Domino
Title: Domino
Author: himawarixxsandz
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: JongHo
Summary: Minho is perfect. Jonghyun doesn't have to be.
A/N: So...I think this needs a huge explanation. And I'll try my best. Okay, so this is what I've been doing for the past few days instead of Chapter 17 like I should have >.< It's just, it's like my dirty little secret, you guys. I love JongKey, but then, I've got a couple amazing favorite authors who write JongHo and make it amazing and spectacular and it's like my favorite kind of dynamics and put me in that mood where I just feel like writing and I've always wanted to try a Kpop fic like this so here it is. It's not my usual fluffy style so I'm like super out of my comfort zone like I am when I write Junseung so be brutal and tell me if you like it or not. And if you'd even care to read the sequel because you know me and my happy endings (which I suppose is why I should stick to fluff because fics like these are meant to be ended all sad and angsty but I can never do that). Also, this probably exists because I have been listening to Brian's Domino (ugh, love when that man sings English) on a loop for this entire weekend. (I hope this is worth missing Chapter 17 for a while you guys TT.TT and I'm sorry if it isn't)
Open the box
Minho is perfect.
He’s the straight A student, the captain of the soccer team, scouted for every top university in the area, loved by the entire school, loved by all the teachers, loved by his team, loved by his parents-everyone loves him.
Jonghyun doesn’t have to be perfect.
He gets A’s in the classes that he likes and B’s in the classes that he doesn’t like and the occasional C’s for the teachers he hates. He loves art, breathes art, lives art-he loves the grimy, grubby, earthy paints and canvases, loves painting and drawing on things that no one else would think about, loves collecting scraps and trash and making them into something beautiful. He curses a lot and falls asleep in class and some teachers love him, some teachers don’t like him, and some teachers hate him. His parents love him, his friends love him, everyone loves his art.
Jonghyun is a third year when Minho is a second year.
Minho is in the advanced English class and paired with Jonghyun for a group project.
They meet up after school for the first time in an empty math classroom.
“So I’m thinking,” Jonghyun says, his feet up on one of the desks, chair tipped back precariously, arms behind his head. Minho is sitting across from him, backwards in a chair, uniform still in perfect condition while Jonghyun’s has been undone into chaos the minute the bell had rung to end school, “that we could do like a pretend scrapbook, yeah? Like of Korean students who studied overseas. We’d just have to find pictures and stuff and make pretend blogs about random shit.”
Minho folds his fingers together neatly against his kneecap. “Why don’t we just write a paper?”
Jonghyun stares at him blankly. “Why would we write a paper?” He makes it sound like Minho is suggesting grounds for failing this project-worth twenty-percent of their final grade.
“Because it’s a better idea,” Minho continues calmly. “Yours is risky.”
“Yeah,” Jonghyun says, his chair no longer rocking. “That’s why it’s a good idea-because-what the fuck-a paper? And here I thought Choi Minho would be all badass and exciting.”
Minho blinks. “I’m badass and exciting,” he feels he needs to defend-and by doing so, feels just that much more pathetic (he doesn’t know why he feels pathetic because Minho never feels pathetic).
Jonghyun grins. “Okay-my idea it is, then.”
Take them out one by one
“Kim Jonghyun?” one of Minho’s teammates says with a laugh that night over champagne stolen from another teammate’s parents’ basement. “Not really your conventional fuck, is he? You should’ve taken the lower class-you could’ve been paired with Lee Taemin.”
One of the cheerleaders laughs, the goalie’s hands under her skirt, champagne and beer spilling on the countertop, lights out in the house because the parents aren’t home. The soccer team, half the cheerleading squad, and half the dance squad are closeted in the house of Minho’s defender. “He looks like a girl,” the cheerleader giggles, swaying dangerously on the edge of the counter. “Easy to fuck-but that’s so gay.”
“I’d make him cry,” his fullback says, his arm loosely around the shoulders of one of the dancers. Her hand is gripping the shirt of a cheerleader and the cheerleader has her leg slumped over the midfielder’s thigh. His striker pours his glass full to the brim again and holds the bottle, offering at large.
“You’d break him in half,” a cheerleader on Minho’s left says breathlessly, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair back tipsily. The rest of the room laughs, loud and raucous and drunk and high.
His goalkeeper slaps his back and grins at him, head against his shoulder, “You’ll fuck him for us, right? I bet he’s still pretty hot once you get him tied up. Artists love kinky shit like that.”
“Oh,” one of the dancers says, nursing a glass of wine-when did they break out the wine? “But he’s friends with Kim Kibum.”
“Bitch,” a cheerleader chuckles.
“Whore,” another cheerleader squeals.
“Both,” his midfielder says firmly, raising his glass, wagging his eyebrows, and the room explodes into laughter again-a few cheerleaders falling backward against the walls behind the countertop. A few feet away from Minho, his fullback has started necking the dancer he’d had his arm around for the past few minutes.
Minho downs the contents of his glass-his fourth round-and smiles appropriately when a cheerleader beside him whines girlishly about wanting to dance. His goalkeeper starts up the stereo.
“What the fuck-are you sick?” Jonghyun says, bewildered, when Minho comes into their usual math classroom the next day and slumps head down on the desk, lifeless and glum.
Minho doesn’t bring his head up-he wants to punch the older boy because that volume of voice doesn’t ever bring any good to the world, least of all a world that is currently suffering from the hangover of a lifetime and has been suffering the entire school day and now can’t even go home because this poor world has to suffer through a stupid project session.
“No,” Minho says in a low voice, hoping that his tone will telepathically convey to Jonghyun’s voice box to turn it down a little.
Or a lot.
“Then get up and help me with our project, you asshole,” Jonghyun says affectionately, clearly not getting the message or at least unable to recognize the symptoms because he pats Minho’s head fondly and Minho thinks his skull is about to implode upon itself. “We have to decide where we’re sending our brats. I was thinking America because that’s the easiest since there’s so much crap about it in on the internet, but there’s Australia too-and Britain.”
Minho doesn’t bring his head up, but he points his thumb to the ceiling.
“Great,” is the bright response. “America it is, then.”
Minho knows he’s good-looking. He knows girls and boys find him attractive. He has had cheerleaders, he has had dancers, he has had quiet little bookworms, he has had some of his teammates, he has had anyone that wants him and anyone that he wants because he’s good-looking and he’s attractive and he doesn’t see why he should say no. It’s just sex. It’s just him. It’s just them. They’re just bodies and it just feels good.
Compared to Jonghyun, Minho thinks he’s hideous.
Minho thinks he’s hideous compared to Jonghyun because Jonghyun is beautiful.
“You’re late,” Jonghyun greets him one day when Minho strolls in fifteen minutes after their usual meeting time because the athlete didn’t feel like rushing-a cheerleader wanted to blow him and Minho didn’t say no, so he took longer to get changed after practice and he’s exhausted and he doesn’t want to work on a stupid history project that he knows he can get an A on by smiling at the female teacher anyway.
He walks across the classroom right away to his usual desk to wait for Jonghyun to give him whatever he needs to do for today-if Minho remembers right (which he probably doesn’t since that was some sketchy weed his striker gave to him two nights ago) then he’s probably going to be given Jonghyun’s laptop again to search up some more restaurants around Chinatown which is supposedly where their imaginary Korean students are living near.
Minho looks up to ask what they’re working on today and when can he leave-
“What?” falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.
Jonghyun blinks. “Huh?”
Jonghyun, in Minho’s opinion, has no right to huh, has no right to any sort of surprised expression because that should be all Minho. That should be all Minho because Jonghyun isn’t allowed to stand in the sunlight. Jonghyun isn’t allowed to be out of his uniform into a paint-splattered t-shirt, worn and wrinkled and old. Jonghyun isn’t allowed to have streaks of charcoal and pastels on his cheeks, isn’t allowed to have messy hair, isn’t allowed to be sweating just a little bit because of the unusually warm March day.
“Oh,” Jonghyun says, then. He turns around and points at the cluster of desks pushed haphazardly together to make a bigger surface. “I’m painting some of the papers we’re going to use as pages for the scrapbook, but I had to glue some together first because they were too thin on their own. Which,” he grins sheepishly, “explains why I look like shit.”
Minho is afraid to open his mouth.
If he does, he thinks that he might vomit up his heart.
“Yeah,” he says when he’s positive that he isn’t about to puke, “you do.”
Jonghyun throws a dry paintbrush at him-Minho dodges. The paintbrush makes a loud clatter near a bookshelf that holds pi posters. “Shut the fuck up,” Jonghyun says, his eyes doing that lovely thing of vanishing into dark crescents while pretty white teeth are shown in a perfect open laugh. “Late bastards don’t get to be smartasses.”
Minho looks away quickly.
He looks away quickly, but he supposes that wasn’t quick enough because Jonghyun suddenly pounces in front of him, pushing him up by the shoulders, eyes wide and laughing.
Minho tries to push him away.
“Are you,” Jonghyun says in disbelief, “smiling? Did you just-like-laugh? Am I going crazy? Should I sign up for the asylum?”
“Yes,” Minho says, and tries one more time to swat away the annoying gnat that is Kim Jonghyun.
“Yes that you were smiling or yes that I should sign up for the asylum?” Jonghyun says, smirking, paintbrush waving triumphantly in his hand. Minho looks up at him-stares at him. Jonghyun raises his eyebrows daringly.
Minho stands up instantly, grabs the paintbrush out of Jonghyun’s hand and starts flicking the residual paint on the third year, chasing him around the room. Jonghyun laughs and dodges and ducks-they stumble over desks and chairs and in a close call almost knock their drying project and Jonghyun’s laptop to the ground. He chases Jonghyun like that until the older boy collapses, tired, against the windowsill and Minho purposefully collides into him.
“Yah,” Jonghyun draws it out breathlessly, head thrown back, panting and smiling. His legs are tangled with Minho’s and their fingers brush. He kicks halfheartedly at the younger boy. “Get away from me-it’s fucking hot.”
“Take your clothes off then,” Minho shoots back, standing up and brushing the dust off of his uniform pants. He inspects himself for splattered paint, and then offers a hand to Jonghyun. The older boy takes it and Minho yanks him to his feet lightly.
“I would,” Jonghyun says, “but then you couldn’t handle my inherent sexiness.”
Minho smiles again and Jonghyun’s eyes flicker to his face. The third year starts jumping up and down. “You’re doing it again,” he says excitedly, pointing at the soccer player. “You’re smiling-this is like fucking Christmas Day-all these fucking miracles are happening.”
“Fuck off,” Minho says and goes back to his seat.
“And now we’re cursing?” Jonghyun says, sounding ecstatic. “Choi Minho, model student, captain of the soccer team is cursing? If I’m not careful, next time I see you, you’ll start laughing at jokes.”
Minho takes out his phone and pretends to text.
He tries to ignore the heat that spreads in his face when Jonghyun comes a little too close when the third year wants to explain what the next step of the scrapbook is. The sunlight forms a halo around Jonghyun’s hair.
Stand them up-one behind the other-any design you want
“Minho-ah,” his fullback says cheerily, converging on him as they walk out of math class, “how was it?” He slaps Minho’s back a few times, their shoulders knocking.
Minho glances at him. “How was what?”
“Fuck, you’re hilarious,” the other boy says, rolling his eyes. He shakes Minho a little and jerks his head towards the lockers in the middle of the hall where Jonghyun has his arm around Kim Kibum, the smaller boy looking irritated and amused at the same time while Jonghyun laughs.
Minho stares. “Oh.”
“He looks pretty peachy keen for someone who was fucked into a desk,” his fullback says, frowning. “Go easy on him or something? Or did he suck?”
“I-“
“You haven’t done it yet?” his fullback cuts him off with raised eyebrows as they walk to their next class. “Man, this is fucking-ass slow for you. I’d be all up on that ass in double time, captain-shii. I mean, he doesn’t look like a girl like Lee Taemin, but hot’s hot, you know? And he’s a fucking third year-get on it, Minho-ah.”
With a warm pat on Minho’s chest, his teammate swerves into his history classroom, leaving Minho to walk the rest of the way to his own class-the only class he has with Jonghyun.
“Whoa,” Jonghyun says when he walks into the classroom. “You’re early.”
Minho takes his headphones off and raises his eyebrows in greeting.
Jonghyun is in his uniform today which means that they probably won’t be painting-it’s probably going to be a research day or a cutting-and-pasting day. He’s carrying the usual humongous bag that holds all of the materials that will soon be assembled into their project, along with all of their information-filled-notebooks and other art supplies. His laptop is in its separate case slung along Jonghyun’s other shoulder.
“Darn,” Jonghyun says, mockingly snapping his fingers. “Now I can’t bitch at you for being a late bastard.” He puts down his bags and starts taking out his laptop. “You picked a stupid day to be early though-we’re just looking shit up again and not actually doing anything.”
“I’ll be sure to be late next time,” Minho says.
“Yeah, except next time we’re probably going to be doing stuff that needs a shitload of setting up and I’m going to bitch at you if you’re late so fuck that brilliant plan,” Jonghyun snorts and opens up his laptop, pressing the power button.
“Jackass,” Minho smiles.
“Retard,” Jonghyun grins back.
The rest of the time is passed like Jonghyun said-researching more information, more places to make the scrapbook realistic, saving things to be printed out, arranging formats of a few more pages for Jonghyun to make, materials that Minho needs to go out and buy. The rest of the time is passed like Jonghyun said, and Minho gets almost nothing done on his own-everything that’s productive today is either done by Jonghyun or pushed towards Jonghyun discreetly by Minho.
Minho is usually given relatively simple tasks because like Jonghyun has said multiple times before, the soccer player is quite useless when it comes to being creative. His task today was supposed to be looking up addresses of restaurants near the fake address they created for their imaginary students’ apartment, and Minho found one-quarter of an address.
Meaning he wrote down the street number and that was about it.
He blames it on Jonghyun.
He blames it on the fact that Jonghyun talks more than any human should and it’s just noisy, incessant chatter about nothing important-about a piece he’s working on, about how he needs more scrap metal for it, about how he’s run out of green spray paint, about how his mom forgot to wash his paint aprons, about how he’s trying to wheedle more money from his dad so he can buy a new set of brushes, about how he wonders if he can submit his final portfolio to a different teacher to look over first, about, about, about, and none of it is relevant to Minho’s life at all. It’s all boring, normal stuff that Minho would usually scorn at-that his teammates and the cheerleading squad and the dance team would scorn at because none of it is exciting, is rule-breaking, is thrilling.
It’s boring and not relevant to his life, but he wishes it was.
He wishes that Jonghyun is telling him this not because he has no one else to talk to at the moment, not because he’s stuck doing an amazing project with a hideous, hideous, ugly boy, but he wishes Jonghyun is telling him all this because Minho is more to him than just a project partner.
He wants to be Jonghyun’s friend.
He wants to be more than Jonghyun’s friend.
Jonghyun is too beautiful for Minho.
Minho is dirty. Minho is foggy and filthy and disgusting and ugly and malformed and hideous. Minho is dark and shadowed and gray and useless. Minho’s world is terrible. Minho’s world used to have a beautiful sun-a sun that’s black and white and round, a sky that’s green and grassy, clouds that are made of poles and nets, rain that sounds like whistles and shouting referees.
But then there is high school.
And Minho has a different sun-a sun that smells like sex and smoke, a sky that’s dark with the neon lights of a house party, clouds that are made of buzzing alcohol, rain that sounds like girlish sighs and moans and boyish shouts of ecstasy.
Jonghyun’s world is beautiful.
Jonghyun’s world has a colorful sun-a sun that’s every color in the rainbow and more, a sky that smells like pastels and paints and crayons and glue, clouds that are made of aprons and splattered t-shirts and paper and canvas, rain that sounds like opening a new tub of clay.
There is high school for Jonghyun too.
But his world is still beautiful.
Knock the first one down-and watch the rest fall
The project is due in two days and they are already finished. They only have sessions now to finalize a few things here and there and make sure that they’ve filled out all the little details on the criteria paper that both of them were given when it was assigned. They only have sessions now because Jonghyun keeps coming and Minho comes too because if they didn’t have sessions he thinks that he might go insane.
Jonghyun tells him that he’s going to an art university on the cusp of Seoul-a campus with lots of breezy grass and white clouds and blue skies that he can breathe in. He says it’s less than an hour away from here, away from this area, and teases Minho-asks him to visit. Minho doesn’t know why the older boy would say that. It’s not like they’re friends. They only ever talk to each other during these sessions.
He hates that Jonghyun makes him hope.
He hates it.
So Minho stands up.
He stands up and walks over to Jonghyun.
And kisses him.
Jonghyun pulls away-he doesn’t look angry. He looks surprised-no smile, no frown-just surprise.
Minho leans in to kiss him again, wordlessly-wordless this entire time-but Jonghyun puts a hand on the taller boy’s shoulder, asking him quietly to wait.
Minho doesn’t.
Minho’s world is grimy and filthy and disgusting and dark. It used to be beautiful like Jonghyun’s. It used to be beautiful but it no longer is and Minho hates it. He hates that his world has been taken apart-hates that he no longer has his beautiful white and black sun and green skies and netted clouds and referee rains. He hates that his beautiful world has been taken away but Jonghyun’s hasn’t.
He doesn’t understand why.
When Minho leaves the classroom, he leaves Jonghyun on the ground, bleeding and silent and broken and naked with clothes torn to the side. He leaves him limp and dirty-as dirty as Minho and his world-and doesn’t look back. He leaves him in pain-as much pain as Minho had striking through his entire body when he first joined the soccer team and realized that his teammates don’t share his beautiful world-they wanted him to live in a different world and he listened to them instead of himself.
As much pain as Minho has striking to him now when he realizes that he’s just dirtied his own world a little bit more by destroying Jonghyun’s.
Jonghyun’s world is destroyed-
But only for this moment.
Only for this moment because Jonghyun will rebuild his world-so easily, Minho knows-but Minho never can. Minho never will. Minho’s is dark and filthy and Jonghyun’s is bright and beautiful and it doesn’t matter how much-how fucking much-Minho wants to live in Jonghyun’s world even for just a minute.
It doesn’t matter how much Minho wants Jonghyun-wants to be with him-even for just a moment.
Jonghyun is too beautiful.
Kim Kibum gives Minho the project the next day-the scrapbook pressed and perfect. Kibum gives it to Minho at lunch-two periods before Minho has history-places it on the table, ignoring the curious stares of the cheerleaders and soccer players at the table. Kibum puts it on the table and then slaps Minho across the face-hard.
The entire table erupts into hoots and laughter and shouts, but Kibum is already walking away, face stoic.
Jonghyun isn’t in school that day.
Minho doesn’t see him for the rest of the week.
Their project gets an A+.
Minho doesn’t ever see him up close again-it’s always at a distance-a great distance that’s never any less than an entire hallway.
“I don’t think you fucked him hard enough,” his goalkeeper laughs to him one night over vodka and whiskey and a little bit of cheap beer. “I saw him today in the Language hallway and he’s still walking fine. You have to make ‘em limp, Minho-ah.”
Minho just silently holds up his bottle and smiles it off.
He feels like his face is being melted off with hot rocks.
The third years graduate.
Minho watches from the last row-he’s not supposed to be here.
He just wants to make sure Jonghyun can still smile.
Jonghyun can.
Jonghyun still can-as he reaches for his diploma. It’s bright and perfect and beautiful.
Minho walks away.
Clean them up and put them back in the box
Author: himawarixxsandz
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: JongHo
Summary: Minho is perfect. Jonghyun doesn't have to be.
A/N: So...I think this needs a huge explanation. And I'll try my best. Okay, so this is what I've been doing for the past few days instead of Chapter 17 like I should have >.< It's just, it's like my dirty little secret, you guys. I love JongKey, but then, I've got a couple amazing favorite authors who write JongHo and make it amazing and spectacular and it's like my favorite kind of dynamics and put me in that mood where I just feel like writing and I've always wanted to try a Kpop fic like this so here it is. It's not my usual fluffy style so I'm like super out of my comfort zone like I am when I write Junseung so be brutal and tell me if you like it or not. And if you'd even care to read the sequel because you know me and my happy endings (which I suppose is why I should stick to fluff because fics like these are meant to be ended all sad and angsty but I can never do that). Also, this probably exists because I have been listening to Brian's Domino (ugh, love when that man sings English) on a loop for this entire weekend. (I hope this is worth missing Chapter 17 for a while you guys TT.TT and I'm sorry if it isn't)
Open the box
Minho is perfect.
He’s the straight A student, the captain of the soccer team, scouted for every top university in the area, loved by the entire school, loved by all the teachers, loved by his team, loved by his parents-everyone loves him.
Jonghyun doesn’t have to be perfect.
He gets A’s in the classes that he likes and B’s in the classes that he doesn’t like and the occasional C’s for the teachers he hates. He loves art, breathes art, lives art-he loves the grimy, grubby, earthy paints and canvases, loves painting and drawing on things that no one else would think about, loves collecting scraps and trash and making them into something beautiful. He curses a lot and falls asleep in class and some teachers love him, some teachers don’t like him, and some teachers hate him. His parents love him, his friends love him, everyone loves his art.
Jonghyun is a third year when Minho is a second year.
Minho is in the advanced English class and paired with Jonghyun for a group project.
They meet up after school for the first time in an empty math classroom.
“So I’m thinking,” Jonghyun says, his feet up on one of the desks, chair tipped back precariously, arms behind his head. Minho is sitting across from him, backwards in a chair, uniform still in perfect condition while Jonghyun’s has been undone into chaos the minute the bell had rung to end school, “that we could do like a pretend scrapbook, yeah? Like of Korean students who studied overseas. We’d just have to find pictures and stuff and make pretend blogs about random shit.”
Minho folds his fingers together neatly against his kneecap. “Why don’t we just write a paper?”
Jonghyun stares at him blankly. “Why would we write a paper?” He makes it sound like Minho is suggesting grounds for failing this project-worth twenty-percent of their final grade.
“Because it’s a better idea,” Minho continues calmly. “Yours is risky.”
“Yeah,” Jonghyun says, his chair no longer rocking. “That’s why it’s a good idea-because-what the fuck-a paper? And here I thought Choi Minho would be all badass and exciting.”
Minho blinks. “I’m badass and exciting,” he feels he needs to defend-and by doing so, feels just that much more pathetic (he doesn’t know why he feels pathetic because Minho never feels pathetic).
Jonghyun grins. “Okay-my idea it is, then.”
Take them out one by one
“Kim Jonghyun?” one of Minho’s teammates says with a laugh that night over champagne stolen from another teammate’s parents’ basement. “Not really your conventional fuck, is he? You should’ve taken the lower class-you could’ve been paired with Lee Taemin.”
One of the cheerleaders laughs, the goalie’s hands under her skirt, champagne and beer spilling on the countertop, lights out in the house because the parents aren’t home. The soccer team, half the cheerleading squad, and half the dance squad are closeted in the house of Minho’s defender. “He looks like a girl,” the cheerleader giggles, swaying dangerously on the edge of the counter. “Easy to fuck-but that’s so gay.”
“I’d make him cry,” his fullback says, his arm loosely around the shoulders of one of the dancers. Her hand is gripping the shirt of a cheerleader and the cheerleader has her leg slumped over the midfielder’s thigh. His striker pours his glass full to the brim again and holds the bottle, offering at large.
“You’d break him in half,” a cheerleader on Minho’s left says breathlessly, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair back tipsily. The rest of the room laughs, loud and raucous and drunk and high.
His goalkeeper slaps his back and grins at him, head against his shoulder, “You’ll fuck him for us, right? I bet he’s still pretty hot once you get him tied up. Artists love kinky shit like that.”
“Oh,” one of the dancers says, nursing a glass of wine-when did they break out the wine? “But he’s friends with Kim Kibum.”
“Bitch,” a cheerleader chuckles.
“Whore,” another cheerleader squeals.
“Both,” his midfielder says firmly, raising his glass, wagging his eyebrows, and the room explodes into laughter again-a few cheerleaders falling backward against the walls behind the countertop. A few feet away from Minho, his fullback has started necking the dancer he’d had his arm around for the past few minutes.
Minho downs the contents of his glass-his fourth round-and smiles appropriately when a cheerleader beside him whines girlishly about wanting to dance. His goalkeeper starts up the stereo.
“What the fuck-are you sick?” Jonghyun says, bewildered, when Minho comes into their usual math classroom the next day and slumps head down on the desk, lifeless and glum.
Minho doesn’t bring his head up-he wants to punch the older boy because that volume of voice doesn’t ever bring any good to the world, least of all a world that is currently suffering from the hangover of a lifetime and has been suffering the entire school day and now can’t even go home because this poor world has to suffer through a stupid project session.
“No,” Minho says in a low voice, hoping that his tone will telepathically convey to Jonghyun’s voice box to turn it down a little.
Or a lot.
“Then get up and help me with our project, you asshole,” Jonghyun says affectionately, clearly not getting the message or at least unable to recognize the symptoms because he pats Minho’s head fondly and Minho thinks his skull is about to implode upon itself. “We have to decide where we’re sending our brats. I was thinking America because that’s the easiest since there’s so much crap about it in on the internet, but there’s Australia too-and Britain.”
Minho doesn’t bring his head up, but he points his thumb to the ceiling.
“Great,” is the bright response. “America it is, then.”
Minho knows he’s good-looking. He knows girls and boys find him attractive. He has had cheerleaders, he has had dancers, he has had quiet little bookworms, he has had some of his teammates, he has had anyone that wants him and anyone that he wants because he’s good-looking and he’s attractive and he doesn’t see why he should say no. It’s just sex. It’s just him. It’s just them. They’re just bodies and it just feels good.
Compared to Jonghyun, Minho thinks he’s hideous.
Minho thinks he’s hideous compared to Jonghyun because Jonghyun is beautiful.
“You’re late,” Jonghyun greets him one day when Minho strolls in fifteen minutes after their usual meeting time because the athlete didn’t feel like rushing-a cheerleader wanted to blow him and Minho didn’t say no, so he took longer to get changed after practice and he’s exhausted and he doesn’t want to work on a stupid history project that he knows he can get an A on by smiling at the female teacher anyway.
He walks across the classroom right away to his usual desk to wait for Jonghyun to give him whatever he needs to do for today-if Minho remembers right (which he probably doesn’t since that was some sketchy weed his striker gave to him two nights ago) then he’s probably going to be given Jonghyun’s laptop again to search up some more restaurants around Chinatown which is supposedly where their imaginary Korean students are living near.
Minho looks up to ask what they’re working on today and when can he leave-
“What?” falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.
Jonghyun blinks. “Huh?”
Jonghyun, in Minho’s opinion, has no right to huh, has no right to any sort of surprised expression because that should be all Minho. That should be all Minho because Jonghyun isn’t allowed to stand in the sunlight. Jonghyun isn’t allowed to be out of his uniform into a paint-splattered t-shirt, worn and wrinkled and old. Jonghyun isn’t allowed to have streaks of charcoal and pastels on his cheeks, isn’t allowed to have messy hair, isn’t allowed to be sweating just a little bit because of the unusually warm March day.
“Oh,” Jonghyun says, then. He turns around and points at the cluster of desks pushed haphazardly together to make a bigger surface. “I’m painting some of the papers we’re going to use as pages for the scrapbook, but I had to glue some together first because they were too thin on their own. Which,” he grins sheepishly, “explains why I look like shit.”
Minho is afraid to open his mouth.
If he does, he thinks that he might vomit up his heart.
“Yeah,” he says when he’s positive that he isn’t about to puke, “you do.”
Jonghyun throws a dry paintbrush at him-Minho dodges. The paintbrush makes a loud clatter near a bookshelf that holds pi posters. “Shut the fuck up,” Jonghyun says, his eyes doing that lovely thing of vanishing into dark crescents while pretty white teeth are shown in a perfect open laugh. “Late bastards don’t get to be smartasses.”
Minho looks away quickly.
He looks away quickly, but he supposes that wasn’t quick enough because Jonghyun suddenly pounces in front of him, pushing him up by the shoulders, eyes wide and laughing.
Minho tries to push him away.
“Are you,” Jonghyun says in disbelief, “smiling? Did you just-like-laugh? Am I going crazy? Should I sign up for the asylum?”
“Yes,” Minho says, and tries one more time to swat away the annoying gnat that is Kim Jonghyun.
“Yes that you were smiling or yes that I should sign up for the asylum?” Jonghyun says, smirking, paintbrush waving triumphantly in his hand. Minho looks up at him-stares at him. Jonghyun raises his eyebrows daringly.
Minho stands up instantly, grabs the paintbrush out of Jonghyun’s hand and starts flicking the residual paint on the third year, chasing him around the room. Jonghyun laughs and dodges and ducks-they stumble over desks and chairs and in a close call almost knock their drying project and Jonghyun’s laptop to the ground. He chases Jonghyun like that until the older boy collapses, tired, against the windowsill and Minho purposefully collides into him.
“Yah,” Jonghyun draws it out breathlessly, head thrown back, panting and smiling. His legs are tangled with Minho’s and their fingers brush. He kicks halfheartedly at the younger boy. “Get away from me-it’s fucking hot.”
“Take your clothes off then,” Minho shoots back, standing up and brushing the dust off of his uniform pants. He inspects himself for splattered paint, and then offers a hand to Jonghyun. The older boy takes it and Minho yanks him to his feet lightly.
“I would,” Jonghyun says, “but then you couldn’t handle my inherent sexiness.”
Minho smiles again and Jonghyun’s eyes flicker to his face. The third year starts jumping up and down. “You’re doing it again,” he says excitedly, pointing at the soccer player. “You’re smiling-this is like fucking Christmas Day-all these fucking miracles are happening.”
“Fuck off,” Minho says and goes back to his seat.
“And now we’re cursing?” Jonghyun says, sounding ecstatic. “Choi Minho, model student, captain of the soccer team is cursing? If I’m not careful, next time I see you, you’ll start laughing at jokes.”
Minho takes out his phone and pretends to text.
He tries to ignore the heat that spreads in his face when Jonghyun comes a little too close when the third year wants to explain what the next step of the scrapbook is. The sunlight forms a halo around Jonghyun’s hair.
Stand them up-one behind the other-any design you want
“Minho-ah,” his fullback says cheerily, converging on him as they walk out of math class, “how was it?” He slaps Minho’s back a few times, their shoulders knocking.
Minho glances at him. “How was what?”
“Fuck, you’re hilarious,” the other boy says, rolling his eyes. He shakes Minho a little and jerks his head towards the lockers in the middle of the hall where Jonghyun has his arm around Kim Kibum, the smaller boy looking irritated and amused at the same time while Jonghyun laughs.
Minho stares. “Oh.”
“He looks pretty peachy keen for someone who was fucked into a desk,” his fullback says, frowning. “Go easy on him or something? Or did he suck?”
“I-“
“You haven’t done it yet?” his fullback cuts him off with raised eyebrows as they walk to their next class. “Man, this is fucking-ass slow for you. I’d be all up on that ass in double time, captain-shii. I mean, he doesn’t look like a girl like Lee Taemin, but hot’s hot, you know? And he’s a fucking third year-get on it, Minho-ah.”
With a warm pat on Minho’s chest, his teammate swerves into his history classroom, leaving Minho to walk the rest of the way to his own class-the only class he has with Jonghyun.
“Whoa,” Jonghyun says when he walks into the classroom. “You’re early.”
Minho takes his headphones off and raises his eyebrows in greeting.
Jonghyun is in his uniform today which means that they probably won’t be painting-it’s probably going to be a research day or a cutting-and-pasting day. He’s carrying the usual humongous bag that holds all of the materials that will soon be assembled into their project, along with all of their information-filled-notebooks and other art supplies. His laptop is in its separate case slung along Jonghyun’s other shoulder.
“Darn,” Jonghyun says, mockingly snapping his fingers. “Now I can’t bitch at you for being a late bastard.” He puts down his bags and starts taking out his laptop. “You picked a stupid day to be early though-we’re just looking shit up again and not actually doing anything.”
“I’ll be sure to be late next time,” Minho says.
“Yeah, except next time we’re probably going to be doing stuff that needs a shitload of setting up and I’m going to bitch at you if you’re late so fuck that brilliant plan,” Jonghyun snorts and opens up his laptop, pressing the power button.
“Jackass,” Minho smiles.
“Retard,” Jonghyun grins back.
The rest of the time is passed like Jonghyun said-researching more information, more places to make the scrapbook realistic, saving things to be printed out, arranging formats of a few more pages for Jonghyun to make, materials that Minho needs to go out and buy. The rest of the time is passed like Jonghyun said, and Minho gets almost nothing done on his own-everything that’s productive today is either done by Jonghyun or pushed towards Jonghyun discreetly by Minho.
Minho is usually given relatively simple tasks because like Jonghyun has said multiple times before, the soccer player is quite useless when it comes to being creative. His task today was supposed to be looking up addresses of restaurants near the fake address they created for their imaginary students’ apartment, and Minho found one-quarter of an address.
Meaning he wrote down the street number and that was about it.
He blames it on Jonghyun.
He blames it on the fact that Jonghyun talks more than any human should and it’s just noisy, incessant chatter about nothing important-about a piece he’s working on, about how he needs more scrap metal for it, about how he’s run out of green spray paint, about how his mom forgot to wash his paint aprons, about how he’s trying to wheedle more money from his dad so he can buy a new set of brushes, about how he wonders if he can submit his final portfolio to a different teacher to look over first, about, about, about, and none of it is relevant to Minho’s life at all. It’s all boring, normal stuff that Minho would usually scorn at-that his teammates and the cheerleading squad and the dance team would scorn at because none of it is exciting, is rule-breaking, is thrilling.
It’s boring and not relevant to his life, but he wishes it was.
He wishes that Jonghyun is telling him this not because he has no one else to talk to at the moment, not because he’s stuck doing an amazing project with a hideous, hideous, ugly boy, but he wishes Jonghyun is telling him all this because Minho is more to him than just a project partner.
He wants to be Jonghyun’s friend.
He wants to be more than Jonghyun’s friend.
Jonghyun is too beautiful for Minho.
Minho is dirty. Minho is foggy and filthy and disgusting and ugly and malformed and hideous. Minho is dark and shadowed and gray and useless. Minho’s world is terrible. Minho’s world used to have a beautiful sun-a sun that’s black and white and round, a sky that’s green and grassy, clouds that are made of poles and nets, rain that sounds like whistles and shouting referees.
But then there is high school.
And Minho has a different sun-a sun that smells like sex and smoke, a sky that’s dark with the neon lights of a house party, clouds that are made of buzzing alcohol, rain that sounds like girlish sighs and moans and boyish shouts of ecstasy.
Jonghyun’s world is beautiful.
Jonghyun’s world has a colorful sun-a sun that’s every color in the rainbow and more, a sky that smells like pastels and paints and crayons and glue, clouds that are made of aprons and splattered t-shirts and paper and canvas, rain that sounds like opening a new tub of clay.
There is high school for Jonghyun too.
But his world is still beautiful.
Knock the first one down-and watch the rest fall
The project is due in two days and they are already finished. They only have sessions now to finalize a few things here and there and make sure that they’ve filled out all the little details on the criteria paper that both of them were given when it was assigned. They only have sessions now because Jonghyun keeps coming and Minho comes too because if they didn’t have sessions he thinks that he might go insane.
Jonghyun tells him that he’s going to an art university on the cusp of Seoul-a campus with lots of breezy grass and white clouds and blue skies that he can breathe in. He says it’s less than an hour away from here, away from this area, and teases Minho-asks him to visit. Minho doesn’t know why the older boy would say that. It’s not like they’re friends. They only ever talk to each other during these sessions.
He hates that Jonghyun makes him hope.
He hates it.
So Minho stands up.
He stands up and walks over to Jonghyun.
And kisses him.
Jonghyun pulls away-he doesn’t look angry. He looks surprised-no smile, no frown-just surprise.
Minho leans in to kiss him again, wordlessly-wordless this entire time-but Jonghyun puts a hand on the taller boy’s shoulder, asking him quietly to wait.
Minho doesn’t.
Minho’s world is grimy and filthy and disgusting and dark. It used to be beautiful like Jonghyun’s. It used to be beautiful but it no longer is and Minho hates it. He hates that his world has been taken apart-hates that he no longer has his beautiful white and black sun and green skies and netted clouds and referee rains. He hates that his beautiful world has been taken away but Jonghyun’s hasn’t.
He doesn’t understand why.
When Minho leaves the classroom, he leaves Jonghyun on the ground, bleeding and silent and broken and naked with clothes torn to the side. He leaves him limp and dirty-as dirty as Minho and his world-and doesn’t look back. He leaves him in pain-as much pain as Minho had striking through his entire body when he first joined the soccer team and realized that his teammates don’t share his beautiful world-they wanted him to live in a different world and he listened to them instead of himself.
As much pain as Minho has striking to him now when he realizes that he’s just dirtied his own world a little bit more by destroying Jonghyun’s.
Jonghyun’s world is destroyed-
But only for this moment.
Only for this moment because Jonghyun will rebuild his world-so easily, Minho knows-but Minho never can. Minho never will. Minho’s is dark and filthy and Jonghyun’s is bright and beautiful and it doesn’t matter how much-how fucking much-Minho wants to live in Jonghyun’s world even for just a minute.
It doesn’t matter how much Minho wants Jonghyun-wants to be with him-even for just a moment.
Jonghyun is too beautiful.
Kim Kibum gives Minho the project the next day-the scrapbook pressed and perfect. Kibum gives it to Minho at lunch-two periods before Minho has history-places it on the table, ignoring the curious stares of the cheerleaders and soccer players at the table. Kibum puts it on the table and then slaps Minho across the face-hard.
The entire table erupts into hoots and laughter and shouts, but Kibum is already walking away, face stoic.
Jonghyun isn’t in school that day.
Minho doesn’t see him for the rest of the week.
Their project gets an A+.
Minho doesn’t ever see him up close again-it’s always at a distance-a great distance that’s never any less than an entire hallway.
“I don’t think you fucked him hard enough,” his goalkeeper laughs to him one night over vodka and whiskey and a little bit of cheap beer. “I saw him today in the Language hallway and he’s still walking fine. You have to make ‘em limp, Minho-ah.”
Minho just silently holds up his bottle and smiles it off.
He feels like his face is being melted off with hot rocks.
The third years graduate.
Minho watches from the last row-he’s not supposed to be here.
He just wants to make sure Jonghyun can still smile.
Jonghyun can.
Jonghyun still can-as he reaches for his diploma. It’s bright and perfect and beautiful.
Minho walks away.
Clean them up and put them back in the box