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“Get the fuck out of my house!”
Minho heard the voice, loud and slurred, roar from his neighbor’s house. He stopped dead in his tracks in the cold night, still holding his binder close to his chest. Glancing towards the commotion, he could only watch as the front door was forced open with a little too much force, a small figure being forced onto the cold concrete.
“You stupid, fucking ■■■■■■!”
The wooden door was slammed shut. From the shadows of his neighbor’s porch, Minho could see the young boy stumble off the porch. To his chest, he clutched a worn-down backpack, and a guitar case hung from his back.
The boy stumbled down the pavement, grumbling to himself, walking right in front of Minho.
A sight too familiar to him.
“Is he drunk again?” Minho asked.
The boy froze in his path of fury and turned on his heels; the weight of the glare was felt even in the dark night. “Fuck you too, Minho,” he sneered. “How the fuck are you always around? Huh, watching me struggle and watching my life fall apart?”
The boy was quick to get in his face, his eyes wild. One of his cheekbones was already beginning to bruise into a deep purple, and his lip was split as a single bead of blood made its way down his chin.
Minho didn’t flinch at the violent venom dripping from Jisung’s words; instead, he wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into his embrace.
“Come on, Jisung, let’s get you inside,” he coaxed.
