CHAEBEOL | minsung

thirty-two

ノ～ ♡

Jisung had just been stabbed. 

It was his fault, he knew that, because he never should have led Minho to a place that is renowned for sickos and psychos, drug addicts and alcoholics and poor people and- well, maybe that's Jisung's privilege talking. Either way, coming here with Minho got him stabbed.

When Jisung looked down at his chest, he was surprised by the fact that where he expected to see the spark of a knife glinting in the sun or blood starting to pool from the hole in his chest, there was nothing. 

So why did it seem like he could feel it? Twisting, a fork in his stomach twirling spaghetti out of his long intestine? Why did it feel like instead of air, fluid bubbled in his lungs, and made the breath that he dragged into them stutter and stop? 

He glanced at Minho, but his questions weren't answered. They're magnified, they're ten-fold. Minho's looking at him with a smile Jisung hadn't added to his collection yet. It's unsure. It looks like Minho is trying to convince himself of something, like his toes are curling around the ledge of a sky-rise, and Minho is working out whether to clutch at the ladder that would take him back down to street level or hold out his arms and let the wind do the hard work for him.

Jisung hates heights. He knows Minho does, too, from that night as Minho's house where Jisung got stoned for the first time and found himself passed out on Minho's couch with a cat purring on his chest and Minho's legs stretched out by his head, top and tail. 

Falling asleep had felt nice, but then he'd woken up alone. 

"Didn't you want to be Sungie?" Minho had said.

The question had dug itself into the slotted space between his ribs. Jisung had blinked a few times, racing through the conversation in his head about the metaphorical knife and Minho's empty living room and the top of a tall building. But then he'd swallowed, tucked all those thoughts into the pit of his stomach. 

"Didn't you not want to be here?" Jisung had quipped back.

Jisung was just confused. Minho was stoned, and probably just wanted to fool around a little bit. He was nicer when he was stoned, sure, but he wasn't romantic. He was friendly, but still not bound by feelings. Jisung tried not to be, either. 

"Guess not," eased Minho with a smile. "Maybe I just didn't want to be in that dumb café." 

Jisung laughed, eyes flicking to catch how Minho laughed with him. "You're right," the younger admitted. "Felix always makes me go there. Says it's pretty."

"Pretty pretentious," Minho scoffed. 

Jisung nodded, agreed. Felix was always like that. Not pretentious, Minho was just quick to judge, but Felix liked things that made other people smile. Pretty drinks, good food, late night walks to convenience stores that are almost too far away and that small spot on the nape of your neck which skin and hair fight for- 

Jisung must be stoned, too. He's thinking about Felix, but he's also thinking about Minho. If Minho could be soft. If he could trace his fingers down to the knot at the top of his spine and bring shivers up it like Felix used to. If poor hands felt as good as rich ones. 

"Still thinking about Felix?" Minho prompted, and his eyes were cutting into Jisung, splitting his brain in half. Reading his thoughts. Jisung hoped he wasn't perceptive enough to realise Jisung wasn't thinking about Felix, not anymore, just Minho, and whether the callouses on his fingers might feel different on his skin. 

"I thought we said we wouldn't talk about Felix," Jisung answered gruffly. His feet, all of a sudden, were much more interesting that meeting Minho's eye.