Chapter I

Absence

*This ficlet takes place after chapter 16 on TWT

The living area is quiet as Minho steps inside, pushing his suitcase against one corner of the wall before taking off his shoes and places them on the rack for the housekeeper to tidy up tomorrow. Loosening his tie, Minho eyes the kitchen, contemplating whether or not it’s worth the additional trip to get water. After a while he decides that he’s not that thirsty, so he makes his way into the bedroom instead, ing his shirt all the way.

The bedroom is even darker than the living room, with only a single table lamp to light up the wide space. Minho heads straight to the bathroom to wash his hands, feet, and face. Tossing his shirt onto one of the black, cozy cushions near the walk-in closet, he begins to unbuckle his belt and his pants before kicking those off, too.

“You’re home,” Taemin’s voice is low and husky, but it’s enough to startle Minho a little bit. He looks surprisingly awake as he pushes himself up to stare at Minho. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That was the idea,” Minho replies easily, voice rough from the lack of use. He was reading some new articles on the plane, his face the perfect picture of concentration, and it was more than enough to let people know that he wasn’t up for conversation, hence the quiet 9-hour flight.

Climbing onto the bed, Minho groans softly as his tense muscles suddenly make themselves known. Now that he’s on a soft, comfortable, familiar bed, every discomfort he had been trying to ignore seem to think that it’s an appropriate time for them to surface.

Taemin’s hand appears from under the tangle of his silk sheets, touching Minho’s shoulder with the gentlest of touches. Minho turns to face him, pressing his cheek against the cool pillow and enjoying the sight of Taemin’s darkened profile, haloed by the golden light from the lamp behind him. “We got it.”

“Boeing?” Taemin asks, eyes following his own hand as it moves down to the center of Minho’s chest.

“Yes,” Minho yawns, covering Taemin’s hand with his own. Sleepiness is starting to seep into his mind, making it foggy. Next to him, Taemin slowly lowers himself back down, though he scoots closer inch by inch until finally settles half on top of Minho, using his shoulder as a pillow. His hand stays right on top of Minho’s heart, rising up and down along with his slowing breath.

“Your father’s gonna be so pleased,” he comments, the vibration of his throat rumbles through the part of Minho he's currently pressed against. After being away for so long, Minho’s senses become hyperaware of every aspect of Taemin—the warmth of his skin, the smooth glide of his fingertips, the soft rumble of his voice, the tickle of his breath—that even in his haze, he can still rejoice on the feeling of contentment Taemin’s presence brings him.