(no subject)
south in summer
minho/key, pg-13, 1076ⓦ
Note: Poem by Tyler Knott Gregson. For vyplum for Replay4Japan.
Even in silence
with only glances and stares,
tell me you love me.*
There is a blood orange on the kitchen counter. The discarded peels are lying in long, waxy curls and the flesh is torn, red and bleeding. It is six o'clock and the sun is barely starting to fade; summer is on the horizon and the heat of the days is getting longer.
Kibum is tooth and bone, a wild, insecure youth trying to claw its way out of the glassy exterior he's built for himself like a matryoshka doll.
Two months before their debut, Kibum dislocates his shoulder. There's only room for one on the ambulance, and Minho is about to move to give Jonghyun space to step forward when Kibum's fingers close on Minho's wrist. The entire ride, Kibum's fingers are pressed white against Minho's arm, every whorl burning into his skin. "Shit," Kibum says, over and over again, an angry, sibilant hiss.
Kibum had had his palm read, once. Fame and good health. A strong life line, but unlucky in love. "I don't believe you," he'd said, loudly, but the gypsy woman had only smiled enigmatically and lifted her callused fingers from the invisible map of his hand.
Afterwards, he had run his fingers over the lines of his left hand, the tiny fault lines: life, head, heart, little crooked mysteries. He'd curled his fingers in, blunt nails lined up against what she'd called the head line, closing his fist on love.
Love, Minho thinks, watching Kibum tilt his head back and make eyes at the Nylon cameras, is something you can never really escape. His wallet is bulky from all the photos he keeps tucked into the pockets: his family, his elementary school soccer team, a wide-eyed and newly-debuted SHINee, so on and so forth. Love, in past tense: he still remembers Jung Soyeon from year six, Kim Eunji from next door, Park Jihyun, et cetera. The shutter clicks, and the camera flashes - to the present.
The difference between hate and love is just one wrong turn, one nerve lighting up instead of another. Kibum hates Minho, perpetually calm and blasé Minho, hates his infuriating ability to make everyone feel inferior, hates that in a world of convenient labels - singer, leader, dancer, rapper - he is a free radical, left to fend for himself, to try to become Key, Almighty Key, Key who can do everything, anything you want, just say the word: scream for Key, Key, Key, Key.
"Say my name," Kibum whispers, bewildered, angry. His pulse is like an earthquake on Minho's skin, shaking. In the darkened hallway, he can still hear the echoes of a name that is not his.
"Kim," Minho says, slowly, like each word is a gesture, a touch, an affirmation. "Kibum."
When they kiss, their lips are dry.
They are lovers, and then they are strangers. When he's asked about his first kiss, Minho glances sidelong at Kibum, who is leaning by the door, looking bored, fingers toying absent-mindedly with his necklace. "I've never had a girlfriend," Minho says carefully, trailing off evasively.
There is a scar on Kibum's wrist that he has never explained, a white sickle shape curved over the bone. When Minho's fingers brush against it in the car, Kibum shivers, looks at him with wide Peter Pan eyes.
Minho thinks Kibum is probably the kind of person who thinks about dying. On a sleepless night, he lies in bed, staring up at the mattress above, imagines the way the muted moonlight coming in from the window would cast shadows onto Kibum's face, sharp lines in stark relief, as if cut by a knife.
Backstage, Kibum is thinking about empires. Castles with sharp spires you could prick your finger on; wars and crusades, old livered hands on a holy text, glory and the good die young. Versailles, crumbling.
There is a hand at the small of his back. "Hey," Minho says. In the dark, Kibum can just barely make out the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw. Kibum blinks at him, as if he is waking up from one dream to another.
What if this is all we ever are, Kibum wants to ask, once they are stepping onto the darkened stage. What if we say goodbye now and disappear. Wordlessly, Minho takes Kibum's hand in his, their fingers linking behind Taemin's back, hidden from view as the last first beats of "Replay" begin.
On New Year's Eve, everyone gets a little drunk waiting for midnight, Taemin red-cheeked and ruffled, Jinki leaning against an animated, laughing Jonghyun like a crutch. Minho finds Kibum on the balcony, curled up with his hair in an uncharacteristic disarray. He doesn't move when Minho sits down next to him, only pulls his knees closer to his chest.
Kibum had looked at him unapologetically after the kiss, he remembers. It had been short, Kibum's lips pressing against his like a brand, Kibum looking like he'd taken something from Minho when in reality he'd left fire in his wake. "I dream about you sometimes," Minho finds himself saying. His mouth twists afterward, like it's something he's guilty of.
Kibum glances at him, without turning his head. Behind them, the clamour reaches a crescendo; on the television, a smatter of fireworks explode. Minho takes a breath, hesitates, and Kibum looks away.
Jonghyun always writes about love, Kibum has noticed, things like to me, you're a playful fox and all I wanted was simply to give you an endless love. They've built an empire on romance, been taught all the right ways to make girls blush, and yet all he has of Minho are these little pieces, the way his eyes light up when someone mentions Thierry Henry and the flush of his cheeks when he'd had a fever last September; the subtle press of his lips when he doesn't want to talk to the camera abruptly pointed his way, and then when Kibum had put the pieces of himself into Minho's hands for a moment and said just this once, I want to be reckless.
Minho, in the end, is still that boy who hides his money in books and who doesn't know how to admit defeat, determination written all over his stubborn young face. Love, maybe, is a game, or at least something you can win or lose, where things happen in the blink of an eye, something that demands focus, concentration, a single-mindedness-
In the mirror, Kibum's eyes meet his.
minho/key, pg-13, 1076ⓦ
Note: Poem by Tyler Knott Gregson. For vyplum for Replay4Japan.
Even in silence
with only glances and stares,
tell me you love me.*
There is a blood orange on the kitchen counter. The discarded peels are lying in long, waxy curls and the flesh is torn, red and bleeding. It is six o'clock and the sun is barely starting to fade; summer is on the horizon and the heat of the days is getting longer.
Kibum is tooth and bone, a wild, insecure youth trying to claw its way out of the glassy exterior he's built for himself like a matryoshka doll.
Two months before their debut, Kibum dislocates his shoulder. There's only room for one on the ambulance, and Minho is about to move to give Jonghyun space to step forward when Kibum's fingers close on Minho's wrist. The entire ride, Kibum's fingers are pressed white against Minho's arm, every whorl burning into his skin. "Shit," Kibum says, over and over again, an angry, sibilant hiss.
Kibum had had his palm read, once. Fame and good health. A strong life line, but unlucky in love. "I don't believe you," he'd said, loudly, but the gypsy woman had only smiled enigmatically and lifted her callused fingers from the invisible map of his hand.
Afterwards, he had run his fingers over the lines of his left hand, the tiny fault lines: life, head, heart, little crooked mysteries. He'd curled his fingers in, blunt nails lined up against what she'd called the head line, closing his fist on love.
Love, Minho thinks, watching Kibum tilt his head back and make eyes at the Nylon cameras, is something you can never really escape. His wallet is bulky from all the photos he keeps tucked into the pockets: his family, his elementary school soccer team, a wide-eyed and newly-debuted SHINee, so on and so forth. Love, in past tense: he still remembers Jung Soyeon from year six, Kim Eunji from next door, Park Jihyun, et cetera. The shutter clicks, and the camera flashes - to the present.
The difference between hate and love is just one wrong turn, one nerve lighting up instead of another. Kibum hates Minho, perpetually calm and blasé Minho, hates his infuriating ability to make everyone feel inferior, hates that in a world of convenient labels - singer, leader, dancer, rapper - he is a free radical, left to fend for himself, to try to become Key, Almighty Key, Key who can do everything, anything you want, just say the word: scream for Key, Key, Key, Key.
"Say my name," Kibum whispers, bewildered, angry. His pulse is like an earthquake on Minho's skin, shaking. In the darkened hallway, he can still hear the echoes of a name that is not his.
"Kim," Minho says, slowly, like each word is a gesture, a touch, an affirmation. "Kibum."
When they kiss, their lips are dry.
They are lovers, and then they are strangers. When he's asked about his first kiss, Minho glances sidelong at Kibum, who is leaning by the door, looking bored, fingers toying absent-mindedly with his necklace. "I've never had a girlfriend," Minho says carefully, trailing off evasively.
There is a scar on Kibum's wrist that he has never explained, a white sickle shape curved over the bone. When Minho's fingers brush against it in the car, Kibum shivers, looks at him with wide Peter Pan eyes.
Minho thinks Kibum is probably the kind of person who thinks about dying. On a sleepless night, he lies in bed, staring up at the mattress above, imagines the way the muted moonlight coming in from the window would cast shadows onto Kibum's face, sharp lines in stark relief, as if cut by a knife.
Backstage, Kibum is thinking about empires. Castles with sharp spires you could prick your finger on; wars and crusades, old livered hands on a holy text, glory and the good die young. Versailles, crumbling.
There is a hand at the small of his back. "Hey," Minho says. In the dark, Kibum can just barely make out the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw. Kibum blinks at him, as if he is waking up from one dream to another.
What if this is all we ever are, Kibum wants to ask, once they are stepping onto the darkened stage. What if we say goodbye now and disappear. Wordlessly, Minho takes Kibum's hand in his, their fingers linking behind Taemin's back, hidden from view as the last first beats of "Replay" begin.
On New Year's Eve, everyone gets a little drunk waiting for midnight, Taemin red-cheeked and ruffled, Jinki leaning against an animated, laughing Jonghyun like a crutch. Minho finds Kibum on the balcony, curled up with his hair in an uncharacteristic disarray. He doesn't move when Minho sits down next to him, only pulls his knees closer to his chest.
Kibum had looked at him unapologetically after the kiss, he remembers. It had been short, Kibum's lips pressing against his like a brand, Kibum looking like he'd taken something from Minho when in reality he'd left fire in his wake. "I dream about you sometimes," Minho finds himself saying. His mouth twists afterward, like it's something he's guilty of.
Kibum glances at him, without turning his head. Behind them, the clamour reaches a crescendo; on the television, a smatter of fireworks explode. Minho takes a breath, hesitates, and Kibum looks away.
Jonghyun always writes about love, Kibum has noticed, things like to me, you're a playful fox and all I wanted was simply to give you an endless love. They've built an empire on romance, been taught all the right ways to make girls blush, and yet all he has of Minho are these little pieces, the way his eyes light up when someone mentions Thierry Henry and the flush of his cheeks when he'd had a fever last September; the subtle press of his lips when he doesn't want to talk to the camera abruptly pointed his way, and then when Kibum had put the pieces of himself into Minho's hands for a moment and said just this once, I want to be reckless.
Minho, in the end, is still that boy who hides his money in books and who doesn't know how to admit defeat, determination written all over his stubborn young face. Love, maybe, is a game, or at least something you can win or lose, where things happen in the blink of an eye, something that demands focus, concentration, a single-mindedness-
In the mirror, Kibum's eyes meet his.