Chapter Text
Being the first to wake means Byun Minho has the mansion to himself; and hours of silence lead to thoughts crawling to the front of his mind—this is usually for the worst. The thoughts themselves aren’t inherently bad, in fact, they’re relatively pleasant. It’s the disappointment that follows that soils the entire experience.
The endless halls that seemingly never end and walls that reach heights Minho had previously never seen before were fully furnished with a variety of ornaments and decor that hold no meaning other than to symbolise wealth. There’s no doubt the pieces have some aesthetic or historical value, otherwise they wouldn’t be in here to begin with, but there isn’t a single person to step in the abode who would appreciate it beyond simple materialism. Minho is no different, not the slightest bit more moral than the rest. He’s avaricious to a fault—the sole reason why he’s stuck here anyway, why he’s degraded himself to the position of measly nanny. It’s a good thing he holds no shame, money speaks loudest after all, and Minho could listen to it all day long.
Not a day passes where Minho doesn’t indulge in his imagination, envisioning himself as the possessor of such prosperity. If only this was all his, if only he was blessed enough to grow into a snob, what would it be like? What would he do?
He’d own land, probably, and fiddle around with the stock market, or whatever kept these moguls afloat. As long as he was comfortable enough, Minho didn’t care for the means. The money would allow him to pursue his younger self’s novelist ambitions, and his talents certainly wouldn’t go unrecognised. His works would be the talk of the town, perhaps one day enter the league of high culture. His name would turn heads, almost like a title of its own, and his presence would make people stop to watch in awe. (In this world, there’d actually be a reason for people to do so. In this world, he’d actually have talents and merits to flaunt.)
The table he’s been given to dine on is small, barely fitting a proper meal, cramped in a small corner of the kitchen. At least it happens to be by the window, offering him a lovely view of the yard. But what if the table was ten times larger? Fitting an array of extravagant dishes, recipes from countries of names he doesn’t know. Instead of the short bowback chair, he’d be leaning back on soft cushions made of velvet at the head of the table. To his right would be Doona, wearing his last name and a ring that matches his. They’d have all the time in the world, rushing nowhere. He’d rub her knuckles tenderly, plant a kiss between sips of their finely ground exotically imported coffee.
Instead of washing and putting away the dishes himself, he’d have the maids do it. Yes, he thinks, as he scrubs off leftover scraps of food, patting down his hands dry. He’d have others do the labour, as he isn’t fit for it, he’s meant for riches and pleasure, and developing his art.
As he exits the kitchen, entering the main hall, the image of him and Doona treading on the polished, oak floorboards, hand-in-hand, fill his eyes. They’d laugh without a care in the world, dancing in each other's arms, with butlers standing by every door to open them as the two approach. Her touches would be gentler, much gentler than they used to be. (And maybe his words to her would be too, gentler, as they should’ve been.)
Finally, she’d see him off before he’d leave to work. He’d pull her into, with a palm on her waist, a deep kiss. He’d know she’d always be there for him, being the loyal wife of his dreams. Once satisfied, Minho would depart for an easy day at work.
Right. Work.
When Minho’s father had pulled him by the arm to America, abruptly interrupting his life in Korea, Minho was promised great opportunities. The male believed his father blindly. To be fair, the first few months did more than just meet his expectations, everyday was an adventure, navigating through a new, busier culture. The States, however, was far too fast for them, nipping dollars out of their pockets before they could react. Debt came tumbling down to their door, and Minho was forced to sell his being for a penny. He would rather not picture how pitiful he must’ve looked on the day of his employment, this was probably the very reason they thought him suitable to take on this job. Even so, he shouldn’t complain too much, the work’s fatiguing and degrading, sure, but he knew he was much luckier than his old neighbours in the slums. He prefers the warmth of these walls a lot more than the cold of the streets.
His thoughts follow him whilst he makes his way to the master bedroom. It's comical how it’s almost the size of his old place with his father—ridiculously big for one person, ridiculously small for two. The man on the Carl King canopy bed sleeps soundly, taking no notice as Minho places a cup of tea onto the bedstand and probes through the walk-in closet to prepare today’s clothes. It’s only when Minho brings the curtains apart, letting light infiltrate the room, is he pulled out of his day-dreaming, and Cha Wookyung out of his slumber. He’s brought back into reality. (One he wants to escape.)
Wookyung stirs awake with a soft groan, lazily pushing himself upright—his brown hair a mess as he rubs at his squinted eyes. Minho turns to face his master, the mere sight of his heedless state—soft, unblemished form contrasting Minho’s coarse, used skin pisses him off. He holds back the bitterness trickling into his voice when he greets him.
“Good morning, sir.”