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█ ✫ INSIDE OUT ··· ( ch 2 of ? )
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (This chapter rated PG)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· author's note:
This time, a different song with the same title. It sort of happened by accident, but it suits the majority of the chapter.
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
The first time he sees Jonghyun, it feels like someone has kicked him in the chest. He has forgotten how to breathe, but the desperate, pressing need to seem normal is stronger than he is, so he smiles and laughs and jokes as if he has never felt better. All he wants to do is let the black hole his heart has become swallow him whole, so he'll never have to feel this way again.
Reality is not so kind.
The raw ache is persistent, and as they begin promoting it carves deeper and deeper, scabbing and scarring and reopening in an endless cycle. There is nothing Key can do to pretend that love is anything like the things they're singing about - not his, at least. To avoid the struggle he numbs himself, allows himself to feel nothing. He won't let his own weakness ruin all of their hard work, and he is too proud to let it ruin him, either. He smiles at press conferences, is mischievous in interviews, waves at their fans and shouts thank-you's at them as they cry out their names. When the repackage drops, he continues his ritual of going in to every music store he passes to see how well they're selling, and he finds he can be honestly pleased at the answer - well. Very well. We've sold out; we're ordering more. Their schedules have never been more tightly-packed, they have never been more exhausted, and he complains loudly because he is expected to. If he were to be honest, he is thankful for being run ragged; it leaves less time to think, to dwell, and when sleep claims him it does so quickly, leaving no time for Jonghyun's face to flash behind his eyelids before there is nothing but black. Most nights he is too tired to dream, but there is the occasional slip. The memory of his touch; the deep, breathy purr of his name from beneath him; the taste of his sweet mouth.
For a long time, he is convinced that he is the perfect actor. Jonghyun is playing the same game as he is - though Key has felt the other's eyes scorch the back of his head, the profile of his face - and the reciprocation of his charade is flawless. The only real issue is, Key is more than aware of his own limitations; he knows that if he were to try to keep this up forever, he would break far sooner than later. Even so, he carries on pretending he is fine. He doesn't know what else he can do.
··· ✫ ···
It seems like it has been weeks since they last had time to cook a meal for themselves in their own dorm. Key counts the empty takeaway boxes in the kitchen, yet to be cleared away, and guesses it probably has; it's too difficult to grasp time as a concrete concept, when they consistently defy it surrounding the release of a new single. It is late evening, and all that keeps them from one much-needed day to themselves is sleep. Jonghyun is the only one who decides to forego relaxation, and leave the dorm - he is presumably out with her, though he did not mention where he was going, and no one had bothered to ask. Key tells himself firmly that he doesn't care either way, and does his best not to. The remaining members are already in their pyjamas, having known full-well that they would have been too tired to change if they had waited to do so. In the living room, the television plays an episode of some rather horrible drama from five-plus years ago - one Onew enjoys far more than any of them, but he actually won rock-paper-scissors for once, so he got to choose. The only one not watching is Key, who has escaped to the kitchen to make gaeran mari for the four of them, and to be alone for a moment. The rice cooker clicks monotonously beside him, and he matches the pace with the blade of his knife as he dices onions for the omelette.
His abilities in the kitchen are something Key is proud of. It has been so long since he had the time, or the drive to cook anything, but now that the opportunity has presented itself he feels at home in front of the cook-top. There is nothing more rewarding, nor relaxing, than making something with your own hands to share with the people close to you. As he pours his beaten egg mixture into a frying pan, his mind takes advantage of the lull in his movements as he waits for it to cook, and wanders unhindered. Before he can even register the direction his thoughts have taken, his eyes prickle and sting suddenly, and with a rush of self-revulsion he realizes he is about to cry. Swallowing a sob, he snatches a dish towel from beside the sink and mashes it to his face, cramming the rough fabric into his eye sockets and chastising himself for being stupid. His shoulders tense when he hears footsteps coming towards the kitchen, and he hastily throws the towel over his shoulder and turns his attention to the omelette, just in time to place the sheets of gim in the centre and roll it.
“That smells good.” The voice behind him is nearly slurred with exhaustion, but he recognizes it as Minho's. Key feels himself relax - he won't have to explain the tremble in his voice, should Minho hear it. Thank God.
“Of course it does,” he says softly, and his voice cracks only slightly as he does, “I'm the one making it.”
Minho says nothing, but makes a sound deep in the back of his throat. Key wonders if it's just an acknowledgement, or also an observation of the fragile tone to his normally sharp tongue. The taller boy makes no mention of either possibility as he looks over Key's shoulder, watching as he folds the sheets of roasted seaweed loosely in to the middle of the omelette. They say nothing, but in the span of only a few seconds the silence is too much for Key; it is weighted, as if Minho were waiting for him to speak, but the things he wants Key to say he is not ready to talk about just yet. Instead he lifts his shoulder, using it to nudge Minho playfully on the underside of his chin.
“Make yourself useful,” he chides, the words teasing and light, “And serve the rice. I've already got the bowls out.”
The chuckle in his ear is so warm Key swears he can feel the heat of it against his jaw. Large hands brush his waist as Minho moves to do as he is told - brief and barely there, but they communicate what words had not. I'm here for you. You're so strong. I'm proud of you. Whenever you're ready. A wave of feeling washes hot and fresh up Key's chest from the depths of his gut, where he has hidden it away for so long, and lodges in his throat; but it is different in the wake of the unexpected contact. The fading tingle of Minho's hands ghosting his sides engulfs the urge to resume crying, and instead replaces his would-be tears one by one with a soothing, pleasant glow, which spreads lazily from the top of his hips to the tips of his fingers. He smiles genuinely for the first time in more than a month, the expression small and weak, but plainly there.
Minho has always seemed so much more guarded than the rest of them. He is the enigma, the charismatic lady-killer; Key has always assumed his lack of speech was self-serving, and somewhat cold, but realizes now that he has been assuming the same things of Minho that others often did of himself. It isn't that the two of them are distant people, at least not purposely; they are perceptive observers, though each in opposite ways. Where Key is vocal and direct with his views, Minho is quiet and receptive. He watches and weighs as Key does, but his decisions are all internal, and much more tactful than Key's tend to be. They are two sides of the same coin, connected through purpose, but separate by design - that much is becoming clear. Perhaps that's why Key was once so hesitant to talk to him, felt so much distance between them, but now finds it so easy to be relaxed just having him nearby. He simply needed to allow it to happen.
Key scoops the finished omelette from the pan and slices it into pretty little ovals, arranging them neatly on a long, rectangular plate. As an afterthought, he whisks together a quick sauce for dipping - just soy sauce and a splash of vinegar, with a few thin-sliced green onions just because he can - and nestles a small dish of it in the middle of his egg pattern. He presses the ends of his chopsticks to his tongue, tastes his concoction and hums his approval. The sound of subdued laughter drifts from behind him, and he turns to find Minho smiling at him. It is reserved, as most of Minho's smiles tend to be, but his eyes crinkle with mirth at the corners.
“Choi Minho,” Key says, clicking his chopsticks peevishly in the other boy's direction and placing his free hand on a jaunty hip, “Just what is so funny, hm? Do share.”
Minho continues to smile for a moment, spooning large mountains of rice into the flower-patterned dishes Key has picked out for the task. It isn't until Key huffs out an impatient breath that he responds, in his mellow, teasing voice:
“Nothing, Kibum-ah. Nothing at all.”
This earns him a playful smack for his insolence, which only causes his eyes to crinkle even further. When Key returns his attentions to his egg masterpiece, muttering in a stage whisper about cheeky amphibians, Minho's smile broadens into a real, genuine grin. It fades almost completely by the time they bring out their supper, placing it on a chair in the living room in lieu of eating at the table - they are too tired to care where they eat, nor stand on ceremony to do it. Onew shoves an entire serving of the gaeran mari in his mouth at once, chewing it thoroughly and humming his grateful approval at the flavour. Taemin giggles at the leader's bulging cheeks, but eats his own omelette in a more civilized manner.
“This is really good, Key-hyung,” he praises, taking another serving from the dish. Key puffs out his chest, scoffing.
“Was there ever any doubt otherwise?” he asks, eyebrow raised in a dramatic fashion, and he twists his face as if he'd never been more insulted in all his years. It sets Taemin into another round of chuckles around the egg and rice in his mouth, and the maknae has to put the back of his hand over his lips to keep the contents inside.
The God-awful drama plays on in the background, forgotten even by Onew as - for the first time in ages - they talk and laugh amongst themselves, seemingly without a care in the world.
··· ✫ ···
Onew and Taemin volunteer to clean up, since Minho sort-of helped cook; besides, Key is breathing deeply on his shoulder, having fallen asleep nearly half an hour ago, and Minho is putting off moving as long as he can. As the oldest and youngest navigate the mess in the kitchen, Minho shimmies out from underneath Key's sleeping form, doing his best to be gentle. Key sways slightly, but Minho steadies him by the shoulders as he stands; he groans quietly, nearly inaudibly, but doesn't wake, and the rise and fall of his chest remains steady. After turning the television off, Minho debates how to go about getting Key to bed without disturbing him. Since the resident diva is out to lunch and has no say in the matter, he decides to simply scoop him up in what he's heard called a 'princess carry' - one arm under Key's knees, the other cradling his back. Gingerly adjusting Key in his arms, he's rather startled when the other boy murmurs some silent nonsense and turns to nuzzle his face in the crook of Minho's neck. He waits, too afraid to move, until Key has settled again. The gentle touch of Key's breath against his skin is a curious sensation, but Minho finds he doesn't mind it in the least as he carries him to the dorm's bedroom.
It takes him a few tries to open the door, but he manages to do it without jostling the boy sleeping against his chest too badly. He considers trying to manoeuvre him into his own bunk, but it's up top and Minho doesn't want to risk it, so he lays Key down on his own instead. He lifts the quilt from the foot of the bed and draws it over his band-mate, tucks it carefully under his arms, but rather than leave when he's done Minho hesitates. His face is unreadable as he glances at the doorway, his ears intent on the sounds of dishes moving in the kitchen, and he makes his decision; he perches beside Key on the edge of the bed.
In the light from the hallway, Key's features are illuminated in higher contrast, drawing shadows over the height of his cheekbones, and pooling in the corners of his mouth like ink. That blasted mouth. It is slightly parted, pink and plush as always, and the dramatic curves of his Cupid's bow never fail to draw Minho's attention. He takes in the angled slant of his lashes against his cheeks, like flight feathers on the wings of a bird; the delicate arch of his brows; the slope of his jaw; the camber of his collarbones as they peek from the boat-neck collar of his sleep shirt. How is it that someone so beautiful could ever be called human? It seems slanderous somehow to call Kim Kibum something so common, so fundamentally flawed. With the very tips of his fingers, Minho brushes the hair from Key's forehead. It is soft and satiny, and slinks through the spaces between the digits as if it were liquid.
For so long, he has watched Key from afar, stealing glances, too intimidated by his own desires to voice them. It isn't that they are particularly carnal, though it would be a lie to say that wasn't a factor; they are just too filling, too precarious on the end of his tongue, the pads of his fingers. They dangle like a last wish at the edge of his senses - spindly and fragile as spider's silk, but heavy as if spun from iron and hung with the weight of the world. It's as if the simple act of Key's gaze falling in line with his own will send them spilling from his pores, overflowing like a swollen river from his heart without restraint in a torrent of purest heartfelt longing and want. At the same time, though, Minho will never tell him; not before, not now, and perhaps never. It scares him, how much he cares for Key - terrifies him as nothing ever has before - but he knows what frightens him most is the distinct possibility that his feelings won't be returned. He has capped his feelings, subduing them as best he can, but they are expansive and alive, and the pressure builds to an increasingly hollow burn as they grow and swell in his chest, threatening to crack his ribs with the untameable force of it.
This is his one moment of weakness. There hasn't ever been an opportunity like this, for Minho to study the planes of Key's face as intimately as he does now, and he takes full advantage of it; his eyes trace his features and engrave them on the backs of his eyelids each time he blinks, wanting to memorize every atom that makes up the man slumbering beneath him - in his own bed, no less. The pillows and sheets will hold the scent of his shampoo, the soft fragrance of his cologne through the following night, and Minho knows he will never be able to sleep with the smell of Key surrounding his senses like smoke. He doesn't want it any other way.
Key's expression is suddenly tight and a groan escapes his mouth, and Minho's body seizes. Afraid he is about to be caught in the act he stands quickly, and knocks the top of his head against the bunk above them. He holds his scalp, inhaling the curse that brushes the back of his lips and hisses silently instead as his eyes water at the pain. Frantically, he casts his eyes around the room, searching for a reason to have lingered should Key ask why he's in there, but he comes up with nothing. Through the throbbing of his own panicked heart in his ears he hears a tiny, strained mewl leak into the room, and pauses. Slowly, his muscles on edge, Minho turns back to face the bed, and the man laying in it.
Thankfully Key is still asleep, but his relief is incredibly short-lived as he watches a single tear roll across the boy's cheek and into his hair. Minho is beside him again in an instant, this time kneeling on the floor beside the bed, but he can't decide what he should do. His resolve shatters completely as another tear clings to Key's lashes, and Minho gently wipes it away with the pad of his thumb before he can think of what he's doing. He startles himself with his forwardness, but cannot stop himself no matter how hard he tries as his hands cup Key's face on the right side, then the left. Minho's face is suddenly so close he can feel the other's breath on his lips, and then that perfect mouth is against his in all the right ways. The kiss is the barest brush of flesh against flesh, and the skin of their lips clings together because Minho's mouth is suddenly drier than the ash from the fire in his heart. His mind is churning with all the reasons he should stop, and he fights with his nerves to move away, to let go before Key wakes up and just hide somewhere until he rots from the shame of what he is taking because, for fuck's sake, it isn't his to take in the first place, and this is so unfair to Kibum.
Shame boils hot in his abdomen as he pulls back, and he is disgusted with himself when his first thought is, Thank God he didn't wake up.
Onew and Taemin are putting the last of the dishes away when Minho is suddenly at the door, tugging a hooded sweatshirt over his head and cramming his feet into his runners. The tallest member's hand is on the door knob when Onew hurries from the kitchen, his face full of concern, and Taemin follows close behind.
“Minho-ya, where are you -?”
“Hyung -?”
“A jog.” Minho barks, refusing to make eye contact as he wrenches the dormitory door open and disappears into the hallway, headed for the stairs. Onew hangs out of the door frame, calling Minho's name into the hall, but he is already gone. It is four-thirty in the morning, and it is very nearly winter in earnest, but Minho is wearing only the thin sweats he uses as pyjama bottoms and the heavy sweater he threw on over his undershirt before he left. Taemin is looking at Onew as if he wants nothing more than to follow Minho out into the street and drag him back home, but Onew shakes his head at the thought. He ushers him inside without a word, and closes the door behind them.
··· ✫ ···
Minho waves to the night guard and flips the hood of his sweater over his head. His skin is tight against the cold of the night, but he knows he won't feel the chill for long. He pulls at his legs, stretching as he walks, and knows he will regret not doing so more thoroughly as he breaks into a brisk jog. Right now, though, he can't bring himself to care if his legs end up sore later; all he can think about is the sensation of his lips on Key's, the warmth that had radiated from them as he had stolen a fleeting kiss in the darkness. He quickens his pace as the memory makes his lips tingle, so vivid in his imagination that he can feel them even now, and his mouth goes dry again.
There has never been a bigger idiot in the world - Choi Minho takes the cake on that one. What exactly did he thinking kissing Key would do? Whatever it had been, the only outcome in his mind right now is the reality that his restraint - the firm hold he's had on his emotions up to this point - is blown to high hell, and he has no idea how he'll face Key in the morning. It seems obvious that he should act as if nothing had changed, because Key will have no idea what had transpired, but Minho knows he is pretty much done-for. For years now, it has taken every last iota of willpower to keep his hands and eyes to himself when Key is within the smallest radius, and it has taken equally as long for Minho to convince himself that he could be content watching Key from afar. Now, though, he just wants to kiss him again.
Biggest idiot in existence. One Choi Minho. Here, just have the whole fucking bakery - all the cakes have got your God-damn name on 'em anyhow.
His blood is on fire, but not from the movement of his feet against the pavement, or the pull and drag of his muscles; he knows that when he stops running and his pulse returns to normal, the scorching in his veins will remain because he has tasted Key, and he will always, always want more. So he doesn't stop - he runs until the air has to be dragged from his lungs with claws drawn in his throat, until his knees feel like they've shattered and the shards of his marrow are working their way through tendons and sinew every time his feet touch ground. Even still, the engulfing heat is there, and it is insatiable. He can try to smother it, to snuff it out at the source, but he has started this wildfire recklessly of his own accord, and he is rapidly losing control over the intensity of the flames. Without prompting or invitation, the memory of Key in the kitchen little more than two hours before invades his mind. One hand on his hip, the other waving chopsticks in his face, and his name - Minho's name - spilling from his mouth like wine. It echoes in his ears, and he is suddenly drunk on the sound of it. His mind conjures fact into fantasy and now Key is hovering over him, his knees on either side of Minho's hips. Key's face is far too close as his name tumbles down on his honey-sweet voice and cloys his senses, filling him to the brim.
Minho pushes himself further, forcing his body to run harder, faster, longer, but the promise of sun is already tinting the clouds in the sky. He is drenched in sweat; it soaks through the fabric of his sweatshirt and the t-shirt below it, and cascades along the valleys of his back; beads across his temples, and falls like rain down the back of his neck from the tips of his hair. His lungs are screaming for air, and he takes long, greedy gulps of it, but it is never quite enough. Unable to continue he stops, buckles at the waist and clings to his knees, gasping and sputtering as his muscles spasm.
His lips are still tingling.
Fuck.
✫ ··· Chapter Three
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (This chapter rated PG)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· author's note:
This time, a different song with the same title. It sort of happened by accident, but it suits the majority of the chapter.
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
The first time he sees Jonghyun, it feels like someone has kicked him in the chest. He has forgotten how to breathe, but the desperate, pressing need to seem normal is stronger than he is, so he smiles and laughs and jokes as if he has never felt better. All he wants to do is let the black hole his heart has become swallow him whole, so he'll never have to feel this way again.
Reality is not so kind.
The raw ache is persistent, and as they begin promoting it carves deeper and deeper, scabbing and scarring and reopening in an endless cycle. There is nothing Key can do to pretend that love is anything like the things they're singing about - not his, at least. To avoid the struggle he numbs himself, allows himself to feel nothing. He won't let his own weakness ruin all of their hard work, and he is too proud to let it ruin him, either. He smiles at press conferences, is mischievous in interviews, waves at their fans and shouts thank-you's at them as they cry out their names. When the repackage drops, he continues his ritual of going in to every music store he passes to see how well they're selling, and he finds he can be honestly pleased at the answer - well. Very well. We've sold out; we're ordering more. Their schedules have never been more tightly-packed, they have never been more exhausted, and he complains loudly because he is expected to. If he were to be honest, he is thankful for being run ragged; it leaves less time to think, to dwell, and when sleep claims him it does so quickly, leaving no time for Jonghyun's face to flash behind his eyelids before there is nothing but black. Most nights he is too tired to dream, but there is the occasional slip. The memory of his touch; the deep, breathy purr of his name from beneath him; the taste of his sweet mouth.
For a long time, he is convinced that he is the perfect actor. Jonghyun is playing the same game as he is - though Key has felt the other's eyes scorch the back of his head, the profile of his face - and the reciprocation of his charade is flawless. The only real issue is, Key is more than aware of his own limitations; he knows that if he were to try to keep this up forever, he would break far sooner than later. Even so, he carries on pretending he is fine. He doesn't know what else he can do.
··· ✫ ···
It seems like it has been weeks since they last had time to cook a meal for themselves in their own dorm. Key counts the empty takeaway boxes in the kitchen, yet to be cleared away, and guesses it probably has; it's too difficult to grasp time as a concrete concept, when they consistently defy it surrounding the release of a new single. It is late evening, and all that keeps them from one much-needed day to themselves is sleep. Jonghyun is the only one who decides to forego relaxation, and leave the dorm - he is presumably out with her, though he did not mention where he was going, and no one had bothered to ask. Key tells himself firmly that he doesn't care either way, and does his best not to. The remaining members are already in their pyjamas, having known full-well that they would have been too tired to change if they had waited to do so. In the living room, the television plays an episode of some rather horrible drama from five-plus years ago - one Onew enjoys far more than any of them, but he actually won rock-paper-scissors for once, so he got to choose. The only one not watching is Key, who has escaped to the kitchen to make gaeran mari for the four of them, and to be alone for a moment. The rice cooker clicks monotonously beside him, and he matches the pace with the blade of his knife as he dices onions for the omelette.
His abilities in the kitchen are something Key is proud of. It has been so long since he had the time, or the drive to cook anything, but now that the opportunity has presented itself he feels at home in front of the cook-top. There is nothing more rewarding, nor relaxing, than making something with your own hands to share with the people close to you. As he pours his beaten egg mixture into a frying pan, his mind takes advantage of the lull in his movements as he waits for it to cook, and wanders unhindered. Before he can even register the direction his thoughts have taken, his eyes prickle and sting suddenly, and with a rush of self-revulsion he realizes he is about to cry. Swallowing a sob, he snatches a dish towel from beside the sink and mashes it to his face, cramming the rough fabric into his eye sockets and chastising himself for being stupid. His shoulders tense when he hears footsteps coming towards the kitchen, and he hastily throws the towel over his shoulder and turns his attention to the omelette, just in time to place the sheets of gim in the centre and roll it.
“That smells good.” The voice behind him is nearly slurred with exhaustion, but he recognizes it as Minho's. Key feels himself relax - he won't have to explain the tremble in his voice, should Minho hear it. Thank God.
“Of course it does,” he says softly, and his voice cracks only slightly as he does, “I'm the one making it.”
Minho says nothing, but makes a sound deep in the back of his throat. Key wonders if it's just an acknowledgement, or also an observation of the fragile tone to his normally sharp tongue. The taller boy makes no mention of either possibility as he looks over Key's shoulder, watching as he folds the sheets of roasted seaweed loosely in to the middle of the omelette. They say nothing, but in the span of only a few seconds the silence is too much for Key; it is weighted, as if Minho were waiting for him to speak, but the things he wants Key to say he is not ready to talk about just yet. Instead he lifts his shoulder, using it to nudge Minho playfully on the underside of his chin.
“Make yourself useful,” he chides, the words teasing and light, “And serve the rice. I've already got the bowls out.”
The chuckle in his ear is so warm Key swears he can feel the heat of it against his jaw. Large hands brush his waist as Minho moves to do as he is told - brief and barely there, but they communicate what words had not. I'm here for you. You're so strong. I'm proud of you. Whenever you're ready. A wave of feeling washes hot and fresh up Key's chest from the depths of his gut, where he has hidden it away for so long, and lodges in his throat; but it is different in the wake of the unexpected contact. The fading tingle of Minho's hands ghosting his sides engulfs the urge to resume crying, and instead replaces his would-be tears one by one with a soothing, pleasant glow, which spreads lazily from the top of his hips to the tips of his fingers. He smiles genuinely for the first time in more than a month, the expression small and weak, but plainly there.
Minho has always seemed so much more guarded than the rest of them. He is the enigma, the charismatic lady-killer; Key has always assumed his lack of speech was self-serving, and somewhat cold, but realizes now that he has been assuming the same things of Minho that others often did of himself. It isn't that the two of them are distant people, at least not purposely; they are perceptive observers, though each in opposite ways. Where Key is vocal and direct with his views, Minho is quiet and receptive. He watches and weighs as Key does, but his decisions are all internal, and much more tactful than Key's tend to be. They are two sides of the same coin, connected through purpose, but separate by design - that much is becoming clear. Perhaps that's why Key was once so hesitant to talk to him, felt so much distance between them, but now finds it so easy to be relaxed just having him nearby. He simply needed to allow it to happen.
Key scoops the finished omelette from the pan and slices it into pretty little ovals, arranging them neatly on a long, rectangular plate. As an afterthought, he whisks together a quick sauce for dipping - just soy sauce and a splash of vinegar, with a few thin-sliced green onions just because he can - and nestles a small dish of it in the middle of his egg pattern. He presses the ends of his chopsticks to his tongue, tastes his concoction and hums his approval. The sound of subdued laughter drifts from behind him, and he turns to find Minho smiling at him. It is reserved, as most of Minho's smiles tend to be, but his eyes crinkle with mirth at the corners.
“Choi Minho,” Key says, clicking his chopsticks peevishly in the other boy's direction and placing his free hand on a jaunty hip, “Just what is so funny, hm? Do share.”
Minho continues to smile for a moment, spooning large mountains of rice into the flower-patterned dishes Key has picked out for the task. It isn't until Key huffs out an impatient breath that he responds, in his mellow, teasing voice:
“Nothing, Kibum-ah. Nothing at all.”
This earns him a playful smack for his insolence, which only causes his eyes to crinkle even further. When Key returns his attentions to his egg masterpiece, muttering in a stage whisper about cheeky amphibians, Minho's smile broadens into a real, genuine grin. It fades almost completely by the time they bring out their supper, placing it on a chair in the living room in lieu of eating at the table - they are too tired to care where they eat, nor stand on ceremony to do it. Onew shoves an entire serving of the gaeran mari in his mouth at once, chewing it thoroughly and humming his grateful approval at the flavour. Taemin giggles at the leader's bulging cheeks, but eats his own omelette in a more civilized manner.
“This is really good, Key-hyung,” he praises, taking another serving from the dish. Key puffs out his chest, scoffing.
“Was there ever any doubt otherwise?” he asks, eyebrow raised in a dramatic fashion, and he twists his face as if he'd never been more insulted in all his years. It sets Taemin into another round of chuckles around the egg and rice in his mouth, and the maknae has to put the back of his hand over his lips to keep the contents inside.
The God-awful drama plays on in the background, forgotten even by Onew as - for the first time in ages - they talk and laugh amongst themselves, seemingly without a care in the world.
··· ✫ ···
Onew and Taemin volunteer to clean up, since Minho sort-of helped cook; besides, Key is breathing deeply on his shoulder, having fallen asleep nearly half an hour ago, and Minho is putting off moving as long as he can. As the oldest and youngest navigate the mess in the kitchen, Minho shimmies out from underneath Key's sleeping form, doing his best to be gentle. Key sways slightly, but Minho steadies him by the shoulders as he stands; he groans quietly, nearly inaudibly, but doesn't wake, and the rise and fall of his chest remains steady. After turning the television off, Minho debates how to go about getting Key to bed without disturbing him. Since the resident diva is out to lunch and has no say in the matter, he decides to simply scoop him up in what he's heard called a 'princess carry' - one arm under Key's knees, the other cradling his back. Gingerly adjusting Key in his arms, he's rather startled when the other boy murmurs some silent nonsense and turns to nuzzle his face in the crook of Minho's neck. He waits, too afraid to move, until Key has settled again. The gentle touch of Key's breath against his skin is a curious sensation, but Minho finds he doesn't mind it in the least as he carries him to the dorm's bedroom.
It takes him a few tries to open the door, but he manages to do it without jostling the boy sleeping against his chest too badly. He considers trying to manoeuvre him into his own bunk, but it's up top and Minho doesn't want to risk it, so he lays Key down on his own instead. He lifts the quilt from the foot of the bed and draws it over his band-mate, tucks it carefully under his arms, but rather than leave when he's done Minho hesitates. His face is unreadable as he glances at the doorway, his ears intent on the sounds of dishes moving in the kitchen, and he makes his decision; he perches beside Key on the edge of the bed.
In the light from the hallway, Key's features are illuminated in higher contrast, drawing shadows over the height of his cheekbones, and pooling in the corners of his mouth like ink. That blasted mouth. It is slightly parted, pink and plush as always, and the dramatic curves of his Cupid's bow never fail to draw Minho's attention. He takes in the angled slant of his lashes against his cheeks, like flight feathers on the wings of a bird; the delicate arch of his brows; the slope of his jaw; the camber of his collarbones as they peek from the boat-neck collar of his sleep shirt. How is it that someone so beautiful could ever be called human? It seems slanderous somehow to call Kim Kibum something so common, so fundamentally flawed. With the very tips of his fingers, Minho brushes the hair from Key's forehead. It is soft and satiny, and slinks through the spaces between the digits as if it were liquid.
For so long, he has watched Key from afar, stealing glances, too intimidated by his own desires to voice them. It isn't that they are particularly carnal, though it would be a lie to say that wasn't a factor; they are just too filling, too precarious on the end of his tongue, the pads of his fingers. They dangle like a last wish at the edge of his senses - spindly and fragile as spider's silk, but heavy as if spun from iron and hung with the weight of the world. It's as if the simple act of Key's gaze falling in line with his own will send them spilling from his pores, overflowing like a swollen river from his heart without restraint in a torrent of purest heartfelt longing and want. At the same time, though, Minho will never tell him; not before, not now, and perhaps never. It scares him, how much he cares for Key - terrifies him as nothing ever has before - but he knows what frightens him most is the distinct possibility that his feelings won't be returned. He has capped his feelings, subduing them as best he can, but they are expansive and alive, and the pressure builds to an increasingly hollow burn as they grow and swell in his chest, threatening to crack his ribs with the untameable force of it.
This is his one moment of weakness. There hasn't ever been an opportunity like this, for Minho to study the planes of Key's face as intimately as he does now, and he takes full advantage of it; his eyes trace his features and engrave them on the backs of his eyelids each time he blinks, wanting to memorize every atom that makes up the man slumbering beneath him - in his own bed, no less. The pillows and sheets will hold the scent of his shampoo, the soft fragrance of his cologne through the following night, and Minho knows he will never be able to sleep with the smell of Key surrounding his senses like smoke. He doesn't want it any other way.
Key's expression is suddenly tight and a groan escapes his mouth, and Minho's body seizes. Afraid he is about to be caught in the act he stands quickly, and knocks the top of his head against the bunk above them. He holds his scalp, inhaling the curse that brushes the back of his lips and hisses silently instead as his eyes water at the pain. Frantically, he casts his eyes around the room, searching for a reason to have lingered should Key ask why he's in there, but he comes up with nothing. Through the throbbing of his own panicked heart in his ears he hears a tiny, strained mewl leak into the room, and pauses. Slowly, his muscles on edge, Minho turns back to face the bed, and the man laying in it.
Thankfully Key is still asleep, but his relief is incredibly short-lived as he watches a single tear roll across the boy's cheek and into his hair. Minho is beside him again in an instant, this time kneeling on the floor beside the bed, but he can't decide what he should do. His resolve shatters completely as another tear clings to Key's lashes, and Minho gently wipes it away with the pad of his thumb before he can think of what he's doing. He startles himself with his forwardness, but cannot stop himself no matter how hard he tries as his hands cup Key's face on the right side, then the left. Minho's face is suddenly so close he can feel the other's breath on his lips, and then that perfect mouth is against his in all the right ways. The kiss is the barest brush of flesh against flesh, and the skin of their lips clings together because Minho's mouth is suddenly drier than the ash from the fire in his heart. His mind is churning with all the reasons he should stop, and he fights with his nerves to move away, to let go before Key wakes up and just hide somewhere until he rots from the shame of what he is taking because, for fuck's sake, it isn't his to take in the first place, and this is so unfair to Kibum.
Shame boils hot in his abdomen as he pulls back, and he is disgusted with himself when his first thought is, Thank God he didn't wake up.
Onew and Taemin are putting the last of the dishes away when Minho is suddenly at the door, tugging a hooded sweatshirt over his head and cramming his feet into his runners. The tallest member's hand is on the door knob when Onew hurries from the kitchen, his face full of concern, and Taemin follows close behind.
“Minho-ya, where are you -?”
“Hyung -?”
“A jog.” Minho barks, refusing to make eye contact as he wrenches the dormitory door open and disappears into the hallway, headed for the stairs. Onew hangs out of the door frame, calling Minho's name into the hall, but he is already gone. It is four-thirty in the morning, and it is very nearly winter in earnest, but Minho is wearing only the thin sweats he uses as pyjama bottoms and the heavy sweater he threw on over his undershirt before he left. Taemin is looking at Onew as if he wants nothing more than to follow Minho out into the street and drag him back home, but Onew shakes his head at the thought. He ushers him inside without a word, and closes the door behind them.
··· ✫ ···
Minho waves to the night guard and flips the hood of his sweater over his head. His skin is tight against the cold of the night, but he knows he won't feel the chill for long. He pulls at his legs, stretching as he walks, and knows he will regret not doing so more thoroughly as he breaks into a brisk jog. Right now, though, he can't bring himself to care if his legs end up sore later; all he can think about is the sensation of his lips on Key's, the warmth that had radiated from them as he had stolen a fleeting kiss in the darkness. He quickens his pace as the memory makes his lips tingle, so vivid in his imagination that he can feel them even now, and his mouth goes dry again.
There has never been a bigger idiot in the world - Choi Minho takes the cake on that one. What exactly did he thinking kissing Key would do? Whatever it had been, the only outcome in his mind right now is the reality that his restraint - the firm hold he's had on his emotions up to this point - is blown to high hell, and he has no idea how he'll face Key in the morning. It seems obvious that he should act as if nothing had changed, because Key will have no idea what had transpired, but Minho knows he is pretty much done-for. For years now, it has taken every last iota of willpower to keep his hands and eyes to himself when Key is within the smallest radius, and it has taken equally as long for Minho to convince himself that he could be content watching Key from afar. Now, though, he just wants to kiss him again.
Biggest idiot in existence. One Choi Minho. Here, just have the whole fucking bakery - all the cakes have got your God-damn name on 'em anyhow.
His blood is on fire, but not from the movement of his feet against the pavement, or the pull and drag of his muscles; he knows that when he stops running and his pulse returns to normal, the scorching in his veins will remain because he has tasted Key, and he will always, always want more. So he doesn't stop - he runs until the air has to be dragged from his lungs with claws drawn in his throat, until his knees feel like they've shattered and the shards of his marrow are working their way through tendons and sinew every time his feet touch ground. Even still, the engulfing heat is there, and it is insatiable. He can try to smother it, to snuff it out at the source, but he has started this wildfire recklessly of his own accord, and he is rapidly losing control over the intensity of the flames. Without prompting or invitation, the memory of Key in the kitchen little more than two hours before invades his mind. One hand on his hip, the other waving chopsticks in his face, and his name - Minho's name - spilling from his mouth like wine. It echoes in his ears, and he is suddenly drunk on the sound of it. His mind conjures fact into fantasy and now Key is hovering over him, his knees on either side of Minho's hips. Key's face is far too close as his name tumbles down on his honey-sweet voice and cloys his senses, filling him to the brim.
Minho pushes himself further, forcing his body to run harder, faster, longer, but the promise of sun is already tinting the clouds in the sky. He is drenched in sweat; it soaks through the fabric of his sweatshirt and the t-shirt below it, and cascades along the valleys of his back; beads across his temples, and falls like rain down the back of his neck from the tips of his hair. His lungs are screaming for air, and he takes long, greedy gulps of it, but it is never quite enough. Unable to continue he stops, buckles at the waist and clings to his knees, gasping and sputtering as his muscles spasm.
His lips are still tingling.
Fuck.
✫ ··· Chapter Three