nightfall || minsung

Chapter 7

Even if you think you're scary and dangerous, I don't believe that you're evil.

Staring at the car's fuzzy ceiling, I toyed with a succession of notes in my head. A melody came next. Something new. My hands automatically reached out to touch the piano keys — and dropped back to the seat. I closed my eyes and imagined I was at home.

Dum dum dum, dumdumdumdum. Ba dumm. Dum dum.

I could hear it already. I was happy I still had it in me — I hadn't written anything in over a month, too preoccupied with... stuff. Though it was barely a verse, it sounded like the kind that Chan thought too "dramatic and depressing." Those were always my favourites.

Suddenly there was a voice in my head, closer than the rest.

Oh God, is he gonna pass out again? It was Mike. What the hell do I do!

My eyes zeroed in on a stretch of sidewalk fifteen yards away. Mike was helping Minho down onto the curb. Minho curled up and palmed his own forehead. He looked kind of green, tipsy — he kept pitching to the side.

I scrambled out of the car, dropped awkwardly to the gravel, and sprang to my feet. I hurtled toward him, slowed to human speed, and called his name. He looked up and saw me, mouth falling open.

I dropped onto my knees, level with him, but kept a safe distance. "Are you okay?" I felt like I was shouting. My hands shook as I held them up, palms out.

"I'm fine." He did the same thing with his hands, like he was my reflection in a mirror.

Mike kneeled so he was a part of the conversation. "He fainted."

I didn't turn to him, keeping my eyes on Minho. "What happened to your forehead?"

"It hit the desk," Mike answered again.

"I wasn't talking to you." My voice was acid, eyes boring into his. I didn't mean for my lips to curl back.

He flinched, lost his balance, and fell back onto his butt. Jesus Christ, freak!

I looked back to Minho, controlling my expression. He was squinting at me like I was a nun who had slapped a clown — confused and slightly entertained — but didn't seem afraid.

"Can I take you to the nurse?" I asked.

"I'm supposed to do it," Mike said.

I gave him a Look, and his pallid hands shot up to protect himself.

Minho was hugging his legs, tired of Idiot Mike and me snapping at each other.

"Can I pick you up?" I asked Minho. He looked up at me, eyes wide, and nodded.

I lifted him off the ground, one arm behind his back, the other under his knees — away from my body. This was the closest we'd ever been, I was so aware of it, aware of myself, him, the space between us.

Minho was silent for a second, and then hooked one arm around my neck. My stomach cartwheeled excitedly and anxiously and fearfully and happily, but I stared straight forward. His eyes wandered over my face — not even trying to hide it. I pretended not to notice.

Then he reached out and touched my cheek with five gentle fingertips.

My eyes switched to him.

He sucked his lips into his mouth and mumbled, "Sorry."

I spoke quickly to distract myself from how much I resented my entire life. "So you pass out at the sight of blood?"

He made a 'pfft' sound. "Bold of you to assume I needed more than a poker to my finger to make me faint."