𝖎𝖉𝖎𝖔𝖙 ; 𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖚𝖓𝖌

FOUR

LEE MINHO
SOMEWHERE IN SEOUL, KOREA

touch grazed at the skin of his cheek,
hands held his face tenderly as lips joined his own.

he chased his touch, for the love and affection he could only get from jisung.

jisung. jisung. jisung.

like a lovesick fool, he stares up at the younger, who gazed back with the same intensity.

minho squeaked and looked away, as a hand strays down his back, to his waist, then down to his hips; as lips pressed against his skin, against his ear, against his jaw, against his neck until they are chasing his lips once more.

"you're ethereal." jisung whispered softly, full of adoration and affection.

minho burned, his ears burned as red creeped up on his skin like the embarassment creeping up from the pits of his stomach, along with the butterflies reeling in there.

"you don't mean that." minho whispered, turned away as to not look at him.

"oh, but i do, minho. of course, i do."

did he?
had he?

why was minho even thinking about this? about him of all people?

three years, and yet minho still mulls over the man who had burst into his heart and then left him in the rubbles of his broken walls, all alone.

three years, and minho has moved on -- but still, he remembers.

still, he wonders if jisung ever loved him.

perhaps he had, once.
minho wonders when it all stopped.

minho wonders if every relationship he has, will just be a repeat of what he had with jisung -- just shorter, and with a little less love and adoration.

minho moved with precise timing.
he moved gracefully, elegance dripped from each stroke as he kept up with the music.

each arm was the stroke of a brush, painting images, painting a whole new world for him, and him only.

there was no seungcheol to chase him here, no jisung to haunt him here, no friends to worry.

it was him -- it had always been just him.

for he knew now -- solitude was just something that was a part of him.

he had to live solitary, eternally alone.

for he had tasted what company was -- and he had tasted the bitterness of it leaving.

in solitude, there was no worry of the bitter goodbye -- after all, there was nobody to say farewell to.

"han." minho spoke. his tone is clipped, there is no warmth, but there is no frigidity.