He was going to get elevens if he kept doing that.
“They don't care to be prioritized.”
Minho’s frown deepened. The elevens were out in full force, now. “I don't understand.”
Kibum put his phone down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I really don't know what to tell you and I don't understand what you're upset about.”
“I'm not upset! Don't your parents want to see us?”
“Of course they do! We are going to see them! On the Lord’s birthday itself! They will be thrilled! It’s going to be merry and gay!” He said the last part in English, for emphasis.
Minho stared at him with increasing skepticism.
Kibum sighed. What grievous crime did he commit in a past life to deserve this? “It's a song. Nevermind. Look.” He tried to remember what his therapist had told him about active listening. “I appreciate how much you want to put my parents’ preferences first. I am trying to tell you that they are happy with anything. So let's go to your grandmother’s party on the 24th, and then to Daegu on the 25th. Now will you get your ass into bed?”
Thankfully, whatever spirit that was possessing Minho’s body departed, because he finally got under the covers and fit himself snugly against Kibum’s side, one arm snaking its way around Kibum's hips.
“I never want you to feel like we prioritize my family over yours,” He mumbled into the side of Kibum’s neck.
Kibum smiled, although he’d never give Minho the satisfaction of knowing it. “Honey, you’ve made that abundantly clear.”
-
Minho’s immediate family coming to accept Kibum as a permanent fixture in Minho’s life was a gradual process that surprisingly involved very little hysteria. It went something like this:
Two months after they finally got their shit together and decided to stop fucking around like infants, to the collective relief of every single person who knew them (namely Taemin and Jinki and Taeyeon and Hyoyeon and Changmin and Renjun and -), Minho had said offhandedly that he wanted to introduce Kibum to his family.
Kibum just stared at him like he was stupid.
“What do you mean, introduce? I've known them for over half my life.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I really don’t.”
Minho sighed. “I want to tell them that we are dating.”
“Do they know that you like men?”
“Well - no.”
“So are you just going to skip that step? “
“But that's how it happened in real life! I didn't know I liked men, and then I realized that I was in love with you!”
Kibum shot him a withering look that was equal parts pitying and condescending. “I know that is what happened in your brain, but it’s not going to make any sense to your family.”
Minho ignored him. He was going to do this his own way, because nothing motivated him more than Kibum telling him he couldn’t do something. He clicked open his phone and dialed his mom, right there on the spot, without taking a single moment to think about what he was going to actually say.
When his mom picked up on the second ring, Minho realized he had made a grave mistake. They spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries, Minho’s panic escalating as the conversation dragged on.
“Did you call me for any specific reason?” Minho’s mother finally asked, concern lacing her voice.
“Um,” Minho said. Then he looked over at where Kibum was lounging on the couch, one eyebrow raised in thinly veiled challenge, and blurted, “Um, Kibum and I are together.”
“That’s nice, tell him I say hi,” his mother said breezily, which confused Minho for a full twenty seconds before his brain rewinded to what he just said and he realized she hadn’t understood even remotely what he was trying to convey.
“No, mom, I mean, uh.” Minho could tell that Kibum was trying really, really hard not to laugh. It was times like these when Minho regretted falling in love with an asshole. He said the next part in a rush. “We are dating. I’m in love with him. I just wanted to let you know.”
“Oh,” Minho’s mom said. There was a long moment of silence on the other end, much too long to be accidental. Kibum stopped smiling and came over to take Minho’s hand in his. He mouthed, you don’t have to do this. Minho shrugged. He had done it. It was done.
“Oh,” his mom continued making these high-pitched, surprised little noises. “I can’t say I’m not surprised.” Another pause, even longer this time. “For how long now?”
For how long? Two months, officially, but also: “Kind of, you know, forever.”
“I see.” Another long, pregnant pause. “Okay honey, I’ll tell your father.”
Minho’s first instinct was to beg her not to, that he needed more time to think about what he would say, and how he would say it. But ultimately there wasn't much more to say. His father knowing was going to have to happen at some point. He himself had made sure of that by insisting on having this conversation to begin with. “Okay,” he agreed.
“Okay then. Bye for now.”
“Bye mom.” He clicked off his phone and stared at the blank screen, feeling a bit numb.
On balance, the conversation had gone about as well as he could have anticipated. Why did Minho feel like he was going to burst into tears?
Kibum was watching him with soft, careful eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” he replied. The words felt thick in his mouth.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not right now, no.”
Weeks passed with no further acknowledgement from his family about what had transpired. And then, a few weeks before his father’s birthday, Minho’s mother texted the family group chat about getting together for dinner at their home to celebrate. She sent the date and time, some details about organizing a group gift, and ended the message with: “Minho-yah, please extend an invitation to Kibum-ah. We would love to see him if he’s available.”
And that was that.
There were no congratulations or declarations of pride or joy. There were no conversations about how this could have happened, or why. There were no questions related to Minho’s sexuality or their plans for their future. There was mostly just a bit of awkwardness and silent acceptance, which over time turned into genuine fondness.
It was enough.
-
“Have you loaded up the car?” Kibum yells from the other room. It’s December 24th, and they were supposed to leave for Minho’s parents’ place an hour ago.
“Yes,” Minho calls back from his spot on the couch, watching a recording of an NBA game that he had missed the week before.
“Did you leave a spare key for the dog sitter?” Still yelling.
“Yes.”
“Are the plants watered?”
“Yes.”
Minho clicks off his phone. The game was just getting good, too. “Jagiya, we need to go. We’re late.”
“Just give me - three more minutes -”
Three minutes turns into twenty, and they’re finally on the road.
-
Minho drives. It’s over an hour from their apartment in Hannom-dong to Minho’s parents’ place in Incheon, and Kibum has a monopoly on their music choices.
He cycles through all his favorites - David Bowie, BOA, the entire Wicked soundtrack - both parts 1 and 2, obviously - until Where is My Husband! starts blaring through the speakers. Kibum shrieks and turns it way way up, because this song is a banger.
Thirty seconds into the song Minho takes one hand off the steering wheel to turn the volume down. “What is this song about?”
Kibum is actually offended. “Do you live under a rock? How have you not heard this song?”
Minho shrugs. “It’s not my genre,” he says, baselessly.
“You’re wrong. It’s everyone’s genre.”
Kibum turns the music back up and leans over the console to sing along right in Minho’s ear just to be obnoxious.
Minho clicks the music off entirely. That dictator. “It’s too fast and I don’t understand it.”
Kibum sighs heavily. Fine, because it’s Christmas eve and Kibum is feeling generous. He pulls up the lyrics to the song on his phone and translates them word for word into Korean in his most bored voice, because doing this makes an objectively brilliant song sound like it sucks. To punish Minho for ruining his fun, he translates “coming” to “ejaculation” rather than “arriving”.
Minho narrows his eyes at the road, seeing through his little stunt but choosing not to say anything.
“Is that what you want?” Minho demands as soon as Kibum finishes with what was genuinely one of the most painful five minutes of his life.
“Is what what I want?” Kibum restarts the song and turns it up to a reasonable volume.
“The song - the words of the song.”
Kibum turns to stare at Minho. Too bad Minho’s eyes are on the road so he doesn't get the full effect of Kibum’s raised eyebrows, narrowed eyes. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“You know,” Minho gestures vaguely into the air with one hand.
“I just wasted five minutes of my life translating a song that everyone in the entire world knows except you. Why the hell did I do that when you weren’t listening at all? The song is about a single woman who wants to get married. That’s it! That’s the whole song. The only part that’s even remotely applicable to me is the part where you’re testing me.”
Minho turns on the blinker, checks his rearview mirror, and merges into the next lane.
“Well what about the part with the ring?”
“What about it? No - what? I don’t want a ring. What the fuck are you on about? It’s just a song! It has nothing to do with me.”
The “mm” sound Minho makes reveals his skepticism.
“We just listened to fifteen other songs before this one and you didn’t interrogate me about how they applied to my personal life.”
“Because I knew those songs.”
“Take a moment to think about what you just said and how it doesn’t make any sense at all.”
Minho just shrugs, and laughs, like him saying stupid shit to make Kibum crazy is the funniest thing in the world. Kibum, of course, takes the bait.
“When I'm listening to - pick any song! Whatever You Like - or whatever - I'm not thinking of you.”
Minho, whose laugh has turned into full blown cackles, stops abruptly and looks sharply over at Kibum.
“Who else would you be thinking of?!”
“Maybe that was a bad example.” Now it’s Kibum’s turn to cackle. “Let’s just go with it: if that song is about us, which one of us is the sugar daddy?” He pauses Where is my Husband! and hums the melody to Whatever You Like, despite himself. Damn, that song was a banger, too.
“Let me put this big boy in yo’ life”, Minho responds in English, which makes Kibum, who was already feeling slightly hysterical from how stupid this whole conversation is, laugh so hard he cries.
“You're crazy,” he says, wiping his eyes. “You’ve been waiting your whole life to say that to me.”
Minho grins, pleased, all accusations of rings and marriage forgotten, eyes back on the road.
“Can you do something deserving so I can quote my favorite line from that song to you?”
“Mm?”
Kibum leans back over the console between them and sings, breathy and hot into Minho’s ear, “Brain so good, good, swore you went to college.”
Minho lets out a bark of laughter. “I did go to college!” He protests, uselessly. “Of literally any line you could’ve chosen - ! You’re so mean.”
Kibum settles back into his own seat, satisfied. “Says the guy who was literally just bragging about the size of his dick.”
“You like the size of my dick!”
“I do,” Kibum concedes. “My point is that normal people can listen to music without the lyrics needing to apply to them.”
“Fine, fine. Let me pick the next song.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I promise I won’t make it about us!”
“Still a hard no.”
And that’s that.
-
Minho’s family home is exactly the kind of home you’d imagine a person like Choi Minho growing up in. It’s large and gracious and warm with a beautifully manicured lawn and half a basketball court out back. When Minho first brought him here, over a decade ago, Kibum had laughed at how Minho the whole thing was. Upper middle class, expensive German cars parked out front, seasonal throw pillows on every couch, professionally taken family photos adorning a few choice walls. Minho’s mother was a homemaker - a talented one at that - and his father was exacting yet prone to indulgence. It didn’t take an imaginative person to see how Minho was the product of such an upbringing. This home was everything Minho expected from his life, and nothing at all like what Kibum expected from his.
There are easily a dozen cars parked in front of Minho’s house when they arrive. They’re not that late, but Minho’s family is annoyingly punctual.
Most of Minho’s extended family is used to him at this point. They’ve known him for years, first as a fellow member of SHINee, then as Minho’s “friend”, and now as his, well, boyfriend, life partner, whatever you wanted to call him.
The first time Kibum was introduced to Minho’s extended family as more than a friend, he worried ceaselessly that they would accuse him of exercising some form of gay witchcraft on their beloved Minho. Minho’s immediate family was one thing, but his entire extended family was another beast altogether. What? Their Minho? In love with a man? It was preposterous. He resisted for ages, intentionally scheduling conflicting events when he knew a family gathering was on the calendar. It wasn’t necessarily personal. Minho’s extended family was fine. Nice, even. Polite, good folk. The kind of folk who raised upstanding boys like Choi Minho. But they were also traditional and conservative in the way that all upper middle class Korean families were. They liked their hedges trimmed, their skirts knee-length, and their boys straight. Kibum, on the other hand, was about as gay as a maypole, in possession of zero hedges, and on the occasions when he did don a skirt (a violation of all social protocol in and of itself), they certainly weren’t knee length.
Eventually Minho confronted him about it. It was his mother’s 65th birthday luncheon (they were the type of family that organized luncheons for birthdays that weren’t even multiples 10), and Minho asked him to attend four months in advance. He couldn’t even lie and say he already had something scheduled - Minho had checked his calendar to ensure he was free, that sneaky bastard.
“I think I’m busy,” he tried anyway, without conviction.
Minho didn’t even bother gracing that with a response. He just stared at him, eyes narrowed.
“What do you think they’re going to do to you? Start a fist-fight?”
“I wouldn’t put that beyond some of your cousins. Heathens,” Kibum sniffed.
“You’ve met them all before.”
“That was when you were straight.”
“I wasn’t straight.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Kibum,” Minho said, exasperated. “It is very important to me that you attend my mother’s birthday party -”
“Luncheon,” Kibum corrected, under his breath.
“My mother specifically requested your presence, you are already included on the seating chart -”
“There’s a seating chart!”
“- and I don’t want to show up alone.” He paused. Closed his eyes. Opened them and turned them in all their glory on Kibum: big, beautiful, pleading - utterly unfair. “Please? Do it for me?”
Let the record show that Choi Minho is a manipulative bastard.
So that was how Kibum ended up at Minho’s mother’s 65th garden-themed birthday luncheon at the Four Seasons in Seoul sporting a silk lilac-colored suit - Tom Ford, thank you very much - and hair that he had gotten professionally done that morning, because if he was going to be burnt at the stake in front of Minho’s entire family he was going to at least look fabulous going down. Instead of perishing, he was paraded around the room by the birthday girl herself, who introduced him to every. single. person in her quiet way, casual as can be: “Oh, I’m sure you’ve met Kibum, our dear Minho’s boyfriend,” eyes ever so slightly narrowed, brows ever so slightly raised, sniffing for any reaction other than over the top ecstasy at the change in circumstances. Not a single soul had dared to step out of line, although an uncle known for his religious convictions did choke on a cucumber and dill sandwich. Served him right.
That was the day Kibum realized he was in love with Minho’s mother.
That was also the day the Choi clan was forced to accept Kibum as one of their own.
Now, Kibum lets himself into their home while Minho unloads their bags from the car, easy as can be. He's done this enough times to know the steps to this dance. It’s warm and loud inside, a sea of voices carrying over from the next room all speaking at the same time over the gentle hum of Christmas carols. A balsam fir candle is lit on the foyer table, and pine garlands hang from every entryway. The house couldn’t scream Merry Christmas more if it tried.
Minho’s mother spots him as he’s hanging up his coat in the foyer closet and hurries over to wrap him in a hug. “Happy Christmas, darling,” she says. “You look wonderful as always. Where’s my son?”
“Getting our bags,” he says, bending down to press an air kiss to her cheek. “Happy Christmas. Sorry we’re late. My fault, of course.”
“Hi mom,” Minho appears behind them, putting their bags down to hug his mom warm and tight. “Merry Christmas. Thanks for having us.”
“I’m so glad you're here. When was the last time you didn't have a schedule on Christmas Eve? I've made up the room to the right of the stairs for you two. There are fresh towels on the bed.”
Minho’s father and Minseok join them. His father grips Minho in a giant hug, face flushed with what Kibum is guessing is one too many cognacs. He pulls away and turns toward Kibum, clapping him on the back in the way that men like to greet one another but Kibum has never really figured out how to return. “You two finally found time for us.”
“Yes,” Kibum says, waving at Minseok in greeting, who currently has Minho in a chokehold.
“I’ll put our bags away before anyone else descends upon us,” Minho says, worming his way out from under Minseok’s arm.
That leaves Kibum to face all of Minho’s relatives on his own, which is fine. He chugs his first glass of champagne, for courage, and then nurses his second.
Kibum makes his way around the various living and dining spaces on the first floor, complimenting the aunties on their perms, exchanging awkward jokes with the uncles, answering polite questions about his parents’ health and his solo activities. Many of them religiously watch I Live Alone, so that makes for easy conversation. He spends a good long while holding court with a handful of tween girls who grill him about their favorite 4th and 5th gen idols who appear on Amazing Saturday with him. They demand introductions, and Kibum evades saying yes or no with practiced ease.
Minho, when he reappears, greets everyone with a wide smile, an enthusiastic hug. He makes everyone feel seen, special, like he’s been waiting all year to hear about how their kids are doing, what hobbies they’ve taken up. He looks boyish and handsome in a fitted dark green sweater, picking up one of his cousin’s daughters and throwing her high up into the air as she shrieks with delight. Everyone loves Minho. That much is clear. It’s impossible not to. Kibum resisted for years, still resists, in his own way, because he doesn’t want to be everyone. Still, his treacherously fond heart lurches at the sight of him.
The atmosphere in the home is warm and joyous. Kibum almost feels easy, here among Minho’s family. He knows that most people in the room have, either begrudgingly or willingly, accepted him as a part of Minho’s life, even if he wasn’t their first or second choice. Time and proximity have a way of softening even the worst prejudices. He can tell some of the older folk still feel uncomfortable around him, but he’s used to that. He’s been used to that since he was twelve years old.
Just before dinner is called, Kibum finds himself cornered by Minho’s grandmother who, for all of her 154cm frame, is a terrifying force of nature. She holds his hand, a little too tight to be just friendly, and calls him “my Kibummie,” as sweet as can be. She’s like a miniature, more manipulative version of Minho. Actually, she’s nothing at all like Minho. After breezing through pleasantries, she leans in conspiratorily toward Kibum and tells him about how she saw her acupuncturist of twenty years a few days ago, and that she has a son who is, you know, like them. She means gay, of course. Kibum is trying to decide if he’s supposed to act surprised and amazed that there exists another gay person in this world aside from him and Minho, when the conversation quickly goes in a direction he didn’t expect at all. Apparently, this acupuncturist’s son and his partner took a trip to America and came back with a baby who is legally and very possibly genetically their own. “I don’t really understand how it works,” she says, “the science. But I know that they have a baby, and their family name can live on.”
The whole conversation feels like one long non sequitur until it dawns on Kibum that Minho’s grandmother is trying to suggest that Minho and Kibum go to the US to artificially inseminate some woman there and bring back the baby so that the Choi name doesn’t end with them. Which is outrageous on many levels, the most obvious being how many small Choi children are afoot at this very moment. She continues, as if all this wasn’t horrifying enough, “Look at him,” meaning Minho, who is currently flailing and laughing his ass off under said gaggle of small children. “The boy was made to be a father.”
The implication that Kibum’s anatomy is standing in between Minho and his dream of fatherhood hangs heavy in the air. Suddenly, Kibum feels cold all over.
His first reaction is to roll his eyes and curse, and his second is to point out the infinite ways this conversation crosses all conceivable social boundaries between grandmother and whatever Kibum is to her, but somehow - inexplicably - he very nearly lands on agreeing. Thankfully, Minho must have sensed his panic because he quickly dislodges himself from under the half dozen children who have decided to make him their personal punching bag and makes his way across the room in a few strides, throwing his arm around his grandmother and steering her away with a sweet, “Happy birthday to the most beautiful woman in the room.”
They’ll have to unpack whatever the fuck just happened later. Right now, Kibum needs another drink.
After dinner the men gather out back for a game of 5v5 basketball. One of Minho’s second cousins tries to get Kibum to join them, bless him. Kibum laughs directly in his face. “Trust me honey, your 90 year old grandmother would do a better job out there than I would.”
The men peel off their festive sweaters and sport coats and the game begins. It’s competitive. Of course it’s competitive. You give ten men a ball and a court and they act like they’re at the Olympic tryouts. Kibum knows nothing about the rules of basketball, but he can tell that everyone playing is decent and that no one is as good as Minho. Of course not. Minho is brilliant, he’s ecstatic. He’s so, so good. He shoots too many goals? hoops? whatever it’s called when you score a point in basketball, and jumps approximately 17 feet in the air after each one of them, hollering like a maniac. His team wins by a wide margin. It’s not fair, not even close to fair. Miraculously, despite the average age of men on the court being 35, no ACLs are torn and all achilles heels remain intact.
When the game is called, far later than it should have been (it frankly was over before it even began), Minho sprints over to where Kibum is aggressively rolling his eyes by the side of the court, lifts him up, spins him around, and gives him a big, wet kiss.
“Gross,” Kibum complains, shoving at Minho’s sweaty chest. “There are children present!”
“You love it,” Minho beams, so boyish and exuberant that Kibum can’t even find it in him to contradict him.
-
Later, upstairs in their room, where indeed fresh towels had awaited them, after everyone else has left and they’ve helped Minho’s parents clean up downstairs, Kibum drops Minho’s grandmother’s words on Minho like a bomb.
“Your grandmother suggested that we go to America and bring home a baby so the Choi family name can live on.” He doesn’t look at Minho when he says it, just continues onto the next step of his skincare routine.
Minho blinks from where he’s brushing his teeth next to Kibum. “What?”
“You really need to have a talk with your brother. Doesn't he like women? I have no idea how the duty of reproduction in this family has fallen onto me, of all people. If anyone should get an exemption, it’s me.”
“What exactly did she say?” Minho asks, turning toward Kibum cautiously, toothbrush hanging from his mouth.
Kibum finishes patting his night cream onto his face and exits the bathroom, brushing past Minho on his way out. “I just told you exactly what she said.” He pauses. “She also said that you were made to be a father.”
He lets that hang between them.
Minho’s grandmother is not wrong. The evidence is there in the way that Minho does not contradict him. There are no alternatives to honesty, even when the truth hurts, between the two of them. Not when they’ve known each other this long.
The truth is this: In any other world where they hadn’t been placed in the same band as teens, where they hadn’t been forced to spend all their waking and sleeping hours together, where they hadn’t fallen outrageously and inexplicably in love - Minho would have, in all likelihood, married a person with the appropriate anatomy and had children. It used to haunt Kibum, back when the idea of them was nothing more than an impossible, painful desire buried deep in the innermost caverns of Kibum’s traitorous heart, all the times Minho would earnestly talk about his desire to get married, to be a father. He was the only one out of the five of them who wanted that kind of life without hesitation, who didn’t fumble through interview questions about what type of woman he was attracted to or when he wanted to start a family. He had an easy answer to these inquiries; he had put thought into it.
For Minho, children were an inevitability. Certainly more than Kibum ever was.
“Stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking.” Minho’s words cut through his thoughts. Kibum blinks. Minho is standing right in front of him, looking at him like he knows Kibum is ruminating on things that they’ve hashed out a million times before. If this were five years ago, Kibum would have snapped at Minho to not tell him what to do, to leave him alone with his toxic thoughts. But their now is not five years ago, and he breathes deeply to let the defensiveness bleed out of him. He leans against Minho’s chest, resting his forehead against Minho's shoulder. Minho’s arms come around him, steadying. There’s a moment of silence.
“Do you...?” he asks, feeling vulnerable. He doesn’t finish the question.
Minho tightens his hold on Kibum. He knows the question, and he knows the answer. “I don’t want kids more than I want you, no,” he responds. And that's also the whole truth.
It's not perfect.
But it's enough.
Wanting Kibum means not having kids. That’s just an indisputable fact of life, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Not because Kibum doesn’t want kids; he’s always wanted kids. In a kinder world, he and Minho would have made great dads. But that isn’t their world. Their reality is this: there are no legal avenues for two gay men from South Korea to have children together. Gay marriage is illegal. Commercial surrogacy is illegal. Both domestic and international adoption as a gay man - married or not - is illegal. And even if they waded into the legally grey territory of a sham marriage for adoption or artificial insemination purposes, it still wouldn't work, because only one of their names would appear on the child’s birth certificate alongside the birth mother, who would retain legal rights to the child. Add on top of that the small fact that they’re famous, and in a secret but not-so-secret relationship with each other. It’s just - not possible.
This is the life they’ve chosen, this is the life they live, and they’re happy, a lot of the time. It’s more than most people can say. Parts of it - not inconsequential parts - are unbearably unfair. But there’s also a lot to be grateful for.
“So what do we tell your grandmother?”
“Why don't you let me handle that.”
They get into bed, tucked into one another, Kibum’s hand tangled in Minho’s hair, Minho’s arm a strong, heavy force on his hip - how they like it; safe.
“I'm sorry,” Minho sighs. “My family - they are a lot. They are all trying their best but sometimes - their best isn't good enough.”
“You don't have to apologize for them.”
“It means a lot to me,” Minho’s voice cracks, “That you come to these events. I know they’re not your favorite thing. I know they can be hard for you.”
“Mm,” Kibum says, because he’s a saint.
“My grandmother - I know it doesn't feel this way right now. But I think she was trying to show you that she supports us. She wasn't trying to bully you into leaving me. In a way - it's kind of sweet. She’s trying to include you in the solution to something she sees as a problem.”
“I can think of about twenty words to describe what that conversation was, and sweet isn’t one of them.”
Minho chuckles, the sound rumbles through his chest. It’s calming, like a cat’s purr. God, Kibum loves him.
“I love you,” Minho says, apropos of nothing. As if he can read Kibum’s fucking mind.
(He can).
“Yeah, okay,” Kibum says, and lifts himself onto his elbows to look at Minho’s face. It’s stupid, how good looking he is. It's stupid, how he looks at Kibum with equal parts joy and wonder. It’s stupid, how he loves Kibum with an inhuman level of kindness and intensity and care.
“Hi,” Minho says, face breaking to a grin.
“Hello,” Kibum responds, and leans down for a kiss.
-
On Christmas morning, Minho wakes before Kibum - a rare occurrence. It must have something to do with spending the night in his childhood home, which he hasn’t done in years. Some deeply rooted sense of filial piety gets him up and running as soon as he hears his mother’s footsteps on the stairs, heading down to the kitchen to get coffee and breakfast started.
Kibum is curled onto his side facing away from Minho. At some point in the night he took off his top; Minho’s parents keep their home a lot warmer than Minho and Kibum do. The sheets are pooled around his hips, offering Minho an unobstructed view of Kibum’s strong, beautiful back. It's not the kind of back he expected to wake up to when he was a teenager, but it's the only back he wants now, and he wants it all the time.
He should let Kibum sleep. Their schedules have been punishing in the lead up to the holidays. But it's so infrequent that he gets to have Kibum like this, soft and relaxed in a way that only sleep can bring. He can't help but run a finger from the base of Kibum’s neck down to the small of his back, trace the muscles there, fit his hand into the elegant dip of his waist.
Kibum stirs. He's always been a light sleeper.
Minho leans over him to watch him wake.
Kibum’s eyebrows draw together before his eyes blink open sleepily. He startles, and Minho leans in to kiss the gasp from his mouth.
They don’t often kiss in the morning. Morning breath is neither of their favorite things, and they’ve been together long enough to not need to pretend that it is. But it’s Christmas morning and the absolute first thing Minho wants to do this morning is kiss Kibum, so he does.
Kibum instinctively tenses, but when Minho doesn’t budge he melts into the kiss, bringing up his hands to grip at Minho’s shoulders, sighing into it. His mouth opens for Minho’s tongue, and a kiss that starts out sweet very quickly turns heated.
“We’re not going to have sex while your mother cooks breakfast for us downstairs,” Kibum says into Minho’s mouth. But his hands are roaming all up and down Minho’s back, slipping under the waistband of his underwear. “We should be down there helping her.”
“Does a handjob count as sex?” Minho murmurs, nipping along Kibum’s jaw, softly sucking at the hollow bit above Kibum’s collarbone.
Kibum laughs between breathy moans. The combination might be Minho’s favorite sound in the whole entire world. “Of course you crazy man.” He tries to pull away, tries to sit up. “We better go.”
Minho gathers him back in. “Later. It's Christmas. Let me kiss you some more. Just kissing, I promise.”
They do eventually make it down to breakfast, but not in time to be of any help.
-
After breakfast, they load the car back up and drive three and a half hours to see Kibum’s parents in Daegu.
They arrive midafternoon. No one is home when they let themselves into the apartment, which doesn’t seem to bother Kibum at all.
“Where are your parents?” Minho asks, following Kibum into the room set aside for them to put down their bags.
“Mom is probably out picking up food. Who knows where my dad is - maybe at the office.”
“It’s Christmas,” Minho points out, reasonably. “Also, isn’t your dad retired?”
Kibum turns to look at Minho. “I told you that my family doesn’t make a big deal about the holidays the way yours does.”
Minho doesn’t often have many opportunities to be with Kibum’s family. He’s seen them dozens of times in passing, over the years, primarily before and after concerts, but never for a meaningful period of time. Kibum himself doesn’t see them often either, maybe twice a year, and he can be protective of his time with them, especially with his mother. It’s special that they’re here.
In true form, Kibum’s parents pick up food from a nearby restaurant for Christmas dinner, because his mother can’t be bothered to cook. Kibum and his father tease her about it and she just shrugs, “You try being head nurse at a hospital for 39 years and then talk to me about cooking,” which shuts them both up pretty quickly. They eat the food sitting at the dining table, straight out of the take out containers. “Fewer dishes to clean later,” Kibum’s mom says matter of factly, when Kibum raises an eyebrow at her. The lack of pomp and formality makes the experience homey and intimate in an entirely different way than being with Minho’s family feels.
As is true for all parents, Kibum’s parents love to recount stories from when Kibum was younger. They go through his emotionally volatile and rebellious teenage years, how desperately he wanted to learn English and sending him away to Australia and the US to study. Kibum’s mother shares about how hard it was to be away from Kibum all of the time, especially right after he was born and she fell very ill, but also because she worked throughout his childhood and adolescence.
“Grandma took great care of me,” Kibum reassures her. “Although I was terrible to her.”
“You were,” his mom agrees. “You were a brat.” And they all share a laugh, because of course he was.
Kibum’s parents show Minho photos and grainy videos from the early 2000s of Kibum dancing along to BOA’s music. “He’s always wanted to be an idol,” Kibum’s mom says, fondly. “He just decided that was the life for him, and he made it happen.” They worried about him commuting all the way to Seoul for practice as a teenager, yet they let him, because he would have found a way even if they hadn’t.
When the photos and trophies of Kibum’s middle school waterskiing career come out, Kibum covers his face from embarrassment. “Mom, dad, stop,” he whines helplessly. But he lets them carry on, because he so clearly adores his parents, and recounting these stories is obviously their absolute favorite pastime.
Minho feels privileged to be able to be counted as one among them. He has his own tales to contribute, of Kibum as a sullen teenager, a terror to live with. Kibum shoots him a wounded look of betrayal. “Everyone is ganging up on me. Your parents only say nice, polite things about you.”
Minho laughs. “That’s because I am a nice, polite man.”
“You were just as terrible to me when we were younger as I was to you.”
Minho doesn’t deny it, although it’s objectively not true. He says, instead, feeling warm from the beer and soju, “It’s a miracle, really, that we eventually found our way to one another.”
He shares a look with Kibum. His eyes are soft.
Kibum’s mother reaches across the dining table to squeeze Minho’s hand.
After dinner, Minho and Kibum’s mother clean up while Kibum and his father settle on the couch to watch TV. Minho is loading the rest of the dishes into the dishwasher when Kibum’s mom comes into the kitchen to hand him a few more plates.
“Thank you,” she says.
Minho waves her off with a smile. “It’s nothing. I enjoy doing the dishes.”
“Oh, I mean - for how well you care for Kibum.” Minho looks up from the sink and sees that her eyes are wet. “It means a lot to me.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he says, easily. Nothing is more true than that.
She looks at him for a long while, the way moms often look at their grown sons - appraising, with a touch of wonder. Minho feels a little shy under her gaze.
“He never told us - you know - that he was different, but I knew. And it scared me so much.” Her voice is thick with emotion. “It scared me to think that there would be no place in society for him. But he’s made his own place, I can see that now. After I got over that worry, I started worrying - you know, a mother will always worry - that he would always be alone, that he’d never have a wife - or, husband - or a family. I felt very burdened by that. When he told us about you - it was like a weight I didn't even know existed lifted from my chest. I was so happy. And seeing the two of you together - it’s clear how much you care about one another. I - just. It means a lot to me, you can’t know how much it means to me.”
Minho won’t say, “it’s nothing,” because it is, in fact, everything. So he just smiles, as gently and as kindly as he can, and reaches out a wet, slightly soapy hand to squeeze hers in acknowledgement and gratitude. She pats him on the cheek like he’s five years old, nods, and leaves the kitchen to join Kibum and his father in the living room.
-
They spend the night in Kibum’s bedroom, squeezed together on a bed that’s hardly wide enough for one, much less two grown men. They don’t have sex, despite Minho’s best efforts. In the morning they take a stroll around the neighborhood with Kibum’s parents, Kibum and his mother walking ahead, her arm linked with Kibum’s, Minho and Kibum’s father trailing behind.
They drop into a casual restaurant serving homestyle Korean cooking for lunch, Minho’s absolute favorite type of place to eat. The waitstaff recognize them, and after a good twenty minutes of hushed giggling, they finally work up the courage to ask Kibum and Minho for photos. Kibum’s parents take the photos for them, indulgent, amused. Minho spends about half a second thinking about how these pictures are going to circulate online and people are going to wonder why Minho and Kibum are having lunch in Daegu with Kibum’s parents the day after Christmas. No official answers will be provided, although the speculation will be enormous. A small corner of the internet will lose their collective minds for approximately 48 hours, and then everything will return to normal.
That’s how it’s always worked. And somehow, it works. The world chooses to give their “old married couple” act an insane amount of leeway. Minho and Kibum stretch that privilege to its absolute limit, and it somehow still holds.
It’s easy to see only what you want to see. It’s easy to be for others only what they allow you to be.
They say their goodbyes and head back to Seoul after lunch. It’s a long drive. They pass most of the drive in comfortable silence, each leaving the other to his own thoughts. Boxing day is a busy day for the Premier League, so Minho streams the commentary to one of the less important games in one airpod while he drives. He’ll watch the important ones on replay in his free time over the next week.
Kibum falls asleep just as they enter Seoul, Minho’s hand a warm weight on his knee. At a red light, Minho turns to observe him. He wears exhaustion so well, but the tell tale signs are there: the skin beneath his eyes is purplish, thinning with age; the peep of his collarbone, the cut of his cheekbones are sunken, sharp - nearly gaunt. They’re not children anymore. They’re soft in places and thin in others that would have horrified them at 17. Kibum hates it when Minho worries for him, but he can’t help it.
It’s dark by the time Minho pulls into the parking garage beneath their apartment complex. Kibum stirs awake as soon as Minho shuts the engine off.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep.” He rasps.
Minho grabs their bags from the back of the car and gets the door for Kibum. They lean against one another on the elevator ride upstairs to Kibum’s apartment.
After toeing off his shoes, Kibum immediately plops down onto one of his dining room chairs and leans his cheek against the dining table. He’s all sleepy-soft and tousled, looking so unbelievably precious that it makes Minho’s heart ache.
“What time is it?” he asks, eyes closed.
Minho checks his phone. “Just past six.”
“Our math was off when planning these three days,” Kibum mumbles.
“Hmm?” Minho is halfway down the hallway with their bags but turns around to look back at Kibum. “What do you mean?”
“You wanted to do a day with your family, a day with mine, and one for just the two of us.” Kibum lifts his head from the table and turns in his chair to look at Minho, an elbow on the table, leaning his cheek into one palm. “We didn’t get any time to ourselves. We didn’t even have sex. Are you disappointed?”
They both have long schedules tomorrow and the day after and through the new year. In their industry, three days off of work never comes free of charge.
Minho leaves their bags in the hallway and walks back to the dining room to take a seat next to Kibum’s. Their knees knock against one another. “I’m not disappointed. I always want more time with you. But it was really special to be with our families.” He leans in and presses a kiss against Kibum’s lips.
“So was spending time with my parents your Christmas present to me?” Kibum teases when they pull apart. It’s December 26 and Minho hasn’t given Kibum his gift yet.
“Ah! I’m glad you reminded me!” Minho says, as if he hasn’t been waiting all month for this very moment. He goes back to the hallway where he left their bags and fishes out a small neatly wrapped gift.
Kibum is sitting up straight at the dining table now, smoothing down his hair, eager. Nothing gets him going as quickly as the promise of a gift. When Minho hands him the box, he eyes it warily.
“This isn’t a proposal is it?” he demands.
“No, of course not. I heard you loud and clear when you were going off about that husband song.”
“I never know what you hear.” Kibum rolls his eyes, turning the gift in his hand, feeling its weight. “Don’t you dare think about ever proposing when I’m not even dressed properly.”
The response is so unexpected – Kibum cracking open a door that Minho had long assumed was bolted shut – Minho thrills with possibility.
Kibum immediately realizes his mistake. He snaps, “Stop. Stop whatever you are thinking,” and Minho just grins back at him, foolishly, he’s so happy.
Kibum unwraps the gift slowly, carefully. He thumbs the black velvet box while nervously licking his lips before lifting it open.
Inside is a simple white gold ring with five tiny star shaped diamonds in the band. Minho bought it when he was in New York City last September for a collaboration with Nike. He had spent a free afternoon running two loops around Central Park and afterwards had jogged down Fifth Avenue to get back to his hotel. Minho hadn’t expected to buy anything, but as soon as he saw the ring through a window display he knew he would have it.
“Oh,” Kibum breathes, covering his mouth with a hand. His eyes fill with tears.
Minho knows Kibum is thinking about SHINee, about the five of them. Of Taeminnie and Jinki-hyung and Jonghyun. Of all their years – decades – together. Of all they’ve weathered. Of the moments when they felt like they were at the very top of the world and the moments when they didn’t know how they could bear to live another day. Of the small pocket of pain they each carry deep within them. Of immeasurable tenderness and devotion and love, enough to sustain a person for this lifetime and many to come. He knows because that’s what he thought when he saw the ring, why he bought it for Kibum immediately, without asking for the price.
Kibum takes the ring from its box and slides it onto the fourth finger of his right hand, nestled tightly against their matching friendship rings, a perfect fit.
They spend a silent moment admiring it. Then Kibum stands and crowds into Minho’s space, settling on Minho’s lap, throwing his arms around his neck. He presses their foreheads together so their eyes are just centimeters apart. “Thank you,” is all he says, and then he’s leaning in to fit their mouths together.
Kissing Kibum will never not feel like a gift - the press of his soft lips, the slide of his tongue a sweet wonder each and every time, his strong beautiful hands gripping Minho’s hair. Especially not when he’s easy and soft like this, no reservations, no defenses. Minho’s hands slip under Kibum’s sweater, the pads of his fingers ghosting up and down his back, scraping against his lats, Kibum shuddering into him.
Finally, it’s just the two of them.
As if reading his mind, Kibum reluctantly pulls away, eyes dark and slightly wild. His lips are swollen and red and Minho’s mind is flooded with tender nasty thoughts of what he would like to do to them. Kibum stands and pulls at Minho’s sleeve.
“I got you a gift, too.” Kibum looks at Minho meaningfully. “But you’ll have to come into the bedroom to unwrap it.” He takes Minho’s hand and leads him toward the back of the apartment.
Minho follows.