straight through the heart of me - minho/onew
1/1
Minho/Onew
PG - 856w
Onew was a vision of lights the first time Minho saw him. It would have been poetic if it wasn't because Minho was victorious and shit-faced, which meant that for three hours, the whole bar was his trophy.
Onew was a vision of lights the first time Minho saw him. It would have been poetic if it wasn't because Minho was victorious and shit-faced, which meant that for three hours, the whole bar was his trophy. His team had just won the regional championships, and though Minho couldn't bring himself to get behind the trashy music, the lead singer had a voice that made Minho's palms sweat. The spotlight saturated his hair and contoured his body yellow even as he threw himself around the tiny stage as though it were an arena.
They played for what felt like forever but in reality was only a couple of slow beers, just enough for Minho to keep his footing when he approached the singer, who was collecting a sound cord from the stage. He wore an ugly shirt that reminded Minho of hot wheels advertisements and a wild head of hair that had managed to stay downy after the countless headbangs. Minho could see him cursing at his iron, sucking at a burnt thumb.
Minho stood there in deliberation before the loud beckoning of Minho's team-mates made the decision for him and caught the guy's attention, which wasn't the intimate and mysterious way Minho had planned to introduce himself. The guy seemed unaware that Minho had been casually checking him out the entire time, however, watching Minho's refusal the way an onlooker caught in the crossfire usually would. The lights were still playing colours into his hair, and Minho couldn't shake him out of his sight even if he tried.
Minho shifted closer towards him, making his intentions clear to the greasy dismissals of his team mates. If Minho was less drunk he would probably be miffed.
"Good game?" He asked, once Minho's friends had distracted themselves with a dance break courtesy of Eunhyuk and Donghae. His voice was softer than it was when he sang, and he was still holding the rolled up cord in his hands - both hands, which almost made him look dorky if it wasn't for the slutty eyeliner, and Minho sort of loved it - standing like he wasn't sure what Minho was doing behind the stage.
Minho was more excited now, up close, with the guy's stage presence reserved and an adolescent consciousness in his movements. He was shorter down here too, as Minho looked down at the soft curves that the lights had previously whitewashed away from his face. Minho didn't have to remind himself it was the same person though, it showed in the quirk of his lips, and the hair, there was still the hair.
"You could say that," Minho leaned himself coolly, but he knew his opening for an introduction was escaping him when the singer nodded just as flippantly. "I'm Minho."
"Onew," he said, like he wasn't new to this at all, and Minho was already bored. His earlier victory kick coupled with the alcohol was still screwing up his nerves, and he wanted his hands on something. Minho remembered the strobe lights blazing gold on the guy's hair, like an afterprize beaming in Minho's direction. Like Minho was a rescue mission and he was a mirror reflecting the sun.
"Nice tattoo."
"Nice uniform." It was a dig, but Minho knew it was halfhearted. Minho didn't expect the guy to recognize his football team, but who the fuck sings about wanting to rock, anyway. There were worse things to be doing than celebrating a championship win.
Onew looked like the kind of guy who needed a bit of coaxing, not because he was shy, because there was a sense of self regard under all the black leather and sweat. Minho was fine with that. He offered Onew a drink, and the sound cord was relinquished willingly.
Above the crowd, Minho wasn't particularly interested in their conversation, though he had a feeling he would have been if they were in a different situation. Onew was a squirmer, more antsy than nervous, like he wanted this to be over, and Minho didn't know how to take that; whether Onew wanted to move on and get to the cab ride or leave. Nevertheless, they stuck together even through the dance offers from other floaters.
Finally Minho thought, fuck it, and held tight onto Onew's shoulders as he squeezed them between the thrashing crowd. He laughed and shouted "Hey there, jock," his tone pitched with the right amount of suggestion, and Minho was pleasantly relieved when Onew melted into his arms in a move that wasn't his friendly flirting at the bar. The music excited Onew, and Minho told himself it had something to do with the bass sticking their skin together.
His shoulders were loose under Minho's arm, and Minho was surprised to find himself drawn to the way the ridiculous iron-ons grazed against Minho's uniform jacket. He still wanted to rip the thing off, to hear the soft voice grow a little reserved and finally call Minho's name from under him, moaning for it, and then maybe a little more. He wasn't displeased with this new turn of events though.
He memorised Onew's name, just in case.
Minho/Onew
PG - 856w
Onew was a vision of lights the first time Minho saw him. It would have been poetic if it wasn't because Minho was victorious and shit-faced, which meant that for three hours, the whole bar was his trophy.
Onew was a vision of lights the first time Minho saw him. It would have been poetic if it wasn't because Minho was victorious and shit-faced, which meant that for three hours, the whole bar was his trophy. His team had just won the regional championships, and though Minho couldn't bring himself to get behind the trashy music, the lead singer had a voice that made Minho's palms sweat. The spotlight saturated his hair and contoured his body yellow even as he threw himself around the tiny stage as though it were an arena.
They played for what felt like forever but in reality was only a couple of slow beers, just enough for Minho to keep his footing when he approached the singer, who was collecting a sound cord from the stage. He wore an ugly shirt that reminded Minho of hot wheels advertisements and a wild head of hair that had managed to stay downy after the countless headbangs. Minho could see him cursing at his iron, sucking at a burnt thumb.
Minho stood there in deliberation before the loud beckoning of Minho's team-mates made the decision for him and caught the guy's attention, which wasn't the intimate and mysterious way Minho had planned to introduce himself. The guy seemed unaware that Minho had been casually checking him out the entire time, however, watching Minho's refusal the way an onlooker caught in the crossfire usually would. The lights were still playing colours into his hair, and Minho couldn't shake him out of his sight even if he tried.
Minho shifted closer towards him, making his intentions clear to the greasy dismissals of his team mates. If Minho was less drunk he would probably be miffed.
"Good game?" He asked, once Minho's friends had distracted themselves with a dance break courtesy of Eunhyuk and Donghae. His voice was softer than it was when he sang, and he was still holding the rolled up cord in his hands - both hands, which almost made him look dorky if it wasn't for the slutty eyeliner, and Minho sort of loved it - standing like he wasn't sure what Minho was doing behind the stage.
Minho was more excited now, up close, with the guy's stage presence reserved and an adolescent consciousness in his movements. He was shorter down here too, as Minho looked down at the soft curves that the lights had previously whitewashed away from his face. Minho didn't have to remind himself it was the same person though, it showed in the quirk of his lips, and the hair, there was still the hair.
"You could say that," Minho leaned himself coolly, but he knew his opening for an introduction was escaping him when the singer nodded just as flippantly. "I'm Minho."
"Onew," he said, like he wasn't new to this at all, and Minho was already bored. His earlier victory kick coupled with the alcohol was still screwing up his nerves, and he wanted his hands on something. Minho remembered the strobe lights blazing gold on the guy's hair, like an afterprize beaming in Minho's direction. Like Minho was a rescue mission and he was a mirror reflecting the sun.
"Nice tattoo."
"Nice uniform." It was a dig, but Minho knew it was halfhearted. Minho didn't expect the guy to recognize his football team, but who the fuck sings about wanting to rock, anyway. There were worse things to be doing than celebrating a championship win.
Onew looked like the kind of guy who needed a bit of coaxing, not because he was shy, because there was a sense of self regard under all the black leather and sweat. Minho was fine with that. He offered Onew a drink, and the sound cord was relinquished willingly.
Above the crowd, Minho wasn't particularly interested in their conversation, though he had a feeling he would have been if they were in a different situation. Onew was a squirmer, more antsy than nervous, like he wanted this to be over, and Minho didn't know how to take that; whether Onew wanted to move on and get to the cab ride or leave. Nevertheless, they stuck together even through the dance offers from other floaters.
Finally Minho thought, fuck it, and held tight onto Onew's shoulders as he squeezed them between the thrashing crowd. He laughed and shouted "Hey there, jock," his tone pitched with the right amount of suggestion, and Minho was pleasantly relieved when Onew melted into his arms in a move that wasn't his friendly flirting at the bar. The music excited Onew, and Minho told himself it had something to do with the bass sticking their skin together.
His shoulders were loose under Minho's arm, and Minho was surprised to find himself drawn to the way the ridiculous iron-ons grazed against Minho's uniform jacket. He still wanted to rip the thing off, to hear the soft voice grow a little reserved and finally call Minho's name from under him, moaning for it, and then maybe a little more. He wasn't displeased with this new turn of events though.
He memorised Onew's name, just in case.