ONE SHOTS🍒| STRAY KIDS

49. Ashes on the Counter

Ship: MinSung
Top: Minho
Bottom: Jisung
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Lee Minho didn't used to smell like smoke. Jisung remembers this like a fact that can't be argued, like gravity, like the way Minho used to wrinkle his nose at people who reeked of cigarettes.

Now the smell clings to him. Not all the time, but often enough that it creeps into Jisung's hoodie when Minho borrows it. Often enough that Jisung finds himself folding laundry and stopping mid-fold, pressing his face into the fabric, and feeling that familiar mix of anger and ache.

The first time, Jisung hadn't even noticed the lighter at first. It was just a random thing on the kitchen counter, like keys, like coins. He thought it belonged to Chan, or maybe a stray one left by their manager.

Then one night, Jisung walked onto the balcony and found Minho leaning against the railing, cigarette glowing faintly like a quiet confession.

"You smoke now?" Jisung had asked, trying to sound casual. He wasn't.

Minho didn't even flinch. He just exhaled, smoke curling like secrets between them. "Sometimes," he said.

"Sometimes," Jisung echoed. The word tasted bitter.
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Addiction doesn't always crash into you.

Sometimes, it slides in quietly, like a song you can't get out of your head. Jisung watched it happen, noticed how Minho's hands shook less when he had something to light, how his patience burned shorter on days he didn't smoke.

They started arguing more. About small things. About nothing.

"You're going to kill your lungs," Jisung muttered once, tossing an empty pack in the trash.

"Funny," Minho said, voice sharp, "coming from someone who can't go a day without two energy drinks and a panic attack."

It wasn't fair. It wasn't supposed to hurt that much. But it did.

Jisung stood there, the words cutting deeper than they should have, like a shard of glass lodged under his ribs.

He didn't even know why it hurt so much, maybe because Minho never said things like that. Minho teased, Minho scolded, but Minho didn't aim to hurt. Not like this.

"You know what?" Jisung said finally, his voice quieter than he meant. "Screw you, Minho."

Minho blinked, as if he'd just realized what came out of his mouth, but he didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't know how. Maybe he was too proud. Or maybe the nicotine was doing the talking for him.

Jisung's throat felt tight as he grabbed his jacket from the chair. "I'm not- I can't do this right now," he muttered, pulling his hood over his head.

"Ji, wait-" Minho started, but Jisung was already halfway out the door.
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The hallway was cold, but Jisung didn't care. He kept walking, past the elevator, down the stairs, out into the night air. The sharp wind bit at his cheeks, but at least it didn't smell like smoke.

He sat on the curb outside their building, fingers trembling, not from the cold, but from everything he'd swallowed down the past few weeks. He didn't want to cry, but the sting in his eyes warned him he might anyway.

Why did Minho have to say that? He'd been trying to help. He wasn't perfect, sure, he drank too many energy drinks and barely slept, but he wasn't killing himself for the sake of some ash and flame.

And yet, Minho had thrown that back at him like a weapon.
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Inside, Minho stayed frozen in the kitchen, the silence pressing against his ears like a punishment. He could still see the way Jisung's face had fallen, that flicker of hurt he hadn't meant to cause.