(no subject)
█ ✫ TREASURE HUNTING ··· ( oneshot )
█ pairing: Onho
█ rating: PG-13
█ genre: Romance
█ summary:
Minho collects only the finest of what Jinki has to offer.
Grins, however broad, suit his face - Jinki has always been told this, and he is led to believe there is truth in it. He hikes them up high on his cheeks, tacking them with the corners of his eyes and keeping them aloft even when the muscles beneath cry for mercy. He is forever unsure how best to wear them, always with too much teeth or not enough width or too much one or not enough the other. These are fraudulent, though no one has the heart to charge him with the forgery he pays them with. There is hope, always, that they will be genuine, though when they are received their weight and frailty belies their nature. It is obvious, how wrong they often feel across his lips, but the ones he is uncertain of are easily brushed away with the fluttering of lashes and lids, and the warm press of a hand against his hip.
Frowns, however slight, suit him better than the smiles he plasters over top. They are graceless and foreign, stretched across his skin like a scar that begs to share its origins, though the telling is often sidestepped with all the practised skill of a pathological liar and little of the malice or cunning required to be guiltless. Minho likes to steal these away without permission, mouthing the corners with feather-light touches of his lips and tongue until the frown falls away to reveal the man beneath. It shatters when it hits the ground, the pieces too small to be collected, but there are always more tucked away for later. They will be dealt with in the same manner as all the ones that came before, trapping them in an endless cycle. Break, replace, fall; break, replace, fall; repeat, repeat, repeat. An endless war.
His laughter, however forced, is like the humming of struck crystal. The quality is easily found in the sharpness of the sound; where it rings harsh in the ears and lingers too long, it is not crystal but glass, brittle and flawed at the core. The price is paid all the same, with the foolish thought that no one will know the difference from far enough away - arm's length or further, if possible. The ones that float light and clear are the most collectible, and by and large the rarest. Those who come across them are often too dazzled to catch any for themselves, though there is a secret to their obtaining known by one soul, and one soul only. Minho's collection is the grandest, though he shows it to no one, fearful of those who would taint it with greed and unclean hands.
More beautiful still are the sounds Jinki keeps to himself. Sobs are like wind through the sweeping branches of a weeping willow, a chorus both like and unlike rain in purity. Though they shimmer like velvet, soft and flowing in his hands, Minho does not collect these, but swallows them; it is the hope that, should he take them for his own, the stock will one day be depleted and he will finally be sated of their flavour. It is unpleasantly sweet, like the waxy sugar of bargain store chocolate on the lips of a lover of cocoa. They tweak his belly with acid, which splashes against his heart and sears the taste to the back of his throat.
What he truly desires are the moans. These he hoards shamelessly, as his love of their unique texture against his ears is a poorly-kept secret. He coaxes them from Jinki's mouth with the application of heat, lighting fires across skin and stirring the embers with lips and fingers and pretty, dirty words, until they litter the air like sparks. They fall across his spine like snowflakes, mingling with the perspiration brought on by their creation and cooling the surface as they condense and bead, slipping down the valleys of their entwined bodies. Though brief, the sensation is a welcome moment of relief.
Perhaps most satisfying of all of these things, however, are the words. These are too precious to keep as more than a memory, so Minho doesn't try. The combinations are endless, some more common than others - words like I'm fine he finds paltry, and he dreads their return (and they always return, no matter how hard he tries to banish their presence). His name is a favourite, one often used but not often enough in the context he most likes, when Jinki is laid out beneath him with Minho reflected in the moisture of his eyes. Rarest and most beautiful of all, however, are the ones he cannot make Jinki say. No matter how he begs, regardless of the method of persuasion, Jinki never offers them when prompted. They are skittish and shy words, used too often for all the wrong reasons, he argues; he will say them when he means them most, and only then.
Times like these, Minho thinks to himself, are best. When he and Jinki are sprawled across the sea of his bed, lost side-by-side in the quiet turmoil of his bedsheets with the lights off and the sun down, he often wants to be the one to say them first, but he knows better. They must be Jinki's to create, falling quiet and small into the folds of linen between them, where Minho can feel them slip beside the shell of his ear in a whisper.
Jinki always watches him, waiting for the moment where they pass against his senses to make sure they register before they're gone. He is apprehensive, always frightened their meaning will be lost in the fading heat of shed blankets and cooling of sweat. Minho knows this, and is careful with their mayfly existence. He refuses to blink as they settle on his lips like the kisses they share, afraid if he loses sight of them for even a moment that they'll be lost in the shadow behind his eyes. Jinki's expression is always searching, too nakedly honest for Jinki's own liking, but Minho finds comfort in the way it lights up when he offers those words back to him. They are carried with lightness and honesty, as true and straight as the ley line that joins their hearts.
The smile they entice to Jinki's mouth is the ultimate treasure. Minho gathers it in his arms along with the man who makes it, places it between the curve of his ribs where it keeps him warm on even the coldest, most lonesome nights. It is a pearl, formed in layers over centuries and grown carefully in the warmest part of Jinki's heart. These pearls are the most rare and valuable of all, and they echo with the memory of the words that make up their existence. A reminder; a testament; a promise.
I love you.
█ pairing: Onho
█ rating: PG-13
█ genre: Romance
█ summary:
Minho collects only the finest of what Jinki has to offer.
Grins, however broad, suit his face - Jinki has always been told this, and he is led to believe there is truth in it. He hikes them up high on his cheeks, tacking them with the corners of his eyes and keeping them aloft even when the muscles beneath cry for mercy. He is forever unsure how best to wear them, always with too much teeth or not enough width or too much one or not enough the other. These are fraudulent, though no one has the heart to charge him with the forgery he pays them with. There is hope, always, that they will be genuine, though when they are received their weight and frailty belies their nature. It is obvious, how wrong they often feel across his lips, but the ones he is uncertain of are easily brushed away with the fluttering of lashes and lids, and the warm press of a hand against his hip.
Frowns, however slight, suit him better than the smiles he plasters over top. They are graceless and foreign, stretched across his skin like a scar that begs to share its origins, though the telling is often sidestepped with all the practised skill of a pathological liar and little of the malice or cunning required to be guiltless. Minho likes to steal these away without permission, mouthing the corners with feather-light touches of his lips and tongue until the frown falls away to reveal the man beneath. It shatters when it hits the ground, the pieces too small to be collected, but there are always more tucked away for later. They will be dealt with in the same manner as all the ones that came before, trapping them in an endless cycle. Break, replace, fall; break, replace, fall; repeat, repeat, repeat. An endless war.
His laughter, however forced, is like the humming of struck crystal. The quality is easily found in the sharpness of the sound; where it rings harsh in the ears and lingers too long, it is not crystal but glass, brittle and flawed at the core. The price is paid all the same, with the foolish thought that no one will know the difference from far enough away - arm's length or further, if possible. The ones that float light and clear are the most collectible, and by and large the rarest. Those who come across them are often too dazzled to catch any for themselves, though there is a secret to their obtaining known by one soul, and one soul only. Minho's collection is the grandest, though he shows it to no one, fearful of those who would taint it with greed and unclean hands.
More beautiful still are the sounds Jinki keeps to himself. Sobs are like wind through the sweeping branches of a weeping willow, a chorus both like and unlike rain in purity. Though they shimmer like velvet, soft and flowing in his hands, Minho does not collect these, but swallows them; it is the hope that, should he take them for his own, the stock will one day be depleted and he will finally be sated of their flavour. It is unpleasantly sweet, like the waxy sugar of bargain store chocolate on the lips of a lover of cocoa. They tweak his belly with acid, which splashes against his heart and sears the taste to the back of his throat.
What he truly desires are the moans. These he hoards shamelessly, as his love of their unique texture against his ears is a poorly-kept secret. He coaxes them from Jinki's mouth with the application of heat, lighting fires across skin and stirring the embers with lips and fingers and pretty, dirty words, until they litter the air like sparks. They fall across his spine like snowflakes, mingling with the perspiration brought on by their creation and cooling the surface as they condense and bead, slipping down the valleys of their entwined bodies. Though brief, the sensation is a welcome moment of relief.
Perhaps most satisfying of all of these things, however, are the words. These are too precious to keep as more than a memory, so Minho doesn't try. The combinations are endless, some more common than others - words like I'm fine he finds paltry, and he dreads their return (and they always return, no matter how hard he tries to banish their presence). His name is a favourite, one often used but not often enough in the context he most likes, when Jinki is laid out beneath him with Minho reflected in the moisture of his eyes. Rarest and most beautiful of all, however, are the ones he cannot make Jinki say. No matter how he begs, regardless of the method of persuasion, Jinki never offers them when prompted. They are skittish and shy words, used too often for all the wrong reasons, he argues; he will say them when he means them most, and only then.
Times like these, Minho thinks to himself, are best. When he and Jinki are sprawled across the sea of his bed, lost side-by-side in the quiet turmoil of his bedsheets with the lights off and the sun down, he often wants to be the one to say them first, but he knows better. They must be Jinki's to create, falling quiet and small into the folds of linen between them, where Minho can feel them slip beside the shell of his ear in a whisper.
Jinki always watches him, waiting for the moment where they pass against his senses to make sure they register before they're gone. He is apprehensive, always frightened their meaning will be lost in the fading heat of shed blankets and cooling of sweat. Minho knows this, and is careful with their mayfly existence. He refuses to blink as they settle on his lips like the kisses they share, afraid if he loses sight of them for even a moment that they'll be lost in the shadow behind his eyes. Jinki's expression is always searching, too nakedly honest for Jinki's own liking, but Minho finds comfort in the way it lights up when he offers those words back to him. They are carried with lightness and honesty, as true and straight as the ley line that joins their hearts.
The smile they entice to Jinki's mouth is the ultimate treasure. Minho gathers it in his arms along with the man who makes it, places it between the curve of his ribs where it keeps him warm on even the coldest, most lonesome nights. It is a pearl, formed in layers over centuries and grown carefully in the warmest part of Jinki's heart. These pearls are the most rare and valuable of all, and they echo with the memory of the words that make up their existence. A reminder; a testament; a promise.
I love you.