Virus (Sequel to Domino 1/4)
Title: Virus
Author: himawarixxsandz
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: JongHo
Summary: Minho is sick.
A/N: So, I thought before that I was just going to make a Domino part two, but then BEAST came out and gave me a better song to fit the second part of whateveryoucallthiskindofminiseriesAUthing. So, we'll do it like this instead: this will be the sequel and we'll just have a two part sequel (maybe three if I go overboard with the Jongho lovin'), sound all right? And no, of course this isn't just some way for me to work in a BEAST song because I'm an insanely happy B2UTY this weekend. Also, thanks, you guys, for liking my Jongho ^-^ I haven't properly said how happy it makes me that you guys aren't all like You break JongKey? We no love you no more *stabs*.
Part 1 // Part 2
“Why do I have to be in charge of the signs and decorations?” Minho says incredulously.
“Because you’re the maknae,” Donghae smiles brightly and pats him on the back.
“Stop complaining,” Kangin pipes in as he passes, “you’re not even going to do anything-‘in charge’ just means you get to boss around the art students we got from that art university a few blocks over.”
Hyukjae gives Minho the address of the downtown studio that all the work for the sports festival is supposed to be done.
Minho doesn’t understand why they can’t just wrap their booth up in construction paper and be done with it.
Body aches
It’s been three years and Minho thinks the world is fucking with him again.
It’s been three years.
Minho has graduated, has lost and left the teammates who’d given him a world where the sun is made of sex and smoke and the clouds are made of buzzing alcohol. He’s lost and left those teammates in exchange for new ones-ones that live in the beautiful world he used to, of black and white suns and netted clouds with plastic poles-ones that are willing to let him live in theirs until he finishes rebuilding his own.
It’s been three years, and Minho’s world still isn’t even close to the halfway point of being finished and it’s already threatened once again to come crashing down.
Nausea
“You must be fucking me,” is Kim Kibum’s flat greeting when Minho reaches within hearing distance.
The studio is across the street from the art university and the block of apartments most of the students use for living quarters instead of dorms. It’s a series of rooms that stretch down a long, wide hallway, each closed in with glass and sliding lightwood doors-big, open spaces with vast glass windows. There’s lots of sunlight in the day and soft, pale lighting at nighttime.
Minho easily found the room on the Post-It note that Hyukjae gave him and wishes that he’d gotten lost and had to ask someone else to do it in the end because he completely botched the meeting time because he didn’t think he’d be working with the last two people he ever wants to see because he knows that he is the last person they will ever want to see.
He doesn’t dare look at Jonghyun.
He only looks at Jonghyun’s shoes-nothing higher.
“Turn right around,” Kibum says blackly, “and tell your captain or your teammates or hyungs or who the fuck is in charge and ask them to send someone else if they want us making the soccer team’s booth amazing at the festival.”
Kibum is all right-Minho can look at Kibum in the eye.
“They all have their own jobs,” Minho says tonelessly. “I’m the maknae so I still can’t do all the official registering stuff. So they sent me here-I can’t really go back and tell them to change.”
Kibum’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Yes, you can. You can definitely tell them to change otherwise, they’re going to have some half-assed, unfinished signs because if they don’t change, I’m doing them alone. I’m doing them alone because you must think you’re fucking insane as fuck if you’re getting near him ever again.”
“Yah-Kibummie.”
Jonghyun’s voice.
Minho doesn’t look up-looks away from Kibum’s furious face back down to the floor in case Jonghyun might come within seeing distance. He can’t look-he can’t look-he can’t look-he’s terrified out of his fucking mind to look-he can’t-can’t-can’t-can’t-can’t-
“They’re our hyungs too,” and his voice is so bright-it’s casual and easy and clear and cheerful and loud and beautiful-too beautiful-and light and perfect. “And Kangin-hyung’s going to whip our asses if we don’t do it.”
A pause.
And then Kibum punches Minho’s shoulder-hard enough that it hurts.
“Fuck you,” Kibum snaps. “You won’t even look at him-you-“
Jonghyun’s shoes are suddenly far too close to Minho’s-the toes of their sneakers have barely inches between them and Minho can smell him. He can sense him, he can feel him far too close, he can hear breathing now, he can feel Kibum frustrated and furious, he can-
“Hey-“
Too bright
“-wow-“
Hurts my eyes
“-you grew more, you asshole?”
Minho looks.
He wishes he hadn’t.
But he’s glad he did.
He still wishes he hadn’t.
But he’s so-so-so glad he did.
Jonghyun looks warm-is warm-in a loose sweatshirt and dark-washed jeans. His hair is messy-terribly tousled-and chaotic on his head, standing up at random spots and falling flat at even more random spots. His hands are in the pockets of his sweatshirt and there is red and yellow paint splattered on the cuffs of his sleeves. But then there is his expression and Minho wishes he never looked.
It’s-
There’s a curve to Jonghyun’s lips-perhaps not a smile, but something soft and unsure. His round eyes look a little bit raw, a little bit frightened, a little bit confused-he’s nervous and hesitant and this should never be Kim Jonghyun-
-all my fault
This should never be Kim Jonghyun except right now it is and Minho doesn’t know why the fuck he’s doing this-why the fuck he didn’t turn around when Kibum told him to and beg his hyungs to send someone else, quit the soccer team if it came to it. He doesn’t know why he didn’t do that because why should he work with Jonghyun? Why should Minho come in and destroy Jonghyun’s life a second time around?
Missed you
Jonghyun doesn’t want to see Minho-Jonghyun doesn’t want anything to do with Choi Minho, and yet here he is, strolling right back in to a life that doesn’t need him-a world too beautiful for him to ever even imagine stepping foot into.
So much
“You know Kibummie and Jonghyunnie?” Donghae says with surprised eyes the next day when they are walking together to their respective lectures.
“Yeah, so, it’s really better if-“
“That’s great, Minho-ah,” Donghae concludes cheerily, slapping him on the back, “then you’re the perfect guy to be in charge of all the artsy stuff. We are going to win hands down.”
And he jogs away to the building his next class is in, leaving Minho standing by himself at the center of east campus confirming that Lee Hyukjae must be a saint.
Donghae also leaves Minho to conclude for himself that life is fucking with him.
Again.
Fevers-chills
Kibum has made it loud and clear that he hates Minho. He’s also made it loud and clear that just because he himself isn’t going to be the one working on the booth with Minho (he’s already promised his talents to the basketball team), he might as well be, because he’s brought the booth that he’s working on to the studio assigned to Jonghyun and paints-and-pastes-and-cuts while simultaneously glaring at every move Minho makes.
Breathing, Minho has found, is particularly offensive to Kibum.
Minho wants to tell Kibum that there’s no point in all of this because it’s not like Minho is going to allow himself to get anywhere within a five foot radius of Jonghyun anyway. The booth is still in separate parts-still in wooden-plank-form rather than attractive-festival-stand form. Minho is in charge of filing the wood and cutting it and the general putting-it-together, and he does so in a corner of the studio-near the door and a window so the wood dust has somewhere to go. He does it in the farthest corner of the studio there is-farthest from Kibum and even farther from Jonghyun.
From what he’s managed to see-he tries not to look in Jonghyun’s direction unless the two artists are away on lunch break or not arrived yet or already left-Jonghyun is making the sign for the body of the booth. The material is still a mystery to Minho-some sort of large, white canvas that’s slowly being colored with Minho’s university’s emblem along with the name of his soccer team.
He realizes that he’s never seen Jonghyun’s art-Jonghyun’s own art, not for a project or helping out for a festival.
He really wants to see it.
But he can’t-he never can.
It hurts
It’s the seventh studio session, an overcast evening, and Kibum is not there when Minho arrives.
Jonghyun is.
Jonghyun is there, crouched on the floor at his canvas-sign-in-the-making as always, wiping at the edge of the sign with what appears to be a limp, paint-stained towel. From the doorway, all Minho can see is the artist’s back, a button-up smock with jeans and worn sneakers. He can make out a bit of Jonghyun’s head, hair sticking up and messy as always, blown slightly to one side this time-as if by a wayward wind.
Minho thinks that the best thing to do in this situation would probably be to flee.
Very quickly, efficiently, and discreetly-so discreetly that Jonghyun wouldn’t even know he was there in the first place.
Want to stay
And this would have worked-this would’ve worked magnificently and Minho would’ve been gone and would’ve simply had to come next time with an excuse about how he had too much homework or forgot or lost track of time and the worst that would’ve happened was Kibum might’ve hit him or yelled at him or perhaps thrown a paintbrush at him if it came to that.
Stay and watch you
It would’ve worked except Jonghyun decides to turn his head just as Minho is gathering up his thoughts-gathering his willpower to walk away, gathering his nerve to leave things as they are and go before something terrible happens, before something is ruined again.
Jonghyun merely looks mildly surprised. “Hey,” he says, standing up and wiping his hands on the towel.
Minho swallows.
I’m sorry
His feet are already half-aimed to walk back down the hall. “I’ll just-“ he says and mimes leaving with his hands. “Yeah-I’ll-just-“
“Getting out of work?” Jonghyun says with an amused smile.
How can-
Minho blinks.
-you still smile like that-
“No, it’s just-“
“Kibummie had something to do,” the artist explains, scrunching up the towel in his hands and tossing it lightly to the side.
-at me?
“Oh.”
“C’mon,” Jonghyun motions with his arm for Minho to come inside the studio, “I finished the front sign so you can nail it up.”
Minho’s feet remain firmly glued in place. “I think I should go,” he says tonelessly.
He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun isn’t sending him off with a hearty salute. He doesn’t understand why it almost feels like Jonghyun doesn’t mind being alone in a building with Minho. He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun is treating him like they are friends. He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun is still speaking to him. He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun isn’t throwing things at him, isn’t screaming at him, isn’t furious at him. He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun doesn’t hate him.
Hate me
Jonghyun looks confused. “Why?”
It hurts less if you hate me
There are flames licking at Minho’s throat-painful and dry. “Kibum-shii isn’t here.”
Jonghyun’s eyes narrow for a brief moment, searching Minho’s expression and Minho looks away-looks at the ground. He looks at the ground for as long as he feels that gaze on him, and then glances back when he feels it taken off. He glances back and wishes that he’d just continued to stare at the ground because Jonghyun’s expression is too understanding-those round, dark eyes suddenly look like they know too much, more than Minho will ever be ready for anyone to know.
I’m so sorry
“Yah,” Jonghyun says softly, “I fucking worked my ass off on this sign, and I’m not going to nail it down all by myself too.”
Minho slowly crosses the studio, stopping when there’s just a foot separating him from the artist.
He hasn’t been this close to Jonghyun in years.
It’s never going to be enough, but-
Up close, there’re flecks of blue paint on Jonghyun’s left cheekbone and the bangs of the right side of his hair are wet with something dark and thick. There’s bright white spray paint coating the collar of his smock and some of it has crept onto his neck. His eyes are still bottomless, still liquid dark and glowing, still perfectly round and deep, his lashes are still long, and his cheeks are still high and perfect.
I’m so sorry
“Hyung,” Minho says in a low voice, hoarsely and barely choked out into coherency. His nails cut into his palms.
Jonghyun’s eyes suddenly glisten a bit too brightly-wetly-in the dim studio lights. A slow smile-a smile that makes Minho’s lungs stop working, that makes his heart work too fast and too hard-tugs at Jonghyun’s lips and when he speaks, his voice is suddenly as unsteady as Minho’s.
“Our scrapbook got an A+, huh, Minho-ah?”
Is there medicine?
The hyungs on Minho’s soccer team often describe his attitude as zen, as the polar opposite of Donghae, as the only one who Kangin will probably not punch when he’s angry, as the one who can survive an hour with Siwon and a bible, as the one who will hide his shock the best when Hankyung strides into the locker rooms naked because Kim Heechul wouldn’t give him back his clothes again.
Minho’s often described as a monk-in-training, only a monk would probably be more exciting, as said by Kangin, but Minho isn’t really feeling the monk-like calmness and patience when he finds himself assaulted-assaulted-by Kim Kibum the moment the athlete steps out of his afternoon class. This isn’t even Kibum’s university-Kibum’s university is about five blocks away and down the street, to the left of some nice coffee shops that Hyukjae has told Minho never to take Donghae to.
“Are you stupid?” is the first thing that falls out of Kibum’s mouth as Minho gets pulled to the side so he doesn’t block the doorway for the other students trying to file out. “Are you fucking stupid?” is the second thing that comes out of Kibum’s mouth.
Minho is irritated-is really pissed right now because even though he knows that he should probably be in jail right now, should probably have never joined the soccer team here because he doesn’t deserve to be happy with his hyungs like this, should probably be living somewhere homeless and diseased, should probably never be anything but miserable-even though he knows he’s a terrible, terrible person, it doesn’t change the fact that he personally thinks he’s doing his fucking best not to be around Jonghyun and he doesn’t know what the fuck else he’s supposed to do.
“Look,” Minho says in a low voice, “Kibum-shii, I know, okay? I got it. I understand. It’s crystal clear. I’m trying my best not to be around him, and when I got there that one time, I didn’t know that you weren’t going to be there, so-“
“You,” Kibum interrupts him, face evolved suddenly from anger to disbelief, “are fucking stupid. You are fucking retarded, aren’t you?”
Minho holds his tongue because he doesn’t know what will come out of his mouth if he doesn’t. Life is fucking with him and he gets that he deserves it, but this is just unnecessarily unnecessary.
“I wasn’t there that day,” Kibum says slowly, “because he asked me not to be there. He wanted to talk to you alone, and you ran away from him. He just wanted to talk to you.”
Minho’s eyes search the floor.
It slips out before he can stop it.
“He’s not supposed to want to talk to me.”
He looks up and Kibum’s eyebrows have disappeared into his bangs. “Yeah,” the artist says dryly, snorting. “I know. But Kim Jonghyun is as fucking retarded as you. He’s a fucking dumbass so he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to and not supposed to do.”
And with that, Kim Kibum leaves.
Dizziness
Minho doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. He can’t comprehend-can’t wrap his mind around what this means, what he’s supposed to do, what’s expected of him. He doesn’t understand because Kibum is confusing-Kibum’s words are even more confusing. First, Minho is told to stay away from Jonghyun-to never be alone with Jonghyun and this all makes sense. Minho expected this and still expects this because it makes sense-three years doesn’t change anything and this makes sense.
It stops making sense when Jonghyun doesn’t hate him.
If Jonghyun has never hated him, then it’s never made sense.
It needs to make sense.
Insomnia
Sometimes Minho dreams of it.
Sometimes, he still dreams of it.
He dreams of kissing Jonghyun-of that first, innocent, harmless kiss. The sweetest, softest kiss he’s had-a sober kiss without the veil of alcohol or the high of drugs. He dreams of that first, perfect kiss-perfect and it would have stayed so perfect if Minho had listened-if Minho had listened to Jonghyun, to that warm hand on his chest telling him to wait a minute instead of the voices in his head, the voices wherever he went, telling him to take what he wants, telling him that nothing will ever matter in his world except for him, that Jonghyun isn’t an artist, isn’t beautiful, isn’t warm and bright and unbelievable.
Jonghyun is a body.
Jonghyun is a body with an asshole and a dick and a mouth.
He dreams of grabbing Jonghyun, of throwing him against walls, against desks, of tossing him around and slamming him senseless onto the floor. He dreams of blood from the corners of Jonghyun’s mouth, the corners of Jonghyun’s forehead, staining soft hair and blinding dark, round eyes. He dreams of Jonghyun’s voice, of the sounds of pain, of shock, of-
Minho-ah-don’t-ow-yah-Minho-ah-why-
He dreams of pinning Jonghyun to the floor, desks and chairs scattered and knocked around, dreams of weighing the older boy down with his body, of holding his face down with stinging fingers gripping and yanking at his hair, of digging his elbows against Jonghyun’s spine, of shouts of pain and refusal and fear when clothes start to get torn off. He dreams of the sight of Jonghyun clenching his eyes shut and burying his face into the floor, away from Minho at the sound of Minho zipping down his pants, dreams of the initial choked sound of indescribable pain after the first thrust-dry and bloody and burning hot and tight-
Suffocating
He dreams of watching Jonghyun’s fingers and fingernails bleed red as they scratch at the tiles, scratch at himself, hold on to desk legs and chair legs and anything they can grip to cope with the pain, to cope with the shock, the trauma, to cope to cope to cope to cope-
In his dreams, he wants to take Jonghyun’s hands and let them scratch at Minho, to tell the artist that if it hurts then he can hold on to Minho-to hold on as tight and hard as he wants to until it stops hurting. He wants to hold the artist’s face in his dreams-wants to kiss him softly and gently and ask him to open his eyes, to tell him that that’s all Minho needs to see, that Minho doesn’t need to see, doesn’t need to have or feel Jonghyun’s body as long as he can see the artist’s eyes-dark and large and deep and beautiful and warm and-
If I apologized, would you believe me?
In his dreams, Minho feels regret-he’s angry and frustrated and jealous, so jealous, of Jonghyun and his perfect world and how it stayed so beautiful and perfect and how Minho’s world only ever has light during those sessions with Jonghyun but Jonghyun’s world is light and lovely regardless of whether Minho is in it or not-Jonghyun doesn’t need Minho, will never need Minho, will never want Minho because why would perfection need imperfection?
Minho dreams of painful orgasms and shuddering bodies and seeing his cock covered in red and white. He dreams of naked, limp bodies, of fading warmth, of empty eyes, of silence. He dreams of wanting to touch Jonghyun-wanting to apologize then and there, wanting to apologize because it didn’t take him three years to feel as horrible as he does, it took him hardly three seconds and in hardly three seconds he was ready to apologize but he couldn’t-
He couldn’t, could he?
He couldn’t apologize-couldn’t look at Kim Jonghyun, bright and warm and full of light and art and color, couldn’t look at all of that reduced into brokenness, into motionless and dead and lifeless and dark and empty. He couldn’t look at all of that, look at what he had done, at how far he had finally gone, couldn’t watch any of that and apologize. It didn’t make sense to. There wouldn’t have been any point. It wasn’t like he would’ve been forgiven-would’ve even been listened to or taken seriously.
I’m sorry-I’m so sorry. I’m sorry and sorry and sorry and sorry and sorry and sorry and I’m so sorry.
Minho thinks that maybe if he hated Jonghyun, it would’ve been forgivable.
The fact that he loves Jonghyun?
Despicable.
Author: himawarixxsandz
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: JongHo
Summary: Minho is sick.
A/N: So, I thought before that I was just going to make a Domino part two, but then BEAST came out and gave me a better song to fit the second part of whateveryoucallthiskindofminiseriesAUthing. So, we'll do it like this instead: this will be the sequel and we'll just have a two part sequel (maybe three if I go overboard with the Jongho lovin'), sound all right? And no, of course this isn't just some way for me to work in a BEAST song because I'm an insanely happy B2UTY this weekend. Also, thanks, you guys, for liking my Jongho ^-^ I haven't properly said how happy it makes me that you guys aren't all like You break JongKey? We no love you no more *stabs*.
Part 1 // Part 2
“Why do I have to be in charge of the signs and decorations?” Minho says incredulously.
“Because you’re the maknae,” Donghae smiles brightly and pats him on the back.
“Stop complaining,” Kangin pipes in as he passes, “you’re not even going to do anything-‘in charge’ just means you get to boss around the art students we got from that art university a few blocks over.”
Hyukjae gives Minho the address of the downtown studio that all the work for the sports festival is supposed to be done.
Minho doesn’t understand why they can’t just wrap their booth up in construction paper and be done with it.
Body aches
It’s been three years and Minho thinks the world is fucking with him again.
It’s been three years.
Minho has graduated, has lost and left the teammates who’d given him a world where the sun is made of sex and smoke and the clouds are made of buzzing alcohol. He’s lost and left those teammates in exchange for new ones-ones that live in the beautiful world he used to, of black and white suns and netted clouds with plastic poles-ones that are willing to let him live in theirs until he finishes rebuilding his own.
It’s been three years, and Minho’s world still isn’t even close to the halfway point of being finished and it’s already threatened once again to come crashing down.
Nausea
“You must be fucking me,” is Kim Kibum’s flat greeting when Minho reaches within hearing distance.
The studio is across the street from the art university and the block of apartments most of the students use for living quarters instead of dorms. It’s a series of rooms that stretch down a long, wide hallway, each closed in with glass and sliding lightwood doors-big, open spaces with vast glass windows. There’s lots of sunlight in the day and soft, pale lighting at nighttime.
Minho easily found the room on the Post-It note that Hyukjae gave him and wishes that he’d gotten lost and had to ask someone else to do it in the end because he completely botched the meeting time because he didn’t think he’d be working with the last two people he ever wants to see because he knows that he is the last person they will ever want to see.
He doesn’t dare look at Jonghyun.
He only looks at Jonghyun’s shoes-nothing higher.
“Turn right around,” Kibum says blackly, “and tell your captain or your teammates or hyungs or who the fuck is in charge and ask them to send someone else if they want us making the soccer team’s booth amazing at the festival.”
Kibum is all right-Minho can look at Kibum in the eye.
“They all have their own jobs,” Minho says tonelessly. “I’m the maknae so I still can’t do all the official registering stuff. So they sent me here-I can’t really go back and tell them to change.”
Kibum’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Yes, you can. You can definitely tell them to change otherwise, they’re going to have some half-assed, unfinished signs because if they don’t change, I’m doing them alone. I’m doing them alone because you must think you’re fucking insane as fuck if you’re getting near him ever again.”
“Yah-Kibummie.”
Jonghyun’s voice.
Minho doesn’t look up-looks away from Kibum’s furious face back down to the floor in case Jonghyun might come within seeing distance. He can’t look-he can’t look-he can’t look-he’s terrified out of his fucking mind to look-he can’t-can’t-can’t-can’t-can’t-
“They’re our hyungs too,” and his voice is so bright-it’s casual and easy and clear and cheerful and loud and beautiful-too beautiful-and light and perfect. “And Kangin-hyung’s going to whip our asses if we don’t do it.”
A pause.
And then Kibum punches Minho’s shoulder-hard enough that it hurts.
“Fuck you,” Kibum snaps. “You won’t even look at him-you-“
Jonghyun’s shoes are suddenly far too close to Minho’s-the toes of their sneakers have barely inches between them and Minho can smell him. He can sense him, he can feel him far too close, he can hear breathing now, he can feel Kibum frustrated and furious, he can-
“Hey-“
Too bright
“-wow-“
Hurts my eyes
“-you grew more, you asshole?”
Minho looks.
He wishes he hadn’t.
But he’s glad he did.
He still wishes he hadn’t.
But he’s so-so-so glad he did.
Jonghyun looks warm-is warm-in a loose sweatshirt and dark-washed jeans. His hair is messy-terribly tousled-and chaotic on his head, standing up at random spots and falling flat at even more random spots. His hands are in the pockets of his sweatshirt and there is red and yellow paint splattered on the cuffs of his sleeves. But then there is his expression and Minho wishes he never looked.
It’s-
There’s a curve to Jonghyun’s lips-perhaps not a smile, but something soft and unsure. His round eyes look a little bit raw, a little bit frightened, a little bit confused-he’s nervous and hesitant and this should never be Kim Jonghyun-
-all my fault
This should never be Kim Jonghyun except right now it is and Minho doesn’t know why the fuck he’s doing this-why the fuck he didn’t turn around when Kibum told him to and beg his hyungs to send someone else, quit the soccer team if it came to it. He doesn’t know why he didn’t do that because why should he work with Jonghyun? Why should Minho come in and destroy Jonghyun’s life a second time around?
Missed you
Jonghyun doesn’t want to see Minho-Jonghyun doesn’t want anything to do with Choi Minho, and yet here he is, strolling right back in to a life that doesn’t need him-a world too beautiful for him to ever even imagine stepping foot into.
So much
“You know Kibummie and Jonghyunnie?” Donghae says with surprised eyes the next day when they are walking together to their respective lectures.
“Yeah, so, it’s really better if-“
“That’s great, Minho-ah,” Donghae concludes cheerily, slapping him on the back, “then you’re the perfect guy to be in charge of all the artsy stuff. We are going to win hands down.”
And he jogs away to the building his next class is in, leaving Minho standing by himself at the center of east campus confirming that Lee Hyukjae must be a saint.
Donghae also leaves Minho to conclude for himself that life is fucking with him.
Again.
Fevers-chills
Kibum has made it loud and clear that he hates Minho. He’s also made it loud and clear that just because he himself isn’t going to be the one working on the booth with Minho (he’s already promised his talents to the basketball team), he might as well be, because he’s brought the booth that he’s working on to the studio assigned to Jonghyun and paints-and-pastes-and-cuts while simultaneously glaring at every move Minho makes.
Breathing, Minho has found, is particularly offensive to Kibum.
Minho wants to tell Kibum that there’s no point in all of this because it’s not like Minho is going to allow himself to get anywhere within a five foot radius of Jonghyun anyway. The booth is still in separate parts-still in wooden-plank-form rather than attractive-festival-stand form. Minho is in charge of filing the wood and cutting it and the general putting-it-together, and he does so in a corner of the studio-near the door and a window so the wood dust has somewhere to go. He does it in the farthest corner of the studio there is-farthest from Kibum and even farther from Jonghyun.
From what he’s managed to see-he tries not to look in Jonghyun’s direction unless the two artists are away on lunch break or not arrived yet or already left-Jonghyun is making the sign for the body of the booth. The material is still a mystery to Minho-some sort of large, white canvas that’s slowly being colored with Minho’s university’s emblem along with the name of his soccer team.
He realizes that he’s never seen Jonghyun’s art-Jonghyun’s own art, not for a project or helping out for a festival.
He really wants to see it.
But he can’t-he never can.
It hurts
It’s the seventh studio session, an overcast evening, and Kibum is not there when Minho arrives.
Jonghyun is.
Jonghyun is there, crouched on the floor at his canvas-sign-in-the-making as always, wiping at the edge of the sign with what appears to be a limp, paint-stained towel. From the doorway, all Minho can see is the artist’s back, a button-up smock with jeans and worn sneakers. He can make out a bit of Jonghyun’s head, hair sticking up and messy as always, blown slightly to one side this time-as if by a wayward wind.
Minho thinks that the best thing to do in this situation would probably be to flee.
Very quickly, efficiently, and discreetly-so discreetly that Jonghyun wouldn’t even know he was there in the first place.
Want to stay
And this would have worked-this would’ve worked magnificently and Minho would’ve been gone and would’ve simply had to come next time with an excuse about how he had too much homework or forgot or lost track of time and the worst that would’ve happened was Kibum might’ve hit him or yelled at him or perhaps thrown a paintbrush at him if it came to that.
Stay and watch you
It would’ve worked except Jonghyun decides to turn his head just as Minho is gathering up his thoughts-gathering his willpower to walk away, gathering his nerve to leave things as they are and go before something terrible happens, before something is ruined again.
Jonghyun merely looks mildly surprised. “Hey,” he says, standing up and wiping his hands on the towel.
Minho swallows.
I’m sorry
His feet are already half-aimed to walk back down the hall. “I’ll just-“ he says and mimes leaving with his hands. “Yeah-I’ll-just-“
“Getting out of work?” Jonghyun says with an amused smile.
How can-
Minho blinks.
-you still smile like that-
“No, it’s just-“
“Kibummie had something to do,” the artist explains, scrunching up the towel in his hands and tossing it lightly to the side.
-at me?
“Oh.”
“C’mon,” Jonghyun motions with his arm for Minho to come inside the studio, “I finished the front sign so you can nail it up.”
Minho’s feet remain firmly glued in place. “I think I should go,” he says tonelessly.
He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun isn’t sending him off with a hearty salute. He doesn’t understand why it almost feels like Jonghyun doesn’t mind being alone in a building with Minho. He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun is treating him like they are friends. He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun is still speaking to him. He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun isn’t throwing things at him, isn’t screaming at him, isn’t furious at him. He doesn’t understand why Jonghyun doesn’t hate him.
Hate me
Jonghyun looks confused. “Why?”
It hurts less if you hate me
There are flames licking at Minho’s throat-painful and dry. “Kibum-shii isn’t here.”
Jonghyun’s eyes narrow for a brief moment, searching Minho’s expression and Minho looks away-looks at the ground. He looks at the ground for as long as he feels that gaze on him, and then glances back when he feels it taken off. He glances back and wishes that he’d just continued to stare at the ground because Jonghyun’s expression is too understanding-those round, dark eyes suddenly look like they know too much, more than Minho will ever be ready for anyone to know.
I’m so sorry
“Yah,” Jonghyun says softly, “I fucking worked my ass off on this sign, and I’m not going to nail it down all by myself too.”
Minho slowly crosses the studio, stopping when there’s just a foot separating him from the artist.
He hasn’t been this close to Jonghyun in years.
It’s never going to be enough, but-
Up close, there’re flecks of blue paint on Jonghyun’s left cheekbone and the bangs of the right side of his hair are wet with something dark and thick. There’s bright white spray paint coating the collar of his smock and some of it has crept onto his neck. His eyes are still bottomless, still liquid dark and glowing, still perfectly round and deep, his lashes are still long, and his cheeks are still high and perfect.
I’m so sorry
“Hyung,” Minho says in a low voice, hoarsely and barely choked out into coherency. His nails cut into his palms.
Jonghyun’s eyes suddenly glisten a bit too brightly-wetly-in the dim studio lights. A slow smile-a smile that makes Minho’s lungs stop working, that makes his heart work too fast and too hard-tugs at Jonghyun’s lips and when he speaks, his voice is suddenly as unsteady as Minho’s.
“Our scrapbook got an A+, huh, Minho-ah?”
Is there medicine?
The hyungs on Minho’s soccer team often describe his attitude as zen, as the polar opposite of Donghae, as the only one who Kangin will probably not punch when he’s angry, as the one who can survive an hour with Siwon and a bible, as the one who will hide his shock the best when Hankyung strides into the locker rooms naked because Kim Heechul wouldn’t give him back his clothes again.
Minho’s often described as a monk-in-training, only a monk would probably be more exciting, as said by Kangin, but Minho isn’t really feeling the monk-like calmness and patience when he finds himself assaulted-assaulted-by Kim Kibum the moment the athlete steps out of his afternoon class. This isn’t even Kibum’s university-Kibum’s university is about five blocks away and down the street, to the left of some nice coffee shops that Hyukjae has told Minho never to take Donghae to.
“Are you stupid?” is the first thing that falls out of Kibum’s mouth as Minho gets pulled to the side so he doesn’t block the doorway for the other students trying to file out. “Are you fucking stupid?” is the second thing that comes out of Kibum’s mouth.
Minho is irritated-is really pissed right now because even though he knows that he should probably be in jail right now, should probably have never joined the soccer team here because he doesn’t deserve to be happy with his hyungs like this, should probably be living somewhere homeless and diseased, should probably never be anything but miserable-even though he knows he’s a terrible, terrible person, it doesn’t change the fact that he personally thinks he’s doing his fucking best not to be around Jonghyun and he doesn’t know what the fuck else he’s supposed to do.
“Look,” Minho says in a low voice, “Kibum-shii, I know, okay? I got it. I understand. It’s crystal clear. I’m trying my best not to be around him, and when I got there that one time, I didn’t know that you weren’t going to be there, so-“
“You,” Kibum interrupts him, face evolved suddenly from anger to disbelief, “are fucking stupid. You are fucking retarded, aren’t you?”
Minho holds his tongue because he doesn’t know what will come out of his mouth if he doesn’t. Life is fucking with him and he gets that he deserves it, but this is just unnecessarily unnecessary.
“I wasn’t there that day,” Kibum says slowly, “because he asked me not to be there. He wanted to talk to you alone, and you ran away from him. He just wanted to talk to you.”
Minho’s eyes search the floor.
It slips out before he can stop it.
“He’s not supposed to want to talk to me.”
He looks up and Kibum’s eyebrows have disappeared into his bangs. “Yeah,” the artist says dryly, snorting. “I know. But Kim Jonghyun is as fucking retarded as you. He’s a fucking dumbass so he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to and not supposed to do.”
And with that, Kim Kibum leaves.
Dizziness
Minho doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. He can’t comprehend-can’t wrap his mind around what this means, what he’s supposed to do, what’s expected of him. He doesn’t understand because Kibum is confusing-Kibum’s words are even more confusing. First, Minho is told to stay away from Jonghyun-to never be alone with Jonghyun and this all makes sense. Minho expected this and still expects this because it makes sense-three years doesn’t change anything and this makes sense.
It stops making sense when Jonghyun doesn’t hate him.
If Jonghyun has never hated him, then it’s never made sense.
It needs to make sense.
Insomnia
Sometimes Minho dreams of it.
Sometimes, he still dreams of it.
He dreams of kissing Jonghyun-of that first, innocent, harmless kiss. The sweetest, softest kiss he’s had-a sober kiss without the veil of alcohol or the high of drugs. He dreams of that first, perfect kiss-perfect and it would have stayed so perfect if Minho had listened-if Minho had listened to Jonghyun, to that warm hand on his chest telling him to wait a minute instead of the voices in his head, the voices wherever he went, telling him to take what he wants, telling him that nothing will ever matter in his world except for him, that Jonghyun isn’t an artist, isn’t beautiful, isn’t warm and bright and unbelievable.
Jonghyun is a body.
Jonghyun is a body with an asshole and a dick and a mouth.
He dreams of grabbing Jonghyun, of throwing him against walls, against desks, of tossing him around and slamming him senseless onto the floor. He dreams of blood from the corners of Jonghyun’s mouth, the corners of Jonghyun’s forehead, staining soft hair and blinding dark, round eyes. He dreams of Jonghyun’s voice, of the sounds of pain, of shock, of-
Minho-ah-don’t-ow-yah-Minho-ah-why-
He dreams of pinning Jonghyun to the floor, desks and chairs scattered and knocked around, dreams of weighing the older boy down with his body, of holding his face down with stinging fingers gripping and yanking at his hair, of digging his elbows against Jonghyun’s spine, of shouts of pain and refusal and fear when clothes start to get torn off. He dreams of the sight of Jonghyun clenching his eyes shut and burying his face into the floor, away from Minho at the sound of Minho zipping down his pants, dreams of the initial choked sound of indescribable pain after the first thrust-dry and bloody and burning hot and tight-
Suffocating
He dreams of watching Jonghyun’s fingers and fingernails bleed red as they scratch at the tiles, scratch at himself, hold on to desk legs and chair legs and anything they can grip to cope with the pain, to cope with the shock, the trauma, to cope to cope to cope to cope-
In his dreams, he wants to take Jonghyun’s hands and let them scratch at Minho, to tell the artist that if it hurts then he can hold on to Minho-to hold on as tight and hard as he wants to until it stops hurting. He wants to hold the artist’s face in his dreams-wants to kiss him softly and gently and ask him to open his eyes, to tell him that that’s all Minho needs to see, that Minho doesn’t need to see, doesn’t need to have or feel Jonghyun’s body as long as he can see the artist’s eyes-dark and large and deep and beautiful and warm and-
If I apologized, would you believe me?
In his dreams, Minho feels regret-he’s angry and frustrated and jealous, so jealous, of Jonghyun and his perfect world and how it stayed so beautiful and perfect and how Minho’s world only ever has light during those sessions with Jonghyun but Jonghyun’s world is light and lovely regardless of whether Minho is in it or not-Jonghyun doesn’t need Minho, will never need Minho, will never want Minho because why would perfection need imperfection?
Minho dreams of painful orgasms and shuddering bodies and seeing his cock covered in red and white. He dreams of naked, limp bodies, of fading warmth, of empty eyes, of silence. He dreams of wanting to touch Jonghyun-wanting to apologize then and there, wanting to apologize because it didn’t take him three years to feel as horrible as he does, it took him hardly three seconds and in hardly three seconds he was ready to apologize but he couldn’t-
He couldn’t, could he?
He couldn’t apologize-couldn’t look at Kim Jonghyun, bright and warm and full of light and art and color, couldn’t look at all of that reduced into brokenness, into motionless and dead and lifeless and dark and empty. He couldn’t look at all of that, look at what he had done, at how far he had finally gone, couldn’t watch any of that and apologize. It didn’t make sense to. There wouldn’t have been any point. It wasn’t like he would’ve been forgiven-would’ve even been listened to or taken seriously.
I’m sorry-I’m so sorry. I’m sorry and sorry and sorry and sorry and sorry and sorry and I’m so sorry.
Minho thinks that maybe if he hated Jonghyun, it would’ve been forgivable.
The fact that he loves Jonghyun?
Despicable.