Say my Name -Minsung-

11: I'll show you

*4,511 words

Give him space. That's what Minho told himself. People run for a reason. Give him some space.

Turns out, giving space was shit, especially since all Minho could do was blame himself for Jisung's hasty retreat, the tears escaping down his cheeks. He had to have done something to upset him, and it was eating him alive.

Minho waited the entire weekend with held breath and fidgeting hands. He and Jisung were both drunk, they tangled together suddenly and intensely, it was all a bit of a mistake. But mistake or not, something was terribly wrong if Han Jisung was spooked by that.

 On Monday, Jisung never showed up to practice. It burned Minho's tongue and soured his mood. Tuesday was the same- no Jisung. Guilt began pricking Minho's spine.

Wednesday, the day before a game, still no sign of Jisung. Seungmin and the coaches asked if they knew where he was. He didn't know. He didn't even know where Jisung lived.

Has something happened? Is he hurt, is he sick? Did he take off and leave like he did at the end of high school?

Minho always stayed at the field late, showering for long periods of time when he was stressed after a bad game or a tough practice, but now he was staying late worrying and cursing himself and worrying.

All he could see was Jisung's smile, his tears.

Jisung's smile, Jisung's tears, Jisung's smile, Jisung's tears.

"Fuck!" Pain flashed white in Minho's vision, red in his hand, as he struck the shower wall, cracking the tiles below the knob. He braced his other hand on the wall and let his head hang under the running water, closing his eyes and letting himself breathe for a moment, to calm down and to stop thinking so damn much.

He shut off the water and shook his hair roughly, wishing he could pull it out of his skull. Then he went still, listening to the echo of the draining water below his feet, listening to his staggered breathing.

What did I do wrong?

The question had been plaguing him since Jisung rushed away from the car.

Minho glanced at his hands, one cut up, both jittery and unsteady. Sitting down was the last thing on his mind. Nerves flitted and frayed his veins. Like a cooped up hound dog inches from a field of birds, his body was brimming with nervous energy.

Instead of getting dressed to go home, Minho threw on his joggers, a pair of shoes, and nothing more before grabbing his glove and heading back out to the field. It was dark, of course, all the lights had been shut off at the end of practice, but Minho didn't care. He grew up playing in dark, empty fields, having fun or working his tail off to make whatever teams he strived for throughout his life.

In fact, the dark field was comforting, it helped loosen Minho's shoulders as he threw pitch after pitch, ran the field to push himself to be faster, and practiced hits with the baseball machine. He relished in the burn searing his muscles, the feeling of his lungs straining and his heart pumping.

Finally, after over an hour of working himself tired, Minho dropped back against the fence, closing his eyes as he caught his breath and pushed his -now sweaty- hair out of his face. He felt stupid for letting a single person throw his life into imbalance. It was one little thing, and yet he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Did he really care for Jisung that much?

Minho chugged some water and splashed the rest on his face, shivering slightly as the extra water ran down his bare chest. He probably should have put a shirt on, but he'd been eager to douse the uncomfortable fire in his lungs. He sat up and tossed the water bottle into the garbage can near the benches, rolled out his neck, and scanned the ground for wherever he left his glove.