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█ ✫ INSIDE OUT ··· ( ch 7 of ? )
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: PG (NC-17 Over-all)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
✫ ··· author's note:
There's a bonus chapter between this one and the next one I'm hoping to have up by the end of the week. I wanted to work it into this chapter, but it would've been way too fucking long, so I opted to separate it. Also, the fairy tale that Key mentions is Oscar Wilde's The Happy Prince. It's on the sad side, but still so gorgeous.
Minho is the first of them to rise that morning. With a muted groan to greet the day he pries himself from the warmth of his comforter, tiptoeing across the room and taking great care to minimize the amount of noise it makes when he closes the door behind him. Uncharacteristically, he doesn't much feel like jogging this morning; the air in the dorm is damply cold, and he can taste rain when he inhales. Deciding to deviate from his routine, he moves to the kitchen and sets up the French press, setting the kettle to boil as he does so. Though it makes the best coffee, far superior to the Western-style coffee maker beside the sink, he and Key are the only ones who know how to properly navigate the device - a fact Minho secretly delights in.
While he waits for the whistle of the kettle, Minho casts a heavy-lidded look around the kitchen, frowning in distaste. Key cleans every surface in the area after dinner, but somehow between bedtime and waking up it always manages to look just as lived-in as ever. With a slight hum of disapproval, he takes a half-eaten, entirely melted bowl of ice cream from the kitchen table and moves it to the sink, letting the tap run as hot as he can get it before putting the whole thing under the stream. Jonghyun has a habit of waking up in the wee hours of the morning, putting three scoops of strawberry ice cream in his favourite penguin patterned bowl, and only eating a few bites. It's rather repulsive to find in the morning.
The sticky sugar skin over the surface swells and splits as the steaming water overflows the bowl, carrying the whole gruesome mess down the drain. Minho leaves the water running for a little while longer, hoping to purge the rest of it from the sides so he can avoid having to actually touch it. He sighs darkly as the kettle starts to squeak and sputter, and removes it from the heat before it can reach full volume.
To say that bunking with Jonghyun has finally become awkward would be a drastic understatement. For nearly a month they have said less than four words to one another, but their silent stand-off is overshadowed by Key's present abhorrence for Jonghyun's company, and the singer's equally obvious attempts to get back in his good graces. Minho chuckles to himself at the memory of the rather long, elaborate poem Jonghyun fastens to a bottle of Key's favourite juice in the fridge one day last week; Jonghyun finds a piece of pink note paper taped to his pitcher of barley tea the next day, though Key seems less than flattered by his attempt at rebuilding the peace, and responds without much enthusiasm:
Go fuck yourself.
Double-checking the temperature of the water, he carefully measures it out into the press. The scent of coffee starts to fill his nose, and his mouth waters absently as he leaves it to steep. To distract his tastebuds, he peels himself a tangerine and nibbles on the wedges.
It'd be dishonest to suggest that a part of him didn't feel a little sorry for Jonghyun - a rather small part of him, often ridiculed by the rest of his psyche as it swelled with the idea that he was getting exactly what he deserved, at long last. Still, his amusement is brittle and self-serving; it hurts to think of what their friendship has become, and what remains of their old easiness and familiarity amongst the rubble. It is definitely sobering, in more ways than one.
No matter how he feels about Key, there is one thing Minho knows for certain: the last thing he wants is for the two of them to end up like that. He refuses to even entertain the possibility of a world where he can't be close to Key, no matter the context. If that means having to lock away his not-so-secret feelings for the remainder of his life, then that is exactly what he'll do.
That will not be an easy task, however. Now that Key is aware of Minho's feelings for him, it makes it hard to keep himself at arm's length. The desire to touch, to hold is so much greater because Key knows and Key is still right beside him, hitting his shoulder when he laughs, poking fun at him when he falls short, throwing dirty socks at him when he leaves them around the dorm. It doesn't help that he's been noticing the other boy more and more, and it's not simply an acknowledgement of his physical presence. It's noticing the slope of his neck where it anchors against his collar bones; watching the way his skinny jeans stretch and bunch against his thighs when he walks; his eyes catching a flash of skin when his shirt rides a moment over his hips.
Minho doesn't deny wanting Key, and never has, but he can't remember wanting him so badly.
“Morning,” Greets a groggy, but all-too familiar voice. Minho startles, but it's an internal reaction as he forcibly rips his daydreaming to shamed little pieces in his mind - he's the picture of innocence on the outside, turning slowly to offer Key a return greeting. The incredibly oversized long-sleeve shirt Key is wearing leaves him choking on the reciprocation, his eyes immediately focusing on the way it bares the pale skin of his shoulders. It hangs long, hiding the majority of the Spongebob pyjama shorts and making it look like the only thing the boy is wearing as he pads barefoot into the kitchen. Minho has to swallow his first try at speech before he can regurgitate the sentiment and try again.
“Hi,” He manages quietly, and he hopes the gravel in his voice can be taken as sleep-deprivation and nothing more incriminating, “I made coffee.”
“Proper coffee!” Key sighs gratefully, moving to stand beside Minho and watch as he works, like a child at a sweets factory. Minho smiles at him, all genuine fondness; Key's expression is still heavy with unfulfilled sleep, giving it a soft-edged, dreamy quality. His hair is sticking up in the back from where he has slept on it, and Minho has to pull his eyes away from the strands to keep from smoothing them down himself. As a distraction he pulls the Pink Panther mug from the drain-board beside the sink and fills it three-quarters of the way, then passes it to Key.
“Mmm, thanks.” Key has to shake his sleeves back to uncover his hands as he reaches for the steaming cup. He inhales the aroma deeply, sighing in contentment before adding enough milk for the liquid to dance dangerously around the lip of the mug. He sips carefully at the excess, until there is enough of a gap to add sugar and stir. Minho fixes himself a cup as well, though with more sugar and less milk. He keeps his eye on Key the entire time.
They stand like that, the sun beginning to rise in earnest behind them, drinking their coffee in companionable silence. They're both finally starting to wake up, and Minho hears the door to a bedroom open, close, and then the sounds of the shower starting. Key fidgets beside him, drawing his attention again, but he is looking everywhere but Minho.
“Did you have plans after schedule?” He asks, voice soft. Minho shakes his head.
“Nope. Was going to come home and nap, but that's not really much of a plan.” He looks at Key expectantly.
“Not really, no,” he agrees, offering a small smile. “What time do you get back?”
“Um, six, I think. In the evening.”
“I'm home before you, then.”
They lapse into silence again. Minho is churning with curiosity, but he won't ask directly. Key is looking contemplative, which doesn't help.
“Will you meet me on the roof?” Key asks, his voice still small and quiet. Minho hardly hears it, but Key elaborates with a little more volume, “Once you get home?”
“Sure.” The answer is a reflex, but it's not like he would ever say no. Key just nods, puts his empty mug in the sink, and leaves to get ready without another word.
It's strange, Minho reflects as he watches Key disappear into the bedroom. Key has never specifically asked him to come to the roof - it's just something unspoken, not expected but anticipated nonetheless - let alone asked him to do so in advance. Before he can really dwell too long on the possibilities, however, Minho hears Onew drag himself to wakefulness in the hallway - the tell-tale thud of his head connecting the wall outside the kitchen gives him away - and he readies a cup of coffee for their leader. Onew smiles gratefully at him as he makes his way inside and takes the mug, and sips it black, sans cream or sugar. He never was a morning person.
“You'd better get ready,” he manages, though his words are lilted and a little jumbled, “Apparently your schedule has been bumped up thirty minutes. You've gotta be downstairs in twenty.”
“Shit. Thanks, hyung.” Minho throws back the last of his coffee before nearly running to his room to change out of his pyjamas.
It's a good thing he hadn't gone for his jog, he thinks to himself as he pulls a fresh shirt over his head, or else he'd reek something awful for the rest of the day. As he drags a comb through his hair and interrupts Taemin in the shower so he can brush his teeth - Hyung, get out, what are you doing? Yah! - he wonders exactly what will be waiting for him on the roof that night.
For some reason, as he pulls on the first pair of shoes he sees and flies down the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, he can't decide if he should be worried or not.
··· ✫ ···
Key drags himself back to the dorm at five-thirty that evening, wanting nothing more than to shower and sleep until the world stops turning. What he does manage to do is restyle his hair in the bathroom, make Taemin's bed, and boil the kettle for a quick coffee. He uses the instant kind, too tired to really care that it tastes stale and watery. In desperation he adds a little more sugar than normal, an attempt to mask the oldness of the flavour that really just makes it taste worse.
The clock on the microwave blinks at him blankly and he stares at it like a cornered rabbit, wedged between the kitchen table and the refrigerator. He's somehow managed to kill all of the time he had; Minho could be home at any moment now. His hands shake as he discards his half-drunk coffee in the sink. Fear sours the back of his throat as he pulls on a pair of shoes, and picks a coat from the closet. It's one of Minho's, an old varsity-style jacket, all black. It's too long in the sleeves and too snug on the hips for Key, but he shrugs into it without hesitation.
The next time he looks up, he's on the roof. He can't remember getting into the elevator, and panics for a moment as he searches for his keys - he finds them in a pocket of the jacket and immediately sags in relief, glad he hasn't locked himself out like an idiot. I'm so stupid, he thinks to himself, walking over to the railing and leaning against it, looking out over the parking lot and fastening his eyes to the drop off area in the front of the building.
As he waits he tries to sort through his thoughts, to put them in some sort of order, but they're in utter disarray no matter how hard he tries to organize them. What he wants to say, what he should say, what he needs to say; they're all muddled and muddy and so deeply intertwined, and he's stuck tangled in the middle of it all. Key hates the notion of winging it - he likes to at least have a starting point or a destination, but here and now he has neither, and his nerves are suffering for it.
Key props his elbows on the railing, resting his chin in his hands. He knows he's just driving himself crazy, but he can't help it. Maybe everything will be different when Minho shows up, and he'll know just what to say and exactly how to word it, but right now he feels rather a lot like throwing up. All he really wants is Minho to tell him it's okay to want things; that it's okay for Key to want him, even if he shouldn't, because there's no way in hell that he's earned the right.
I'm so, so stupid.
“Kibum-ah?”
Key nearly leaps out of his skin, smashing the very tip of his elbow down on the cold steel of the railing he leans on. A curse hisses its way from his mouth, but he doesn't spare the throb in his arm a single thought as he whirls around. Minho is standing with his hands in the pockets of his jacket - the one Key made him buy two weeks ago, because the the cut and fit of the military coat make him look like a vision of pure masculinity that appeared in a wet dream to Ralph Lauren himself. Just the sight of him wearing it makes Key's fingers itch for his sketching pencils, even though he could never hope to capture all the things that Minho makes him feel on something as common as paper. That, however, is not what Key has asked him here to do.
There is an uncommon distance between them, probably eight or ten feet at most, but it's a larger space than there ever has been before. Key finds he is both thankful for and resentful of its existence all at once. It follows close behind that Minho's abnormal distance means he knows something is up, that something is not in line with their normal routine, and Key can't decide if that will make this easier or not.
“Minho.” As soon as his name is out of his mouth, Key wants to cram it back in and force it back down his throat. He can feel the rest - the whole mishmash of unfiltered words and unfocused thoughts he's been trying to categorize or at least identify since they shared perfectly brewed coffee that morning - threatening to bubble up and out and over. Unfortunately it's out, it's gone, and it's bringing everything else with it. Key is powerless to stop it, to do more than wish and pray and beg that it comes out right, even if he's got no idea what the right words actually sound like.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Minho. I'm sorry for everything I've done, and all the things I never did that I should have had the balls to do. I'm sorry for leaning on you when you were already carrying my weight; I'm sorry for not being strong enough for you to lean on in return. I'm sorry that no matter how hard you try to keep me steady, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again.”
He's starting to cry at this point, but he can't stop because he doesn't realize they're falling.
“I'm sorry that everything you've already done for me isn't enough. I can't stop asking for more; one more word, one more moment, one more piece of you chipped right off the surface for me to waste. It's like - it's like that fairy tale. The one about the beautiful golden statue who gives away every part of himself with any value to the people he watches because he wants them to be happy, but in the end he ends up ugly and empty and alone and they don't even realize, they don't even fucking see what he does for them because they take every gift he gives for granted. I'm sorry I'm so selfish. I'm sorry I won't stop asking you for more than you should have to offer me, but I've only been thinking of myself.”
“Kibum - ”
“But that's not entirely true.” Kibum talks over him. He knows Minho is going to try and soothe him, but he isn't finished. He may not know when he'll ever stop, but he knows he isn't done yet. Not yet. “I don't only think of myself, not lately. I'm still selfish, and I'm still greedy, but even more than myself, I think... I think about you. I think about that night here on the roof when you held my hand in the dark, and you told me about love being like riding a bike. I think about that night a lot, because I'm pretty sure love isn't anything like a bicycle, Minho. If it was, I could get off whenever I wanted - I could bail, tuck and roll and take the cuts and the scrapes and pick myself up and move on, and even though you said I could, I can't. I just can't do it.
“I'm doing the same things to you that Jonghyun's been doing to me. I come to you for comfort, but at the end of the day I'm still crying over him. I know how that makes you feel, and you can't deny how bad it hurts, because I know exactly what it feels like. Which makes it so, so much worse; that I know what I'm doing to you, and I've been doing it anyway.”
Key's voice strains to a croak. He pauses, and tries to swallow. His throat is dry and he can't seem to get enough air, so he drags it in as deeply as he can, but Minho's stealing the breath from him before he can process the oxygen. He's close now - too close. Key doesn't even see him move closer, even though his eyes are on him the entire time, and what's left of the space between them makes him feel light-headed, almost dizzy.
“Kibum, that's ridiculous. You're not like Jonghyu - ”
“Yes I am, Minho,” Key's voice is high and desperate, and the sound of it makes him flush in embarrassment, “You do everything you can for me, and I appreciate it, I really do, even if I hardly ever show it. But what do I give you in return? I can't name anything. Not one thing. I'm just like him, Minho - I'm exactly the same and I hate it. I don't want to be, because I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have, but I am.”
When he finds it in him to speak again, his voice is quiet and shy, and as he feels the words leave his mouth he prays he can keep from choking on them.
“I blamed you, for a little while. After you kissed me I blamed you for making me feel weird around you, for making me feel self-conscious when we were in the same room. I wanted to keep on blaming you, but you know I think too much, and when I really looked at what was happening... I don't know when it all started, because it didn't really feel like it was new when I noticed it. When I realized that you're the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last thing on my mind when I crawl into bed at the end of the day. That I think about you whenever I smell coffee, or when I laugh. That when you smile, it makes me smile, too.”
Minho stays silent as Key takes a moment to breathe. His hands fall out of his pockets to lay loosely at his sides, but they make no move to draw Key closer, even though that's all he wants to do.
“It scared me at first, when I would dream about you, because it made me feel so lost; I didn't understand why it was you I imagined holding me close, whispering my own name in my ears. I thought it should've been Jonghyun, but when I tried to picture it... I couldn't. I couldn't seem to remember what it felt like to want that from him, but it was so easy to want it from you. I had no idea what to do, and those dreams made me feel so, so guilty, but at the same time they made me feel... warm. Warm, and loved.”
“Kibum...” Minho waits, wondering if Key needs to keep talking, letting him have the chance if he should need it. Key just stands, back straight and stiff, and gives a little sniffle. He's staring at Minho as if waiting for something, so Minho searches his eyes; what he finds is resolution, and fear. Key's expectations of the reaction he's going to get are all negative, like he's prepared to lose something near and dear to him. Minho wills his voice not to break, though it comes out more gravelly than it normally would. “Kibum. Do you... Are you saying what I think you're saying?”
A watery laugh is his first answer. His second is the look Key gives him, like he's about to jump headlong into oncoming traffic. Like he's terrified. Key sets his jaw when he speaks, to keep it from trembling around his words. “If you're thinking that I have no right to want you like I do, then yeah,” he says, trying to sound light but only sounding small and hopeless, “That's what I'm saying.”
Key thinks there will be silence here. That there will be this terrible empty quiet, and then Minho will turn on his heel and leave and Key can cry himself out in peace until it doesn't hurt so much. Because he's expecting everything and anything else, when Minho tugs him forward by the wrist and secures both hands around his face his mouth falls slack in surprise. He's about to pull away, but the way Minho presses their mouths together makes it impossible to do anything but cling helplessly to the taller boy's shoulders as his knees give out on him. When he whimpers, Minho drops a hand to the small of his back to draw him closer; when he kisses back Minho kisses him harder, tilting his head so their lips slide and fit together like a seal; when he forgets to breathe, Minho pulls back just enough that he remembers what air is, and why he needs it.
“I,” Key stammers a bit, trying to gather the breath required to form words, “I - b-but - oh.” He looks up, then immediately anywhere else as their eyes meet. The look in Minho's expression is heavy and soft, like being held close; it makes Key feel self-conscious, and his cheeks flush hotly. The rumbling chuckle from Minho's chest deepens it.
“You're trembling.” There is a definite note of amusement in Minho's voice, but Key can't quell the tremors in his limbs, try as he might. He settles for staring at a speck of lint on Minho's right shoulder, rather than answering. The hand on Key' back shifts to his side, a thumb gently stroking the sharp jut of his hip below his jacket - Minho's jacket.
“It's just,” Ket starts after a few moments of hesitation, still focused on Minho's shoulder, “I don't deserve this, Minho, you know I don't. All I've ever done is hurt you - ”
“You're not like him, Kibum,” Minho takes his chin in his hands, forcing Key to look directly into his eyes, as if daring him to argue, “You were willing to let me go, if it meant you wouldn't hurt me any more, no matter how badly it'd hurt you in the process. The only problem with your plan is, regardless of what you think you deserve, I'm not planning on going anywhere without you,” Minho gives him a small smile, playful yet sincere, “So you're sort of stuck with me, like it or not.”
Key tries to return the smile, the laugh, but he's too overwhelmed to do much more than twitch the corners of his lips. He's rapidly losing to the tears in his eyes, relief washing over him and causing them to well dangerously at the edges. To save face he ducks his head under Minho's chin, drawing his arms around his back in a firm embrace as he buries his face in the fabric of his coat. Minho's hand slips from his waist to his back again, pulling him closer.
“Hey,” he says against Key's ear, light and breathy, “Don't cry.”
“M'not crying.” Key mutters, though he sniffles right after and almost curses. Minho just laughs, content to hold him for a while longer.
After a few minutes, his mouth is back beside Key's ear. Velvety and smooth, Minho's voice falls against the shell, sending tiny shiver down his back. “You're wearing my jacket.” It isn't really a question, but Key nods anyhow, too comfortable to offer a witty reason, as he normally would. Minho tightens his grip just slightly in response, and Key can hear the smile when he speaks again.
“Does this mean I get to steal your clothes, too? I kinda wanna wear that unicorn tank top of yours.”
Key manages to find the energy to hit him.
✫ ··· intermission | chapter eight
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: PG (NC-17 Over-all)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
✫ ··· author's note:
There's a bonus chapter between this one and the next one I'm hoping to have up by the end of the week. I wanted to work it into this chapter, but it would've been way too fucking long, so I opted to separate it. Also, the fairy tale that Key mentions is Oscar Wilde's The Happy Prince. It's on the sad side, but still so gorgeous.
Minho is the first of them to rise that morning. With a muted groan to greet the day he pries himself from the warmth of his comforter, tiptoeing across the room and taking great care to minimize the amount of noise it makes when he closes the door behind him. Uncharacteristically, he doesn't much feel like jogging this morning; the air in the dorm is damply cold, and he can taste rain when he inhales. Deciding to deviate from his routine, he moves to the kitchen and sets up the French press, setting the kettle to boil as he does so. Though it makes the best coffee, far superior to the Western-style coffee maker beside the sink, he and Key are the only ones who know how to properly navigate the device - a fact Minho secretly delights in.
While he waits for the whistle of the kettle, Minho casts a heavy-lidded look around the kitchen, frowning in distaste. Key cleans every surface in the area after dinner, but somehow between bedtime and waking up it always manages to look just as lived-in as ever. With a slight hum of disapproval, he takes a half-eaten, entirely melted bowl of ice cream from the kitchen table and moves it to the sink, letting the tap run as hot as he can get it before putting the whole thing under the stream. Jonghyun has a habit of waking up in the wee hours of the morning, putting three scoops of strawberry ice cream in his favourite penguin patterned bowl, and only eating a few bites. It's rather repulsive to find in the morning.
The sticky sugar skin over the surface swells and splits as the steaming water overflows the bowl, carrying the whole gruesome mess down the drain. Minho leaves the water running for a little while longer, hoping to purge the rest of it from the sides so he can avoid having to actually touch it. He sighs darkly as the kettle starts to squeak and sputter, and removes it from the heat before it can reach full volume.
To say that bunking with Jonghyun has finally become awkward would be a drastic understatement. For nearly a month they have said less than four words to one another, but their silent stand-off is overshadowed by Key's present abhorrence for Jonghyun's company, and the singer's equally obvious attempts to get back in his good graces. Minho chuckles to himself at the memory of the rather long, elaborate poem Jonghyun fastens to a bottle of Key's favourite juice in the fridge one day last week; Jonghyun finds a piece of pink note paper taped to his pitcher of barley tea the next day, though Key seems less than flattered by his attempt at rebuilding the peace, and responds without much enthusiasm:
Go fuck yourself.
Double-checking the temperature of the water, he carefully measures it out into the press. The scent of coffee starts to fill his nose, and his mouth waters absently as he leaves it to steep. To distract his tastebuds, he peels himself a tangerine and nibbles on the wedges.
It'd be dishonest to suggest that a part of him didn't feel a little sorry for Jonghyun - a rather small part of him, often ridiculed by the rest of his psyche as it swelled with the idea that he was getting exactly what he deserved, at long last. Still, his amusement is brittle and self-serving; it hurts to think of what their friendship has become, and what remains of their old easiness and familiarity amongst the rubble. It is definitely sobering, in more ways than one.
No matter how he feels about Key, there is one thing Minho knows for certain: the last thing he wants is for the two of them to end up like that. He refuses to even entertain the possibility of a world where he can't be close to Key, no matter the context. If that means having to lock away his not-so-secret feelings for the remainder of his life, then that is exactly what he'll do.
That will not be an easy task, however. Now that Key is aware of Minho's feelings for him, it makes it hard to keep himself at arm's length. The desire to touch, to hold is so much greater because Key knows and Key is still right beside him, hitting his shoulder when he laughs, poking fun at him when he falls short, throwing dirty socks at him when he leaves them around the dorm. It doesn't help that he's been noticing the other boy more and more, and it's not simply an acknowledgement of his physical presence. It's noticing the slope of his neck where it anchors against his collar bones; watching the way his skinny jeans stretch and bunch against his thighs when he walks; his eyes catching a flash of skin when his shirt rides a moment over his hips.
Minho doesn't deny wanting Key, and never has, but he can't remember wanting him so badly.
“Morning,” Greets a groggy, but all-too familiar voice. Minho startles, but it's an internal reaction as he forcibly rips his daydreaming to shamed little pieces in his mind - he's the picture of innocence on the outside, turning slowly to offer Key a return greeting. The incredibly oversized long-sleeve shirt Key is wearing leaves him choking on the reciprocation, his eyes immediately focusing on the way it bares the pale skin of his shoulders. It hangs long, hiding the majority of the Spongebob pyjama shorts and making it look like the only thing the boy is wearing as he pads barefoot into the kitchen. Minho has to swallow his first try at speech before he can regurgitate the sentiment and try again.
“Hi,” He manages quietly, and he hopes the gravel in his voice can be taken as sleep-deprivation and nothing more incriminating, “I made coffee.”
“Proper coffee!” Key sighs gratefully, moving to stand beside Minho and watch as he works, like a child at a sweets factory. Minho smiles at him, all genuine fondness; Key's expression is still heavy with unfulfilled sleep, giving it a soft-edged, dreamy quality. His hair is sticking up in the back from where he has slept on it, and Minho has to pull his eyes away from the strands to keep from smoothing them down himself. As a distraction he pulls the Pink Panther mug from the drain-board beside the sink and fills it three-quarters of the way, then passes it to Key.
“Mmm, thanks.” Key has to shake his sleeves back to uncover his hands as he reaches for the steaming cup. He inhales the aroma deeply, sighing in contentment before adding enough milk for the liquid to dance dangerously around the lip of the mug. He sips carefully at the excess, until there is enough of a gap to add sugar and stir. Minho fixes himself a cup as well, though with more sugar and less milk. He keeps his eye on Key the entire time.
They stand like that, the sun beginning to rise in earnest behind them, drinking their coffee in companionable silence. They're both finally starting to wake up, and Minho hears the door to a bedroom open, close, and then the sounds of the shower starting. Key fidgets beside him, drawing his attention again, but he is looking everywhere but Minho.
“Did you have plans after schedule?” He asks, voice soft. Minho shakes his head.
“Nope. Was going to come home and nap, but that's not really much of a plan.” He looks at Key expectantly.
“Not really, no,” he agrees, offering a small smile. “What time do you get back?”
“Um, six, I think. In the evening.”
“I'm home before you, then.”
They lapse into silence again. Minho is churning with curiosity, but he won't ask directly. Key is looking contemplative, which doesn't help.
“Will you meet me on the roof?” Key asks, his voice still small and quiet. Minho hardly hears it, but Key elaborates with a little more volume, “Once you get home?”
“Sure.” The answer is a reflex, but it's not like he would ever say no. Key just nods, puts his empty mug in the sink, and leaves to get ready without another word.
It's strange, Minho reflects as he watches Key disappear into the bedroom. Key has never specifically asked him to come to the roof - it's just something unspoken, not expected but anticipated nonetheless - let alone asked him to do so in advance. Before he can really dwell too long on the possibilities, however, Minho hears Onew drag himself to wakefulness in the hallway - the tell-tale thud of his head connecting the wall outside the kitchen gives him away - and he readies a cup of coffee for their leader. Onew smiles gratefully at him as he makes his way inside and takes the mug, and sips it black, sans cream or sugar. He never was a morning person.
“You'd better get ready,” he manages, though his words are lilted and a little jumbled, “Apparently your schedule has been bumped up thirty minutes. You've gotta be downstairs in twenty.”
“Shit. Thanks, hyung.” Minho throws back the last of his coffee before nearly running to his room to change out of his pyjamas.
It's a good thing he hadn't gone for his jog, he thinks to himself as he pulls a fresh shirt over his head, or else he'd reek something awful for the rest of the day. As he drags a comb through his hair and interrupts Taemin in the shower so he can brush his teeth - Hyung, get out, what are you doing? Yah! - he wonders exactly what will be waiting for him on the roof that night.
For some reason, as he pulls on the first pair of shoes he sees and flies down the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, he can't decide if he should be worried or not.
··· ✫ ···
Key drags himself back to the dorm at five-thirty that evening, wanting nothing more than to shower and sleep until the world stops turning. What he does manage to do is restyle his hair in the bathroom, make Taemin's bed, and boil the kettle for a quick coffee. He uses the instant kind, too tired to really care that it tastes stale and watery. In desperation he adds a little more sugar than normal, an attempt to mask the oldness of the flavour that really just makes it taste worse.
The clock on the microwave blinks at him blankly and he stares at it like a cornered rabbit, wedged between the kitchen table and the refrigerator. He's somehow managed to kill all of the time he had; Minho could be home at any moment now. His hands shake as he discards his half-drunk coffee in the sink. Fear sours the back of his throat as he pulls on a pair of shoes, and picks a coat from the closet. It's one of Minho's, an old varsity-style jacket, all black. It's too long in the sleeves and too snug on the hips for Key, but he shrugs into it without hesitation.
The next time he looks up, he's on the roof. He can't remember getting into the elevator, and panics for a moment as he searches for his keys - he finds them in a pocket of the jacket and immediately sags in relief, glad he hasn't locked himself out like an idiot. I'm so stupid, he thinks to himself, walking over to the railing and leaning against it, looking out over the parking lot and fastening his eyes to the drop off area in the front of the building.
As he waits he tries to sort through his thoughts, to put them in some sort of order, but they're in utter disarray no matter how hard he tries to organize them. What he wants to say, what he should say, what he needs to say; they're all muddled and muddy and so deeply intertwined, and he's stuck tangled in the middle of it all. Key hates the notion of winging it - he likes to at least have a starting point or a destination, but here and now he has neither, and his nerves are suffering for it.
Key props his elbows on the railing, resting his chin in his hands. He knows he's just driving himself crazy, but he can't help it. Maybe everything will be different when Minho shows up, and he'll know just what to say and exactly how to word it, but right now he feels rather a lot like throwing up. All he really wants is Minho to tell him it's okay to want things; that it's okay for Key to want him, even if he shouldn't, because there's no way in hell that he's earned the right.
I'm so, so stupid.
“Kibum-ah?”
Key nearly leaps out of his skin, smashing the very tip of his elbow down on the cold steel of the railing he leans on. A curse hisses its way from his mouth, but he doesn't spare the throb in his arm a single thought as he whirls around. Minho is standing with his hands in the pockets of his jacket - the one Key made him buy two weeks ago, because the the cut and fit of the military coat make him look like a vision of pure masculinity that appeared in a wet dream to Ralph Lauren himself. Just the sight of him wearing it makes Key's fingers itch for his sketching pencils, even though he could never hope to capture all the things that Minho makes him feel on something as common as paper. That, however, is not what Key has asked him here to do.
There is an uncommon distance between them, probably eight or ten feet at most, but it's a larger space than there ever has been before. Key finds he is both thankful for and resentful of its existence all at once. It follows close behind that Minho's abnormal distance means he knows something is up, that something is not in line with their normal routine, and Key can't decide if that will make this easier or not.
“Minho.” As soon as his name is out of his mouth, Key wants to cram it back in and force it back down his throat. He can feel the rest - the whole mishmash of unfiltered words and unfocused thoughts he's been trying to categorize or at least identify since they shared perfectly brewed coffee that morning - threatening to bubble up and out and over. Unfortunately it's out, it's gone, and it's bringing everything else with it. Key is powerless to stop it, to do more than wish and pray and beg that it comes out right, even if he's got no idea what the right words actually sound like.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Minho. I'm sorry for everything I've done, and all the things I never did that I should have had the balls to do. I'm sorry for leaning on you when you were already carrying my weight; I'm sorry for not being strong enough for you to lean on in return. I'm sorry that no matter how hard you try to keep me steady, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again.”
He's starting to cry at this point, but he can't stop because he doesn't realize they're falling.
“I'm sorry that everything you've already done for me isn't enough. I can't stop asking for more; one more word, one more moment, one more piece of you chipped right off the surface for me to waste. It's like - it's like that fairy tale. The one about the beautiful golden statue who gives away every part of himself with any value to the people he watches because he wants them to be happy, but in the end he ends up ugly and empty and alone and they don't even realize, they don't even fucking see what he does for them because they take every gift he gives for granted. I'm sorry I'm so selfish. I'm sorry I won't stop asking you for more than you should have to offer me, but I've only been thinking of myself.”
“Kibum - ”
“But that's not entirely true.” Kibum talks over him. He knows Minho is going to try and soothe him, but he isn't finished. He may not know when he'll ever stop, but he knows he isn't done yet. Not yet. “I don't only think of myself, not lately. I'm still selfish, and I'm still greedy, but even more than myself, I think... I think about you. I think about that night here on the roof when you held my hand in the dark, and you told me about love being like riding a bike. I think about that night a lot, because I'm pretty sure love isn't anything like a bicycle, Minho. If it was, I could get off whenever I wanted - I could bail, tuck and roll and take the cuts and the scrapes and pick myself up and move on, and even though you said I could, I can't. I just can't do it.
“I'm doing the same things to you that Jonghyun's been doing to me. I come to you for comfort, but at the end of the day I'm still crying over him. I know how that makes you feel, and you can't deny how bad it hurts, because I know exactly what it feels like. Which makes it so, so much worse; that I know what I'm doing to you, and I've been doing it anyway.”
Key's voice strains to a croak. He pauses, and tries to swallow. His throat is dry and he can't seem to get enough air, so he drags it in as deeply as he can, but Minho's stealing the breath from him before he can process the oxygen. He's close now - too close. Key doesn't even see him move closer, even though his eyes are on him the entire time, and what's left of the space between them makes him feel light-headed, almost dizzy.
“Kibum, that's ridiculous. You're not like Jonghyu - ”
“Yes I am, Minho,” Key's voice is high and desperate, and the sound of it makes him flush in embarrassment, “You do everything you can for me, and I appreciate it, I really do, even if I hardly ever show it. But what do I give you in return? I can't name anything. Not one thing. I'm just like him, Minho - I'm exactly the same and I hate it. I don't want to be, because I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have, but I am.”
When he finds it in him to speak again, his voice is quiet and shy, and as he feels the words leave his mouth he prays he can keep from choking on them.
“I blamed you, for a little while. After you kissed me I blamed you for making me feel weird around you, for making me feel self-conscious when we were in the same room. I wanted to keep on blaming you, but you know I think too much, and when I really looked at what was happening... I don't know when it all started, because it didn't really feel like it was new when I noticed it. When I realized that you're the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last thing on my mind when I crawl into bed at the end of the day. That I think about you whenever I smell coffee, or when I laugh. That when you smile, it makes me smile, too.”
Minho stays silent as Key takes a moment to breathe. His hands fall out of his pockets to lay loosely at his sides, but they make no move to draw Key closer, even though that's all he wants to do.
“It scared me at first, when I would dream about you, because it made me feel so lost; I didn't understand why it was you I imagined holding me close, whispering my own name in my ears. I thought it should've been Jonghyun, but when I tried to picture it... I couldn't. I couldn't seem to remember what it felt like to want that from him, but it was so easy to want it from you. I had no idea what to do, and those dreams made me feel so, so guilty, but at the same time they made me feel... warm. Warm, and loved.”
“Kibum...” Minho waits, wondering if Key needs to keep talking, letting him have the chance if he should need it. Key just stands, back straight and stiff, and gives a little sniffle. He's staring at Minho as if waiting for something, so Minho searches his eyes; what he finds is resolution, and fear. Key's expectations of the reaction he's going to get are all negative, like he's prepared to lose something near and dear to him. Minho wills his voice not to break, though it comes out more gravelly than it normally would. “Kibum. Do you... Are you saying what I think you're saying?”
A watery laugh is his first answer. His second is the look Key gives him, like he's about to jump headlong into oncoming traffic. Like he's terrified. Key sets his jaw when he speaks, to keep it from trembling around his words. “If you're thinking that I have no right to want you like I do, then yeah,” he says, trying to sound light but only sounding small and hopeless, “That's what I'm saying.”
Key thinks there will be silence here. That there will be this terrible empty quiet, and then Minho will turn on his heel and leave and Key can cry himself out in peace until it doesn't hurt so much. Because he's expecting everything and anything else, when Minho tugs him forward by the wrist and secures both hands around his face his mouth falls slack in surprise. He's about to pull away, but the way Minho presses their mouths together makes it impossible to do anything but cling helplessly to the taller boy's shoulders as his knees give out on him. When he whimpers, Minho drops a hand to the small of his back to draw him closer; when he kisses back Minho kisses him harder, tilting his head so their lips slide and fit together like a seal; when he forgets to breathe, Minho pulls back just enough that he remembers what air is, and why he needs it.
“I,” Key stammers a bit, trying to gather the breath required to form words, “I - b-but - oh.” He looks up, then immediately anywhere else as their eyes meet. The look in Minho's expression is heavy and soft, like being held close; it makes Key feel self-conscious, and his cheeks flush hotly. The rumbling chuckle from Minho's chest deepens it.
“You're trembling.” There is a definite note of amusement in Minho's voice, but Key can't quell the tremors in his limbs, try as he might. He settles for staring at a speck of lint on Minho's right shoulder, rather than answering. The hand on Key' back shifts to his side, a thumb gently stroking the sharp jut of his hip below his jacket - Minho's jacket.
“It's just,” Ket starts after a few moments of hesitation, still focused on Minho's shoulder, “I don't deserve this, Minho, you know I don't. All I've ever done is hurt you - ”
“You're not like him, Kibum,” Minho takes his chin in his hands, forcing Key to look directly into his eyes, as if daring him to argue, “You were willing to let me go, if it meant you wouldn't hurt me any more, no matter how badly it'd hurt you in the process. The only problem with your plan is, regardless of what you think you deserve, I'm not planning on going anywhere without you,” Minho gives him a small smile, playful yet sincere, “So you're sort of stuck with me, like it or not.”
Key tries to return the smile, the laugh, but he's too overwhelmed to do much more than twitch the corners of his lips. He's rapidly losing to the tears in his eyes, relief washing over him and causing them to well dangerously at the edges. To save face he ducks his head under Minho's chin, drawing his arms around his back in a firm embrace as he buries his face in the fabric of his coat. Minho's hand slips from his waist to his back again, pulling him closer.
“Hey,” he says against Key's ear, light and breathy, “Don't cry.”
“M'not crying.” Key mutters, though he sniffles right after and almost curses. Minho just laughs, content to hold him for a while longer.
After a few minutes, his mouth is back beside Key's ear. Velvety and smooth, Minho's voice falls against the shell, sending tiny shiver down his back. “You're wearing my jacket.” It isn't really a question, but Key nods anyhow, too comfortable to offer a witty reason, as he normally would. Minho tightens his grip just slightly in response, and Key can hear the smile when he speaks again.
“Does this mean I get to steal your clothes, too? I kinda wanna wear that unicorn tank top of yours.”
Key manages to find the energy to hit him.
✫ ··· intermission | chapter eight