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Lucky

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Mingyu has had a long day.

A hard day.

A frustrating day.

Some days are just like that, he knows. There are mix-ups, unavoidable accidents, avoidable accidents, delays, rescheduled events, re-rescheduled events, and days when it seems that everything that can go wrong, does go wrong.

And Jihoon, he’d reason, has had an even longer day. Mingyu isn’t always privy to the details of his most hellish producing days, but from what he can gather, Jihoon had been told to re-re-re-re-revise the title track he’s been working on for the past month.

He hasn’t had this much trouble in a while, and Mingyu can tell it’s been eating at him.

But it happens. They’ll get through it like they always have. They have each other, after all, along with the eleven other best people on the planet. They’re made of sturdier stuff than days full of misfortune and re-re-re-whatevers.

For the two of them, the quiet of their shared apartment is a welcome respite from the outside world. Having a space to themselves where they can unpack and unwind away from everything has been a blessing in more ways than one. And for days like today, they both know that their need for relaxation can really only culminate in one of two things:

1. A movie night where they flop down on the couch, consume an absolutely alarming amount of junk food, and pass out before 10pm.

or

2. An evening where they absolutely, positively cannot keep their hands off of each other.

And tonight, despite their combined exhaustion, is unequivocally the latter.

They manage to get home and through the door, at least—they’re adults, they have some self-control—but that’s as far as they make it before their collective resolve crumbles.

The door latches behind them, and all bets are off.

Jihoon has the height disadvantage, but he makes up for it by slipping his hands beneath Mingyu’s shirt, nails dragging down every inch of bare skin he can reach without separating their lips. Mingyu meets him in the middle, sliding his hands down Jihoon’s back, planting them firmly on his ass and squeezing hard enough to force him up onto his tiptoes.

Jihoon moans into his mouth, and Mingyu tries not to focus too hard on exactly what the sound does to him.

He wants this to last.

Unwilling to go any further in the living room, he scoops his hands beneath Jihoon’s thighs, lifts him up like he weighs nothing, and carries him into the bedroom. He lays Jihoon down on the mattress gently despite their combined fervor, then climbs on top of him.

“Wait,” Jihoon says, “I need—” his hands find the bottom of Mingyu’s shirt, tugging upward.

“Yeah,” Mingyu breathes, straightening up to pull the shirt over his head.

“No, let me,” Jihoon insists, sitting up. Mingyu doesn’t know exactly what he’s after—the simple joy of unwrapping his boyfriend like a present, maybe?—but he indulges him anyway.

The angle isn’t right, though—that much is obvious. Jihoon is far too short to accomplish his goal sitting down, and still too short standing up. “I got it,” he insists, pulling harder at the hem of Mingyu’s shirt. Mingyu leans forward, and he’s on the verge of simply kneeling down when Jihoon climbs onto the bed for better leverage.

“Hyung,” he says, smothering a laugh while Jihoon continues to wrestle with the fabric, “I think I should—”

“I got it,” Jihoon growls—and maybe this isn’t what he’d envisioned, and maybe the situation is a little hilarious now, but the concentrated tone of his voice still somehow hits Mingyu right in the—

Well.

He never claimed he wasn’t whipped.

Hyung,” he repeats when all the pulling is starting to hurt his ears, “I think it—”

And just like that, his head is free.

And just like that, Jihoon is toppling backwards off the bed.

Ever-so-eloquently, Mingyu squawks, “Wait!” just as he hears the crash.

Then silence.

“Oh my god—” Mingyu pulls his shirt off of his arms, tossing it to the side to get it out of the way as he scrambles over the bed, “Oh my god, oh my god—Jihoon?!

Ow…” Jihoon groans, and now Mingyu can see that he’d landed more or less flat on his back, “Ow, Mingyu, I—what—?”

“Hi,” Mingyu gives him an awkward wave, “you okay?”

Jihoon shakes his head.

Mingyu can’t see any obvious injuries, but unlike himself, Jihoon is still fully clothed, so he could be hurt in any number of horrible—

“Your shirt’s off.”

“What?”

“Your—” Jihoon starts to make a gesture with his hands, then sucks in a sharp, pained breath, cutting himself off.

“Yeah, you got my shirt—what hurts, Jihoon-ah?” They’re both scrambled. Jihoon seems to have a reason. Mingyu wonders what his excuse is.

“My arm,” Jihoon wiggles his right fingers toward his left arm, “I landed weird.” He makes an attempt to sit up, but he can’t seem to do it without causing himself more pain.

Mingyu, finally having some kind of direction, kneels beside him, carefully sliding a hand behind his back and pulling him into a sitting position. “Can I see?”

Jihoon, true to form, shakes his head like a petulant child.

“Hyung—” Mingyu starts, stops, takes a breath, composes himself, “Please.”

Jihoon sighs. He clearly isn't happy about it, but he allows Mingyu to gingerly roll up his shirtsleeve. They don’t have to go very far to identify his wrist as the source of the problem. It’s red, tender to the touch, and already starting to swell pretty significantly.

“It’s Friday night…” Jihoon says, sounding defeated.

Mingyu blinks. “What does that matter? Did you have plans?”

Jihoon shakes his head. “The hospital’s so busy on weekends.”



They call a cab, and Mingyu says a silent prayer of thanks when the driver doesn’t seem to be in a chatty mood. Upon arrival, their tiny speck of luck continues when the ER waiting room is much emptier than expected, and Jihoon is soon escorted inside.

The nurse supplies him with a pillow (“Rest your arm on that”) and an ice pack, and he sits uneasily on the edge of the bed while she takes his vitals. He’s visibly anxious, and Mingyu is thankful for the doctor’s calm demeanor when she comes in to examine him.

“Can you walk me through what happened?” she asks, delicately supporting Jihoon’s arm while she takes a look.

They spare her the play-by-play of the shirt fiasco but admit that he’d fallen off the bed.

She nods throughout their explanation, then asks a few follow-up questions: Does he remember how he’d caught himself? Did he hit his head? Does anything else hurt?

Jihoon answers as best as he can, then she says, “We’ll take x-rays to see if anything’s broken, but you’ll need splinting either way, so I’ll order you something for pain now, okay?”

Mingyu imagines the splinting process will involve a good amount of manipulation of Jihoon’s wrist, so he’s relieved when Jihoon agrees—although he feels bad when the nurse returns and informs him that “something for pain” is given intravenously.

Maybe it should’ve been obvious, but neither of them is a medical professional.

The nurse, for her part, seems nonplussed while she measures out the correct amount of…whatever she’s about to inject Jihoon with. “Swing your feet up and lie back for me, okay?” she says, patting the bed. “This might make you a little dizzy.”

Jihoon doesn’t argue, but Mingyu is also pretty sure he doesn’t breathe from the time she rolls up his right sleeve to the time she disposes of the needle in the sharps container.

“Call bell’s here,” she says, placing the remote within easy reach. “The medication should start working soon, so we’re just waiting for radiology to take x-rays. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

Jihoon glances toward Mingyu, then shakes his head.

“Just push the button if you need anything,” she says, letting the curtain fall shut behind herself.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, the evening’s unexpected whirlwind of events and emotions finally catching up to them. Jihoon stares at the ceiling, and Mingyu stares at Jihoon. Mingyu is relieved to see some of the tension beginning to ebb from Jihoon’s body—the painkiller must be kicking in. After a minute more, he stands, stepping over to the side of the bed.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Jihoon looks up at him. “Hey.”

He reaches out to comb Jihoon’s bangs away from his face. His hair is slightly damp, sweaty from a combination of stress and pain, but Mingyu leans down to kiss his forehead anyway. “Sorry about my shirt,” he murmurs, pleased when Jihoon jolts with what he can only assume is a laugh, “If it makes you feel any better, I wanted to be naked for you, too.”

Stop,” Jihoon orders, but he’s giggling now, and Mingyu has never heard a more perfect sound, “You giant—you—later, okay?”

Judging by the big, loopy grin on Jihoon’s face, the medication is definitely working now. “Okay,” Mingyu agrees, knowing it’ll never happen, “if you’re up for it.”

Jihoon hums a pleased little note, eyes slipping shut, and Mingyu leans in further to kiss him properly. He can feel Jihoon smiling against his lips, and he’s suddenly struck by just how much he really, really—

“Love you.”

—Jihoon beats him to it.

Figures.

“Love you too,” he echoes.

He lifts his head just in time to watch Jihoon’s features slacken as he falls asleep.

Figures.

He presses one more kiss to Jihoon’s forehead before returning to his chair. It would be good if radiology came soon—he’d love to get his exhausted boyfriend home and into his actual bed. But at least Jihoon is resting now, which is far better than lying there in pain.

Mingyu fiddles with his phone for fifteen minutes or so before a soft knock breaks the semi-silence of the room. “Come in,” he calls, loud enough to rouse Jihoon as well.

Two technicians wearing black scrubs enter, pushing along an imposing machine that Mingyu recognizes as a portable x-ray.

“Jihoon-ssi?” the male technician asks.

Jihoon, still obviously drowsy, nods.

“We’re here to take pictures of your wrist. Can you confirm your date of birth for me?”

“The 22nd of—” he yawns, “—November. 1996.”

“Good,” he consults something on his clipboard, “And just to double check, it’s the left wrist you’re having trouble with?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon looks down as though reaffirming the situation for himself. “Yeah, the left.”

“Okay,” the female technician pushes the machine further into the room. “Please step outside for just a minute,” she says to Mingyu.

He does, watching through the glass as they go about draping a heavy vest over Jihoon’s body, then positioning his arm carefully on a large, square panel. They exit the room as well, standing beside Mingyu while they capture an image. They repeat the process twice more before thanking them both, gathering their equipment, and disappearing down the hall.

“How long’s it take?” Jihoon asks, head turned toward Mingyu.

“No idea,” he replies honestly. “Why don’t you just rest for now?”

Jihoon closes his eyes for a few minutes, but he doesn’t have enough time to get properly comfortable before the doctor returns.

“How are you feeling now?” she asks.

“Okay,” Jihoon responds, “it hurts less.”

“Glad to hear it,” she’s smiling, which seems like a positive sign. “Your x-rays came back fine. Nothing’s broken or out of place—it looks like a sprain. We’ll get you splinted to immobilize it, which will help with the pain, and you’ll follow up with orthopedics in a few days. Sound good?”

Jihoon nods, then remembers himself and inclines his head in a little bow with a, “Thank you.”

Another warm smile. “Your nurse will be in with your discharge papers soon, then the techs will come to splint you, and you’ll be good to go.”



As promised, the nurse returns momentarily with a small stack of papers. “Basic guidelines,” she explains, verbally running through them: “Leave the splint on until you see ortho, and don’t get it wet. Ibuprofen at home every four to six hours for the pain and swelling. You can ice your wrist through the splint as long as the ice pack isn’t damp. And if you have severe pain or swelling, or any discoloration or loss of sensation in your fingers, come back to the ER right away.”

Jihoon must look baffled, because her expression softens.

“It’s all here on the paper. I’ll hand it to…?” she glances over.

“Mingyu.”

“…Mingyu,” she finishes. “I have this for you, too,” she produces a blue square of paper, unfolding it further and further until it becomes…a shirt? Mingyu must look equally puzzled, because she continues, “You’ll need short sleeves now so they can splint you—it'll be bulky, and you wouldn’t be able to take your long sleeved shirt off over it. This is just a paper scrubs top, so you can throw it away once you’re home.”

Mingyu nods, and when she asks if they have any questions, he shakes his head.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “Take care, okay?”

Jihoon thanks her, although he looks so tired and out-of-it that Mingyu feels his heart clench. Knowing there’s zero chance his boyfriend will be able to remove his shirt on his own, he steps over.

“Put your arms out straight,” he orders.

Jihoon looks confused, although he does as he’s asked. But as soon as Mingyu begins lifting the bottom of his shirt, he pulls back. “No,” he scolds, using his right hand to swat Mingyu away, “you can’t.

Mingyu blinks. “Why?”

“We’re in public,” he says like it’s obvious, “you weird—”

“You’re in the hospital.”

“Even worse!”

Mingyu quickly realizes his ridiculous, drowsy, drugged boyfriend probably hadn’t understood the nurse’s instructions. “You hurt your wrist…” he says slowly.

Jihoon nods in agreement.

“…and they’re gonna come put a splint on it…”

More nodding.

“…and they can’t do it with your long sleeves on—makes sense?”

Jihoon thinks about it before nodding again, more hesitantly this time. Then he stops. “Wait, but what—”

“The nurse gave you this paper shirt to wear home, look,” Mingyu holds it up for him to see. “Didn’t you hear anything she said?”

Jihoon tilts his head to the right, then the left. “I’m sleepy,” he says like that explains everything.

Mingyu snorts. “C’mon, let’s get you into your new shirt so they can fix your arm, then we’ll go home and sleep.”

“Hmm…” Jihoon considers this for a long moment. “You gotta sleep with me,” he suddenly says very seriously.

Mingyu stares at him. “Where else would I sleep?”

“You gotta sleep with me shirtless.

“Yes, fine.”

“I earned it,” Jihoon insists, “I got your shirt off. I did it.”

He’s not wrong, despite everything. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll sleep however you want. Can we focus on your shirt, please?”

Satisfied, Jihoon holds out his hands for assistance.

Even with two people, removing the shirt without hurting him is easier said than done. Jihoon winces the whole time—the medication had dulled the worst of the pain, but all this extra jostling is a bit much for him. Mingyu curses whichever cruel deity had decided Jihoon would wear something that actually fits today, instead of his usual repertoire of three-sizes-too-big black t-shirts.

After a thousand flinches from Jihoon and a thousand apologies from Mingyu, the shirt is off. Blessedly, the paper top is fairly large, and Jihoon is dressed in no time.

“It’s cold in here,” Jihoon complains—and really, leave it to him to find something to be upset about immediately after such a momentous victory.

But it is kind of chilly, and his paper shirt is pretty thin.

Mingyu considers asking for a blanket, but they’ll be leaving soon, and it seems like a waste. Instead, he perches himself on the bed beside Jihoon, pulling him into the gentlest half-hug he can manage. Jihoon seems to like this arrangement just fine, and he lets out a contented little sigh as Mingyu rubs his back.

Jihoon isn’t usually so needy—at least, not like this—and Mingyu relishes his ability to comfort him when it counts.

Two young women in green scrubs soon appear, introducing themselves as the techs who will be splinting Jihoon’s wrist. After the same confirmation questions—yes, he’s Jihoon, and yes, it’s his left wrist—they get to work cutting, then dampening, positioning, and shaping the splinting material around his arm. They explain what they’re doing step-by-step, but Mingyu doesn’t think Jihoon is really listening.

Mingyu thanks them as they leave while Jihoon takes a moment to examine his newly-wrapped arm. It’s sort of like a half-cast, immobilized from thumb to elbow and wrapped in an ace bandage.

“You ready?” Mingyu asks, opening his phone to request a ride as he gathers up Jihoon’s shirt and paperwork.

“Yeah,” Jihoon nods. He’s a little wobbly when he stands, so Mingyu loops an arm behind his back to steady him. He doesn’t protest when Mingyu guides him out of the hospital in the same manner, or when Mingyu insists upon sitting right next to him in the car, or when Mingyu picks him up as soon as they arrive home, or when Mingyu carries him through the lobby of their building, into the elevator, through the apartment, into their bedroom, and places him on the bed.

He’s more asleep than not and definitely still under the influence of the pain medicine, but Mingyu will take what he can get.

Jihoon once again doesn’t protest while Mingyu divests him of his shoes, socks, and pants. However, he does raise an objection when Mingyu pulls the paper scrub top off over his head and attempts to re-dress him in one of his own shirts.

“What?” Mingyu asks once Jihoon has finished waving his uninjured hand around in disapproval. He usually speaks ‘drowsy, cranky Jihoon’ pretty well, but right now he’s at a loss. “Did you want to wear the paper shirt?”

“No,” Jihoon mumbles, “You take yours off. Wanna—” he yawns, but Mingyu suspects it’s a ploy to avoid admitting:

“You wanna cuddle.”

Jihoon nods. “I earned it,” he repeats, “I did get your shirt off.”

That he did.

“Alright,” Mingyu agrees, removing his own shirt as promised. He watches Jihoon crawl awkwardly, one-handedly into bed, then wonders, “Do you think we should ice your wrist first? It’s gonna hurt when you wake up.”

Jihoon fixes him with a half-lidded stare. “Bed now. Wrist later.”

Given the events of the evening, it’s probably fair to say at this point that Jihoon deserves to get his way.

Tugging his pants off as well, Mingyu turns off the light and cautiously scoots under the covers. Perhaps sensing his reluctance, Jihoon turns his head to the side, ghosting his lips over the sensitive spot beneath Mingyu’s jaw. “I’m not gonna break, you know.”

The words themselves could be taken with any number of benign connotations—exasperation, reassurance, lightheartedness—but Jihoon’s tone most decidedly cannot.

He’d been so sleepy a minute ago, but suddenly there’s intent.

“Hyung,” Mingyu can already feel his pulse quickening, goddammit, “c’mon.”

“What?” Jihoon asks, the picture of innocence. Mingyu knows it’s a trap.

“We can’t,” he insists.

“Why not?” Jihoon whispers against his ear, beginning a series of slow kisses from his earlobe to the base of his throat, “I really wanted—” kiss, “—to do this earlier—” kiss, “—and I think—” kiss, “—we could still—” kiss, “—make it work.”

And then there’s Jihoon’s tongue, lips, and just a hint of teeth, sucking what Mingyu knows will be a dark, obvious bruise right above his collarbone. In the dim illumination from the street lamps outside, he can see how Jihoon has now propped himself up, anticipating, hanging on Mingyu’s next word—

Physically, Mingyu is a strong man.

Emotionally, not so much.

Jihoon’s fingers slide up his stomach, then his chest, settling lightly, teasingly, infuriatingly over a nipple—just there. Mingyu knows instinctively that he won’t win this battle.

“I—I, uh—” he can’t even bring himself to feel ashamed of the way his voice wavers. Jihoon nods encouragingly. “I mean,” he continues, “if you’re—”

Then, all at once, there’s a heavy, solid weight on top of him.

It’s not exactly what he’d been expecting, and he nearly gets the wind knocked out of him in surprise. “Hyung,” he wheezes slightly, “what are you—?”

In place of a response, he hears a soft snore.

Simultaneously, he has the thoughts, ‘What?’ and, ‘Oh.’

The part of him that exists below the waist wants to scream, but the part of him that’s capable of rational human emotions just looks down at Jihoon, head pillowed on his chest, completely oblivious to the suffering he’d wrought…and sighs.

“You’re the worst,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to Jihoon’s temple, “the worst.”

Jihoon has nothing to say for himself.

Deep down in his heart, Mingyu is glad to see him resting. He suspects Jihoon will probably wake up once the medication wears off, and that he’ll be miserable and uncomfortable for the rest of the night. He needs all the sleep he can get in the meantime. So he’s glad—really, he is.

Unfortunately, the painfully aroused part of him remains less glad.

He forces himself to think happy thoughts—pure, nonthreatening, happy thoughts. Cloud watching. The wind rustling through a field of grass. Fuzzy sweaters. Grocery shopping. Jihoon’s mouth around his—

Stop.

It’s impossible. It’s sincerely impossible. He can’t do it—not with Jihoon’s legs tangled with his, Jihoon’s breath puffing lightly against his bare skin, and so much skin contact between the two of them. Perhaps these things could be innocently intimate during a time when his mind was not sunken into the depths of the gutter, but that time is not now.

He’s going to die here.

He needs to get up.

He lifts Jihoon’s upper body, slowly easing him back down onto the mattress. He regrets it, he really does, but he needs to take care of himself as soon as possible or he’ll perish from the face of the earth before he can even give Jihoon his first dose of ibuprofen.

Jihoon frowns, mumbling something Mingyu doesn’t catch, but he doesn’t stir beyond that.

Mingyu tucks him in with a silent apology, then scurries off to the bathroom.

It doesn’t take long.

He’s so hard he can barely think. He digs out the lube from the top drawer, filling the palm of his hand with more than he intends. He hardly needs it, honestly—he’s not going to last—but the cool, silky feeling is a relief to the burning heat running through the rest of him.

Even so, it’s nothing compared to what his mind really wants—the hot, wet, slick feeling of being inside Jihoon, drawing every little sound that he can possibly imagine out of his tiny boyfriend, knowing that he’s the one doing it. He imagines the sensation, the sound, hearing Jihoon whine and beg and promise Mingyu anything if he’ll only—

Jihoon might be sleeping in the other room, but he’s still the thing that brings Mingyu to completion.

Panting, relief and adrenaline swimming in equal parts through his veins, Mingyu cleans himself up. His boxers, damp with precum, he tosses into the wash, opting to slip on a clean pair as he reenters the bedroom.

Although his exit wasn’t enough to wake Jihoon, apparently his attempt to quietly dress himself is.

Jihoon lifts his head, hair tousled and eyes barely open. “…Mingu?” he questions, and how his voice had gotten that sleep-rough in the short time he’d been out is beyond Mingyu.

He’s grateful he’d just jerked off, or he’d have trouble on his hands again.

“Hey, baby,” he greets, slipping smoothly back into bed. Jihoon hums contentedly, snuggling up against his side like he’d never left. Mingyu pets his hair, pleased when Jihoon relaxes further. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired…stupid,” Jihoon replies. “Kinda still want you, kinda wanna sleep for a month.”

“You can still have me once you’re done sleeping for a month. I’m not going anywhere,” Mingyu promises.

“That’s…” Jihoon pauses, thinking, “…disgustingly sweet.”

“That’s my job,” Mingyu confirms.

“You’re good at it.”

“Leave me a positive review, alright?”

“Cooks, cleans, tolerates me. 5 stars,” Jihoon says sarcastically.

“Passionate, works hard, takes care of me,” Mingyu declares, “4.5 stars because he’s a little cranky right now.”

Jihoon’s lips turn down in what Mingyu can only describe as a pout.

“5 stars,” he amends, “because he’s cute when he’s cranky.”

Jihoon swats him.

“Does your wrist hurt?” Mingyu asks. “You can take ibuprofen now, if you want.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “I’m okay. That hospital stuff is strong.” He shimmies down, pushing his forehead into the crook of Mingyu’s neck. “Let’s just sleep.”

Mingyu pulls the covers up over both of them “Wake me if you start feeling bad, okay?”

“Mhm,” Jihoon agrees. Mingyu doubts he’s listening.

They’ll figure it out.



As it turns out, they both wake up in pain at the same time—Jihoon because he’d turned over in his sleep and whacked his splint against something, and Mingyu because the thing Jihoon whacked his splint against was his nose.

Luckily, after the bleeding has been staunched and the initial shock wears off, the two of them can pretty confidently diagnose Mingyu’s injured nose as ‘just bruised.’

Unluckily, considering their track record, they’re probably going to need more ibuprofen.