The Runaway Kid
THE RUNAWAY KID;; PG
(everyone writes such lovely minho/krystal fics these days! it left me inspired but inspiration only takes you so far, fml)
it's not rly an au but it sort of seems like it? idk read on--
He flies to Paris because he thinks a pretty language must have all the right answers.
He calculates the timing on his watch, crosses the dates off his standard 4x4 calendar hung on his wall, to the day.
He drops two cubes of sugar into his coffee, blends it counter-clockwise habitually.
The meaning of spontaneous is completely lost on Minho.
He taps his arm rest on the plane like a tick, continuously looks around, eyes fidgeting and frigid. The taste of rebellion is a little too exhilarating for him to understand. It's not textbook.
Luckily she's not a textbook.
-
Her hair is free, flying in the wind. She's already adapted to the Parisian way of dressing; she calls her flowy dress and kept shoes "messy couture" when he comments on it.
She wraps a red (royal) scarf around his neck, brings him close in a street full of stampeding tourists, almost missing his lips in a half-kiss before he pushes her away softly but quick.
"What are you doing, people can see us!"
"Bienvenue à Paris, mon chéri!" She squeals and leans forward again but when Minho doesn't reciprocate, eyes frantic, she continues, "Minho oppa, you're in Paris now, you're not home anymore. We're not home anymore."
The words sink in inch by inch. He slacks his shoulders enough to timidly hold her hand for the walk back to her hotel, but not enough ease to let her hold his luggage, "I don't care what country we're in, I'm still the man."
And he watches the city. It's beautiful, it's unfamiliar, it's alive.
-
"I'm glad you picked Paris, oppa. I just wish you came with me last week so we could've explored it brand new together."
"I wanted to, but coming separately was the safest way."
"I love it here, I never want to go home! I've learned the most amazing phrases, Je t'aime, J'adore, merci beacoup," Krystal jumps around the grand bed, clutching the satin sheets to the ceiling before collapsing onto Minho's lean body underneath, "l'amour, l'amour, l'amour."
He sighs, a content hand curling under Krystal's chin, bringing her meek frame towards his chest. She exhales back into him, adrenaline still high.
"What does that all mean? I only know one word in French. Oui."
"Oui is the only word that matters. Do you love me oppa?"
Minho looks at Krystal from his side, her hair tangled unfairly hiding her face, her cheeks pink with delight. It's the happiest he's ever seen her.
"Oui, baby."
"Baby is an english word, not French. Bébé."
"Oui, bébé."
They turn the radio on as loud as Minho will allow, humming and making up the words to every Chopin track for hours.
When it's time to sleep, Minho tries to get off the bed and sleep on the Russian carpet diplomatically but Krystal pushes him back, telling him to relax; "You're free."
His muscles stay tense the entire night, sweat drops falling the moments Krystal subconsciously wraps her weary arms around his bare chest.
It's not a feeling he's used to. It's not static.
-
Lunch dates soon equal talks about the near future, but never the big picture.
"Where do you think we should go next? Prague? Berlin? Luxemborg?"
"Mmmm...I don't know, you pick baby."
"When you say things like that you sound like you don't care."
"I do care, it's just...I just want to make you happy. Wherever you pick, I'll go."
"If you say things like that I'm going to pick some dingy hotel in the back alleyway of the slums of Venice."
"Will you be there?"
"Oui."
"Then oui too."
On day five of their Parisian love fest, they watch the festival of lights and cheer when everyone else cheers. Krystal plays daredevil and orders drink after drink, convincing everyone but Minho that she's of age. His mouth can't help but still turn upwards when she dances around the street, sashaying with the local drumming hippie.
-
(In Venice, Krystal falls in love with the dirty canals and everything they stand for so much, she decides they must take a swim in. Minho refuses, but Krystal does so anyway, enchanting passersby with her breast strokes and water spat 'hellos.' Minho convinces himself that her actions are sweet and completely characteristic and she's just homesick. He finishes the moment by taking pictures of her like a tourist.)
People don't runaway from home because they are actually crazy.
-
Prauge is more food, less frenzied Krystal. They contemplate more in the museums, sophisticate their educated tongues. Minho decides it's okay to loosen himself a little. He takes charge with hand-holding down the streets, his smiles become less forced, his public kisses less restrained with more conviction. Krystal awards him a PDA: public display of ass squeezing after a particularly brave smooch that results in Minho jumping out of his skin.
"Krystal, no!"
"I'm a free bird."
"You're crazy." He whispers it, unsure if she hears it over the loud crashing of glasses in the dive bar. The sports game overwhelms the sensation of sound, and when Minho wraps his arms from the back around Krystal's waist and tries to choke out an "I love you" his words fall flat on the grimy floor, unnoticed between the trash and soot.
-
Madrid becomes the equivalence of romance. Fireworks align the sky the moment they step on the historic cobblestone, floaters serenade them with the swooniest of music and Krystal sits on his lap and buys him whipped cream full macaroons, finger feeding it to the bevy of his lips. When he refuses to eat it, complaining about his body going pillow soft from their voyages; she counter-attacks by shamelessly forcing it down his throat, insisting she loves his lack of abs, something about him being too super-human before.
"You had abs too, Soojung-ah. Still have." He takes a little peek to prove his words, and it's not long before the air of Spain intoxicates Krystal enough to show Minho just how much she loves his new body. Minho drinks until he tricks himself into thinking it's okay, and pretty soon the virile boy in him becomes completely infatuated with the idea of sharing a bed.
Krystal tells him it's idyllic.
She swears to him she doesn't like materialistic things, but he knows she's a Jung, just like her sister. He buys her the sweetest crafted jewelry he can find on a whims note from a vendor cart. He tries to bite back the feeling of wishing he had ordered something custom-designed from back home in Korea from his favorite jewelry dealer. Love is supposed to be spontaneous, he reminds himself.
-
They spend too much time indoors in their days at Barcelona, until Minho memorizes every mole on Krystal's skin. It keeps him hungry until Krystal whines that they have to go out and enjoy the night life while their bodies are kicking with young blood.
The local club scene is loud, manic and pressing, bodies flying everywhere under dim lights and hazy smoke. Minho barely keeps his fingertips against Krystal's hips as she weaves them through the crowd, dancing in a trance, borrowing illegals from the couple inches apart from them.
"Let's go back home." he whines, after much sweat, anxiety and suffering. She stops her swaying, but only temporarily, her blood-shot eyes looking up at him with glare.
"This is my home."
"Fine, back to the hotel, whatever. Krystal..." She closes her eyes, ignoring Minho shaking her arms with urgency. "Soojung-ah...it's late, let's go sleep."
"NO." she spits on the ground, pushing back.
"Fine. I'm leaving then." Minho doesn't bother to look back, billowing through the thrashing of people, head-butting his way out. He doesn't see the look of pure sorrow in Krystal's eyes watching his back until she can no longer make out the strands of his hair beyond the crowd.
Minho borrows a cigarette from a kind neighbor, smokes it on the balcony of their room, waits for her all night. He watches the people underneath, laughing with pleasure, chatting with joy, walking to their next destination.
It seems a lot easier from above.
She returns before dawn, eyes watery, body limp with a simple "Sorry, oppa." Minho doesn't have it in his heart to say anything but "It's okay."
-
"You're too detached from reality." He gains the courage to say in London after Krystal tries to buy ecstasy from a huddle of high-school kids in uniforms.
"You're too high-strung."
Krystal insists on getting separate hotel rooms for three nights.
-
"I'm going to be the best actress of all time." Krystal declares from the ledge of a bridge. They never make-up, more or less Minho caves in because he misses the scent of her from when she steps out of the shower. Krystal conveniently forgets that they were mad at each other to begin with. He firmly keeps a grip on her as they walk on, her hands flailing in the air without a concern in the world.
"An actress? Why? You're already a pretty good singer to me."
"I'm going to become the best actress America has seen." She steps off the ledge and giggles, wrapping her arms around Minho's thick neck. "I'm going to act in English, speak English, not Korean."
"I can't understand you when you speak in English like that, Soojung-ah," he tries to act stern but his heart beats faster anytime she has a random English outburst. He figures this must've been how she acted when Amber was around. "But I like the way you sound in any language."
"Oui, monseir, oui. I want to live a life free of care, free of schedule, free of diet, free of comparison, free of vocal lesson after vocal lesson, free of belongings. Oui, oui, ou!"
Without a second thought, she unwraps herself from the confused figure in front of her, and drifts to the side of the bridge again, tearing the necklace that Minho had bought her around her neck and clutching it into her hands before dropping into the heavy river below.
"KRYSTAL, WHY?"
"Why what, bébé? It's just a necklace."
"I don't know you anymore, this isn't the you I know." he mutters.
It's grief.
The lurches in Minho's stomach cannot be comforted with the simple kisses and smiles of confusion Krystal tries to bribe him with, and he pushes her away- far away, as he runs down the street with desolation, looking for an answer.
"I can't save her."
It starts to rain, pour, on his way back to the hotel. The bags underneath his eyes become momentous with worry.
-
"Don't you think it's time?" He spits out, when they finally make-up and cuddle next to a briny fireplace.
(His conscience is too weak to be able to resist welcoming her back, when she shows up at their door the night before, drenched like a lost poodle. Later, he loses his pride when she hugs him forever and asks him to help her undress and get dry.)
She leans back into his chest, his long legs easily wrap around her; they are essential of picture perfect. He brushes her hair behind her ears, but there's no mistaking the way her eyebrows furrow.
"Time for what?"
"How long do you want to do this? Until you run out of money? Until you run out of places to see? It's been fun...but...I think it's time we go home."
"I'm not going home, Minho. I'm a nomad now. And you said you would be one too when we talked about this."
"I know, and I love it. I love being with you, but...people are getting worried. Our bandmates, our family. Your sister left me a message. She says your mom is worried. And our managers said that everyone-"
"You just miss structure. You miss stability."
"Is stability such a bad thing? You weren't always so wild and inhibited before."
"I was pretending."
The silence that looms over them is claustrophobic. Neither of them move for a while, even when Minho silently notes that his manager is going to pick him up at the airport tomorrow and that neither of them are in trouble, their people will take care of everything. But Minho kisses Krystal's forehead and she starts to cry, her wails so loud and unforgiving that even the promise of never letting go the whole night does nothing to console the feeling of knowing they'll be permanently apart.
-
The airport is dark, vacant and quiet, not warm and inviting like the cities of color they enjoyed.
"Please stay with me. Come home with me."
"I can't."
"You've got to stop running away. Aren't I enough for you?"
"I'm sorry." Krystal reaches up for a kiss despite the manager watching at the end of the terminal but Minho pulls away, his own tears refusing to stop greeting the tile.
"It's not fair, Krystal. It's not fair. Don't you love me?"
All she can do is muster that new, foreign, carefree smile of hers to placate his ache.
"Oui."
Minho doesn't tap the arm rest on his way home. Minho's heartbreak is nothing that structure can fix.
(lol they are my effy and freddie i know that's terrible, o k a y)
(everyone writes such lovely minho/krystal fics these days! it left me inspired but inspiration only takes you so far, fml)
it's not rly an au but it sort of seems like it? idk read on--
He flies to Paris because he thinks a pretty language must have all the right answers.
He calculates the timing on his watch, crosses the dates off his standard 4x4 calendar hung on his wall, to the day.
He drops two cubes of sugar into his coffee, blends it counter-clockwise habitually.
The meaning of spontaneous is completely lost on Minho.
He taps his arm rest on the plane like a tick, continuously looks around, eyes fidgeting and frigid. The taste of rebellion is a little too exhilarating for him to understand. It's not textbook.
Luckily she's not a textbook.
-
Her hair is free, flying in the wind. She's already adapted to the Parisian way of dressing; she calls her flowy dress and kept shoes "messy couture" when he comments on it.
She wraps a red (royal) scarf around his neck, brings him close in a street full of stampeding tourists, almost missing his lips in a half-kiss before he pushes her away softly but quick.
"What are you doing, people can see us!"
"Bienvenue à Paris, mon chéri!" She squeals and leans forward again but when Minho doesn't reciprocate, eyes frantic, she continues, "Minho oppa, you're in Paris now, you're not home anymore. We're not home anymore."
The words sink in inch by inch. He slacks his shoulders enough to timidly hold her hand for the walk back to her hotel, but not enough ease to let her hold his luggage, "I don't care what country we're in, I'm still the man."
And he watches the city. It's beautiful, it's unfamiliar, it's alive.
-
"I'm glad you picked Paris, oppa. I just wish you came with me last week so we could've explored it brand new together."
"I wanted to, but coming separately was the safest way."
"I love it here, I never want to go home! I've learned the most amazing phrases, Je t'aime, J'adore, merci beacoup," Krystal jumps around the grand bed, clutching the satin sheets to the ceiling before collapsing onto Minho's lean body underneath, "l'amour, l'amour, l'amour."
He sighs, a content hand curling under Krystal's chin, bringing her meek frame towards his chest. She exhales back into him, adrenaline still high.
"What does that all mean? I only know one word in French. Oui."
"Oui is the only word that matters. Do you love me oppa?"
Minho looks at Krystal from his side, her hair tangled unfairly hiding her face, her cheeks pink with delight. It's the happiest he's ever seen her.
"Oui, baby."
"Baby is an english word, not French. Bébé."
"Oui, bébé."
They turn the radio on as loud as Minho will allow, humming and making up the words to every Chopin track for hours.
When it's time to sleep, Minho tries to get off the bed and sleep on the Russian carpet diplomatically but Krystal pushes him back, telling him to relax; "You're free."
His muscles stay tense the entire night, sweat drops falling the moments Krystal subconsciously wraps her weary arms around his bare chest.
It's not a feeling he's used to. It's not static.
-
Lunch dates soon equal talks about the near future, but never the big picture.
"Where do you think we should go next? Prague? Berlin? Luxemborg?"
"Mmmm...I don't know, you pick baby."
"When you say things like that you sound like you don't care."
"I do care, it's just...I just want to make you happy. Wherever you pick, I'll go."
"If you say things like that I'm going to pick some dingy hotel in the back alleyway of the slums of Venice."
"Will you be there?"
"Oui."
"Then oui too."
On day five of their Parisian love fest, they watch the festival of lights and cheer when everyone else cheers. Krystal plays daredevil and orders drink after drink, convincing everyone but Minho that she's of age. His mouth can't help but still turn upwards when she dances around the street, sashaying with the local drumming hippie.
-
(In Venice, Krystal falls in love with the dirty canals and everything they stand for so much, she decides they must take a swim in. Minho refuses, but Krystal does so anyway, enchanting passersby with her breast strokes and water spat 'hellos.' Minho convinces himself that her actions are sweet and completely characteristic and she's just homesick. He finishes the moment by taking pictures of her like a tourist.)
People don't runaway from home because they are actually crazy.
-
Prauge is more food, less frenzied Krystal. They contemplate more in the museums, sophisticate their educated tongues. Minho decides it's okay to loosen himself a little. He takes charge with hand-holding down the streets, his smiles become less forced, his public kisses less restrained with more conviction. Krystal awards him a PDA: public display of ass squeezing after a particularly brave smooch that results in Minho jumping out of his skin.
"Krystal, no!"
"I'm a free bird."
"You're crazy." He whispers it, unsure if she hears it over the loud crashing of glasses in the dive bar. The sports game overwhelms the sensation of sound, and when Minho wraps his arms from the back around Krystal's waist and tries to choke out an "I love you" his words fall flat on the grimy floor, unnoticed between the trash and soot.
-
Madrid becomes the equivalence of romance. Fireworks align the sky the moment they step on the historic cobblestone, floaters serenade them with the swooniest of music and Krystal sits on his lap and buys him whipped cream full macaroons, finger feeding it to the bevy of his lips. When he refuses to eat it, complaining about his body going pillow soft from their voyages; she counter-attacks by shamelessly forcing it down his throat, insisting she loves his lack of abs, something about him being too super-human before.
"You had abs too, Soojung-ah. Still have." He takes a little peek to prove his words, and it's not long before the air of Spain intoxicates Krystal enough to show Minho just how much she loves his new body. Minho drinks until he tricks himself into thinking it's okay, and pretty soon the virile boy in him becomes completely infatuated with the idea of sharing a bed.
Krystal tells him it's idyllic.
She swears to him she doesn't like materialistic things, but he knows she's a Jung, just like her sister. He buys her the sweetest crafted jewelry he can find on a whims note from a vendor cart. He tries to bite back the feeling of wishing he had ordered something custom-designed from back home in Korea from his favorite jewelry dealer. Love is supposed to be spontaneous, he reminds himself.
-
They spend too much time indoors in their days at Barcelona, until Minho memorizes every mole on Krystal's skin. It keeps him hungry until Krystal whines that they have to go out and enjoy the night life while their bodies are kicking with young blood.
The local club scene is loud, manic and pressing, bodies flying everywhere under dim lights and hazy smoke. Minho barely keeps his fingertips against Krystal's hips as she weaves them through the crowd, dancing in a trance, borrowing illegals from the couple inches apart from them.
"Let's go back home." he whines, after much sweat, anxiety and suffering. She stops her swaying, but only temporarily, her blood-shot eyes looking up at him with glare.
"This is my home."
"Fine, back to the hotel, whatever. Krystal..." She closes her eyes, ignoring Minho shaking her arms with urgency. "Soojung-ah...it's late, let's go sleep."
"NO." she spits on the ground, pushing back.
"Fine. I'm leaving then." Minho doesn't bother to look back, billowing through the thrashing of people, head-butting his way out. He doesn't see the look of pure sorrow in Krystal's eyes watching his back until she can no longer make out the strands of his hair beyond the crowd.
Minho borrows a cigarette from a kind neighbor, smokes it on the balcony of their room, waits for her all night. He watches the people underneath, laughing with pleasure, chatting with joy, walking to their next destination.
It seems a lot easier from above.
She returns before dawn, eyes watery, body limp with a simple "Sorry, oppa." Minho doesn't have it in his heart to say anything but "It's okay."
-
"You're too detached from reality." He gains the courage to say in London after Krystal tries to buy ecstasy from a huddle of high-school kids in uniforms.
"You're too high-strung."
Krystal insists on getting separate hotel rooms for three nights.
-
"I'm going to be the best actress of all time." Krystal declares from the ledge of a bridge. They never make-up, more or less Minho caves in because he misses the scent of her from when she steps out of the shower. Krystal conveniently forgets that they were mad at each other to begin with. He firmly keeps a grip on her as they walk on, her hands flailing in the air without a concern in the world.
"An actress? Why? You're already a pretty good singer to me."
"I'm going to become the best actress America has seen." She steps off the ledge and giggles, wrapping her arms around Minho's thick neck. "I'm going to act in English, speak English, not Korean."
"I can't understand you when you speak in English like that, Soojung-ah," he tries to act stern but his heart beats faster anytime she has a random English outburst. He figures this must've been how she acted when Amber was around. "But I like the way you sound in any language."
"Oui, monseir, oui. I want to live a life free of care, free of schedule, free of diet, free of comparison, free of vocal lesson after vocal lesson, free of belongings. Oui, oui, ou!"
Without a second thought, she unwraps herself from the confused figure in front of her, and drifts to the side of the bridge again, tearing the necklace that Minho had bought her around her neck and clutching it into her hands before dropping into the heavy river below.
"KRYSTAL, WHY?"
"Why what, bébé? It's just a necklace."
"I don't know you anymore, this isn't the you I know." he mutters.
It's grief.
The lurches in Minho's stomach cannot be comforted with the simple kisses and smiles of confusion Krystal tries to bribe him with, and he pushes her away- far away, as he runs down the street with desolation, looking for an answer.
"I can't save her."
It starts to rain, pour, on his way back to the hotel. The bags underneath his eyes become momentous with worry.
-
"Don't you think it's time?" He spits out, when they finally make-up and cuddle next to a briny fireplace.
(His conscience is too weak to be able to resist welcoming her back, when she shows up at their door the night before, drenched like a lost poodle. Later, he loses his pride when she hugs him forever and asks him to help her undress and get dry.)
She leans back into his chest, his long legs easily wrap around her; they are essential of picture perfect. He brushes her hair behind her ears, but there's no mistaking the way her eyebrows furrow.
"Time for what?"
"How long do you want to do this? Until you run out of money? Until you run out of places to see? It's been fun...but...I think it's time we go home."
"I'm not going home, Minho. I'm a nomad now. And you said you would be one too when we talked about this."
"I know, and I love it. I love being with you, but...people are getting worried. Our bandmates, our family. Your sister left me a message. She says your mom is worried. And our managers said that everyone-"
"You just miss structure. You miss stability."
"Is stability such a bad thing? You weren't always so wild and inhibited before."
"I was pretending."
The silence that looms over them is claustrophobic. Neither of them move for a while, even when Minho silently notes that his manager is going to pick him up at the airport tomorrow and that neither of them are in trouble, their people will take care of everything. But Minho kisses Krystal's forehead and she starts to cry, her wails so loud and unforgiving that even the promise of never letting go the whole night does nothing to console the feeling of knowing they'll be permanently apart.
-
The airport is dark, vacant and quiet, not warm and inviting like the cities of color they enjoyed.
"Please stay with me. Come home with me."
"I can't."
"You've got to stop running away. Aren't I enough for you?"
"I'm sorry." Krystal reaches up for a kiss despite the manager watching at the end of the terminal but Minho pulls away, his own tears refusing to stop greeting the tile.
"It's not fair, Krystal. It's not fair. Don't you love me?"
All she can do is muster that new, foreign, carefree smile of hers to placate his ache.
"Oui."
Minho doesn't tap the arm rest on his way home. Minho's heartbreak is nothing that structure can fix.
(lol they are my effy and freddie i know that's terrible, o k a y)