(no subject)
█ ✫ INSIDE OUT ··· ( ch 3 of ? )
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (This chapter rated PG)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
There have been times in his life where Key has wondered just how one finds themselves too full. How is capacity achieved in human beings? He has never understood before when people insist that they are at the limits of their emotional basins; that any new feelings will displace the old, at least temporarily, in order to make room for more; that they couldn't possibly feel more than they do at that moment. For Key, feelings have always been seemingly infinite, and ever-expansive. He has always had room for more, whether he likes it or not.
Breaching December, however, he quickly learns that everyone has a limit - even himself. In the looming shadow of their first solo concert - in Japan, no less - there is so much to take in that he loses part of himself to the excess. Like a ballast in his chest, rising and falling, filling and displacing to maintain stability, he files away old feelings for new. The stress and nerves brought on by SHINee's first foray in to true stardom far outweigh anything else, and Key finds it impossible to anticipate the concert and pine over Jonghyun simultaneously. While he realizes that he should be dealing with his unresolved feelings, coming to terms with them and bargaining some sort of peace treaty with his desires, it is impossible to do when their lives are once again a flurry of rehearsals and promotions and lessons in Japanese pronunciation. To keep himself from skewing his precarious emotional balance, and being the sort of person who is completely incapable of doing things by halves anyhow, Key throws himself headlong into their preparations. His mouth fumbles through nouns and verbs in a foreign tongue; he has found himself miming their choreography in the shower, and has nearly cracked his head open on the bathroom floor twice; he dreams of the day of the concert, standing on stage to greet the fans, only to find himself stark naked and alone under the spotlight with a malfunctioning microphone.
He finds that dream particularly terrifying when the only member of the audience is Jonghyun, but can't seem to muster the energy to dwell on the implications.
Taemin has not allowed the rest of them to forget what December really means, however. The maknae has somehow found the time to stop at a discount store and buy a small array of tacky red-and-green foil decorations, which he has plastered to the entirety of the dorm with bits of clear tape. There is a small altercation when he reveals the singing snowman; it is motion-activated, and having it near the kitchen means it is nearly always going off. While Onew may find it charming, the rest of them do not, and one day Jonghyun accidentally knocks it over with his gym bag and proceeds to step on it. How a single footfall manages to completely obliterate the offending object is the root of the argument, but the whole thing is quickly smoothed over when Minho brings home a gigantic stuffed reindeer. Mercifully, though the nose does light up in an obscene shade of sticky candy red, it is silent. Taemin decorates the antlers with silver tinsel, and the brutal demise of the snowman is soon history - but not forgotten.
Christmas. Key normally looks forward to this time of year, but the approaching performance coupled with the events of what he will only refer to as The Week Before November make it entirely unrealistic for him to be excited in any way. He wants to be, desperately, but he is too drained of everything to do very much about it. He can't even bring himself to be lonesome at the prospect of a Christmas eve with the rift still gaping and fresh between himself and Jonghyun. What he does manage is to change his ringtone to Jingle Bell Rock, and to break out his collection of Christmas-themed socks. It will have to do for now, and at least now when he gets a text message, the sound of sleigh-bells brightens him up for a moment.
··· ✫ ···
They are practising the choreography for Lucifer for what seems like the thousandth time. All five move in an effortless rhythm, able to anticipate where each of the others will be at any given time, because this is who they are, what they were born do. The movements are like breathing; in and out, side to side, arms here, feet here, hold the beat. When they break for water, parched and heaving and perspiring, Minho can feel the muscles in his legs jumping in time to the echo of the song in his head as he leans against the wall, and allows himself to slide slowly to the ground. He scrubs roughly at his hair with a towel, too irritated by the trickle of sweat down the back of his neck to care what it ends up looking like afterwards. From his place on the floor he watches as Jonghyun and Taemin continue to practise on their own - when Jonghyun pulls an exasperated-yet-defeated face, Minho figures Taemin must be leveraging a favour out of him to keep the post-snowman peace. Guilt is a powerful tool, something Taemin seems to be well aware of; his face goes from pouting to triumphant as Jonghyun presumably gives in to whatever it is Taemin demands. From there, Minho's eyes fall of their own accord to Key.
Though they have all gotten into the habit of simply pouring water into their mouths, it seems that his thirst is simply not quenchable in moderation. He watches with rapt attention as Key's Adam's apple slides up and down his neck, following the motions of his throat as he takes long, greedy gulps from his water bottle. The crinkle of the plastic is audible as it gives under the pressure, beginning to collapse as Key drags the liquid out. Minho swallows hard, trying to will himself to look away, but his eyes catch a small bead of sweat that clings to Key's jawline. It hangs at the curve of his ear a moment, before rolling down and along the tendon in his neck, crawling slowly against the flushed skin. The movement of the drop is egged on by the tensing of Key's throat as he swallows, accelerating for a moment; then slowing as he draws more water into his mouth before repeating the process, until it finally pools on the top of his collarbone and slips beneath the strap of his oversized tank top. For a moment, Minho slips into daydreams, imagining his fingers taking the same path along Key's neck; then it's his mouth, scattering kisses with too much teeth across sweat-slicked flesh... Minho shakes his head sharply. When he can no longer stand the lack of air, Key gasps softly and lowers the bottle with a crackle, drained of nearly all its contents, and breathes heavily. Not wanting to be caught staring, Minho manages to tear himself away from the scene and focuses on his hands.
He is not a fool; he is well aware of the scheme behind the other boy's feverish enthusiasm for their increased workload, and he has been keeping a careful eye on him. It is no secret that Key is the sort of person to throw himself to the sea in an effort to stay afloat; his reaction to stress is normally to find a new source of the stuff, another thing to worry himself sick about in a backward attempt to forget that there is something else gnawing away at his insides. It would be egotistical to say that Minho knows him better than any of the rest of them, but he is certain that he is most aware of this side of Key; the other members either don't see it, or choose not to comment. Minho feels like his ability to help Key through this is hindered by his own baggage, however, and the thought of adding to the other's already daunting burden is unfathomable. Besides, they have yet to speak in private since...
...Since Minho kissed him. Idiot that he is.
He is not actively trying to avoid Key, but he can't deny that being alone with him is an ordeal in and of itself. There has always been a pressure in his heart when Key is involved, dull and blunted, like the press of a finger against his chest; just firm enough for him to be aware of his desires. Ever since that day, however, it is more akin to a nail being driven through the muscle, sharp and fiery and insistent. It claws hot in his belly like acid; makes the breath catch in his lungs; and it takes all of his strength of person to keep from pinning Key to a wall by the wrists and fucking his mouth with his tongue.
The thought becomes a picture in his mind, vivid and clear as the scene plays out behind his eyelids. With a groan of something caught between exasperation and sexual frustration, Minho banishes it by firmly connecting the back of his head with the concrete wall behind it. This has become a commonplace occurrence; a simple thought, innocent in its creation, comes to his mind and - should it happen to involve the pink-lipped, cat-eyed little minx he wants so badly - is warped and perverted in an instant. Though he tries to stop, to think of seventies-style orange carpeting and fat old ladies with double-chins and too many cats and pairs of scissors and anything else with less than zero sex appeal, he is consistently unsuccessful, and has found the only way to turn his thoughts away from Key's bare chest and a can of aerosol whipped cream is to physically injure himself in some way. Every time it happens, Minho comes to hate himself just a little more than he had previously; how is it fair to Key that, while he's dealing with the pain of unresolved one-sided feelings, Minho is picturing him in the lewdest of fashions at any given time of the day, spurned on my nothing but whether or not Key is wearing socks, or the way his sweatpants sit on his hips, or the slow slide of his chopsticks across his lower lip as the five of them share a fast meal together. The stupidest, smallest, most insignificant things are driving Minho crazy, and it is rendering him one hundred percent inept as a support to Key's emotional trauma.
As their break ends, Minho is suddenly overcome with the urge to whip his water bottle as hard as he can against the far wall; to watch the contents splatter across the cloudscape wallpaper as the plastic gives and cracks with the force of the blow; to imagine his heart the same way, if only it will stop bleeding for Key and Key alone. Though his grip tightens on the vessel, knuckles and fingers tense, he throws the feeling off with a roll of his shoulders and a low growl of frustration at his own foolishness. If there has never before been a more awful time to let himself unravel, then here and now is definitely it. They have a concert to put on; and he has a friend to help. Surely he can be selfless enough to be of some use for both endeavours. He rises to rejoin the formation as Onew calls out to him, motioning erratically for him to rejoin planet Earth and get to his spot to they can restart practise. Minho manages a chuckle and falls in line, and the music jumps to life.
Ha-na; dul; set!
··· ✫ ···
Their dorm is stifling. It isn't warmth that drives him out into the snow, but the need for air. There isn't really a solid explanation for his sudden panic attack, but they had scarcely been back home for an hour when Key finally lost the battle with the urge to get the hell out. He has neglected to bring gloves, but his heavy wool coat has deep pockets, so he buries his red-tipped fingers inside of them to keep them from going too numb. Rather than wander the streets in the cold, he has opted for the view of the neighbourhood from the roof, and hasn't been disappointed; even at three am, the lights of the city glitter like strewn glass in the blackness. Snowflakes - fat and heavy, clusters of individual flakes in great fluffy globs - drift lazily down in thin sheets, and the sheer volume of them has his hair and shoulders dusted white almost instantly. Key lifts his face to the sky with his eyes closed, and smiles to himself as he feels them melt across his exposed skin. Cold; wet; warm; cool. The cycle of temperatures and sensations as the flakes disappear across his cheeks, eyelids and lips is soothing, the way picking an old scab is satisfying. It reminds him of the last time he cried, and how long ago it was; why they fell in the first place. He allows himself, finally, to consider the position he's put himself in, and whether or not it is worth it. Though he casts around for his own opinion, his net comes back empty.
Maybe it isn't heat or air that has driven Key to the rooftop. He opens his eyes slowly as this thoght surfaces in his mind and sighs, watching as his breath clouds and dissipates in to the night, swallowed by the darkness around him. Perhaps something more than personal space is driving him to enact his own form of solitary confinement among the muted city stars and too-big snowflakes. There has never been a moment for him to really consider his feelings towards this whole mess; where it leave him, and his friendship with Jonghyun. If you can still call what they share a platonic relationship, that is. But maybe that's the point - there isn't something you can call it right now. It hurts to think that all of the closeness they had shared in the time they knew one another could be dashed and shattered so easily, but then again, sex changes everything. The simple act that humans were created to perform is the very same thing that can ruin, or make a person. It is a dangerous tool for something so basic, so instinctual. Is sex the be-all and end-all of any relationship, though? There is no law, no rule that says so; and Key is hoping that, when their tempers and feelings settle, there will be something left between himself and Jonghyun to salvage. Pondering this new train of thought, his awareness fails to alert him of the heavy metallic click of the stairwell doors closing, or the squeaking of snow under heavy boots behind him.
“You look cold.”
Startled out of his revere, Key wheels around to find Minho in a long black wool coat, buttons done right up to the throat, collar flipped over the back of his neck. He is obviously exhausted, but if anything the dark shadows under his eyes make them look impossibly brighter. Key silently curses him for being able to make physical limitations look good. “I'm fine,” he responds, smiling weakly. When he turns back to the cityscape in front of him, he hears Minho move slowly to stand beside him.
For a long while they say nothing more to one another; they simply enjoy the view, and the presence of another person beside them. Key can feel Minho's eyes flicking to examine his face, always briefly, before turning back to the shimmering of the world around them through a veil of light snow. Each time he senses the gesture, Key has to keep himself from laughing, and he is uncertain what, exactly, he finds so funny. There isn't anything to laugh at, but Minho's obvious concern for him makes him inexplicably giddy. He figures it's just the thought that he isn't alone in all of this; that, throughout whatever happens when the proverbial shit hits the fan, Minho will always be there, standing silently by his side, stealing peeks at his expressions to assure the both of them that everything is, for now, all right.
“I don't know what I'm doing any more.” admits Key, chuckling as he says it. Minho turns to face him as he continues, his face unreadable, but Key's still looking out over the city and doesn't really notice. His voice is soft, but there is strength of purpose behind it; he needs to get this off his chest before it crushes him, abut he is in no hurry to do it. “I'm trying to run away and hold my ground all at the same time. It doesn't make any sense, but I'm trying so hard to forget and remember the same things, and it's so futile... It's like fishing for water. It's redundant, and stupid; it's absolutely pointless, and it'll never get me anywhere, but I'm not sure how else to feel. I'm not even sure what I feel any more, to be honest with you. It's like there's a hole in me somewhere where my feelings used to be, but now it's just... There. And when I look for them, all I get is an echo of what used to be there. Not even just the sad feelings, the unresolved ones; the happy ones, and the ones I was so sure of, they're all gone, too. I just - am. I'm just here. This is what I've been reduced to, and it's awful, but I don't even have the energy to be upset.” He manages another mirthless laugh, then allows their amicable silence to return. It is short-lived.
“Kibum.”
Minho's low, steady rumble wades through the fog in his head, and he turns to look at the taller boy, his eyes heavily lidded with something close to desperation. It is a painful expression, judging by the flash of emotion in Minho's eyes, but the gentle giant is unreadable, as usual.
Minho knows this, and is glad of his easy stoicism for once in his life. There is a hurricane in his lungs, and finding the breath to speak is difficult, but he doesn't let it show. His throat is tight with emotions, and his chest feels rattled and hollow as he struggles with the urge to crush Key in a hug. He knows the other wouldn't necessarily mind the contact, but he can't help but worry that he won't be satisfied with an embrace of such an innocent nature. Instead, he searches for the right things to say, and hopes that words will suffice. He makes sure to face out at the city, instead of at Key, lest his eyes betray him.
“Being in love isn't fun when you're the only one feeling anything. It hurts; it's desolate, and it's lonely. One-sided feelings are the single loneliest thing on the planet. You've come to a point where you don't want to be lonesome any more, but you can't let go of Jonghyun-hyung, so you're stuck. It's not that you're trying to do two opposite things; it's that what you want, and what you can have are different, and you're doing your best to settle for middle ground. But what you're forgetting is, you've never been the sort of person who's okay with second place. You don't let your ego get in the way, but at the same time your confidence trips you up when you fall short of your own expectations. You want the world to be black and white not because it's easier, but because you know where you stand then; but in reality, there are more shades of grey to life than stars in the sky, or bubbles in soda, or grains of sand on a beach. You just have to find the shade that suits you best, and wear it like you own it.”
Key is wide-eyed now, staring openly at Minho with his lips slightly parted. This is not only the most Minho has ever said in one sitting, but it's also the most probing thing Key has ever heard in his life. It's as if Minho has been inside of his head, picking through his feelings like notepaper and filing it away. His own personal emotion secretary. As the snow falls around them, Key once again realizes that there is so much more to Minho than he has ever realized; he looks at him as if they haven't known each other for years now, and suddenly the source of it all is revealed in the inky sparkle of his eyes. Something sad and shy, but still warm in a tentative sense - like a broken animal that still manages to be loyal to the hand that feeds it. It is a chilling find, but Key is mesmerized by it; a moth to the flame, hypnotized by the warmth and beauty, but heedless of the danger behind it.
“Love is a harsh mistress.” Key is startled when he speaks again, quickly moving his gaze away from Minho's eyes. Minho shifts his hands from his pockets, loosely grasping the frigid metal rail instead; the gesture seems unconscious, and Key assumes it must be, because that damned railing is covered in snow and freezing cold. “She lifts you up to a place you've only imagined, and fills your head with the most wonderful nonsense. You start thinking with your heart, rather than your head, and for you that's an absolute dead end. You hate it when you think with your heart, because you don't trust your own emotions; you think they'll betray you at the slightest breath of heartache, but you love so liberally despite your own limitations. Maybe it's not something you do consciously - maybe that sort of love sneaks up on you, and before you know it, it's made itself at home in your chest - but there are so many people in your life, and you care so wholly about every single one. But this time, being Key-umma wasn't enough for your heart, and you dared to wish for more. You allowed love to rule you, if only once, and now you feel like your distrust of romantic feelings is justified.
“It's not, you know,” Minho turns to smile sadly at him, and the expression makes Key's breath catch with how painful, yet beautiful it is, “Love isn't like courage, or pride, or fear, though it has all of those things in it. Love is it's own entity; a living, breathing thing that invades you when you least expect it, and sometimes when it's least convenient. Once you have it, it grows like ivy, spreading throughout your entire body and getting in the way of even your most basic movements, your primary senses, and suddenly your world is turned to one person. You revolve around them as if they were the sun, and maybe in a sense that's exactly what they are - the centre of your universe. It's not about what's fair, or what's right, or what's easy. Sometimes love even gets it wrong. You fall for the wrong person, at the wrong time, in the wrong way, and for all the wrong reasons, but when it's all said and done it feels so right you can't help yourself. Love is riding a bike downhill, taking your feet off of the pedals, letting go of the handlebars and letting gravity do what it wants with you. You can stop it if you want to, and it'll hurt like shit if you do - sometimes even if you put your faith in the outcome, you still end up getting hurt - but while you're still moving there is no greater feeling, no possible way you could ever feel more perfect. You've just come to the part where you've run out of road, and the ride is ending; what's left to decide now is how you want to finish it. Even if it means possibly driving face-first in to a brick wall, do you try to put your feet and hands back where they belong, take the risk and see if you can alter course enough to keep yourself intact; or do you bail, take the fall and the pain, pick yourself off the ground with your knees bleeding and your palms stinging, and find a new place to ride? Once you figure out what you want to do, that emptiness will go away - you just never really know what'll fill it until it's already full again.”
Key is still trying to absorb what Minho's said, his eyebrows knitted high on his forehead as he thinks, when it happens. Wet, cold and calloused, Minho's hand finds his and holds on, pressing their palms together and giving a reassuring squeeze. Surprised by the forwardness, but pleased with the outcome, Key gives him a searching look. There is a small smile, both on Minho's face and in his eyes, and Key can't put his finger on the reason for them.
“How is it that we're almost the same age - and you're even younger by a couple of months - but you talk like an old man with the world in his back pocket and a secret in his hands?” When all he gets in response is a broadening of the smile, Key tugs at the hand in his and tries again. “It's like this is old news to you - like you've heard this song before, seen the movie, read the book, bought the t-shirt, gone full circle. How do you know what I'm feeling even better than I do?”
Minho brings his face close to his ear, and Key can hear the strained, painful edge to the humorous lightness in his voice when he speaks. It sends a pang to his heart, and before he's even registered the sentence in his mind, he knows the answer he's been given.
“You aren't the only person who's ever been in love, Kibum-ah.”
They stay that way until daybreak, hand in hand, looking wordlessly over the lightening sky. Key's mind is buzzing with new questions about the man next to him, his curiosity getting the better of his emptiness. Who was - or is - Minho in love with? And for how long? For him to talk like that, it must have been a while... Or is the feeling just so strong, it has allowed him to discover the details of heartache that much more intimately? The two of them have never been particularly close, but Key can feel the axis of the world shift, and he now knows that won't be true forever. After tonight, they will always have the city lights; the snowflakes; it will be their little secret, the coincidence of fate that brings them closer. Key finds he likes the idea of being important to Minho, and having Minho be important to him in return. It just feels like it should be that way - that it was always going to be that way eventually. It is easy now, with Minho's hand warm and rough in his own, to think of what he wants to do, but he still finds himself unable to draw up the feelings he needs to decide. When Minho starts humming, a song he doesn't recognize but still finds familiarity in, Key figures he doesn't need to rush headlong in to a decision any more. He can take his time, hold the handlebars as loosely as he wishes, and make a decision when he's closer to the bottom of the hill.
Love as a bicycle downhill. Key decides he rather likes that little allegory.
Minho's cell phone chimes in his pocket, muffled by his heavy coat. A text message from Onew, wondering where on Earth he is, and has he seen Key anywhere? Minho shows him the message and Key laughs, the leader's confusion evident even in pixels, but neither makes any move to return to the dorms.
Not just yet.
··· ✫ ···
“Drop it. Just leave it alone. This isn't going to happen right now.”
His voice is on edge, like the warning rumble of a cornered animal. Key is always the last one to finish packing; the combination of his inability to allow the other members to pack unsupervised, and the sheer volume of his own clothing he has to select from always leaves him lagging behind the rest of them. With this knowledge in hand, Jonghyun has taken the absence of the other members from the bedroom of the dorm to finally speak to Key alone. His plan is backfiring, however, because the taller of the two is firmly refusing to talk.
“Kibummie, please,” Jonghyun pleads, his voice quiet and level, but beginning to take on a strained tone. He uses Key's pet name in an attempt to ease his defences, but if anything all it does is strengthen them. “We're going to have to talk about... this, eventually.”
“And I told you,” Key's voice is growing sharper, though the volume is just as soft as Jonghyun's. He plucks a slinky silver shirt from the pile on the dresser, decides against it, sets it aside; he concentrates all of his efforts on his wardrobe, trying to keep his mind off of the thoughts he has banished for so long now. “I'm not having this conversation with you the day we go to Japan. Why today, of all the days since it happened, you chose now is absolutely beyond me; it's quite possibly the least thoughtful thing you could've done in this situation. Everything we've been working for since we formed is riding on this concert, and you want to risk ruining our dynamic over something we should have talked about ages ago.”
“There wasn't - ”
“Oh, don't even pull that shit with me!” Snaps Key. He spins on his heel to face Jonghyun, his hands finding the sides of his head in a display of incredulity, “We had sex in October. It's almost the end of December. You can't tell me that, in the span of more than two months, you couldn't find an opportunity to talk privately with me. That's bull, Jonghyun; what you couldn't find were the balls.”
Silence falls between them like lead, weighted and cold, as the bite and sting of Key's last words settle on their shoulders. They stare at one another, but Jonghyun seems to have no retort for this accusation despite his obvious fuming, and Key isn't offering him a leg up. Not this time. There have been too many times where Key has come to his rescue, offering a way out; a loophole in social etiquette, for him to slip through unscathed; but this is one argument he is not going to help him win. Key's heart hammers wildly in his chest, beating against his breastbone like a desperate prisoner behind the cage of his ribs - and perhaps, in one sense or another, that's exactly what it is. With a morbid swoop of satisfaction, he watches Jonghyun's jaw clench and unclench, the other's eyes dark and angry, but he says nothing. Because Key is right, and he knows it. After a minute of tense noiselessness, Key huffs, turns back to his luggage and tucks a pair of black skinny jeans in beside his socks.
“Just... Get out. If you want to talk after all this time, then fine, we'll talk; but we'll do it after the concert, once we've come home. I won't let you ruin this for me - or for yourself.”
Jonghyun throws up his hands - he hears the connecting of his palms to his thighs that comes with the motion, and knows it has been done - and his footfalls carry him to the door of the bedroom. When Key's ears find the grind of the door handle turning, he finally lets his hands shake as he tucks a leopard print bag of toiletries in beside his pyjamas, and manages not to jump when the door itself slams shut. His vision swims in salt water as tears well in his eyes, and he scrubs at his eyes with the ball of his wrist, frustrated with himself. He's done his crying over this - at least, the thought he was. All he's doing now by continuing with the waterworks is feeling sorry for himself, and he hates it when he wallows like that. What good will tears do, anyhow? Will they bring back that cold night October, change the way things have played out; make it all better? Definitely not. No, crying over Jonghyun will do nothing but make him feel pathetic and worthless, but he can't seem to stem the flow. They parade down his cheeks like they own each inch of skin they touch as they fall, clinging to his chin to mock him.
Key feels his knees give out; he muffles a choked sob with the heel of his hand, sliding slowly to the floor as his shoulders heave and shake with the force of his unleashed emotions. Every piteous thought; every touch they shared; every movement they made together that night, and the scars the act left behind are laid bare in the wake of Jonghyun's sudden conscience, and if only he could find the breath in his lungs to do so, Key would curse him to hell and back for breaking his resolve. He clutches at the drawer handles of the dresser, trying to find something - anything - to hold on to that won't slip from his trembling fingertips. Something to anchor himself to reality as he pours himself out on the bedroom floor, hoping to cry himself dry as quickly as he can before someone comes looking for him. He doesn't want someone else's pity: he has enough of his own.
When the tears have stopped, and he is left gasping for air in their wake, he throws his eyes around the dorm in search of a pair of sunglasses. He knows he hasn't packed them yet - he is meticulous in that manner - and he finds them on the bedside table, next to Onew's iPod. Laughing - a barking, harsh sound from his raw throat - he snatches both articles from their hiding spot, cramming the sunglasses over his swollen eyes. Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, Key picks himself up off the floor and glances at himself in the mirror. Through the darkened plastic lenses, he makes sure no trace of his weakness remains in his face, and he clears his throat of clinging sobs before storming out of the bedroom, brandishing the music player like a bayonet.
“Onew-hyung, I specifically told you to pack this thirty minutes ago! Aish!”
Love as a bicycle downhill. If that's what this is, then he's close to the wall at the bottom now, and he still doesn't know whether or not he should keep riding. He's just an empty shell holding on for dear life, too terrified of the pain of either outcome to choose between them.
✫ ··· chapter four
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (This chapter rated PG)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
There have been times in his life where Key has wondered just how one finds themselves too full. How is capacity achieved in human beings? He has never understood before when people insist that they are at the limits of their emotional basins; that any new feelings will displace the old, at least temporarily, in order to make room for more; that they couldn't possibly feel more than they do at that moment. For Key, feelings have always been seemingly infinite, and ever-expansive. He has always had room for more, whether he likes it or not.
Breaching December, however, he quickly learns that everyone has a limit - even himself. In the looming shadow of their first solo concert - in Japan, no less - there is so much to take in that he loses part of himself to the excess. Like a ballast in his chest, rising and falling, filling and displacing to maintain stability, he files away old feelings for new. The stress and nerves brought on by SHINee's first foray in to true stardom far outweigh anything else, and Key finds it impossible to anticipate the concert and pine over Jonghyun simultaneously. While he realizes that he should be dealing with his unresolved feelings, coming to terms with them and bargaining some sort of peace treaty with his desires, it is impossible to do when their lives are once again a flurry of rehearsals and promotions and lessons in Japanese pronunciation. To keep himself from skewing his precarious emotional balance, and being the sort of person who is completely incapable of doing things by halves anyhow, Key throws himself headlong into their preparations. His mouth fumbles through nouns and verbs in a foreign tongue; he has found himself miming their choreography in the shower, and has nearly cracked his head open on the bathroom floor twice; he dreams of the day of the concert, standing on stage to greet the fans, only to find himself stark naked and alone under the spotlight with a malfunctioning microphone.
He finds that dream particularly terrifying when the only member of the audience is Jonghyun, but can't seem to muster the energy to dwell on the implications.
Taemin has not allowed the rest of them to forget what December really means, however. The maknae has somehow found the time to stop at a discount store and buy a small array of tacky red-and-green foil decorations, which he has plastered to the entirety of the dorm with bits of clear tape. There is a small altercation when he reveals the singing snowman; it is motion-activated, and having it near the kitchen means it is nearly always going off. While Onew may find it charming, the rest of them do not, and one day Jonghyun accidentally knocks it over with his gym bag and proceeds to step on it. How a single footfall manages to completely obliterate the offending object is the root of the argument, but the whole thing is quickly smoothed over when Minho brings home a gigantic stuffed reindeer. Mercifully, though the nose does light up in an obscene shade of sticky candy red, it is silent. Taemin decorates the antlers with silver tinsel, and the brutal demise of the snowman is soon history - but not forgotten.
Christmas. Key normally looks forward to this time of year, but the approaching performance coupled with the events of what he will only refer to as The Week Before November make it entirely unrealistic for him to be excited in any way. He wants to be, desperately, but he is too drained of everything to do very much about it. He can't even bring himself to be lonesome at the prospect of a Christmas eve with the rift still gaping and fresh between himself and Jonghyun. What he does manage is to change his ringtone to Jingle Bell Rock, and to break out his collection of Christmas-themed socks. It will have to do for now, and at least now when he gets a text message, the sound of sleigh-bells brightens him up for a moment.
··· ✫ ···
They are practising the choreography for Lucifer for what seems like the thousandth time. All five move in an effortless rhythm, able to anticipate where each of the others will be at any given time, because this is who they are, what they were born do. The movements are like breathing; in and out, side to side, arms here, feet here, hold the beat. When they break for water, parched and heaving and perspiring, Minho can feel the muscles in his legs jumping in time to the echo of the song in his head as he leans against the wall, and allows himself to slide slowly to the ground. He scrubs roughly at his hair with a towel, too irritated by the trickle of sweat down the back of his neck to care what it ends up looking like afterwards. From his place on the floor he watches as Jonghyun and Taemin continue to practise on their own - when Jonghyun pulls an exasperated-yet-defeated face, Minho figures Taemin must be leveraging a favour out of him to keep the post-snowman peace. Guilt is a powerful tool, something Taemin seems to be well aware of; his face goes from pouting to triumphant as Jonghyun presumably gives in to whatever it is Taemin demands. From there, Minho's eyes fall of their own accord to Key.
Though they have all gotten into the habit of simply pouring water into their mouths, it seems that his thirst is simply not quenchable in moderation. He watches with rapt attention as Key's Adam's apple slides up and down his neck, following the motions of his throat as he takes long, greedy gulps from his water bottle. The crinkle of the plastic is audible as it gives under the pressure, beginning to collapse as Key drags the liquid out. Minho swallows hard, trying to will himself to look away, but his eyes catch a small bead of sweat that clings to Key's jawline. It hangs at the curve of his ear a moment, before rolling down and along the tendon in his neck, crawling slowly against the flushed skin. The movement of the drop is egged on by the tensing of Key's throat as he swallows, accelerating for a moment; then slowing as he draws more water into his mouth before repeating the process, until it finally pools on the top of his collarbone and slips beneath the strap of his oversized tank top. For a moment, Minho slips into daydreams, imagining his fingers taking the same path along Key's neck; then it's his mouth, scattering kisses with too much teeth across sweat-slicked flesh... Minho shakes his head sharply. When he can no longer stand the lack of air, Key gasps softly and lowers the bottle with a crackle, drained of nearly all its contents, and breathes heavily. Not wanting to be caught staring, Minho manages to tear himself away from the scene and focuses on his hands.
He is not a fool; he is well aware of the scheme behind the other boy's feverish enthusiasm for their increased workload, and he has been keeping a careful eye on him. It is no secret that Key is the sort of person to throw himself to the sea in an effort to stay afloat; his reaction to stress is normally to find a new source of the stuff, another thing to worry himself sick about in a backward attempt to forget that there is something else gnawing away at his insides. It would be egotistical to say that Minho knows him better than any of the rest of them, but he is certain that he is most aware of this side of Key; the other members either don't see it, or choose not to comment. Minho feels like his ability to help Key through this is hindered by his own baggage, however, and the thought of adding to the other's already daunting burden is unfathomable. Besides, they have yet to speak in private since...
...Since Minho kissed him. Idiot that he is.
He is not actively trying to avoid Key, but he can't deny that being alone with him is an ordeal in and of itself. There has always been a pressure in his heart when Key is involved, dull and blunted, like the press of a finger against his chest; just firm enough for him to be aware of his desires. Ever since that day, however, it is more akin to a nail being driven through the muscle, sharp and fiery and insistent. It claws hot in his belly like acid; makes the breath catch in his lungs; and it takes all of his strength of person to keep from pinning Key to a wall by the wrists and fucking his mouth with his tongue.
The thought becomes a picture in his mind, vivid and clear as the scene plays out behind his eyelids. With a groan of something caught between exasperation and sexual frustration, Minho banishes it by firmly connecting the back of his head with the concrete wall behind it. This has become a commonplace occurrence; a simple thought, innocent in its creation, comes to his mind and - should it happen to involve the pink-lipped, cat-eyed little minx he wants so badly - is warped and perverted in an instant. Though he tries to stop, to think of seventies-style orange carpeting and fat old ladies with double-chins and too many cats and pairs of scissors and anything else with less than zero sex appeal, he is consistently unsuccessful, and has found the only way to turn his thoughts away from Key's bare chest and a can of aerosol whipped cream is to physically injure himself in some way. Every time it happens, Minho comes to hate himself just a little more than he had previously; how is it fair to Key that, while he's dealing with the pain of unresolved one-sided feelings, Minho is picturing him in the lewdest of fashions at any given time of the day, spurned on my nothing but whether or not Key is wearing socks, or the way his sweatpants sit on his hips, or the slow slide of his chopsticks across his lower lip as the five of them share a fast meal together. The stupidest, smallest, most insignificant things are driving Minho crazy, and it is rendering him one hundred percent inept as a support to Key's emotional trauma.
As their break ends, Minho is suddenly overcome with the urge to whip his water bottle as hard as he can against the far wall; to watch the contents splatter across the cloudscape wallpaper as the plastic gives and cracks with the force of the blow; to imagine his heart the same way, if only it will stop bleeding for Key and Key alone. Though his grip tightens on the vessel, knuckles and fingers tense, he throws the feeling off with a roll of his shoulders and a low growl of frustration at his own foolishness. If there has never before been a more awful time to let himself unravel, then here and now is definitely it. They have a concert to put on; and he has a friend to help. Surely he can be selfless enough to be of some use for both endeavours. He rises to rejoin the formation as Onew calls out to him, motioning erratically for him to rejoin planet Earth and get to his spot to they can restart practise. Minho manages a chuckle and falls in line, and the music jumps to life.
Ha-na; dul; set!
··· ✫ ···
Their dorm is stifling. It isn't warmth that drives him out into the snow, but the need for air. There isn't really a solid explanation for his sudden panic attack, but they had scarcely been back home for an hour when Key finally lost the battle with the urge to get the hell out. He has neglected to bring gloves, but his heavy wool coat has deep pockets, so he buries his red-tipped fingers inside of them to keep them from going too numb. Rather than wander the streets in the cold, he has opted for the view of the neighbourhood from the roof, and hasn't been disappointed; even at three am, the lights of the city glitter like strewn glass in the blackness. Snowflakes - fat and heavy, clusters of individual flakes in great fluffy globs - drift lazily down in thin sheets, and the sheer volume of them has his hair and shoulders dusted white almost instantly. Key lifts his face to the sky with his eyes closed, and smiles to himself as he feels them melt across his exposed skin. Cold; wet; warm; cool. The cycle of temperatures and sensations as the flakes disappear across his cheeks, eyelids and lips is soothing, the way picking an old scab is satisfying. It reminds him of the last time he cried, and how long ago it was; why they fell in the first place. He allows himself, finally, to consider the position he's put himself in, and whether or not it is worth it. Though he casts around for his own opinion, his net comes back empty.
Maybe it isn't heat or air that has driven Key to the rooftop. He opens his eyes slowly as this thoght surfaces in his mind and sighs, watching as his breath clouds and dissipates in to the night, swallowed by the darkness around him. Perhaps something more than personal space is driving him to enact his own form of solitary confinement among the muted city stars and too-big snowflakes. There has never been a moment for him to really consider his feelings towards this whole mess; where it leave him, and his friendship with Jonghyun. If you can still call what they share a platonic relationship, that is. But maybe that's the point - there isn't something you can call it right now. It hurts to think that all of the closeness they had shared in the time they knew one another could be dashed and shattered so easily, but then again, sex changes everything. The simple act that humans were created to perform is the very same thing that can ruin, or make a person. It is a dangerous tool for something so basic, so instinctual. Is sex the be-all and end-all of any relationship, though? There is no law, no rule that says so; and Key is hoping that, when their tempers and feelings settle, there will be something left between himself and Jonghyun to salvage. Pondering this new train of thought, his awareness fails to alert him of the heavy metallic click of the stairwell doors closing, or the squeaking of snow under heavy boots behind him.
“You look cold.”
Startled out of his revere, Key wheels around to find Minho in a long black wool coat, buttons done right up to the throat, collar flipped over the back of his neck. He is obviously exhausted, but if anything the dark shadows under his eyes make them look impossibly brighter. Key silently curses him for being able to make physical limitations look good. “I'm fine,” he responds, smiling weakly. When he turns back to the cityscape in front of him, he hears Minho move slowly to stand beside him.
For a long while they say nothing more to one another; they simply enjoy the view, and the presence of another person beside them. Key can feel Minho's eyes flicking to examine his face, always briefly, before turning back to the shimmering of the world around them through a veil of light snow. Each time he senses the gesture, Key has to keep himself from laughing, and he is uncertain what, exactly, he finds so funny. There isn't anything to laugh at, but Minho's obvious concern for him makes him inexplicably giddy. He figures it's just the thought that he isn't alone in all of this; that, throughout whatever happens when the proverbial shit hits the fan, Minho will always be there, standing silently by his side, stealing peeks at his expressions to assure the both of them that everything is, for now, all right.
“I don't know what I'm doing any more.” admits Key, chuckling as he says it. Minho turns to face him as he continues, his face unreadable, but Key's still looking out over the city and doesn't really notice. His voice is soft, but there is strength of purpose behind it; he needs to get this off his chest before it crushes him, abut he is in no hurry to do it. “I'm trying to run away and hold my ground all at the same time. It doesn't make any sense, but I'm trying so hard to forget and remember the same things, and it's so futile... It's like fishing for water. It's redundant, and stupid; it's absolutely pointless, and it'll never get me anywhere, but I'm not sure how else to feel. I'm not even sure what I feel any more, to be honest with you. It's like there's a hole in me somewhere where my feelings used to be, but now it's just... There. And when I look for them, all I get is an echo of what used to be there. Not even just the sad feelings, the unresolved ones; the happy ones, and the ones I was so sure of, they're all gone, too. I just - am. I'm just here. This is what I've been reduced to, and it's awful, but I don't even have the energy to be upset.” He manages another mirthless laugh, then allows their amicable silence to return. It is short-lived.
“Kibum.”
Minho's low, steady rumble wades through the fog in his head, and he turns to look at the taller boy, his eyes heavily lidded with something close to desperation. It is a painful expression, judging by the flash of emotion in Minho's eyes, but the gentle giant is unreadable, as usual.
Minho knows this, and is glad of his easy stoicism for once in his life. There is a hurricane in his lungs, and finding the breath to speak is difficult, but he doesn't let it show. His throat is tight with emotions, and his chest feels rattled and hollow as he struggles with the urge to crush Key in a hug. He knows the other wouldn't necessarily mind the contact, but he can't help but worry that he won't be satisfied with an embrace of such an innocent nature. Instead, he searches for the right things to say, and hopes that words will suffice. He makes sure to face out at the city, instead of at Key, lest his eyes betray him.
“Being in love isn't fun when you're the only one feeling anything. It hurts; it's desolate, and it's lonely. One-sided feelings are the single loneliest thing on the planet. You've come to a point where you don't want to be lonesome any more, but you can't let go of Jonghyun-hyung, so you're stuck. It's not that you're trying to do two opposite things; it's that what you want, and what you can have are different, and you're doing your best to settle for middle ground. But what you're forgetting is, you've never been the sort of person who's okay with second place. You don't let your ego get in the way, but at the same time your confidence trips you up when you fall short of your own expectations. You want the world to be black and white not because it's easier, but because you know where you stand then; but in reality, there are more shades of grey to life than stars in the sky, or bubbles in soda, or grains of sand on a beach. You just have to find the shade that suits you best, and wear it like you own it.”
Key is wide-eyed now, staring openly at Minho with his lips slightly parted. This is not only the most Minho has ever said in one sitting, but it's also the most probing thing Key has ever heard in his life. It's as if Minho has been inside of his head, picking through his feelings like notepaper and filing it away. His own personal emotion secretary. As the snow falls around them, Key once again realizes that there is so much more to Minho than he has ever realized; he looks at him as if they haven't known each other for years now, and suddenly the source of it all is revealed in the inky sparkle of his eyes. Something sad and shy, but still warm in a tentative sense - like a broken animal that still manages to be loyal to the hand that feeds it. It is a chilling find, but Key is mesmerized by it; a moth to the flame, hypnotized by the warmth and beauty, but heedless of the danger behind it.
“Love is a harsh mistress.” Key is startled when he speaks again, quickly moving his gaze away from Minho's eyes. Minho shifts his hands from his pockets, loosely grasping the frigid metal rail instead; the gesture seems unconscious, and Key assumes it must be, because that damned railing is covered in snow and freezing cold. “She lifts you up to a place you've only imagined, and fills your head with the most wonderful nonsense. You start thinking with your heart, rather than your head, and for you that's an absolute dead end. You hate it when you think with your heart, because you don't trust your own emotions; you think they'll betray you at the slightest breath of heartache, but you love so liberally despite your own limitations. Maybe it's not something you do consciously - maybe that sort of love sneaks up on you, and before you know it, it's made itself at home in your chest - but there are so many people in your life, and you care so wholly about every single one. But this time, being Key-umma wasn't enough for your heart, and you dared to wish for more. You allowed love to rule you, if only once, and now you feel like your distrust of romantic feelings is justified.
“It's not, you know,” Minho turns to smile sadly at him, and the expression makes Key's breath catch with how painful, yet beautiful it is, “Love isn't like courage, or pride, or fear, though it has all of those things in it. Love is it's own entity; a living, breathing thing that invades you when you least expect it, and sometimes when it's least convenient. Once you have it, it grows like ivy, spreading throughout your entire body and getting in the way of even your most basic movements, your primary senses, and suddenly your world is turned to one person. You revolve around them as if they were the sun, and maybe in a sense that's exactly what they are - the centre of your universe. It's not about what's fair, or what's right, or what's easy. Sometimes love even gets it wrong. You fall for the wrong person, at the wrong time, in the wrong way, and for all the wrong reasons, but when it's all said and done it feels so right you can't help yourself. Love is riding a bike downhill, taking your feet off of the pedals, letting go of the handlebars and letting gravity do what it wants with you. You can stop it if you want to, and it'll hurt like shit if you do - sometimes even if you put your faith in the outcome, you still end up getting hurt - but while you're still moving there is no greater feeling, no possible way you could ever feel more perfect. You've just come to the part where you've run out of road, and the ride is ending; what's left to decide now is how you want to finish it. Even if it means possibly driving face-first in to a brick wall, do you try to put your feet and hands back where they belong, take the risk and see if you can alter course enough to keep yourself intact; or do you bail, take the fall and the pain, pick yourself off the ground with your knees bleeding and your palms stinging, and find a new place to ride? Once you figure out what you want to do, that emptiness will go away - you just never really know what'll fill it until it's already full again.”
Key is still trying to absorb what Minho's said, his eyebrows knitted high on his forehead as he thinks, when it happens. Wet, cold and calloused, Minho's hand finds his and holds on, pressing their palms together and giving a reassuring squeeze. Surprised by the forwardness, but pleased with the outcome, Key gives him a searching look. There is a small smile, both on Minho's face and in his eyes, and Key can't put his finger on the reason for them.
“How is it that we're almost the same age - and you're even younger by a couple of months - but you talk like an old man with the world in his back pocket and a secret in his hands?” When all he gets in response is a broadening of the smile, Key tugs at the hand in his and tries again. “It's like this is old news to you - like you've heard this song before, seen the movie, read the book, bought the t-shirt, gone full circle. How do you know what I'm feeling even better than I do?”
Minho brings his face close to his ear, and Key can hear the strained, painful edge to the humorous lightness in his voice when he speaks. It sends a pang to his heart, and before he's even registered the sentence in his mind, he knows the answer he's been given.
“You aren't the only person who's ever been in love, Kibum-ah.”
They stay that way until daybreak, hand in hand, looking wordlessly over the lightening sky. Key's mind is buzzing with new questions about the man next to him, his curiosity getting the better of his emptiness. Who was - or is - Minho in love with? And for how long? For him to talk like that, it must have been a while... Or is the feeling just so strong, it has allowed him to discover the details of heartache that much more intimately? The two of them have never been particularly close, but Key can feel the axis of the world shift, and he now knows that won't be true forever. After tonight, they will always have the city lights; the snowflakes; it will be their little secret, the coincidence of fate that brings them closer. Key finds he likes the idea of being important to Minho, and having Minho be important to him in return. It just feels like it should be that way - that it was always going to be that way eventually. It is easy now, with Minho's hand warm and rough in his own, to think of what he wants to do, but he still finds himself unable to draw up the feelings he needs to decide. When Minho starts humming, a song he doesn't recognize but still finds familiarity in, Key figures he doesn't need to rush headlong in to a decision any more. He can take his time, hold the handlebars as loosely as he wishes, and make a decision when he's closer to the bottom of the hill.
Love as a bicycle downhill. Key decides he rather likes that little allegory.
Minho's cell phone chimes in his pocket, muffled by his heavy coat. A text message from Onew, wondering where on Earth he is, and has he seen Key anywhere? Minho shows him the message and Key laughs, the leader's confusion evident even in pixels, but neither makes any move to return to the dorms.
Not just yet.
··· ✫ ···
“Drop it. Just leave it alone. This isn't going to happen right now.”
His voice is on edge, like the warning rumble of a cornered animal. Key is always the last one to finish packing; the combination of his inability to allow the other members to pack unsupervised, and the sheer volume of his own clothing he has to select from always leaves him lagging behind the rest of them. With this knowledge in hand, Jonghyun has taken the absence of the other members from the bedroom of the dorm to finally speak to Key alone. His plan is backfiring, however, because the taller of the two is firmly refusing to talk.
“Kibummie, please,” Jonghyun pleads, his voice quiet and level, but beginning to take on a strained tone. He uses Key's pet name in an attempt to ease his defences, but if anything all it does is strengthen them. “We're going to have to talk about... this, eventually.”
“And I told you,” Key's voice is growing sharper, though the volume is just as soft as Jonghyun's. He plucks a slinky silver shirt from the pile on the dresser, decides against it, sets it aside; he concentrates all of his efforts on his wardrobe, trying to keep his mind off of the thoughts he has banished for so long now. “I'm not having this conversation with you the day we go to Japan. Why today, of all the days since it happened, you chose now is absolutely beyond me; it's quite possibly the least thoughtful thing you could've done in this situation. Everything we've been working for since we formed is riding on this concert, and you want to risk ruining our dynamic over something we should have talked about ages ago.”
“There wasn't - ”
“Oh, don't even pull that shit with me!” Snaps Key. He spins on his heel to face Jonghyun, his hands finding the sides of his head in a display of incredulity, “We had sex in October. It's almost the end of December. You can't tell me that, in the span of more than two months, you couldn't find an opportunity to talk privately with me. That's bull, Jonghyun; what you couldn't find were the balls.”
Silence falls between them like lead, weighted and cold, as the bite and sting of Key's last words settle on their shoulders. They stare at one another, but Jonghyun seems to have no retort for this accusation despite his obvious fuming, and Key isn't offering him a leg up. Not this time. There have been too many times where Key has come to his rescue, offering a way out; a loophole in social etiquette, for him to slip through unscathed; but this is one argument he is not going to help him win. Key's heart hammers wildly in his chest, beating against his breastbone like a desperate prisoner behind the cage of his ribs - and perhaps, in one sense or another, that's exactly what it is. With a morbid swoop of satisfaction, he watches Jonghyun's jaw clench and unclench, the other's eyes dark and angry, but he says nothing. Because Key is right, and he knows it. After a minute of tense noiselessness, Key huffs, turns back to his luggage and tucks a pair of black skinny jeans in beside his socks.
“Just... Get out. If you want to talk after all this time, then fine, we'll talk; but we'll do it after the concert, once we've come home. I won't let you ruin this for me - or for yourself.”
Jonghyun throws up his hands - he hears the connecting of his palms to his thighs that comes with the motion, and knows it has been done - and his footfalls carry him to the door of the bedroom. When Key's ears find the grind of the door handle turning, he finally lets his hands shake as he tucks a leopard print bag of toiletries in beside his pyjamas, and manages not to jump when the door itself slams shut. His vision swims in salt water as tears well in his eyes, and he scrubs at his eyes with the ball of his wrist, frustrated with himself. He's done his crying over this - at least, the thought he was. All he's doing now by continuing with the waterworks is feeling sorry for himself, and he hates it when he wallows like that. What good will tears do, anyhow? Will they bring back that cold night October, change the way things have played out; make it all better? Definitely not. No, crying over Jonghyun will do nothing but make him feel pathetic and worthless, but he can't seem to stem the flow. They parade down his cheeks like they own each inch of skin they touch as they fall, clinging to his chin to mock him.
Key feels his knees give out; he muffles a choked sob with the heel of his hand, sliding slowly to the floor as his shoulders heave and shake with the force of his unleashed emotions. Every piteous thought; every touch they shared; every movement they made together that night, and the scars the act left behind are laid bare in the wake of Jonghyun's sudden conscience, and if only he could find the breath in his lungs to do so, Key would curse him to hell and back for breaking his resolve. He clutches at the drawer handles of the dresser, trying to find something - anything - to hold on to that won't slip from his trembling fingertips. Something to anchor himself to reality as he pours himself out on the bedroom floor, hoping to cry himself dry as quickly as he can before someone comes looking for him. He doesn't want someone else's pity: he has enough of his own.
When the tears have stopped, and he is left gasping for air in their wake, he throws his eyes around the dorm in search of a pair of sunglasses. He knows he hasn't packed them yet - he is meticulous in that manner - and he finds them on the bedside table, next to Onew's iPod. Laughing - a barking, harsh sound from his raw throat - he snatches both articles from their hiding spot, cramming the sunglasses over his swollen eyes. Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, Key picks himself up off the floor and glances at himself in the mirror. Through the darkened plastic lenses, he makes sure no trace of his weakness remains in his face, and he clears his throat of clinging sobs before storming out of the bedroom, brandishing the music player like a bayonet.
“Onew-hyung, I specifically told you to pack this thirty minutes ago! Aish!”
Love as a bicycle downhill. If that's what this is, then he's close to the wall at the bottom now, and he still doesn't know whether or not he should keep riding. He's just an empty shell holding on for dear life, too terrified of the pain of either outcome to choose between them.
✫ ··· chapter four