Minsung Oneshots

Cigarette stubs in the moonlight

Jisung always thought he’d be terrified if someone just. . . left one day. No goodbye. No heads up. Just. . . gone. A quiet, melancholy, regretful emptiness, creeping in, in its place instead.

He often thought of what he would do in those situations, in the quiet hours of the night. He wondered if he’d be the one crying, or the one standing shell shocked with regret, or the one running after sandy footprints already washed away, too late, too desperate.

Jisung never realised he wouldn't actually ever be facing that. Because, people don’t leave like that. Not the ones who truly dont want to, at least. They stick around as hard as they can, as pieces of them slowly break off, slowly fade away, slowly get forgotten, amidst too long laughter and fingers shaking beneath sweater paws, until suddenly. . . poof.

No goodbye. No heads up. Just. . . gone.

Jisung realised this the night he caught Minho smoking.

It wasn't sudden. Jisung had been noticing little irregularities for a few weeks now. The overly strong smell of perfume on his clothes, the way he’d go up to the terrace a little too often, the way he always made sure to stand a little way off from the other members.

Jisung couldn't figure out how to say anything about this. He looked around for clues in the other members’ faces, any fleeting signs of worry to show that he wasn't the only one being paranoid. He saw nothing. Nowhere.

But the worst part was, he didn’t see anything in Minho either. Ever a shut, wooden door, Minho continued to smile easily, cook happily, talk animatedly. If there was anything wrong with having the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes, Lee Minho’s eyes gave nothing away.

It was two am at night, maybe. Jisung had been cooped up in the studio for a few hours now. His neck had cramped up, legs falling asleep, and he longed to go out, but knew that if he didn't finalise the beat, he wouldn't be able to give his ownself a good night’s sleep. So instead, he decided to take a break.

Looking back, Jisung didn’t think the path he had taken that night through the winding corridors of the building, was anything aimless. At least, he was thankful that it wasn’t.

The door of the dance practice room was slightly ajar, a soft breeze blowing through it. Curious as to why the room wasn’t locked tonight, Jisung nudged the door open with his foot a little more. A tiny, flickering, sliver of light lengthened, and in the inky, unlit, darkness of the studio, a blurry figure stood a way off, silhouetted against the faintness of the shadowed balcony.

Jisung stepped in, heart hollow. He knew who it was. He couldn’t mistake that build, that hoodie, that hair, for anyone else. He just wished, for the first time in his life, that it wasn't him.

Jisung came up to lean against the low railing of the balcony, silently, next to Minho. The older didn't seem to have noticed his presence, but the way the hand holding that tiny, pulsing, cigarette stub, had faltered, showed Jisung more than he had bargained to know.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Jisung asked. His voice sounded obscenely loud, raw, in the still night air.

Minho didn’t look at him. “Don't tell on me to Chan.” His voice was little more than a broken whisper, hoarse and soft. “He'll beat himself up, probably.”

Jisung didn’t say anything. He continued to gaze at Minho, observing the sharp, shadowed lines of his face, the curve of his throat, and, lower still, the guilty tremble of his fingers.

Without thinking, Jisng extended his hand, cautious and soft, as if he was taming a wild bird, careful that one move, would scare it off. The pads of his fingers brushed Minho’s knuckles, calloused and rough, light, and hesitant, as a feather.