Unmatched

Part 8

Minho knows it's wrong.

The muffle of gathering fabric being hitched up in the darkness, the soft whines and rasped breaths. It's all so wrong, but he's too deep in it now.

[this scene is censored in compliance with wattpad's policies and guidance. read the full and uncensored version on tumblr or ao3]

It's with a swell of bitterness that bleak reality hits him all at once, through the daze of alcohol and the tendrils of lust that fog his judgement. A warped flash of her tear strewn cheeks, a recollection of her once bright eyes dull and defeated on the revelation of his prior infidelity, delivered too late.

And Minho feels like he might never be able to face himself again.

"Fuck!" he curses, abruptly shoves himself from the writhing brunette. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"M— Minho?"

Yet again, he's indulging himself. Partaking in the one thing he knows destroyed his marriage in the first place, giving in to his apparent inability to manage his own desires like a functioning human. There's something so broken within him that he considers, for a brief moment, admitting to possessing a problem that may require more help than alcohol can provide, before his inner demons promptly remind him that he doesn't deserve such treatment. Not when he so brazenly keeps hurting the one he loves.

"Are you okay? Did I do something?" the brunette asks, mired in worry.

"N— No. You didn't. I just... I can't do this. Shouldn't be doing this."

There's no hesitation in his departure, only haste. He doesn't want to give himself a chance to rethink anything, as he barrels for the locker room door, leaves the bar and steps out to the street.

The bite of midnight air is a rudimentary awakening, dispels the remnants of lust that tickle the back of his mind, irritating. The weight on his heart lightens just a little, for Minho thinks this might just be the first time he's managed to exercise his moral compass. Ever.

Though he doesn't doubt that she won't see it that way, for the victory is of little value when the ethics of black and white are examined. He's too grey. He's always been grey.

An abrupt, strong buzz in his jeans pocket draws his attention, he hopes beyond hope that it might be her calling and acts on the frantic need to hear her voice, retrieving his phone and answering hastily.

"Hello?"

"Minho?"

His heart sinks.

"Changbin? Didn't I tell you not to call me? I'm not interested in the fucking party—"

"It's not that, man," he interrupts Minho. "I think there's something going on."

The nuance in Changbin's words fills Minho with helpless dread. He tenses, waits for the other shoe to drop.

"What do you mean? You are at the party, right?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm here. Your wife is too."

Minho had expected as much, yet hearing it offers him no relief from the pain.

"But something's not right," Changbin continues.

"What's not right?"

"Well, I mean, uh... I'm not sure how to—"

"Changbin, I swear to God, now is not the time to shit out. You called me."

"I know! I know, I just... We were playing a game," he sighs, heavy. "It was just a stupid fuckin' game. I guess her and Hyunjin have some shit going on, because things got pretty heated. It ended with her leaving. Hyunjin went after her and I... I don't know, I just got a bad fuckin' feeling about it. So, I followed them."