(no subject)
█ ✫ INSIDE OUT ··· ( ch 4 of ? )
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (This chapter rated PG)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
✫ ··· author's note:
I'm still not satisfied with the way this chapter ended. Then again, I rarely am.
The moment they set foot on stage, the roar of the crowd smashes against their senses, even through their earplugs. Yoyogi National Gymnasium is a sea of lights in the darkness, each winking, bobbing pinpoint a brilliant pearlescent sky blue.
Their colour. These lights are for them, and them alone.
The concert passes in a blur of screaming and dancing and sweating and laughing. They sing their hearts out, and each can honestly say this is the most alive they have ever, ever felt. The cries of their fans echo in their ears even as their own voices grow strained and tired with the effort, but they wouldn't deny the feeling swelling in their chests for anything in the world. The unconditional love that assaults them with every new song over the speaker system is healing, uplifting; it makes all their sleepless nights seem so distant, so insignificant, that the pride and relief that replaces them is nearly overwhelming. They play like idiots, too deliriously happy to care how silly they look plucking multicoloured balls from hampers and baskets and chucking them haphazardly at one another.
For Key, the moments leading up to this point were tense and wearing. His argument with Jonghyun before they left their dorm had been like a big black cloud hanging over his head, darkening his moods even when they should be brightest. But the roar of the crowd, and the chants of their names in the darkness banish his worries for the night, leaving him too full of gratitude to feel anything else. It has been more than a month of being too full for him, something he had always thought was a foolish, overly-romanticized notion, and as they sing their final song it is all too much, and the thin line he has been treading snaps underfoot. The levy in his heart fails and for once, though his tears are for himself, as bitter as they are salty as they cling to his face and invade his lips, he has never been happier. They have made it; they've arrived. He tries to sing through the crescendo of emotions, but his voice cracks and he cries anyhow. When they bow - their first goodbye to their first sold-out crowd - they take one another's hands. Jonghyun strides across the stage, touches his shoulder, takes his hand in his own and squeezes, possibly a bit too hard, but all Key can think of is that everything seems so normal - like nothing had changed between them, and never would. The illusion clenches his heart so tightly that his tears subside just enough to allow him to utter a few thank-you's into his microphone as they wave to the audience.
Jonghyun finds his hands once again as they return to centre stage, but it is not as jarring as it was the first time. This time it is sobering, reminding him as they head backstage to a torrent of congratulations that, once they have performed in Korea, things will have to get real again. They can't leave the remains of their tattered friendship as is, or it will only get worse. Key just hopes his heart can take the strain.
··· ✫ ···
What he doesn't expect comes at the end of their concert in Seoul. Jonghyun's breakdown adds another element to their tangled little dance, and Key has to admit that it shakes him more deeply than he could ever have anticipated. It is also confusing in the barest sense, and it ties his emotions in knots to think about it; so, as usual, he tries to do anything but think.
This time around, it does not work so well for him. Though they are back in the dorm, given a glorious day off to recover from their extreme concert overwork, there have been changes. They have been moved to an empty dorm on the next floor up, with two bedrooms to share instead of just the one - a reward, they are told, for all their hard work and success. They rock-paper-scissors to see who will sleep where, and Key is thankful when he and Jonghyun end up in separate rooms. What does worry him, though he can't really place why, is that Minho is the one to end up sharing the smaller of the two bedrooms with the singer.
Key finds it hard to keep from anticipating a continuation of their talk whenever Jonghyun and he cross paths. He is well aware that expecting it to occur immediately after their arrival back home is rather ridiculous, but the looming possibility has makes him edgy. Even still, he is certain that Jonghyun wants to get this over with just as desperately as he does, and it leaves him struggling for comprehension when two weeks pass by with little more than split-second eye contact and indirect mumbles of Pass the kimchi exchanged between them. It is when two weeks become three, and nearly a month of nothing slips through his fingers like sand that his anticipation finally ebbs into something that isn't quite anger, but leaves him feeling constantly near tears regardless. Never before has he had to pretend to be fine when he is so fully aware that he is not; he is beyond the point of ignoring his feelings, much too far gone to do anything but struggle with them in a constant battle for his own sanity, and the growing weight of hopelessness is not an enemy he can keep at bay forever.
The fact that life is going on so normally around him is possibly more maddening than anything. Though he finds it egotistical to think as much, it seems that his acting skills are beyond stellar, because there have been no outside indications that he is acting unlike himself. Or is it simply that he has been pretending so long that any slips in his façade are considered a part of who he is now? That is a truly terrifying thought for Key - he has absolutely no desire to exist in emotional limbo forever, but the only other visible option is to give in, and let his weaknesses define him. As usual he is trapped, lagging behind the rest of the world, shackled by his own pride and hindered by his own heart.
His only moments of respite come on the rooftop of their dormitory, swaddled in a heavy winter coat and thick woollen scarf. It is quite literally the only place he is able to clear his head. He is rarely left alone, however, despite the subtlety of his departure from their dorm, no matter how foolproof his alibi; Minho is never more than a few minutes behind him. Some days he brings coffee in a Styrofoam cup, but not often. There are times when Minho brings only himself, and Key may not always start out feeling grateful for the company, but they never part with him feeling otherwise. It isn't even necessary that they talk, and the majority of the time neither says a word to the other. For Key, at least, it is enough to know that someone is there, with him, on his side; that there is always someone to share the load, should he find that he can no longer carry it on his own. Although he edges closer and closer to his limits, he steadfastly refuses to burden Minho with too much of his own self-pity. The fact that the offer is there - unspoken, but present in the exchange of electrons in the air between them - is already more than Key dares to ask for.
··· ✫ ···
Today, he has never been so close to asking for more. His balance is precarious the moment he wakes, and he can feel his emotions teetering on his last shred of patience, thin and brittle with the passage of time. Their schedules are centring around casual promotion; after the intensity of the last few months, it is a relief to simply be filming late night variety shows and hosting radio broadcasts. It does mean, however, that they are rarely all on the same schedule, and half the time they all sleep at different times of the day. This morning - nearly afternoon, really - sees Taemin crawling into bed with his clothes still on as Key finishes dressing, asleep before he hits his pillow. Key pulls off the maknae's socks, and tucks the blanket under his arms, sighing fondly. Once dressed he finds Onew in the kitchen, munching mechanically from a bowl of cereal. It's Jonghyun's brand, easily distinguishable by the bright pink and red berry-shaped marshmallows in it, but it seems Onew is either too tired or too hungry to care that he is grazing on stolen goods. “There's coffee,” he speaks around a mouthful, nodding his head at the coffee pot, which Key immediately gravitates towards. It does little to energize him, though, so when their leader leaves for another schedule and Key finds himself alone, the silence echoes unbearably in his ears. Abandoning his mug, he pulls on his boots and throws his coat on, cramming his unstyled hair under one of Taemin's beanies.
The elevator only goes so far, and Key makes the final climb under his own power, the metal of the stairs clanking beneath his thick-soled boots. Once he reaches the roof, he clears some snow from a raised concrete-framed access panel, and perches on it with his knees tucked under his chin, watching the movement of the sky. It is a sodden sort of overcast, the clouds overhead swollen and heavy with the promise of snow. It should be mockingly cold, being the beginning of February with spring so close, and yet so maddeningly far; but there is no wind to lash at his cheeks or nip at his lips, so the chill is not immediately obvious. He will feel it later, when his body remembers what warmth is, but he can't bring himself to care much at present - can barely register that doing up his coat would be a wise idea, let alone follow through with actually fastening the buttons.
Even this close to the sky, the silence is deafening. It leaves him alone with his own thoughts, and in his rapidly degenerating state, he can make neither heads nor tails of any of them. They rush across his consciousness like cross-town traffic, heedless of his floundering attempts to grasp them as they pass. It seems not even the sanctuary of the dormitory rooftop is enough to banish the nagging negativity that weighs so heavily behind his eyes, but he can think of no place better to be, so he lingers. Key can feel the threat of tears crawling across the skin on his neck, and lets out a small, bitter laugh. He would love to be able to cry at this point, but he knows that he won't, no matter how strongly his skin prickles with warning to the contrary. Try as they might to well up in his eyes, no matter how forcefully he blinks, they simply won't fall because he is too confused to react. Everything is too much, and nothing is enough. He is running full tilt and getting nowhere fast, and the wasted effort is finally, finally taking its toll.
Is he even still running at this point? It feels more like he is treading water, fighting against the undercurrent of his own emotional welfare as it swirls around his ankles, threatening to grab hold and drag him beneath the surface. It isn't as if talking with Jonghyun will change anything, anyhow. It isn't really even about the act itself. Key just wants closure; he wants to know that they are okay as they are - as they were before - and that a moment of human weakness will not ruin the friendship he had once tried so hard to maintain between them. It's lonely to think that he is already moving past the feelings he once held for his closest friend, but at the same time it is liberating. Almost like scar tissue - a raw reminder of what you were once, where it got you, and the fragments of it you carry with you as the angry flesh calms and fades to a shadow. The memory of a wound you survived, conquered, and wear like a medal. Unfortunately, the lack of contact from Jonghyun leaves him restless, bothered, slighted, and impedes his healing.
Truth be told, he just wants his friend back. He doesn't particularly care what it would take to secure some small measure of the closeness they once shared - he will try anything, if only Jonghyun will talk to him again. Anything.
Peering down at the street below, Key spots Minho returning from a jog. As if he'd shouted his name, Minho looks up, and Key can feel their eyes meet across the distance. Offering a weak little wave, Key manages something rather like a smile when it is returned in a wide, sweeping arc by both of Minho's mittened hands. Though it irks him, Key knows he is at his most selfish when he is with Minho. The static rapper makes it too easy, too natural to take what he offers, and Key fills his pockets with every last shred of comfort and kindness laid before him. Minho doesn't seem to mind but sometimes, when he's left alone to his thoughts and they turn sour-sweet and rotten in his mouth, Key feels like a stray cat, feeding off the scraps of pity the taller boy leaves behind. As Minho disappears under the edge of the roof and into the building, Key finds himself anticipating the moment he joins him, as he always does. For some inexplicable reason, he knows that Minho will know just what to say to lift his spirits for the remainder of the day, if only artificially - just for a little while.
Key resists the urge to turn bodily to face the door to the stairs in anticipation and settles his face between his knees instead as he waits, ears keen for the sound of footsteps behind him.
··· ✫ ···
All he wants is a shower. He can feel perspiration beading over his scalp, playing Pachinko with the individual strands of his hair as it rolls down the curve of his skull and collects in the dampened collar of his shirt. Even under the heavy scent of his deodorant - Alpine Energy, or something equally as foolishly-named because, really, what does that even smell like? - he can smell the sweat across his skin beginning to ripen, and he doesn't particularly feel privy to reeking like a jockstrap. He peels off the heavy sweatshirt, the long-sleeve shirt beneath it, the thin cotton tank beneath that, and walks bare-chested to his bedroom to collect his bath towel and stuff his soiled clothes in his hamper. The room is filled with quiet music, Jonghyun styling his hair in the mirror near the closet. Minho mumbles a greeting. He is momentarily slighted when it is not returned, but he can't bring himself to dwell on it with the siren's song of a warm shower playing in his mind. Flinging his towel around his neck, he is surprised when he turns to leave, only to find Jonghyun blocking his access to the doorway, his face set in a hardened expression that Minho finds unreadable.
“What's up, hyung?” He asks, genuinely confused. Jonghyun doesn't react immediately - just stares at him from under his brows, shoulders set back. Minho can read the challenge in his posture but doesn't react to it, mind too muddled to determine why he should, or why it is necessary in the first place.
“You're meeting him.”
When Minho's confusion only becomes more blatant, Jonghyun bristles. Apparently that was supposed to get some sort of a rise from the taller of them, but Minho's still trying to catch up to something he can't comprehend. What the hell crawled up his hyung's ass this morning? “Jonghyun-hyung, I went for a jog. I always go for a jog when I wake up. I didn't meet anybody.”
“Don't be a smart-ass,” seethes Jonghyun, eyes flashing, “You know that's not what I mean.”
“No, I honestly don't.” There is little patience in Minho's tone, but he keeps himself level anyhow; just because he has no clue what's going on doesn't mean he's going to be intimidated. He sighs. “Hyung, I just want to shower. I smell like a locker room.” When Jonghyun says nothing, and makes no effort to move from the doorway, Minho rolls his eyes. Before he can say anything, though, he lets out a bewildered shout; Jonghyun presses his forearm against his shoulders, pinning him against the wall as his head bounces off the drywall, his other hand fisted at his side. “Yah, what the hell, Jonghyun?!”
“Piss off.” Though Jonghyun isn't shouting, his voice is venomous and dangerous. Minho can feel the tension coiled in the tendon under his hyung's elbow as it presses sharply into the flesh of his shoulder, and winces as it digs in further. “Whenever he slinks off somewhere, you're not far behind, wagging your tail like a God-damned dog.”
“Wait, this is about Key?” The question is rhetorical, incredulous. When the arm pinning him to the wall only bears down harder, he tries not to laugh. The chuckle reverberates in his chest, though, and Jonghyun feels the rumble. If his hackles weren't up before, they certainly are now.
“Exactly what is so funny?” he snarls, “Enlighten me, Minho.”
“You, actually,” Minho's voice is still light and even, but there is an edge beneath the surface. It rubs Jonghyun the wrong way - it is meant to. “You won't even make eye contact with him, but you're in my face because I've been hanging out with him? That's rich, hyung.”
Jonghyun slides his elow up with a jerk, until it's pressing against the side of Minho's neck instead. “Drop the act, Minho-sshi,” even laced with menace his voice is mocking, the use of the respectful suffix sarcastic and biting, “You aren't fooling anyone. I've seen the way you look at him. Leering, more like. Undressing him every time you blink; it's disgusting.”
Minho can't help his reaction. He tenses, and his face falls into shadow; rather than feeling cornered, however, he flares with anger. Despite the obvious inclination to pry Jonghyun off of him, he makes no indication of following through, allowing himself to be held against the wall by the throat. Even if Jonghyun thinks he has the upper hand, Minho won't allow him the satisfaction of physical retaliation. “Me - I'm disgusting? No, Jonghyun, what's disgusting is having to pick him up every time he falls apart over you. Do you know why I follow him every time he leaves the dorm? It's because I know that if I leave him to himself, he'll just cry over you again. That's all he's done since you started with Sekyung, you know - build himself up, only to crumble at the barest mention of your name. You can't tell me you didn't know how he felt about you - not even you're that stupid, hyung. But you didn't consider that before you went out with her, did you? Couldn't even talk to him about it, wouldn't even acknowledge what you would do to him if you went ahead with the announcement. You weren't there the day after he ran out of practise, but I was; I had to watch him break down in the kitchen because the guy he loved - his best fucking friend - didn't even have the decency to tell him he was seeing someone before a tabloid did.”
Minho isn't expecting anything in particular from his tirade, but Jonghyun's barking laughter is the last thing he would have anticipated. It is disarming, but he keeps his jaw set as Jonghyun speaks, spittle flying. “Don't talk like you know everything, Minho, 'cause you sure as hell don't. I may not have been there that morning, but I was here when he came running. You're missing a huge part of the puzzle, but you keep your nose in his business like it belongs there, like he's some princess that needs rescuing. He's stronger than you think he is, Minho; probably stronger than any of us could ever realize. Whether you like it or not, I know him better than any of you do. I know every - single - inch of him.”
The tone of his voice, the provocation in his eyes, and the way he punctuates his last sentence leaves a definite curiosity in Minho's mind. It quells his simmering rage just enough to push through, for the question to leave his lips before he's sure he wants an answer. “What are you implying?”
“I'm not implying anything,” Jonghyun answers, his voice treacherously quiet. He smirks, just slightly, just enough to antagonize him as he responds, “I'm telling you, straight-up. I know everything about Kibum. I know his heart, and I know his mind. I know the way he acts when he's trying not to cry; I know the look on his face as hates himself when he cries anyhow. I know that the inflection of his voice betrays his emotions, and even when all he's doing is calling my name I know exactly what he's feeling when he does it.” The malice in Jonghyun boils over as he removes his arm from the hollow under Minho's jaw, grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him down so he can speak directly into his ear, his voice hard-edged, but level. He enunciates every syllable, driving it with firm, purposeful precision deep in the centre of the other man's chest; he speaks to wound, and does so flawlessly. Fatally.
“I know the curve of his hips when they're pressed against mine; I know the way his breath hitches when I touch his waist, the softness of his skin even when it's flushed and sweaty; I know the vibration of his throat when he moans, the tone of his voice when he can't hold it back. I know what you never will.”
There was a blatant difference in their physiques. Minho was all limbs, muscles stretched and taught against his tall frame; Jonghyun was much broader of shoulder, clearly strong, muscles visibly but tastefully bulked. They differed in that, where Jonghyun was power without sustainability - capable of great bursts of strength and speed, but not over long periods - Minho was agile, light on his feet and capable of marathon feats. In any other situation, there would be little doubt that they would be equally matched, but this is not so at present. Jonghyun's words bounce around the other's skull, and the moment they click in and the meaning is registered in his head, Minho's fist is glancing off the bottom edge of Jonghyun's jaw. It misses, deadening the impact, but it will still be a sufficient expression. The blow is not out of jealousy, a retaliatory measure to defend his own ego - at least not really, though he can't say the words don't fizzle and sting at his insides all the same - but for Key. If he could hear the way Jonghyun is speaking about him, Minho is certain he would never be able to stem the flow of tears, and all he wants is for him to shut his stupid, self-centred mouth.
With his normally acute senses addled by anger and frustration, Minho doesn't even expect the vengeful punch to the gut, let alone have the frame of mind to block it. Taking him by surprise it steals the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping and wide-eyed as he crumples to the ground. Jonghyun flexes his jaw, swearing in pain. “You don't know shit,” he spits, breathing heavily, as Minho groans and clutches at his gut, “And I'm watching you. If you're just hanging around on him to prey on him when he's weakest, I swear to God you will regret it.” Minho glares at him through the pain. He hit the ground hard, biting his lip on impact, and he can taste the blood of the wound in his mouth as he sputters and coughs, trying to gather the air required to re-inflate his lungs. He finds enough breath to wheeze out one last remark as Jonghyun turns to leave.
“You don't know shit, either, Jonghyun,” the words burn his throat, and he inhales so deeply it makes him dizzy, “Don't try to make me the bad guy, just so you don't feel like the asshole you already are.” It is hard to see through the watery haze in his eyes, but Minho can hear the snarl as Jonghyun stops across the living room; hears the slam of the door as he leaves. Rolling gingerly on to his back, he finds it a little easier to breathe, still taking great gulps of air. He covers his face with his hands, trying to make sense of what just happened as the adrenaline begins to ebb away, leaving his head clearer.
No wonder Key is in the shape he's in. What would've possessed him to deepen the blow, of his own accord, by sleeping with a man he knew he couldn't have? And why had Jonghyun agreed to it in the first place? If anything, the situation now makes even less sense to him than it had before. He can't imagine how Key feels any more - how he manages to keep sloshing through life with this sort of encumbrance following him around. He feels stupid - so stupid - having believed that he could be helpful. There was no helping this sort of pain, no possible anaesthetic strong enough to combat the sting. Not when the injury was buried so deep, so compounded by such a raw physical connection.
Minho can't help feeling wrecked. It raises bile in his throat - or was that the punch, he isn't sure - to think that he is more concerned with his own hopeless feelings than Key's. He thought he could keep going; he thought that it would be enough to be Key's pillar, his rock; but he isn't strong enough to support both of them, and he can't stop the crack in the stone around his heart from gaping wider in the wake of this new assault. He is at the end of his rope, and he has never, ever felt so fucking useless.
“God dammit.”
··· ✫ ···
He is freezing. It's probably what wakes him up - the sound of his own teeth chattering, and the endless clicking tap-tap-tap in his ears. When he opens his eyes he can't feel his hands, his feet or his face. Sitting up, groaning at the stiffness in his muscles - a concrete slab does not do much for comfort - Key pulls his phone from the pocket of his coat to check the time. Jesus, an hour; how did he sleep that long, dressed as lightly as he was, in weather like this? It was dangerous, too - this was the sort of bone-chilling dampness he had read about stealing away unprepared hikers while they slept, ensuring they never woke at all. Then again, Minho knew he was up here, so someone would know where to look had he not woken up.
Minho. Why didn't he come up? Key finds that question confusing - he always comes up if they see one another when Key is on the roof as he returns from his morning run. He had waved, too, so he must've seen him. Rubbing his hands together to try and get some feeling back in them, Key hobbles to his feet - rather difficult, since they're numb - and makes his way slowly down the stairs. He transfers to the elevator as soon as he can, his feet beginning to sting and burn as the blood warms again in his veins. As he watches the numbers descend, he thinks it would be best if he made himself a coffee when he gets to the dorm. Possibly take an aspirin, too, to be safe - nip any possibility of a fever in the bud, before it has a chance to blossom into an issue. Glad to find the door to the dormitory unlocked, as he neglected to bring his keys (Idiot, he chides himself), he peels off his winter clothes, blowing into his cupped hands. “Minho?” he calls out, his voice not above regular volume since Taemin is asleep. He gets no answer.
After he's filled the kettle and left it to boil, he tiptoes to the room Jonghyun and Minho share, wondering if Minho has fallen asleep, as he had. He never expected to find him sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his arm around his waist. His hair is stringy, the sweat from his jog having dried as he sat, and there is a small bead of dried blood on the edge of his lower lip. The expression on his face is desolate - it scares him.
“Minho!” Key stumbles his way into the room, half kneeling, half falling beside him. He wrings his hand together, still trying to make heads of tails of his condition.
“Kibum-ah.” Minho mutters, his eyes glued to a spot on the floor as he turns his head a fraction in Key's direction, “Sorry I didn't come up with you.”
“That doesn't matter,” he is sincere, though his voice is a touch shrill with worry, “But, Minho, what the hell happened?” When he sees the hesitation slide across Minho's face, he adds, “And don't tell me 'nothing' because I won't believe you.” The mild attempt at humour fails to rouse any sort of reaction. With a sigh, Key shifts closer; as he does he catches sight of the blackening roundish bruise cradled under Minho's elbow, but decides not to mention it for now. Instead, with a quick hope that he is no longer an iceman, he cups the side of Minho's jaw with his fingertips, turning his face gently but insistently until they're facing one another properly. Minho's eyes are still downcast, fixated on the ground and off to the side. Biting his lip softly, he carefully uses the thumb of his other hand to gingerly drag Minho's lower lip away from his teeth, trying to find the source of the blood. He kisses his teeth when it starts to bleed again, smearing under his finger. “Aish,” Key mutters, tugging his sleeve over his hand and dabbing at the wound, “Shit.”
After a few more minutes of silence, Key starts to grow irritated; he wants desperately to help, but Minho won't even fucking look at him. “Hey,” he says, almost a whisper, gripping Minho's chin more firmly, “Minho-ya. Come on, look at me.” All Minho does is sigh. Key moves his hands to the rapper's face, pressing against his cheekbones. He leans his head down, trying to get closer to Minho's line of vision; worry has his insides knotted tight, and his face is soft with concern. “Minho, please. I just - ” he pauses, his words faltering as his voice cracks, “I need you to look at me for a second. Okay?”
“I can't.”
Key chuckles kindly, warmly. “That's just silly. Why not?”
“Because,” Minho's voice is strained and tight, and so quiet Key has to strain his ears to hear it, “If I look at you right now, I'll... I might... God,” Minho groans, moving his hand to the back of his neck and wincing as he flexes against the darkening bruise under his ribs, “This is so messed up.”
“What is?”
No response. He's running out of patience for this.
“Minho, please, just talk to me. I fell asleep waiting for you to come up, and woke up half-frozen. I get back here, only to find you zoned out on the ground with blood on your lip and a gigantic bruise which I - wait,” it dawns on Key all at once, “Did he - did Jjong hit you? Fuck, he did, didn't he - seriously, what the hell went on, Minho, he fucking hit you, why would he - ”
“Kibum.”
Key blinks, his mouth agape, cut off mid-sentence. Still holding Minho's face, he finds he's shaking, but can't understand precisely why. He blinks again, and realizes that Minho is finally looking at him. Their eyes meet and lock, and Key gasps; Minho looks incredibly worn. There is something heartbreaking in his expression, and it turns Key's stomach to look at it, but he can't tear his eyes away from Minho's. Under the initial veil of sadness is something entirely different. There's a sharpness in his irises, what little he can see of them - Minho's pupils are rather dilated, despite the sun from the window - but before he can identify the cause Minho closes his eyes. He can taste the barest hint of copper as Minho's mouth presses firmly against his own, Key's hands still clutching at his face. Minho's own hands are on the curve of Key's waist, drawing him closer, and he squeaks as Minho tilts his chin to align their lips more comfortably. He can feel the rumble as Minho growls, wrenching his face from Key's grip even as his fingers curl inwards, gathering the fabric of Key's sweater.
“God, I - Fuck, Key, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - I shouldn't have - FUCK.” Minho drops his head against Key's shoulder in defeat. The shorter boy is still stiff, his brain desperately trying to register what's going on even as he moves one arm loosely around Minho's back, and places the other on the back of his head. He strokes his hair absently, not sure if Minho is crying, or just hiding his face. He's not sure how he should be feeling right now - not sure what he's feeling at all.
“Please,” Minho begs the cables of Key's sweater, still too ashamed to raise his head, “Just... Pretend that never happened. Or something. I don't want to ruin this. I just want to be next to you - I don't need anything else. Please, Kibum, I couldn't take it if - just. Please. Please, don't hate me.”
“What?” Pulled from his stupor, Key drops his hand to Minho's shoulder, pulling him back and doing his best to smile despite the crestfallen look Minho gives him, “Idiot, I don't hate you. After all you've done for me? I don't really think I could, even if I wanted to. And I don't want to. Hey,” he pushes the hair off of Minho's forehead, tries to comb his bangs with his fingernails, the motion necessary both to soothe the man in front of him, and keep Key's frazzled thoughts grounded and away from his tone of voice, “It's okay. It is - I promise. I don't blame you, really.” Minho gives him a puzzled look, and Key grins at him in return. He chuckles, trying desperately to lighten the mood as he says, “I mean, I'm pretty irresistible, yeah?”
Minho offers him a weak smile, a dry laugh. “I guess so.”
“Yah,” Key flick his forehead playfully, pouting, “Don't be an ass.”
They both laugh for a moment before silence settles between them again. It's more than a little awkward, but Key is determined not to let it bother him, even when his head and heart are screaming in completely different languages, leaving him caught in the foreign crossfire. “All right,” he says, dislodging Minho's fingers from his shirt as he stands, and offering him a hand up, “Let's get some ice on your gut before it gets too much worse. It's a pretty wicked purple around the edges as it is.”
“Sounds like a plan,” says Minho, wincing as he rises. Key smiles, and scrunches his nose up as they head towards the kitchen.
“Ice, and then a shower - you smell like the inside of a gym bag.”
“Oh, damn,” Minho says, laughing genuinely as he tests the air around him, “I really reek.”
Key puts a few ice cubes in a sandwich bag, wraps the package in a dish towel and hands the bundle to Minho, who presses it lightly against the reddish-purple splotch. Since the water in the kettle is still steaming, Key fixes himself a cup of instant coffee; he's still feeling a little cold, like his bones have yet to thaw with the rest of him. He's just about to take a sip when Minho clears his throat; Key peers at him questioningly over the rim of the mug, eyebrow cocked.
“Thank you,” he says, not quite meeting Key's eyes as he speaks, “For... Not leaving me.”
Key's heart hammers dully against his ears, and he has to mentally shake off the sudden dual desires to bolt from the dorm and never look back, and simultaneously pull Minho into a bone-crushing hug until they both really believe that things will be okay. He doesn't see how they will be, but he knows he doesn't want to lose Minho all because of - of a stupid kiss. Even so, his feelings are terribly muddled, still placing pieces and making connections and assumptions as he clicks the nail of his index finger against his coffee cup, trying to keep them moving so the trembling of his nerves is not so apparent. Everything falls into place, connecting the dots and revealing the growing tangle of criss-crossing lines as his mind drifts back to that night on the rooftop, hand-in-hand as the snow fell around them like ashy fallout, Key staring at him in wonder and awe.
”How is it you know how I'm feeling even better than I do?”
It's so obvious now. Painfully so. Minho knows because he's been feeling it himself all along, keeping his feelings so secret that Key had never suspected a thing. Or had he really been selfish enough to ignore the signs - were there even signs at all? Had he simply not seen them in his own delirium? That itself leaves it own questions, and they bite and tear at his temples like cannibals. If Minho's façade had been so flawless, what had Jonghyun said or done to break him of his resolve?
What the hell does he do now?
He doesn't let the chaos in his heart show on his face; he just smiles a little, thankful for the weightless tone of his voice as he answers through the rising steam of his coffee. “Idiot.”
✫ ··· chapter five
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: NC-17 (This chapter rated PG)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
✫ ··· author's note:
I'm still not satisfied with the way this chapter ended. Then again, I rarely am.
The moment they set foot on stage, the roar of the crowd smashes against their senses, even through their earplugs. Yoyogi National Gymnasium is a sea of lights in the darkness, each winking, bobbing pinpoint a brilliant pearlescent sky blue.
Their colour. These lights are for them, and them alone.
The concert passes in a blur of screaming and dancing and sweating and laughing. They sing their hearts out, and each can honestly say this is the most alive they have ever, ever felt. The cries of their fans echo in their ears even as their own voices grow strained and tired with the effort, but they wouldn't deny the feeling swelling in their chests for anything in the world. The unconditional love that assaults them with every new song over the speaker system is healing, uplifting; it makes all their sleepless nights seem so distant, so insignificant, that the pride and relief that replaces them is nearly overwhelming. They play like idiots, too deliriously happy to care how silly they look plucking multicoloured balls from hampers and baskets and chucking them haphazardly at one another.
For Key, the moments leading up to this point were tense and wearing. His argument with Jonghyun before they left their dorm had been like a big black cloud hanging over his head, darkening his moods even when they should be brightest. But the roar of the crowd, and the chants of their names in the darkness banish his worries for the night, leaving him too full of gratitude to feel anything else. It has been more than a month of being too full for him, something he had always thought was a foolish, overly-romanticized notion, and as they sing their final song it is all too much, and the thin line he has been treading snaps underfoot. The levy in his heart fails and for once, though his tears are for himself, as bitter as they are salty as they cling to his face and invade his lips, he has never been happier. They have made it; they've arrived. He tries to sing through the crescendo of emotions, but his voice cracks and he cries anyhow. When they bow - their first goodbye to their first sold-out crowd - they take one another's hands. Jonghyun strides across the stage, touches his shoulder, takes his hand in his own and squeezes, possibly a bit too hard, but all Key can think of is that everything seems so normal - like nothing had changed between them, and never would. The illusion clenches his heart so tightly that his tears subside just enough to allow him to utter a few thank-you's into his microphone as they wave to the audience.
Jonghyun finds his hands once again as they return to centre stage, but it is not as jarring as it was the first time. This time it is sobering, reminding him as they head backstage to a torrent of congratulations that, once they have performed in Korea, things will have to get real again. They can't leave the remains of their tattered friendship as is, or it will only get worse. Key just hopes his heart can take the strain.
··· ✫ ···
What he doesn't expect comes at the end of their concert in Seoul. Jonghyun's breakdown adds another element to their tangled little dance, and Key has to admit that it shakes him more deeply than he could ever have anticipated. It is also confusing in the barest sense, and it ties his emotions in knots to think about it; so, as usual, he tries to do anything but think.
This time around, it does not work so well for him. Though they are back in the dorm, given a glorious day off to recover from their extreme concert overwork, there have been changes. They have been moved to an empty dorm on the next floor up, with two bedrooms to share instead of just the one - a reward, they are told, for all their hard work and success. They rock-paper-scissors to see who will sleep where, and Key is thankful when he and Jonghyun end up in separate rooms. What does worry him, though he can't really place why, is that Minho is the one to end up sharing the smaller of the two bedrooms with the singer.
Key finds it hard to keep from anticipating a continuation of their talk whenever Jonghyun and he cross paths. He is well aware that expecting it to occur immediately after their arrival back home is rather ridiculous, but the looming possibility has makes him edgy. Even still, he is certain that Jonghyun wants to get this over with just as desperately as he does, and it leaves him struggling for comprehension when two weeks pass by with little more than split-second eye contact and indirect mumbles of Pass the kimchi exchanged between them. It is when two weeks become three, and nearly a month of nothing slips through his fingers like sand that his anticipation finally ebbs into something that isn't quite anger, but leaves him feeling constantly near tears regardless. Never before has he had to pretend to be fine when he is so fully aware that he is not; he is beyond the point of ignoring his feelings, much too far gone to do anything but struggle with them in a constant battle for his own sanity, and the growing weight of hopelessness is not an enemy he can keep at bay forever.
The fact that life is going on so normally around him is possibly more maddening than anything. Though he finds it egotistical to think as much, it seems that his acting skills are beyond stellar, because there have been no outside indications that he is acting unlike himself. Or is it simply that he has been pretending so long that any slips in his façade are considered a part of who he is now? That is a truly terrifying thought for Key - he has absolutely no desire to exist in emotional limbo forever, but the only other visible option is to give in, and let his weaknesses define him. As usual he is trapped, lagging behind the rest of the world, shackled by his own pride and hindered by his own heart.
His only moments of respite come on the rooftop of their dormitory, swaddled in a heavy winter coat and thick woollen scarf. It is quite literally the only place he is able to clear his head. He is rarely left alone, however, despite the subtlety of his departure from their dorm, no matter how foolproof his alibi; Minho is never more than a few minutes behind him. Some days he brings coffee in a Styrofoam cup, but not often. There are times when Minho brings only himself, and Key may not always start out feeling grateful for the company, but they never part with him feeling otherwise. It isn't even necessary that they talk, and the majority of the time neither says a word to the other. For Key, at least, it is enough to know that someone is there, with him, on his side; that there is always someone to share the load, should he find that he can no longer carry it on his own. Although he edges closer and closer to his limits, he steadfastly refuses to burden Minho with too much of his own self-pity. The fact that the offer is there - unspoken, but present in the exchange of electrons in the air between them - is already more than Key dares to ask for.
··· ✫ ···
Today, he has never been so close to asking for more. His balance is precarious the moment he wakes, and he can feel his emotions teetering on his last shred of patience, thin and brittle with the passage of time. Their schedules are centring around casual promotion; after the intensity of the last few months, it is a relief to simply be filming late night variety shows and hosting radio broadcasts. It does mean, however, that they are rarely all on the same schedule, and half the time they all sleep at different times of the day. This morning - nearly afternoon, really - sees Taemin crawling into bed with his clothes still on as Key finishes dressing, asleep before he hits his pillow. Key pulls off the maknae's socks, and tucks the blanket under his arms, sighing fondly. Once dressed he finds Onew in the kitchen, munching mechanically from a bowl of cereal. It's Jonghyun's brand, easily distinguishable by the bright pink and red berry-shaped marshmallows in it, but it seems Onew is either too tired or too hungry to care that he is grazing on stolen goods. “There's coffee,” he speaks around a mouthful, nodding his head at the coffee pot, which Key immediately gravitates towards. It does little to energize him, though, so when their leader leaves for another schedule and Key finds himself alone, the silence echoes unbearably in his ears. Abandoning his mug, he pulls on his boots and throws his coat on, cramming his unstyled hair under one of Taemin's beanies.
The elevator only goes so far, and Key makes the final climb under his own power, the metal of the stairs clanking beneath his thick-soled boots. Once he reaches the roof, he clears some snow from a raised concrete-framed access panel, and perches on it with his knees tucked under his chin, watching the movement of the sky. It is a sodden sort of overcast, the clouds overhead swollen and heavy with the promise of snow. It should be mockingly cold, being the beginning of February with spring so close, and yet so maddeningly far; but there is no wind to lash at his cheeks or nip at his lips, so the chill is not immediately obvious. He will feel it later, when his body remembers what warmth is, but he can't bring himself to care much at present - can barely register that doing up his coat would be a wise idea, let alone follow through with actually fastening the buttons.
Even this close to the sky, the silence is deafening. It leaves him alone with his own thoughts, and in his rapidly degenerating state, he can make neither heads nor tails of any of them. They rush across his consciousness like cross-town traffic, heedless of his floundering attempts to grasp them as they pass. It seems not even the sanctuary of the dormitory rooftop is enough to banish the nagging negativity that weighs so heavily behind his eyes, but he can think of no place better to be, so he lingers. Key can feel the threat of tears crawling across the skin on his neck, and lets out a small, bitter laugh. He would love to be able to cry at this point, but he knows that he won't, no matter how strongly his skin prickles with warning to the contrary. Try as they might to well up in his eyes, no matter how forcefully he blinks, they simply won't fall because he is too confused to react. Everything is too much, and nothing is enough. He is running full tilt and getting nowhere fast, and the wasted effort is finally, finally taking its toll.
Is he even still running at this point? It feels more like he is treading water, fighting against the undercurrent of his own emotional welfare as it swirls around his ankles, threatening to grab hold and drag him beneath the surface. It isn't as if talking with Jonghyun will change anything, anyhow. It isn't really even about the act itself. Key just wants closure; he wants to know that they are okay as they are - as they were before - and that a moment of human weakness will not ruin the friendship he had once tried so hard to maintain between them. It's lonely to think that he is already moving past the feelings he once held for his closest friend, but at the same time it is liberating. Almost like scar tissue - a raw reminder of what you were once, where it got you, and the fragments of it you carry with you as the angry flesh calms and fades to a shadow. The memory of a wound you survived, conquered, and wear like a medal. Unfortunately, the lack of contact from Jonghyun leaves him restless, bothered, slighted, and impedes his healing.
Truth be told, he just wants his friend back. He doesn't particularly care what it would take to secure some small measure of the closeness they once shared - he will try anything, if only Jonghyun will talk to him again. Anything.
Peering down at the street below, Key spots Minho returning from a jog. As if he'd shouted his name, Minho looks up, and Key can feel their eyes meet across the distance. Offering a weak little wave, Key manages something rather like a smile when it is returned in a wide, sweeping arc by both of Minho's mittened hands. Though it irks him, Key knows he is at his most selfish when he is with Minho. The static rapper makes it too easy, too natural to take what he offers, and Key fills his pockets with every last shred of comfort and kindness laid before him. Minho doesn't seem to mind but sometimes, when he's left alone to his thoughts and they turn sour-sweet and rotten in his mouth, Key feels like a stray cat, feeding off the scraps of pity the taller boy leaves behind. As Minho disappears under the edge of the roof and into the building, Key finds himself anticipating the moment he joins him, as he always does. For some inexplicable reason, he knows that Minho will know just what to say to lift his spirits for the remainder of the day, if only artificially - just for a little while.
Key resists the urge to turn bodily to face the door to the stairs in anticipation and settles his face between his knees instead as he waits, ears keen for the sound of footsteps behind him.
··· ✫ ···
All he wants is a shower. He can feel perspiration beading over his scalp, playing Pachinko with the individual strands of his hair as it rolls down the curve of his skull and collects in the dampened collar of his shirt. Even under the heavy scent of his deodorant - Alpine Energy, or something equally as foolishly-named because, really, what does that even smell like? - he can smell the sweat across his skin beginning to ripen, and he doesn't particularly feel privy to reeking like a jockstrap. He peels off the heavy sweatshirt, the long-sleeve shirt beneath it, the thin cotton tank beneath that, and walks bare-chested to his bedroom to collect his bath towel and stuff his soiled clothes in his hamper. The room is filled with quiet music, Jonghyun styling his hair in the mirror near the closet. Minho mumbles a greeting. He is momentarily slighted when it is not returned, but he can't bring himself to dwell on it with the siren's song of a warm shower playing in his mind. Flinging his towel around his neck, he is surprised when he turns to leave, only to find Jonghyun blocking his access to the doorway, his face set in a hardened expression that Minho finds unreadable.
“What's up, hyung?” He asks, genuinely confused. Jonghyun doesn't react immediately - just stares at him from under his brows, shoulders set back. Minho can read the challenge in his posture but doesn't react to it, mind too muddled to determine why he should, or why it is necessary in the first place.
“You're meeting him.”
When Minho's confusion only becomes more blatant, Jonghyun bristles. Apparently that was supposed to get some sort of a rise from the taller of them, but Minho's still trying to catch up to something he can't comprehend. What the hell crawled up his hyung's ass this morning? “Jonghyun-hyung, I went for a jog. I always go for a jog when I wake up. I didn't meet anybody.”
“Don't be a smart-ass,” seethes Jonghyun, eyes flashing, “You know that's not what I mean.”
“No, I honestly don't.” There is little patience in Minho's tone, but he keeps himself level anyhow; just because he has no clue what's going on doesn't mean he's going to be intimidated. He sighs. “Hyung, I just want to shower. I smell like a locker room.” When Jonghyun says nothing, and makes no effort to move from the doorway, Minho rolls his eyes. Before he can say anything, though, he lets out a bewildered shout; Jonghyun presses his forearm against his shoulders, pinning him against the wall as his head bounces off the drywall, his other hand fisted at his side. “Yah, what the hell, Jonghyun?!”
“Piss off.” Though Jonghyun isn't shouting, his voice is venomous and dangerous. Minho can feel the tension coiled in the tendon under his hyung's elbow as it presses sharply into the flesh of his shoulder, and winces as it digs in further. “Whenever he slinks off somewhere, you're not far behind, wagging your tail like a God-damned dog.”
“Wait, this is about Key?” The question is rhetorical, incredulous. When the arm pinning him to the wall only bears down harder, he tries not to laugh. The chuckle reverberates in his chest, though, and Jonghyun feels the rumble. If his hackles weren't up before, they certainly are now.
“Exactly what is so funny?” he snarls, “Enlighten me, Minho.”
“You, actually,” Minho's voice is still light and even, but there is an edge beneath the surface. It rubs Jonghyun the wrong way - it is meant to. “You won't even make eye contact with him, but you're in my face because I've been hanging out with him? That's rich, hyung.”
Jonghyun slides his elow up with a jerk, until it's pressing against the side of Minho's neck instead. “Drop the act, Minho-sshi,” even laced with menace his voice is mocking, the use of the respectful suffix sarcastic and biting, “You aren't fooling anyone. I've seen the way you look at him. Leering, more like. Undressing him every time you blink; it's disgusting.”
Minho can't help his reaction. He tenses, and his face falls into shadow; rather than feeling cornered, however, he flares with anger. Despite the obvious inclination to pry Jonghyun off of him, he makes no indication of following through, allowing himself to be held against the wall by the throat. Even if Jonghyun thinks he has the upper hand, Minho won't allow him the satisfaction of physical retaliation. “Me - I'm disgusting? No, Jonghyun, what's disgusting is having to pick him up every time he falls apart over you. Do you know why I follow him every time he leaves the dorm? It's because I know that if I leave him to himself, he'll just cry over you again. That's all he's done since you started with Sekyung, you know - build himself up, only to crumble at the barest mention of your name. You can't tell me you didn't know how he felt about you - not even you're that stupid, hyung. But you didn't consider that before you went out with her, did you? Couldn't even talk to him about it, wouldn't even acknowledge what you would do to him if you went ahead with the announcement. You weren't there the day after he ran out of practise, but I was; I had to watch him break down in the kitchen because the guy he loved - his best fucking friend - didn't even have the decency to tell him he was seeing someone before a tabloid did.”
Minho isn't expecting anything in particular from his tirade, but Jonghyun's barking laughter is the last thing he would have anticipated. It is disarming, but he keeps his jaw set as Jonghyun speaks, spittle flying. “Don't talk like you know everything, Minho, 'cause you sure as hell don't. I may not have been there that morning, but I was here when he came running. You're missing a huge part of the puzzle, but you keep your nose in his business like it belongs there, like he's some princess that needs rescuing. He's stronger than you think he is, Minho; probably stronger than any of us could ever realize. Whether you like it or not, I know him better than any of you do. I know every - single - inch of him.”
The tone of his voice, the provocation in his eyes, and the way he punctuates his last sentence leaves a definite curiosity in Minho's mind. It quells his simmering rage just enough to push through, for the question to leave his lips before he's sure he wants an answer. “What are you implying?”
“I'm not implying anything,” Jonghyun answers, his voice treacherously quiet. He smirks, just slightly, just enough to antagonize him as he responds, “I'm telling you, straight-up. I know everything about Kibum. I know his heart, and I know his mind. I know the way he acts when he's trying not to cry; I know the look on his face as hates himself when he cries anyhow. I know that the inflection of his voice betrays his emotions, and even when all he's doing is calling my name I know exactly what he's feeling when he does it.” The malice in Jonghyun boils over as he removes his arm from the hollow under Minho's jaw, grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him down so he can speak directly into his ear, his voice hard-edged, but level. He enunciates every syllable, driving it with firm, purposeful precision deep in the centre of the other man's chest; he speaks to wound, and does so flawlessly. Fatally.
“I know the curve of his hips when they're pressed against mine; I know the way his breath hitches when I touch his waist, the softness of his skin even when it's flushed and sweaty; I know the vibration of his throat when he moans, the tone of his voice when he can't hold it back. I know what you never will.”
There was a blatant difference in their physiques. Minho was all limbs, muscles stretched and taught against his tall frame; Jonghyun was much broader of shoulder, clearly strong, muscles visibly but tastefully bulked. They differed in that, where Jonghyun was power without sustainability - capable of great bursts of strength and speed, but not over long periods - Minho was agile, light on his feet and capable of marathon feats. In any other situation, there would be little doubt that they would be equally matched, but this is not so at present. Jonghyun's words bounce around the other's skull, and the moment they click in and the meaning is registered in his head, Minho's fist is glancing off the bottom edge of Jonghyun's jaw. It misses, deadening the impact, but it will still be a sufficient expression. The blow is not out of jealousy, a retaliatory measure to defend his own ego - at least not really, though he can't say the words don't fizzle and sting at his insides all the same - but for Key. If he could hear the way Jonghyun is speaking about him, Minho is certain he would never be able to stem the flow of tears, and all he wants is for him to shut his stupid, self-centred mouth.
With his normally acute senses addled by anger and frustration, Minho doesn't even expect the vengeful punch to the gut, let alone have the frame of mind to block it. Taking him by surprise it steals the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping and wide-eyed as he crumples to the ground. Jonghyun flexes his jaw, swearing in pain. “You don't know shit,” he spits, breathing heavily, as Minho groans and clutches at his gut, “And I'm watching you. If you're just hanging around on him to prey on him when he's weakest, I swear to God you will regret it.” Minho glares at him through the pain. He hit the ground hard, biting his lip on impact, and he can taste the blood of the wound in his mouth as he sputters and coughs, trying to gather the air required to re-inflate his lungs. He finds enough breath to wheeze out one last remark as Jonghyun turns to leave.
“You don't know shit, either, Jonghyun,” the words burn his throat, and he inhales so deeply it makes him dizzy, “Don't try to make me the bad guy, just so you don't feel like the asshole you already are.” It is hard to see through the watery haze in his eyes, but Minho can hear the snarl as Jonghyun stops across the living room; hears the slam of the door as he leaves. Rolling gingerly on to his back, he finds it a little easier to breathe, still taking great gulps of air. He covers his face with his hands, trying to make sense of what just happened as the adrenaline begins to ebb away, leaving his head clearer.
No wonder Key is in the shape he's in. What would've possessed him to deepen the blow, of his own accord, by sleeping with a man he knew he couldn't have? And why had Jonghyun agreed to it in the first place? If anything, the situation now makes even less sense to him than it had before. He can't imagine how Key feels any more - how he manages to keep sloshing through life with this sort of encumbrance following him around. He feels stupid - so stupid - having believed that he could be helpful. There was no helping this sort of pain, no possible anaesthetic strong enough to combat the sting. Not when the injury was buried so deep, so compounded by such a raw physical connection.
Minho can't help feeling wrecked. It raises bile in his throat - or was that the punch, he isn't sure - to think that he is more concerned with his own hopeless feelings than Key's. He thought he could keep going; he thought that it would be enough to be Key's pillar, his rock; but he isn't strong enough to support both of them, and he can't stop the crack in the stone around his heart from gaping wider in the wake of this new assault. He is at the end of his rope, and he has never, ever felt so fucking useless.
“God dammit.”
··· ✫ ···
He is freezing. It's probably what wakes him up - the sound of his own teeth chattering, and the endless clicking tap-tap-tap in his ears. When he opens his eyes he can't feel his hands, his feet or his face. Sitting up, groaning at the stiffness in his muscles - a concrete slab does not do much for comfort - Key pulls his phone from the pocket of his coat to check the time. Jesus, an hour; how did he sleep that long, dressed as lightly as he was, in weather like this? It was dangerous, too - this was the sort of bone-chilling dampness he had read about stealing away unprepared hikers while they slept, ensuring they never woke at all. Then again, Minho knew he was up here, so someone would know where to look had he not woken up.
Minho. Why didn't he come up? Key finds that question confusing - he always comes up if they see one another when Key is on the roof as he returns from his morning run. He had waved, too, so he must've seen him. Rubbing his hands together to try and get some feeling back in them, Key hobbles to his feet - rather difficult, since they're numb - and makes his way slowly down the stairs. He transfers to the elevator as soon as he can, his feet beginning to sting and burn as the blood warms again in his veins. As he watches the numbers descend, he thinks it would be best if he made himself a coffee when he gets to the dorm. Possibly take an aspirin, too, to be safe - nip any possibility of a fever in the bud, before it has a chance to blossom into an issue. Glad to find the door to the dormitory unlocked, as he neglected to bring his keys (Idiot, he chides himself), he peels off his winter clothes, blowing into his cupped hands. “Minho?” he calls out, his voice not above regular volume since Taemin is asleep. He gets no answer.
After he's filled the kettle and left it to boil, he tiptoes to the room Jonghyun and Minho share, wondering if Minho has fallen asleep, as he had. He never expected to find him sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his arm around his waist. His hair is stringy, the sweat from his jog having dried as he sat, and there is a small bead of dried blood on the edge of his lower lip. The expression on his face is desolate - it scares him.
“Minho!” Key stumbles his way into the room, half kneeling, half falling beside him. He wrings his hand together, still trying to make heads of tails of his condition.
“Kibum-ah.” Minho mutters, his eyes glued to a spot on the floor as he turns his head a fraction in Key's direction, “Sorry I didn't come up with you.”
“That doesn't matter,” he is sincere, though his voice is a touch shrill with worry, “But, Minho, what the hell happened?” When he sees the hesitation slide across Minho's face, he adds, “And don't tell me 'nothing' because I won't believe you.” The mild attempt at humour fails to rouse any sort of reaction. With a sigh, Key shifts closer; as he does he catches sight of the blackening roundish bruise cradled under Minho's elbow, but decides not to mention it for now. Instead, with a quick hope that he is no longer an iceman, he cups the side of Minho's jaw with his fingertips, turning his face gently but insistently until they're facing one another properly. Minho's eyes are still downcast, fixated on the ground and off to the side. Biting his lip softly, he carefully uses the thumb of his other hand to gingerly drag Minho's lower lip away from his teeth, trying to find the source of the blood. He kisses his teeth when it starts to bleed again, smearing under his finger. “Aish,” Key mutters, tugging his sleeve over his hand and dabbing at the wound, “Shit.”
After a few more minutes of silence, Key starts to grow irritated; he wants desperately to help, but Minho won't even fucking look at him. “Hey,” he says, almost a whisper, gripping Minho's chin more firmly, “Minho-ya. Come on, look at me.” All Minho does is sigh. Key moves his hands to the rapper's face, pressing against his cheekbones. He leans his head down, trying to get closer to Minho's line of vision; worry has his insides knotted tight, and his face is soft with concern. “Minho, please. I just - ” he pauses, his words faltering as his voice cracks, “I need you to look at me for a second. Okay?”
“I can't.”
Key chuckles kindly, warmly. “That's just silly. Why not?”
“Because,” Minho's voice is strained and tight, and so quiet Key has to strain his ears to hear it, “If I look at you right now, I'll... I might... God,” Minho groans, moving his hand to the back of his neck and wincing as he flexes against the darkening bruise under his ribs, “This is so messed up.”
“What is?”
No response. He's running out of patience for this.
“Minho, please, just talk to me. I fell asleep waiting for you to come up, and woke up half-frozen. I get back here, only to find you zoned out on the ground with blood on your lip and a gigantic bruise which I - wait,” it dawns on Key all at once, “Did he - did Jjong hit you? Fuck, he did, didn't he - seriously, what the hell went on, Minho, he fucking hit you, why would he - ”
“Kibum.”
Key blinks, his mouth agape, cut off mid-sentence. Still holding Minho's face, he finds he's shaking, but can't understand precisely why. He blinks again, and realizes that Minho is finally looking at him. Their eyes meet and lock, and Key gasps; Minho looks incredibly worn. There is something heartbreaking in his expression, and it turns Key's stomach to look at it, but he can't tear his eyes away from Minho's. Under the initial veil of sadness is something entirely different. There's a sharpness in his irises, what little he can see of them - Minho's pupils are rather dilated, despite the sun from the window - but before he can identify the cause Minho closes his eyes. He can taste the barest hint of copper as Minho's mouth presses firmly against his own, Key's hands still clutching at his face. Minho's own hands are on the curve of Key's waist, drawing him closer, and he squeaks as Minho tilts his chin to align their lips more comfortably. He can feel the rumble as Minho growls, wrenching his face from Key's grip even as his fingers curl inwards, gathering the fabric of Key's sweater.
“God, I - Fuck, Key, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - I shouldn't have - FUCK.” Minho drops his head against Key's shoulder in defeat. The shorter boy is still stiff, his brain desperately trying to register what's going on even as he moves one arm loosely around Minho's back, and places the other on the back of his head. He strokes his hair absently, not sure if Minho is crying, or just hiding his face. He's not sure how he should be feeling right now - not sure what he's feeling at all.
“Please,” Minho begs the cables of Key's sweater, still too ashamed to raise his head, “Just... Pretend that never happened. Or something. I don't want to ruin this. I just want to be next to you - I don't need anything else. Please, Kibum, I couldn't take it if - just. Please. Please, don't hate me.”
“What?” Pulled from his stupor, Key drops his hand to Minho's shoulder, pulling him back and doing his best to smile despite the crestfallen look Minho gives him, “Idiot, I don't hate you. After all you've done for me? I don't really think I could, even if I wanted to. And I don't want to. Hey,” he pushes the hair off of Minho's forehead, tries to comb his bangs with his fingernails, the motion necessary both to soothe the man in front of him, and keep Key's frazzled thoughts grounded and away from his tone of voice, “It's okay. It is - I promise. I don't blame you, really.” Minho gives him a puzzled look, and Key grins at him in return. He chuckles, trying desperately to lighten the mood as he says, “I mean, I'm pretty irresistible, yeah?”
Minho offers him a weak smile, a dry laugh. “I guess so.”
“Yah,” Key flick his forehead playfully, pouting, “Don't be an ass.”
They both laugh for a moment before silence settles between them again. It's more than a little awkward, but Key is determined not to let it bother him, even when his head and heart are screaming in completely different languages, leaving him caught in the foreign crossfire. “All right,” he says, dislodging Minho's fingers from his shirt as he stands, and offering him a hand up, “Let's get some ice on your gut before it gets too much worse. It's a pretty wicked purple around the edges as it is.”
“Sounds like a plan,” says Minho, wincing as he rises. Key smiles, and scrunches his nose up as they head towards the kitchen.
“Ice, and then a shower - you smell like the inside of a gym bag.”
“Oh, damn,” Minho says, laughing genuinely as he tests the air around him, “I really reek.”
Key puts a few ice cubes in a sandwich bag, wraps the package in a dish towel and hands the bundle to Minho, who presses it lightly against the reddish-purple splotch. Since the water in the kettle is still steaming, Key fixes himself a cup of instant coffee; he's still feeling a little cold, like his bones have yet to thaw with the rest of him. He's just about to take a sip when Minho clears his throat; Key peers at him questioningly over the rim of the mug, eyebrow cocked.
“Thank you,” he says, not quite meeting Key's eyes as he speaks, “For... Not leaving me.”
Key's heart hammers dully against his ears, and he has to mentally shake off the sudden dual desires to bolt from the dorm and never look back, and simultaneously pull Minho into a bone-crushing hug until they both really believe that things will be okay. He doesn't see how they will be, but he knows he doesn't want to lose Minho all because of - of a stupid kiss. Even so, his feelings are terribly muddled, still placing pieces and making connections and assumptions as he clicks the nail of his index finger against his coffee cup, trying to keep them moving so the trembling of his nerves is not so apparent. Everything falls into place, connecting the dots and revealing the growing tangle of criss-crossing lines as his mind drifts back to that night on the rooftop, hand-in-hand as the snow fell around them like ashy fallout, Key staring at him in wonder and awe.
”How is it you know how I'm feeling even better than I do?”
It's so obvious now. Painfully so. Minho knows because he's been feeling it himself all along, keeping his feelings so secret that Key had never suspected a thing. Or had he really been selfish enough to ignore the signs - were there even signs at all? Had he simply not seen them in his own delirium? That itself leaves it own questions, and they bite and tear at his temples like cannibals. If Minho's façade had been so flawless, what had Jonghyun said or done to break him of his resolve?
What the hell does he do now?
He doesn't let the chaos in his heart show on his face; he just smiles a little, thankful for the weightless tone of his voice as he answers through the rising steam of his coffee. “Idiot.”
✫ ··· chapter five