CHAEBEOL | minsung

seven

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Minho wasn't expecting the knock at the door.

Nor was he expecting the voice when he opened it:

"Jesus, you seriously live like this?"

Jisung had sucked in a breath through his teeth as he asked, shaking his head, ever the judgemental rich kid. His eyes glanced between the houses on either side before flicking back to Minho's.

"Gonna let me in? Or are you just gonna leave me out here to get mugged and killed?" Jisung prompted.

The designer hoodie he wore and the expensive fabric of his trousers probably did put him at risk, in his defense.

Minho didn't move. "Sounds like it would save me a lot of work if you were mugged and killed."

Jisung didn't take no for an answer, shoved against Minho with one sharp shoulder blade and pushed his way into the house.

The self-conscious rush that was starting to tingle in Minho's skin made him feel sick. He wished more than anything that he didn't care, but even he felt painfully small with Jisung in his house. Especially after he had seen Jisung's home.

Minho watched, on edge, as Jisung glanced around the small living room he had pushed his way into. Watched his eyes catch on all the stand-out points - the way the singular couch sunk in the middle from decades of use, the fabric motheaten and torn. The scratched and marked floorboards, the chips in the paint on the walls, the TV that seemed like it could've been out of a museum. The light in the ceiling which swung without a fixture.

"Probably cost more than you'll make in your whole life, huh?" Minho muttered under his breath.

It came as a surprise that this drew a short laugh from Jisung, who was still gazing in interest around the room.

"What? Left your tongue in the mansion?" Minho's voice was cutting. The silence from Jisung was making him feel uneasy.

"I've just never been anywhere that looks like this before," Jisung breathed, still gazing around himself.

With a scoff and a scowl, Minho threw himself onto the couch, his body slotting perfectly into the dent that Jisung imagined he must have made over the years.

"Glad my life is such a novelty to you," Minho grumbled.

He busied himself with the work that he had been doing before Jisung came in. Jisung watched in interest.

The older had clearly come straight home from school and got changed. His hair was messy, tussled by stressed hands running through it, and his clothes seemed cheap and worn. They hung off him, colours dark, joining forces with dark eyes and dark hair in a battle against pale skin.

Looking at Minho in this setting put the new bruises on his face even further on display. In the muted, almost beige colour palette of the faded room, the swathes of purples and blue sprouting on Minho's jaw and face were almost too vibrant. Jisung imagined the bruise on his own face would be, too, and that there would be similar marks all over Minho's stomach.

Jisung wasn't sure why this thought made him feel oddly... Satisfied. That they'd done this to each other.

"Why are you staring at me?" Minho asked without even looking up.

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" Jisung retorted, sulky.

There was only one couch, so the younger wasn't sure what to do with himself. He stood aimlessly in the middle of the room, eyes glued on Minho.