CHAEBEOL | minsung

sixteen

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹

Minho didn't want to be there. 

He was dressed up in uncomfortable clothes, wearing uncomfortable shoes, sat in an uncomfortable dining chair that probably cost more than all of the furniture in his house combined. 

"Honey, can you at least try to smile?" murmured a soft voice in his ear. Minho's grimace grew, and the woman sat beside him skewed her face in concern. "Your dad isn't going to-"

"He's not my dad," interrupted Minho. 

This made his mum sigh and give up, like it always did. She sat back in her chair and plastered on her own fake smile. Minho was only vaguely aware of her engaging in falsified conversation with the person sat on the other side of the table and he took her lack of attention on him as a sign that he could leave. 

"Where are you going?" This voice was harder, grittier, hissed rather than murmured.

Minho had been standing up from his chair but firm hands on his shoulders pushed him back down. Anyone watching would've seen it as a fatherly gesture, reliant and tender as his hands rested on Minho's collar. Only Minho felt the pressure that curled fingers used to dig into his skin. 

"To the bathroom," he grunted under his breath in response. 

"No," chided the man. "They're just about to serve food. You can wait."

The man took a seat in the empty chair on the other side of Minho's mother. They were an attractive trio, the picturesque image of a perfect, nuclear family. Minho had always found this interesting; their family could be described as 'nuclear', but so could that horrible bubbling temper that started in the pit of his stomach. 

Nuclear. Volatile. 

Quelled, if only for a moment, when his mum turned to shift closer to him. 

"It'll be nice to eat together. We haven't done this in a while." She spoke quietly, as she always did, and curled her mouth into a watered-down smile. Not like she used to.  

She used to smile with her teeth on show, her eyes creasing and folding into crescents and fine lines bunching up around wide cheeks. A beautiful smile, cracked and flawed and real. She was still pretty when she smiled now - pretty, but fake.

"A lovely family meal," Minho muttered, "with around three hundred other people."

They were in a room that Minho could only describe as a banquet hall. It was some sort of gala that the man had been invited to, and that Minho and his mum had been dragged along to. Well, maybe she hadn't been dragged, but Minho had been. 

"Minho, it's important to meet the people your father works with. You may be working with them one day, too!" He laughed as he spoke.

The cheery sound was a harsh contrast to the twinge of fingers digging harshly into his arm as the man threw an arm around him. 

"Yes, sir," answered Minho through clenched teeth. 

He kept his eyes low, averted. When the food came, he ate politely, nodding when anyone mentioned how tender the wagyu was or how the chef had done such a good job on sourcing quality saffron for the accompanying soup. 

And then when they finished eating, Minho allowed himself to be dragged to the meeting room. The same 300 people hung around him in small groups, socialising and networking. Minho was desperate to leave. He was about to, when he heard his name from across the room. 

"Minho!" The man beckoned him over. His mum smiled weakly at his side. "This is my son, Minho."

He tried to stomach a gag as the man clapped him on the back.