the boy in the window {minsung} DISCONTINUED

two.

For someone who wanted to lay low, Minho seemed to get himself into troubling situations more than he'd like to. 

Currently, he was shoved up against the back wall of his high school, a group of fellow seniors blowing secondhand smoke into his face and spitting cusses and slurs at him. He wasn't sure what he had done to offend them this time- but if he asked, he would most likely get some stupid excuse to cover up the fact that they were all just jealous of Minho's good looks and good grades. 

No, Minho didn't try to get into these types of situations, but he didn't exactly avoid them, either. 

Minho's nonchalant, blatant attitude didn't ever seem to help because when kids would pick on him his natural response was to use his skilled tongue to shoot back words that would only break the kids down, leaving them confused and feeling dumb because they couldn't win a verbal fight with Minho no matter how hard they tried. 

And so they would turn to violence. 

The boys demanded money from Minho, which he pulled from his pockets and cooly threw to the ground in front of him, watching as the coins and paper left small dents in the white snow. 

"Obviously you have more than that," one of the boys complained, looking down to find no more than twenty dollars lying in the snow. 

Minho said nothing. 

"Listen, you fucker, there's no way you're done up all fancy and shit and you only got twenty aces on you," one of the other boys, presumably the ugly, smelly and stubbled leader of the group, growled. He tightened his fist, which was clutching the front of Minho's hoodie, slamming him harder against the wall. 

Minho said nothing. 

"Asshole," the boy muttered under his breath, then in one swift movement he cocked his fist back and let it fly, watching with nothing but a smug expression as his knuckles connected with Minho's left cheek. 

Minho said nothing. He took the hit and he was silent. 

Minho's tongue had always gotten him into trouble- that, and his curiosity, of course. 

He knew how to speak, and how to speak well. Even when he was young, adults couldn't so much as say a word of negative criticism to the boy without him essentially breaking down their existence into nothing but meaningless words, meaningless words that somehow meant everything. 

And for that, Minho knew he was superior. He knew that as much as people hurt him, as much as they bruised and beat him, Minho's mind, his only true asset, was too many leagues ahead of any of these imbecilic dickheads for him to give a single fuck. 

But he also knew to keep his mouth shut because of these exact types of situations- times where him deciding to speak up had only landed him in stupid places with stupid people having to deal with their unbearable stupidity. 

And so, not wanting to make the situation worse for himself, Minho said nothing. 

And the hits kept coming. 

Finally, once Minho was sufficiently bloodied and his wallet had been emptied of any other lingering cash, the boys dropped Minho to the ground and laughed to themselves as they slunk away, waving their newly collected money in the air with shouts of steak and alcohol and pretty girls. 

Minho looked down silently at the white snow, watching as its purity, its beauty, its simple crispness was ruined as it became painted with red dots of blood. Minho brought an arm up to his face, holding it to his nose in a lazy attempt to stop the bleeding as he slowly got to his feet, his body and face throbbing.