petrichor
part i
Eunsook is a strange individual, the nicest Minho's ever met.
Daegu is a fine place by day. It has street stalls and food courts and high schools. Karaoke and cafes with wifi, children running on the pavement, cars honking in the streets. It's big, and it has its share of robbers and other crooks, but it's fairly alright. Nothing dangerous.
But by night, it transforms. Every city, every town transforms at night, to be sure, but we're talking about Daegu, so it's Daegu we'll stick to. Like other cities, Daegu has its red light areas. It has sloppy slums where the experienced, the world-weary and the young adventurers traipse. If one didn't have careful parents, one ended up there at least once during high school. But always only at night.
Why do all the exciting, shameful things happen at night? Perhaps because the mind is tired, tired of society and civilization, its wall crumbling since waking, finally giving into its emotional counterpart, the heart. Or perhaps it's the moon, said to bring out the crazed, inner reaches of our souls to the surface. You might argue that the moon is not present on all nights, but it is. We just can't see it.
Like Choi Minho can't quite see the harm in or the consequences of slipping out the door of his posh, two-storied home and stealing away. Kibum had told him which way to go, and Minho remembered dutifully. Halfway there, stopping when the traffic lights blinked from red to green and the cars began to whisper past at half an hour to one in the morning, Minho analyzed his circumstances with a little consternation. First timers tend to do that. But he shook his head to no one in particular as he reminded himself that Kibum was his best friend, someone on whose advice he could rely on. He then proceeded to confidently stride across the street, forgetting about the traffic light and oncoming cars. First timers tend to do that, too.
The traffic to his left screeched, drivers irritated at this unusual disturbance to their nightly routine. One barely ever has to pull over for a person walking across the road after midnight, so their annoyance is somewhat understandable.
Choi Minho made it to the other pavement in one piece, oblivious to the world and very fearfully excited about his destination. His legs scissored over the ground mechanically; inside his head, the doubts ran on.
"Perhaps I shouldn't," he whispered to the flickering lamp in front of him. It served as a signpost where there was no sign. From here on, it declared, that from that spot things weren't quite the same. Minho saw it in the wake of its light - the houses got steadily shorter and slimier down the rest of the street, almost all the windows lit from the inside. Everyone was awake.
But it's exciting, something new, a thing whispered.
What will Kibum say? another thing simpered.
Minho frowned, "Kibum's a pansy."
A pansy that made it farther than this lamp, it seems.
So Minho growled at himself and stepped resolutely forward - only to lose his balance and almost fall. There was a steep decline in the road he hadn't noticed.
As he moved onwards and looked around, a feeling, a sense, washed over his skin. He felt doused over in - in - something, something that somehow made his vision sharper and his lips quirk up with confidence he wasn't sure he had.
There was danger here, danger in the night, in the cloak that spread overhead, glittering with stars. Danger in the smoke that unfurled from those on the pavement, in the glances and stares and laughter of the girls in shimmering black, in the rutted pavement and cracked road.
Minho loved danger. It set little licking flames across his mind, a delicious feeling lapping over his conscience, droplets of fear mixed stark defiance.
Let's see if I can look like everyone else, he grinned to himself.
Then he spotted two men sitting in the middle of the road. One lifted his fist, sent the other one sprawling. They were completely silent, and the sound of knuckles cracking against the other's teeth set Minho's stomach reeling.
Keep going, he told himself, gritting his teeth. He could run, but that would make him seem like a coward, so he didn't. One step, and another, counting the alleys, studying the people, trying not to think.
"Hello," someone whispered, and he froze. There was a light laugh that seemed to trickle down his ears and clog into his ribs. "Frightened?"
"Leave him, Tia." Another voice butted in, bossy. Why weren't there any lights, suddenly?
"But Soojung - " Dammit, he couldn't see anything, couldn't see them.
"We don't take boys like him." Take boys like him. Take.
Minho started walking.
Five alleys down, go to the left. There's only one house. Sweat broke over his forehead and he sighed, trying to quell the confusion rising in his mind. He could be asleep right now. But he had been counting until that Tia had scared him - no, no, intimidated - and now he was lost. Rooted to the spot, he watched a man leave from the alley directly ahead. He seemed slightly shaky as he pushed an arm through his jacket sleeve, but Minho decided to risk asking him anyway.
"Excuse me, which alley is this?"
The man drew himself up, squinting a little up his nose at him. When the streetlamp blinked back on and light fell over his face, Minho belatedly realized he was probably only a year or two older than him. "You're tall," the other boy mused. Minho shoved his hands into his pockets, uneasy. "But you're a minor." Minho scowled. "Yeah, definitely a minor."
"Hmm," he went on. "What was your question again?"
"Is this the fifth alley?" Minho hunched his shoulder against a sudden breeze. This stranger was probably as drunk as he was short.
"Oho!" Drunk. "Hohum," he added thoughtfully. Then he walked away.
A minute passed by, until Minho coughed to no one in particular, walked into the next alley, and knocked on the door.
There was a slight rustling inside, and then silence. It felt like shocked silence, as if perhaps knocking wasn't a normal thing to do in the whereabouts he was in.
"Did someone knock?" a girl's voice called out.
"Yes." Minho's eyes went wide in apprehension as he heard soft footsteps towards the door. He strained his ears but no bolt slid back, no key turned in a lock. He saw the handle simply turn, and the door was open.
"Did you really just knock?" she laughed, a little incredulous.
Minho nodded, dumbly. They stood there for a moment, Minho opening his mouth with no words coming out.
"Do you want to come in?"
Minho wanted to laugh like she had, amused and disbelieving. Here was a pretty girl with long hair and a sweet smile, asking him in. It was a bit too domestic considering what he'd experienced in the past half hour.
"Are you real?" he whispered, and watched, fascinated, as plush lips curved upwards at the ends and inwards at the middle.
"I'm breathing. Does that make me real enough?" she stepped back, and he stepped in, looking around.
She closed the door, waited.
"It's so... so..." he was at a loss for words, and she hid her smile behind her hand.
"Normal?"
"Unexpectedly so."
"Well," she strolled over to the kitchen and picked two glasses from a cabinet over the sink. "What did you expect?"
Not knowing what else to do, he followed her and stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets. "Uh, I dunno. I just thought you'd plaster stuff from your profession over the walls."
She stared at him as she poured apple cider into the glasses, a smile of amazement bordering on disbelief on her face. "You really think putting cum all over my walls is a good idea?"
Minho choked. "No! I honestly didn't - didn't - " he was so shocked he didn't know what else to say.
Once again, she prodded him on. "Didn't expect me to say that?"
He nodded, eager. "Yeah! You know? I meant like, uh," and then he mumbled something that made her grin. "What was that?"
"I said, like whips and things." It was an embarrassing situation, considering.
She walked up to him and handed over his glass. Staring at the floor, he could hear the smirk in her voice. "I see."
"You're judging me," he frowned, slightly annoyed as she swept past him and settled down on a couch below the window.
"Not really. I don't mind whips."
Minho's grip on his glass wavered, and it slipped a centimeter before he caught the bottom with his other hand. "Did you just say that?"
She folded her legs and took a ladylike sip. "I did."
"So..." Minho turned his head back a little, blinking continuously. "You can actually get turned on?"
She smiled again, and she looked slightly sad. "Well, of course. I'm only human."
He sat down on the floor, facing her. "What's it like?"
"Whips?" she pursed her lips and laced her hands together.
She wasn't dumb, he could tell. She was evading him on purpose. "Yeah, whips."
Silence for a beat - "It's inexplicable. You have to experience it to really understand." She dragged her nails down her shoulder to emphasise, somehow. It left scraggly pink lines across her pale skin.
"So this means you're flirting with me?" Minho tried being nonplussed, but the contrast of colors on her arm now was... intriguing.
"Am I?" she succeeded at the nonplussed bit. Then again, she'd said it in the first place.
"I'm asking you."
"I'm just conversing normally with a tall boy." Shrugging isn't something that's supposed to be graceful but she pulled it off.
"And I'm going to graduate high school next year," Minho informed her, severely.
"Well then, an old minor," she amended, setting her glass on the side table.
"Hmph."
She looked at him, eyes crinkling up in amusement. "Did you come here for small talk?"
Minho choked on his drink. "I'm not a pussy," he spluttered.
"Well, I didn't doubt your masculinity," she said plaintively. "It's just that I have one and you've not glanced once towards the general area."
He looked at her, blankly. "Well, it isn't really manners, it's rude to stare."
She looked genuinely surprised. "Rude doesn't exist here, unless you stab me in the back or insult my girlfriend."
"You have a girlfriend?" Minho was quite sure he should shut up: he was asking too many questions and soon she'd just kick him out.
"Damn straight."
"Is she pretty?"
"She's the most beautiful girl in the world," and he gazed at her first, genuinely happy smile so far; it was contagious and bubbly and wide, making him forget where he was for a second. Then it turned placid again.
"I think you should take your coat off," she switched the subject, abruptly, then snorted as Minho shook his head nervously. She stood up so he was face to face with her knees. "What're you doing, exactly?" he leaned back on his elbows, refusing to get up when she nudged him with her toe. She didn't answer, just lifted her hands and - oh.
"I, wow," Minho hadn't felt this breathless since he could think. No, since he could remember, not think, that was absurd, this was absurd, things like this didn't happen to him and he was pretty sure his facial expression was absurd, too.
She wriggled her shoulders slightly in the sudden cold. His eyes went straight to those marks she'd made from earlier, and they'd faded out to a light, delicate pink. She looked down at him and giggled. "You look like a fish."
"Can I..." he didn't even register that he'd been insulted.
She rolled her eyes as she bent down and grabbed his hand. "Yes," she grunted as she pulled him to his feet. "You can touch. But first," she swatted his free hand, "We move to the bed."
"Okay," Minho smiled absently, staring at the mole above her elbow as she dragged his willing self to another room.
He continued staring as she let go of his wrist (he pouted), stood on the bed, and walked to one end, sitting down. "You're free to join me," she spoke, helpfully, and Minho started before sitting down on the edge.
"Do I stink?" he made a face as the girl wrinkled her nose. She gave a scream of laughter and buried her face in the pillow on her lip. He grinned, pleased. "You should really take your clothes off, you know," she gasped finally. This wasn't going the way he'd planned. Not that he'd had a plan in the first place. He sighed as his stomach gave a slight lurch. He shook his head again.
"Well, you want to talk, then?" She stretched her legs forward, and it took all the hours' worth of lectures on gentlemanly behavior Minho had received from his father and uncles and schoolteachers not to focus on how her thighs looked delicious, clad in small white shorts and pay attention to what she'd just said. Strange, how he wanted to such a lot of things and yet felt like throwing up with nerves.
"Uh, sure. What's your name?"
"Lee Eunsook."
"Choi Minho."
"Very manly," she commented, and he grinned quietly. "How old are you?" she asked, in her turn.
"You first," Minho dodged the pillow she threw at him.
"Fine fine!" she squealed as he pinched the skin right above her ankle. "I'm eighteen, eighteen, stop it!"
"No wonder you aren't professional."
"Excuse me?" Eunsook's eyes flashed as she crouched, catlike, on all fours, shifting towards him until her nose brushed against his cheek.
Nobody was supposed to be that fast - it happened it in a second, in an hour and Minho tilted his head back a little, breathing shaky as he gulped and took in how her legs curved up and then inwards at the waist, how her shoulder blades stood up against the skin sharply when she rested her weight completely on her arms (her lips shadowed over his jaw) and how pale her skin - he didn't know how his self-restraint snapped, just that one second it was there and the next he reached out a hand and trailed a finger, fascinated, up her spine.
"You're not allowed," he heard a small growl in his ear, and his arm froze, body suddenly aching all over.
"Tame," she laughed lightly, nibbling his ears as her hands came up to his shoulders and pushed him down, held him against slightly rough sheets, as she rose her head and looked at him through half-lidded, mischievous eyes. He heard his blood pounding like a drum through his head, felt it throbbing down his stomach, making his fingers go numb and oversensitive at once.
"Not professional my ass," she sat up from his waist, evaporating the adrenaline she'd formed in his veins, and snickered at his shock.
"Well," he croaked, a minute later, throat dry from anticlimax. "You have a very nice ass."
"Thank you!" she grinned. "I have been told."
"I suppose you're not really going to get off me," Minho sighed.
"I would, just to prove you wrong, but you have this really exquisite pelvis," she shook her head. "No way am I getting off."
"Okay."
Minho sighed again and decided to look at her properly. The fingers scraping lazily at his shirt lead up to hands and arms that sculpted upwards into slightly broad, graceful shoulders which met at a long, slender neck. She had a pretty jaw, sharp and small, with cheeks that had seen chubbier days and a high nose. Her eyes were almond-shaped and clear: honest, sparkling brown on pearly white, and eyebrows that brushed upwards, wild and a tad thick. Her lips were sinful. They were the first thing he'd noticed and what he kept glancing at every half minute. They made him think of plush velvet and honey and how very very nice they would feel just about anywhere. Her hair were long, 'til her waist, silky black and shimmering in the light, straight, brushed.
"Choi Minho," she said, quietly, looking up at the clock on the opposite wall.
"Yes?"
"Oh, nothing, just testing your name."
"So, how old are you?" she smiled, wriggling a little to get comfortable. Minho decided that although there might not be that much R-rated happening, it was still better than the porn CD's his father had stashed, forgotten, between folded jeans up in the attic at home.
He started when Eunsook snapped her fingers in front of his face. "I asked you a question but you insisted on staring at my crotch," she frowned.
"Well, erm, sixteen." She looked mildly surprised.
"You're really tall for sixteen."
"Hmm," he nodded, used to people saying that.
"I guess you get it from your dad... what does he do?"
Minho frowned, irritated. "Not be at home." She cocked her head to the side, her sheet of hair falling to the side and pooling over his hand. They felt so soft.
"You want to tell me about your mom?"
"Raving lunatic," he shifted slightly, surprised at how easy it was to move even though she was sitting on him.
"There must be to her than just that, silly," she tapped on his stomach with her index finger.
"She hasn't deigned to show me." He knew his answers were short, and, well, disrespectful towards his parents - and her, too - but he didn't really care. He'd wanted to get away from all of that, not talk about it. The familiar feeling of bubbling heat rising up in his skull was starting again, the heat that stung his eyes and made them cry, and he couldn't cry in front of a strange girl he intended on having sex with, that would be terrifying.
"Have you ever done it before?" she changed the topic.
He made a face.
"So you're just going to randomly give up your virginity to someone you don't know at all?" she looked quite shocked, now.
He nodded, making sure he wore a bored expression.
"Minho, I'm a prostitute and I didn't do that. My first time was with Gwiboon."
The bubbles kept getting bigger and bigger. "That's nice."
"You're about to cry," she noted. And damn it, she was right. He put his hands up over his face to hide, but she took a hold of them and pulled them away.
"Don't look at me," he stared sullenly the ceiling, forcing the tears hazing over his vision back in.
"I'm going to look at you all I want," and she leaned down to kiss his nose.
"Ew!"
She laughed. "You're such a kid."
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because you're cute, and sad, and I like trying to help cheer sad people up."
"I'm not sad," Minho mulled, slowly. "I just haven't felt like I've lived in a long, long while." Eunsook looked at him, seriously. "Go on," she whispered after a moment, slid off and turned around to lie down beside him.
Talking. He didn't really like talking, but if he talked, the weird heat behind his eyes dulled, painful cracks inside inched together, slightly.
"I'm on the soccer team in school," he started. It seemed like a pretty dumb thing to start with, but things somehow managed to unfold. It took him two hours, maybe three hours, and both their eyelids began to weigh down heavily halfway through, his voice going lower and his words slurring a little with sleep, but she sat up and poked him whenever he stopped.
It was haphazard, the way he put things, like the thoughts in his head, worries, causes, events, poisonous whispers that went on inside, on the outside, missiles that sailed through the highway in his life, grades, time, career options, cigarettes, blades under his pillow, but most of all how there was nobody, nobody. Nothing. He was sure she wasn't getting any of it, but she actually asked questions and reminded him names when he forgot.
He felt scared, really. Almost crying in front of her made her kiss his nose, but telling her about his whole life made her silent.
"Do you hate me?" he interrupted himself.
She rose her brows. "Not at all."
Minho sat up, stared. "And you're not joking?"
She sat up, too. "Why would I be?"
"Well, it's just... isn't this kind of pathetic?"
She blinked, and smiled, lost. "Isn't what?"
"Well, this," Minho flapped his arms around vaguely, annoyed at her sudden slowness.
"Oh, you mean you?"
His shoulders slumped. "Yeah."
She looked at him with that amused smile again, only this time it was softer, more kind. "Give me a couple reasons why you think are."
Minho had a list of things in mind, a long list that had grown over the years of being surrounded (alone) in a crowd, of being the best sportsman in every grade (and seeing everyone's blatant jealousy), of coming home to a quiet house (and finding another vase broken and scratches against the wall); of letters from his father (whose face he'd barely remember if it weren't for the photos that his mother never smashed), telling him to study harder and take care of his mother (letters that never told him how his father was proud of what a good job he was doing of school and 'friends' and just life in general, considering) - of boys beating him up every day of the week, every year since third grade. "Not much use to us are you, now?" they'd leer, "Daddy can't report, you don't got pocket money to give us, nobody cares."
Nobody cared, he was told, so Minho went out of his way to please Nobody. Nobody, though, was a hard person to please. Nobody was never there in plain sight. Nobody liked to make Minho think he's present among all the other people when he really wasn't, leaving Minho alone, alone, alone. Nobody was a blackhole, an absence, a dark shadow of addiction that made Minho cough out swirling clouds at twelve and bleed, drip drop drip, on the cold white bathroom floor at Kibum's, at fourteen.
"You know if it weren't for Kibum, I'd be gone."
"He sounds really nice."
"He's a bitch," Minho gave a slight chuckle, "He's a good guy."
Eunsook patted his hand, and he heaved a huge sigh. "You can't not hate someone who's given up," he finished, voice tired with use. "I gave up. I tied myself to that fan," his hand rose up to point at the empty ceiling, eyes not really seeing, "And I kicked the chair. The fan broke." He laughed, and he wasn't sure if it was bitter or relieved, the fact that he didn't know what he felt - that he realized that he didn't know what he felt - it scared him.
"Hi," he whispered, tremulously, as he grabbed Eunsook's hand and squeezed his eyes shut, tears trying to force their way out from sheer exhaustion.
“Hey hey,” she whispered back and liften their hands in the air, waving her arm aimlessly around.
He sniffed loudly, and the tears gave up, tired too.
“You know how you spoke for a century,” she murmured, and he nodded, not that she could see; she'd turned the lights off a little while after he'd started talking. “Well,” he could tell she was making a face, carefully thinking over what to say next. “You know, you can just join the club and not like me, too,” he joked, voice thankfully level (but God, was he feeling shaky).
“You do this often? Push people away?” she asked, and the tinge of annoyance in her voice made him shrink back. He'd have taken his hand off her wrist, but she grabbed it and placed it on her neck when he tried. He stayed silent.
“It's a dumb thing to do, you know. Like, all of this, the stuff you've been through, how you handle it? I mean sure, it's kind of self-damaging,” she added, and bobbed her neck a little against the inside of his wrist (his scars), “But it's self-damaging. You don't go yell at bystanders and burn houses down. You're not evil, not a monster, Minho. You need some reprieve, some punishment, that's what you feel like, right?”
He tried taking his hand away again, and again she forced it down on her neck. Only when he heard her choking slightly did he stop. “All I'm saying,” she rasped, before coughing, “Is that I do not hate you, and I don't see why you hate yourself. You're selfless. Can't you see?
“There's a thousand ways you could have gone wrong, but you didn't. There's another thousand things ways you could have done worse but you didn't. And, sure, you've done some stuff that wouldn't be considered okay - do you go around using that to gain attention? No, you do not - ”
“ - Isn't that what I just did?”
“I'm not giving you attention, I'm telling you the truth. Do stop interrupting,” she snapped, exasperated, and softened immediately. “I'm sorry,” she lowered her voice and held his hand with both of hers.
“No, no, it's alright,” he chuckled, and wondered at how he really meant it was okay, that he didn't just say it because that was what should have been said. But Eunsook meant what she'd said, too. Funny, how she was pretty much the only honest person (apart from Kibum, who didn't speak on these matters anymore) he'd met so far. Sixteen years' far.
“Well, what I'm trying to say is, I think that all this has really made you really - really - “
“Twisted?”
“Beautiful.”
He blinked.
“It's made you a... man, if I may say so myself. Not much of a woman yet to evaluate properly,” she added, with a nervous laugh, “But yeah, you know?” And she lapsed into embarrassed silence.
“You really mean that?” he asked, and his voice came out like a rusty harmonica, notes haywire, and they both giggled.
“Yes.” Her face was turned the other way, but he could hear the smile in her voice.
“Hey, you know something?” he started three minutes later, as he held her hand and traced nonsensical shapes in the air.
“Hmm?”
“We still have to. You know.”
She groaned. “But it's four in the morning!”
He nodded, sighing, partly disappointed, partly relieved. “Well, I should get going then,” he mused, and felt a sharp pinch at his neck that left him dizzy.
“No, you won't.” came an angry hiss in his ear as he was pushed back against the headboard.
“Sure,” he replied, amused.
She sat back on his thighs again, and he could make out that she was frowning slightly.
“Rule number one,” she lifted a finger, “Lose your pride.”
“Holy shit,” he gasped, mind reeling as she nipped at his pulse and breathed over his skin, softly.
“Number two,” she murmured between his clavicles, fingers dancing, popping open buttons, “You keep quiet.” A shudder wracked through his frame as she slipped his shirt off, and he realized why she'd been shivering so much the entire time.
“Cold?” she asked, fingers walking over his chest.
“Do something,” he frowned sulkily when she stopped.
“I think you should,” Eunsook nodded to herself, and slipped off.
Minho was not a featherweight. How he found himself flipped over as if he was didn't make sense. “Um,” he tried registering the image of Eunsook, already sweaty underneath him with her hair splayed out across the pillow, but his mind was too busy screaming.
“There now,” she smiled up at him, innocently. “Rule number three, keep moving.”
Obediently, he lowered his head close to hers - and stopped. Not scared, more than a little lost. “Um,” he said, again.
“Since you're almost there, I suggest you kiss me,” Eunsook closed her eyes expectantly.
So Minho did, and she let him, first. Let him touch her lips with his, let him nibble at her lower lip. When he caught it between his teeth and flicked his tongue over it, she rose up on her elbows, tilting her head and kissing back. Minho's eyes flew open in surprise, (both) sets of long lashes fluttered shut again as she climbed into his lap and wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Can I touch?” he mumbled into her mouth, and he felt her laughing into his. Hesitantly, he lifted her and pulled her closer, pressed his palms against her back, felt her fingers tugging into his hair.
When they pulled apart, exhaling heavily, he looked up at her and smiled slightly, looking for approval.
“You're making me unprofessional,” she complained, breathlessly.
He stayed quiet, enjoying the flush over her neck spreading onto her face, soft dawn light invading the room.
“Tell me rule number three,” Eunsook frowned at him.
“Oh, right,” he pushed her back down, getting bolder by the second.
Delicate pink tinted their skin, deepening to rosy shades as time passed, whispers and small laughs and slight gasps crossing back and forth under the covers, clasps clicking open and waistbands tugged impatiently down. Whispers grew louder as the light outside grew bright, as springs underneath begain to strain. Kisses peppered down her slender neck, fingers interlaced, unlaced, clung onto shoulders. Covers slid off as backs arched in unison, eyes turned glassy and vision smoked to white.
“I'm sorry,” Minho apologized later, as she shampoo'd his hair. “What for?” she grinned good naturedly, slicking his hair up and laughing silently by herself. “I broke rule number two a lot,” he looked embarrassed.
“It's alright, I made them up anyway,” she patted his head, foam shrr'ing softly.
“No, really, I'm sorry.” Eunsook lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, before going on tip-toe to wash his head, smiling at him slightly as he looked at her with lost, confused eyes. “It's going to be okay,” she whispered, and found herself knocked breathless against him, long arms wrapped around her and Minho's face in her hair, big shoulders shaking.
“I'm sorry,” he kept repeating, and she felt his throat tighten and untighten and tremble into silence against her forehead. “Hey, come on, let's sit down, okay?” she pulled her head back so her nose brushed under his chin. Her neck was going to break at the angle with all the pressure Minho was keeping her in, but he slid down against the wet wall and drew his knees up, splashing water around, blinking rapidly as his lips trembled. She sat down next to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
“You know, my first memory is reaching for a mug of orange juice. Mugs should generally be on tables and counters, right?”
“Or s-sinks.”
“Yeah, or sinks. But! This one was on the floor. And I was a glut since the day I was born, so - “ here she stopped and rubbed his shoulder as he hiccuped. “So?” he inched sideways, closer to her.
“So I went towards it, tottering like an old man. Another sad thing about me, though, is that I’m a klutz. I do not have grace.”
“Wrong!” Minho felt embarrassed at the amount of fervor he’d put into one word. He stole a blurry look at her, and she was biting her lip and blushing. Well.
“Um, so I fell over,” she concluded, lamely.
“Oh.” That was honestly no reason to start crying again (not that he’d stopped in the first place), but he really wanted her to have that orange juice, so he buried his face in his hands to hide. His shoulders gave him away, as usual.
When he felt her arms wiggling under his elbows to get around his waist, he started apologizing, “I’m sorry,” over and over again.
He didn’t know why he kept saying that, but there was - there was so much to apologize for, for not being a good son, for not fighting off bullies when he easily could, for not pulling himself together for Kibum, for crying in Eunsook’s house three times already, for failing French in fifth grade, for not having submitted the group project in Sociology class on time, for not being able to win County Championships the year before, for letting people down, for crumpling up the letters from his father without reading them, for standing outside his mother’s room, rooted to the floor in fear, hearing her scream and cry, not being able to do anything, for letting himself down, for existing, for - Eunsook was whispering something to him.
“…nothing to apologize for, do you understand? You’re beautiful, Minho. Alright? Amazing and brave and - “ she choked slightly as Minho clung onto her, scared of the rest of the world. He wanted to shrink, shrink, grow smaller, so he could fit properly and sit on her lap and have her long hair fall about them and he could just curl up and sleep and feel safe and protected -
“…listen, you’re a man, Minho. I know you’re a little boy, but you’re a man, too. Shh,” she patted his head, and he pressed his nose ferociously against her collarbones, little, raw, animal sounds tearing from his throat.
“It’s going to be okay,” she hummed, repeating the phrase softly into his hair like a song, and Minho closed his eyes as warm drops pattered onto his skin, and relaxed slowly, exhausted.
Eunsook sighed, quietly, as she closed the door behind him and turned around to survey the horribly rumpled sheets. With a weary shrug, she traipsed to the couch and fell on it, sleeping at once.
“Yah, Yunnie!”
The light had turned from light grey to bright yellow.
“Boooon,” Eunsook smiled sleepily, eyes still closed. “Give me a kiss!”
“Aigo,” Gwiboon chuckled as she sat on Eunsook's lap and leaned down to hug her and brush her mouth against the other's nose. “Now tell me, what's with the mess?”
Eunsook sat up and stretched. “I actually made friends this time. We stayed up 'til like five or something, okay, don't make me clean up this time.”
Gwiboon rolled her eyes, “Bet he was a lost puppy or something.”
“You're not one to talk, kitten.”
“Neither," Gwiboon preened, flexing her legs in the air, making Eunsook's breath catch, "Are you. You didn't charge him, did you?”
“Of course not!” Eunsook looked scandalized, shaking her head vaguely away from the skirt that was sliding lower up Gwiboon's waist.
“We're trying to make it through here, aein,” Gwiboon stopped everything and buried her head in her hands. “We have nobody to rely on and we need to get to college!”
“We work three jobs each for exactly this reason. We'll make it, Boon. A little niceness doesn't hurt, sometimes,” Eunsook rubbed her shoulders, and Gwiboon mumbled confused nothings as she leaned into the curve between Eunsook's neck and shoulder, sighing.
“I went there.”
Kibum didn't need explanation, his eyes bulged. Minho enjoyed the sight with satisfaction.
“And?”
Minho smiled, stayed quiet. (“Beautiful.”)
Kibum begged him constantly throughout the week, even dragged him to the ice cream stall near the bus stop and fed him ice cream, to know what had happened.
“She'f a really nife perfon, Kibuh,” Minho said, finally, through a mouth of strawberry scoops. “Nifest I'f effer het - boy this is cold.”
“Ice cream, pabo,” Kibum rolled his eyes, quickly wiping a little that dribbled down his lip. “Also,” he added, making an obnoxious face as he took another uncomfortably cold bite, “There goes the illusion that I was your best friend. You're the nicest person I've ever met, Kibum, he weeped as he bled onto the floor,” he dramatized with a pose, and Minho laughed himself silly.
“Kibum!”
a/n: petrichor is the smell of rain falling on dry ground
Eunsook is a strange individual, the nicest Minho's ever met.
Daegu is a fine place by day. It has street stalls and food courts and high schools. Karaoke and cafes with wifi, children running on the pavement, cars honking in the streets. It's big, and it has its share of robbers and other crooks, but it's fairly alright. Nothing dangerous.
But by night, it transforms. Every city, every town transforms at night, to be sure, but we're talking about Daegu, so it's Daegu we'll stick to. Like other cities, Daegu has its red light areas. It has sloppy slums where the experienced, the world-weary and the young adventurers traipse. If one didn't have careful parents, one ended up there at least once during high school. But always only at night.
Why do all the exciting, shameful things happen at night? Perhaps because the mind is tired, tired of society and civilization, its wall crumbling since waking, finally giving into its emotional counterpart, the heart. Or perhaps it's the moon, said to bring out the crazed, inner reaches of our souls to the surface. You might argue that the moon is not present on all nights, but it is. We just can't see it.
Like Choi Minho can't quite see the harm in or the consequences of slipping out the door of his posh, two-storied home and stealing away. Kibum had told him which way to go, and Minho remembered dutifully. Halfway there, stopping when the traffic lights blinked from red to green and the cars began to whisper past at half an hour to one in the morning, Minho analyzed his circumstances with a little consternation. First timers tend to do that. But he shook his head to no one in particular as he reminded himself that Kibum was his best friend, someone on whose advice he could rely on. He then proceeded to confidently stride across the street, forgetting about the traffic light and oncoming cars. First timers tend to do that, too.
The traffic to his left screeched, drivers irritated at this unusual disturbance to their nightly routine. One barely ever has to pull over for a person walking across the road after midnight, so their annoyance is somewhat understandable.
Choi Minho made it to the other pavement in one piece, oblivious to the world and very fearfully excited about his destination. His legs scissored over the ground mechanically; inside his head, the doubts ran on.
"Perhaps I shouldn't," he whispered to the flickering lamp in front of him. It served as a signpost where there was no sign. From here on, it declared, that from that spot things weren't quite the same. Minho saw it in the wake of its light - the houses got steadily shorter and slimier down the rest of the street, almost all the windows lit from the inside. Everyone was awake.
But it's exciting, something new, a thing whispered.
What will Kibum say? another thing simpered.
Minho frowned, "Kibum's a pansy."
A pansy that made it farther than this lamp, it seems.
So Minho growled at himself and stepped resolutely forward - only to lose his balance and almost fall. There was a steep decline in the road he hadn't noticed.
As he moved onwards and looked around, a feeling, a sense, washed over his skin. He felt doused over in - in - something, something that somehow made his vision sharper and his lips quirk up with confidence he wasn't sure he had.
There was danger here, danger in the night, in the cloak that spread overhead, glittering with stars. Danger in the smoke that unfurled from those on the pavement, in the glances and stares and laughter of the girls in shimmering black, in the rutted pavement and cracked road.
Minho loved danger. It set little licking flames across his mind, a delicious feeling lapping over his conscience, droplets of fear mixed stark defiance.
Let's see if I can look like everyone else, he grinned to himself.
Then he spotted two men sitting in the middle of the road. One lifted his fist, sent the other one sprawling. They were completely silent, and the sound of knuckles cracking against the other's teeth set Minho's stomach reeling.
Keep going, he told himself, gritting his teeth. He could run, but that would make him seem like a coward, so he didn't. One step, and another, counting the alleys, studying the people, trying not to think.
"Hello," someone whispered, and he froze. There was a light laugh that seemed to trickle down his ears and clog into his ribs. "Frightened?"
"Leave him, Tia." Another voice butted in, bossy. Why weren't there any lights, suddenly?
"But Soojung - " Dammit, he couldn't see anything, couldn't see them.
"We don't take boys like him." Take boys like him. Take.
Minho started walking.
Five alleys down, go to the left. There's only one house. Sweat broke over his forehead and he sighed, trying to quell the confusion rising in his mind. He could be asleep right now. But he had been counting until that Tia had scared him - no, no, intimidated - and now he was lost. Rooted to the spot, he watched a man leave from the alley directly ahead. He seemed slightly shaky as he pushed an arm through his jacket sleeve, but Minho decided to risk asking him anyway.
"Excuse me, which alley is this?"
The man drew himself up, squinting a little up his nose at him. When the streetlamp blinked back on and light fell over his face, Minho belatedly realized he was probably only a year or two older than him. "You're tall," the other boy mused. Minho shoved his hands into his pockets, uneasy. "But you're a minor." Minho scowled. "Yeah, definitely a minor."
"Hmm," he went on. "What was your question again?"
"Is this the fifth alley?" Minho hunched his shoulder against a sudden breeze. This stranger was probably as drunk as he was short.
"Oho!" Drunk. "Hohum," he added thoughtfully. Then he walked away.
A minute passed by, until Minho coughed to no one in particular, walked into the next alley, and knocked on the door.
There was a slight rustling inside, and then silence. It felt like shocked silence, as if perhaps knocking wasn't a normal thing to do in the whereabouts he was in.
"Did someone knock?" a girl's voice called out.
"Yes." Minho's eyes went wide in apprehension as he heard soft footsteps towards the door. He strained his ears but no bolt slid back, no key turned in a lock. He saw the handle simply turn, and the door was open.
"Did you really just knock?" she laughed, a little incredulous.
Minho nodded, dumbly. They stood there for a moment, Minho opening his mouth with no words coming out.
"Do you want to come in?"
Minho wanted to laugh like she had, amused and disbelieving. Here was a pretty girl with long hair and a sweet smile, asking him in. It was a bit too domestic considering what he'd experienced in the past half hour.
"Are you real?" he whispered, and watched, fascinated, as plush lips curved upwards at the ends and inwards at the middle.
"I'm breathing. Does that make me real enough?" she stepped back, and he stepped in, looking around.
She closed the door, waited.
"It's so... so..." he was at a loss for words, and she hid her smile behind her hand.
"Normal?"
"Unexpectedly so."
"Well," she strolled over to the kitchen and picked two glasses from a cabinet over the sink. "What did you expect?"
Not knowing what else to do, he followed her and stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets. "Uh, I dunno. I just thought you'd plaster stuff from your profession over the walls."
She stared at him as she poured apple cider into the glasses, a smile of amazement bordering on disbelief on her face. "You really think putting cum all over my walls is a good idea?"
Minho choked. "No! I honestly didn't - didn't - " he was so shocked he didn't know what else to say.
Once again, she prodded him on. "Didn't expect me to say that?"
He nodded, eager. "Yeah! You know? I meant like, uh," and then he mumbled something that made her grin. "What was that?"
"I said, like whips and things." It was an embarrassing situation, considering.
She walked up to him and handed over his glass. Staring at the floor, he could hear the smirk in her voice. "I see."
"You're judging me," he frowned, slightly annoyed as she swept past him and settled down on a couch below the window.
"Not really. I don't mind whips."
Minho's grip on his glass wavered, and it slipped a centimeter before he caught the bottom with his other hand. "Did you just say that?"
She folded her legs and took a ladylike sip. "I did."
"So..." Minho turned his head back a little, blinking continuously. "You can actually get turned on?"
She smiled again, and she looked slightly sad. "Well, of course. I'm only human."
He sat down on the floor, facing her. "What's it like?"
"Whips?" she pursed her lips and laced her hands together.
She wasn't dumb, he could tell. She was evading him on purpose. "Yeah, whips."
Silence for a beat - "It's inexplicable. You have to experience it to really understand." She dragged her nails down her shoulder to emphasise, somehow. It left scraggly pink lines across her pale skin.
"So this means you're flirting with me?" Minho tried being nonplussed, but the contrast of colors on her arm now was... intriguing.
"Am I?" she succeeded at the nonplussed bit. Then again, she'd said it in the first place.
"I'm asking you."
"I'm just conversing normally with a tall boy." Shrugging isn't something that's supposed to be graceful but she pulled it off.
"And I'm going to graduate high school next year," Minho informed her, severely.
"Well then, an old minor," she amended, setting her glass on the side table.
"Hmph."
She looked at him, eyes crinkling up in amusement. "Did you come here for small talk?"
Minho choked on his drink. "I'm not a pussy," he spluttered.
"Well, I didn't doubt your masculinity," she said plaintively. "It's just that I have one and you've not glanced once towards the general area."
He looked at her, blankly. "Well, it isn't really manners, it's rude to stare."
She looked genuinely surprised. "Rude doesn't exist here, unless you stab me in the back or insult my girlfriend."
"You have a girlfriend?" Minho was quite sure he should shut up: he was asking too many questions and soon she'd just kick him out.
"Damn straight."
"Is she pretty?"
"She's the most beautiful girl in the world," and he gazed at her first, genuinely happy smile so far; it was contagious and bubbly and wide, making him forget where he was for a second. Then it turned placid again.
"I think you should take your coat off," she switched the subject, abruptly, then snorted as Minho shook his head nervously. She stood up so he was face to face with her knees. "What're you doing, exactly?" he leaned back on his elbows, refusing to get up when she nudged him with her toe. She didn't answer, just lifted her hands and - oh.
"I, wow," Minho hadn't felt this breathless since he could think. No, since he could remember, not think, that was absurd, this was absurd, things like this didn't happen to him and he was pretty sure his facial expression was absurd, too.
She wriggled her shoulders slightly in the sudden cold. His eyes went straight to those marks she'd made from earlier, and they'd faded out to a light, delicate pink. She looked down at him and giggled. "You look like a fish."
"Can I..." he didn't even register that he'd been insulted.
She rolled her eyes as she bent down and grabbed his hand. "Yes," she grunted as she pulled him to his feet. "You can touch. But first," she swatted his free hand, "We move to the bed."
"Okay," Minho smiled absently, staring at the mole above her elbow as she dragged his willing self to another room.
He continued staring as she let go of his wrist (he pouted), stood on the bed, and walked to one end, sitting down. "You're free to join me," she spoke, helpfully, and Minho started before sitting down on the edge.
"Do I stink?" he made a face as the girl wrinkled her nose. She gave a scream of laughter and buried her face in the pillow on her lip. He grinned, pleased. "You should really take your clothes off, you know," she gasped finally. This wasn't going the way he'd planned. Not that he'd had a plan in the first place. He sighed as his stomach gave a slight lurch. He shook his head again.
"Well, you want to talk, then?" She stretched her legs forward, and it took all the hours' worth of lectures on gentlemanly behavior Minho had received from his father and uncles and schoolteachers not to focus on how her thighs looked delicious, clad in small white shorts and pay attention to what she'd just said. Strange, how he wanted to such a lot of things and yet felt like throwing up with nerves.
"Uh, sure. What's your name?"
"Lee Eunsook."
"Choi Minho."
"Very manly," she commented, and he grinned quietly. "How old are you?" she asked, in her turn.
"You first," Minho dodged the pillow she threw at him.
"Fine fine!" she squealed as he pinched the skin right above her ankle. "I'm eighteen, eighteen, stop it!"
"No wonder you aren't professional."
"Excuse me?" Eunsook's eyes flashed as she crouched, catlike, on all fours, shifting towards him until her nose brushed against his cheek.
Nobody was supposed to be that fast - it happened it in a second, in an hour and Minho tilted his head back a little, breathing shaky as he gulped and took in how her legs curved up and then inwards at the waist, how her shoulder blades stood up against the skin sharply when she rested her weight completely on her arms (her lips shadowed over his jaw) and how pale her skin - he didn't know how his self-restraint snapped, just that one second it was there and the next he reached out a hand and trailed a finger, fascinated, up her spine.
"You're not allowed," he heard a small growl in his ear, and his arm froze, body suddenly aching all over.
"Tame," she laughed lightly, nibbling his ears as her hands came up to his shoulders and pushed him down, held him against slightly rough sheets, as she rose her head and looked at him through half-lidded, mischievous eyes. He heard his blood pounding like a drum through his head, felt it throbbing down his stomach, making his fingers go numb and oversensitive at once.
"Not professional my ass," she sat up from his waist, evaporating the adrenaline she'd formed in his veins, and snickered at his shock.
"Well," he croaked, a minute later, throat dry from anticlimax. "You have a very nice ass."
"Thank you!" she grinned. "I have been told."
"I suppose you're not really going to get off me," Minho sighed.
"I would, just to prove you wrong, but you have this really exquisite pelvis," she shook her head. "No way am I getting off."
"Okay."
Minho sighed again and decided to look at her properly. The fingers scraping lazily at his shirt lead up to hands and arms that sculpted upwards into slightly broad, graceful shoulders which met at a long, slender neck. She had a pretty jaw, sharp and small, with cheeks that had seen chubbier days and a high nose. Her eyes were almond-shaped and clear: honest, sparkling brown on pearly white, and eyebrows that brushed upwards, wild and a tad thick. Her lips were sinful. They were the first thing he'd noticed and what he kept glancing at every half minute. They made him think of plush velvet and honey and how very very nice they would feel just about anywhere. Her hair were long, 'til her waist, silky black and shimmering in the light, straight, brushed.
"Choi Minho," she said, quietly, looking up at the clock on the opposite wall.
"Yes?"
"Oh, nothing, just testing your name."
"So, how old are you?" she smiled, wriggling a little to get comfortable. Minho decided that although there might not be that much R-rated happening, it was still better than the porn CD's his father had stashed, forgotten, between folded jeans up in the attic at home.
He started when Eunsook snapped her fingers in front of his face. "I asked you a question but you insisted on staring at my crotch," she frowned.
"Well, erm, sixteen." She looked mildly surprised.
"You're really tall for sixteen."
"Hmm," he nodded, used to people saying that.
"I guess you get it from your dad... what does he do?"
Minho frowned, irritated. "Not be at home." She cocked her head to the side, her sheet of hair falling to the side and pooling over his hand. They felt so soft.
"You want to tell me about your mom?"
"Raving lunatic," he shifted slightly, surprised at how easy it was to move even though she was sitting on him.
"There must be to her than just that, silly," she tapped on his stomach with her index finger.
"She hasn't deigned to show me." He knew his answers were short, and, well, disrespectful towards his parents - and her, too - but he didn't really care. He'd wanted to get away from all of that, not talk about it. The familiar feeling of bubbling heat rising up in his skull was starting again, the heat that stung his eyes and made them cry, and he couldn't cry in front of a strange girl he intended on having sex with, that would be terrifying.
"Have you ever done it before?" she changed the topic.
He made a face.
"So you're just going to randomly give up your virginity to someone you don't know at all?" she looked quite shocked, now.
He nodded, making sure he wore a bored expression.
"Minho, I'm a prostitute and I didn't do that. My first time was with Gwiboon."
The bubbles kept getting bigger and bigger. "That's nice."
"You're about to cry," she noted. And damn it, she was right. He put his hands up over his face to hide, but she took a hold of them and pulled them away.
"Don't look at me," he stared sullenly the ceiling, forcing the tears hazing over his vision back in.
"I'm going to look at you all I want," and she leaned down to kiss his nose.
"Ew!"
She laughed. "You're such a kid."
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because you're cute, and sad, and I like trying to help cheer sad people up."
"I'm not sad," Minho mulled, slowly. "I just haven't felt like I've lived in a long, long while." Eunsook looked at him, seriously. "Go on," she whispered after a moment, slid off and turned around to lie down beside him.
Talking. He didn't really like talking, but if he talked, the weird heat behind his eyes dulled, painful cracks inside inched together, slightly.
"I'm on the soccer team in school," he started. It seemed like a pretty dumb thing to start with, but things somehow managed to unfold. It took him two hours, maybe three hours, and both their eyelids began to weigh down heavily halfway through, his voice going lower and his words slurring a little with sleep, but she sat up and poked him whenever he stopped.
It was haphazard, the way he put things, like the thoughts in his head, worries, causes, events, poisonous whispers that went on inside, on the outside, missiles that sailed through the highway in his life, grades, time, career options, cigarettes, blades under his pillow, but most of all how there was nobody, nobody. Nothing. He was sure she wasn't getting any of it, but she actually asked questions and reminded him names when he forgot.
He felt scared, really. Almost crying in front of her made her kiss his nose, but telling her about his whole life made her silent.
"Do you hate me?" he interrupted himself.
She rose her brows. "Not at all."
Minho sat up, stared. "And you're not joking?"
She sat up, too. "Why would I be?"
"Well, it's just... isn't this kind of pathetic?"
She blinked, and smiled, lost. "Isn't what?"
"Well, this," Minho flapped his arms around vaguely, annoyed at her sudden slowness.
"Oh, you mean you?"
His shoulders slumped. "Yeah."
She looked at him with that amused smile again, only this time it was softer, more kind. "Give me a couple reasons why you think are."
Minho had a list of things in mind, a long list that had grown over the years of being surrounded (alone) in a crowd, of being the best sportsman in every grade (and seeing everyone's blatant jealousy), of coming home to a quiet house (and finding another vase broken and scratches against the wall); of letters from his father (whose face he'd barely remember if it weren't for the photos that his mother never smashed), telling him to study harder and take care of his mother (letters that never told him how his father was proud of what a good job he was doing of school and 'friends' and just life in general, considering) - of boys beating him up every day of the week, every year since third grade. "Not much use to us are you, now?" they'd leer, "Daddy can't report, you don't got pocket money to give us, nobody cares."
Nobody cared, he was told, so Minho went out of his way to please Nobody. Nobody, though, was a hard person to please. Nobody was never there in plain sight. Nobody liked to make Minho think he's present among all the other people when he really wasn't, leaving Minho alone, alone, alone. Nobody was a blackhole, an absence, a dark shadow of addiction that made Minho cough out swirling clouds at twelve and bleed, drip drop drip, on the cold white bathroom floor at Kibum's, at fourteen.
"You know if it weren't for Kibum, I'd be gone."
"He sounds really nice."
"He's a bitch," Minho gave a slight chuckle, "He's a good guy."
Eunsook patted his hand, and he heaved a huge sigh. "You can't not hate someone who's given up," he finished, voice tired with use. "I gave up. I tied myself to that fan," his hand rose up to point at the empty ceiling, eyes not really seeing, "And I kicked the chair. The fan broke." He laughed, and he wasn't sure if it was bitter or relieved, the fact that he didn't know what he felt - that he realized that he didn't know what he felt - it scared him.
"Hi," he whispered, tremulously, as he grabbed Eunsook's hand and squeezed his eyes shut, tears trying to force their way out from sheer exhaustion.
“Hey hey,” she whispered back and liften their hands in the air, waving her arm aimlessly around.
He sniffed loudly, and the tears gave up, tired too.
“You know how you spoke for a century,” she murmured, and he nodded, not that she could see; she'd turned the lights off a little while after he'd started talking. “Well,” he could tell she was making a face, carefully thinking over what to say next. “You know, you can just join the club and not like me, too,” he joked, voice thankfully level (but God, was he feeling shaky).
“You do this often? Push people away?” she asked, and the tinge of annoyance in her voice made him shrink back. He'd have taken his hand off her wrist, but she grabbed it and placed it on her neck when he tried. He stayed silent.
“It's a dumb thing to do, you know. Like, all of this, the stuff you've been through, how you handle it? I mean sure, it's kind of self-damaging,” she added, and bobbed her neck a little against the inside of his wrist (his scars), “But it's self-damaging. You don't go yell at bystanders and burn houses down. You're not evil, not a monster, Minho. You need some reprieve, some punishment, that's what you feel like, right?”
He tried taking his hand away again, and again she forced it down on her neck. Only when he heard her choking slightly did he stop. “All I'm saying,” she rasped, before coughing, “Is that I do not hate you, and I don't see why you hate yourself. You're selfless. Can't you see?
“There's a thousand ways you could have gone wrong, but you didn't. There's another thousand things ways you could have done worse but you didn't. And, sure, you've done some stuff that wouldn't be considered okay - do you go around using that to gain attention? No, you do not - ”
“ - Isn't that what I just did?”
“I'm not giving you attention, I'm telling you the truth. Do stop interrupting,” she snapped, exasperated, and softened immediately. “I'm sorry,” she lowered her voice and held his hand with both of hers.
“No, no, it's alright,” he chuckled, and wondered at how he really meant it was okay, that he didn't just say it because that was what should have been said. But Eunsook meant what she'd said, too. Funny, how she was pretty much the only honest person (apart from Kibum, who didn't speak on these matters anymore) he'd met so far. Sixteen years' far.
“Well, what I'm trying to say is, I think that all this has really made you really - really - “
“Twisted?”
“Beautiful.”
He blinked.
“It's made you a... man, if I may say so myself. Not much of a woman yet to evaluate properly,” she added, with a nervous laugh, “But yeah, you know?” And she lapsed into embarrassed silence.
“You really mean that?” he asked, and his voice came out like a rusty harmonica, notes haywire, and they both giggled.
“Yes.” Her face was turned the other way, but he could hear the smile in her voice.
“Hey, you know something?” he started three minutes later, as he held her hand and traced nonsensical shapes in the air.
“Hmm?”
“We still have to. You know.”
She groaned. “But it's four in the morning!”
He nodded, sighing, partly disappointed, partly relieved. “Well, I should get going then,” he mused, and felt a sharp pinch at his neck that left him dizzy.
“No, you won't.” came an angry hiss in his ear as he was pushed back against the headboard.
“Sure,” he replied, amused.
She sat back on his thighs again, and he could make out that she was frowning slightly.
“Rule number one,” she lifted a finger, “Lose your pride.”
“Holy shit,” he gasped, mind reeling as she nipped at his pulse and breathed over his skin, softly.
“Number two,” she murmured between his clavicles, fingers dancing, popping open buttons, “You keep quiet.” A shudder wracked through his frame as she slipped his shirt off, and he realized why she'd been shivering so much the entire time.
“Cold?” she asked, fingers walking over his chest.
“Do something,” he frowned sulkily when she stopped.
“I think you should,” Eunsook nodded to herself, and slipped off.
Minho was not a featherweight. How he found himself flipped over as if he was didn't make sense. “Um,” he tried registering the image of Eunsook, already sweaty underneath him with her hair splayed out across the pillow, but his mind was too busy screaming.
“There now,” she smiled up at him, innocently. “Rule number three, keep moving.”
Obediently, he lowered his head close to hers - and stopped. Not scared, more than a little lost. “Um,” he said, again.
“Since you're almost there, I suggest you kiss me,” Eunsook closed her eyes expectantly.
So Minho did, and she let him, first. Let him touch her lips with his, let him nibble at her lower lip. When he caught it between his teeth and flicked his tongue over it, she rose up on her elbows, tilting her head and kissing back. Minho's eyes flew open in surprise, (both) sets of long lashes fluttered shut again as she climbed into his lap and wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Can I touch?” he mumbled into her mouth, and he felt her laughing into his. Hesitantly, he lifted her and pulled her closer, pressed his palms against her back, felt her fingers tugging into his hair.
When they pulled apart, exhaling heavily, he looked up at her and smiled slightly, looking for approval.
“You're making me unprofessional,” she complained, breathlessly.
He stayed quiet, enjoying the flush over her neck spreading onto her face, soft dawn light invading the room.
“Tell me rule number three,” Eunsook frowned at him.
“Oh, right,” he pushed her back down, getting bolder by the second.
Delicate pink tinted their skin, deepening to rosy shades as time passed, whispers and small laughs and slight gasps crossing back and forth under the covers, clasps clicking open and waistbands tugged impatiently down. Whispers grew louder as the light outside grew bright, as springs underneath begain to strain. Kisses peppered down her slender neck, fingers interlaced, unlaced, clung onto shoulders. Covers slid off as backs arched in unison, eyes turned glassy and vision smoked to white.
“I'm sorry,” Minho apologized later, as she shampoo'd his hair. “What for?” she grinned good naturedly, slicking his hair up and laughing silently by herself. “I broke rule number two a lot,” he looked embarrassed.
“It's alright, I made them up anyway,” she patted his head, foam shrr'ing softly.
“No, really, I'm sorry.” Eunsook lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, before going on tip-toe to wash his head, smiling at him slightly as he looked at her with lost, confused eyes. “It's going to be okay,” she whispered, and found herself knocked breathless against him, long arms wrapped around her and Minho's face in her hair, big shoulders shaking.
“I'm sorry,” he kept repeating, and she felt his throat tighten and untighten and tremble into silence against her forehead. “Hey, come on, let's sit down, okay?” she pulled her head back so her nose brushed under his chin. Her neck was going to break at the angle with all the pressure Minho was keeping her in, but he slid down against the wet wall and drew his knees up, splashing water around, blinking rapidly as his lips trembled. She sat down next to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
“You know, my first memory is reaching for a mug of orange juice. Mugs should generally be on tables and counters, right?”
“Or s-sinks.”
“Yeah, or sinks. But! This one was on the floor. And I was a glut since the day I was born, so - “ here she stopped and rubbed his shoulder as he hiccuped. “So?” he inched sideways, closer to her.
“So I went towards it, tottering like an old man. Another sad thing about me, though, is that I’m a klutz. I do not have grace.”
“Wrong!” Minho felt embarrassed at the amount of fervor he’d put into one word. He stole a blurry look at her, and she was biting her lip and blushing. Well.
“Um, so I fell over,” she concluded, lamely.
“Oh.” That was honestly no reason to start crying again (not that he’d stopped in the first place), but he really wanted her to have that orange juice, so he buried his face in his hands to hide. His shoulders gave him away, as usual.
When he felt her arms wiggling under his elbows to get around his waist, he started apologizing, “I’m sorry,” over and over again.
He didn’t know why he kept saying that, but there was - there was so much to apologize for, for not being a good son, for not fighting off bullies when he easily could, for not pulling himself together for Kibum, for crying in Eunsook’s house three times already, for failing French in fifth grade, for not having submitted the group project in Sociology class on time, for not being able to win County Championships the year before, for letting people down, for crumpling up the letters from his father without reading them, for standing outside his mother’s room, rooted to the floor in fear, hearing her scream and cry, not being able to do anything, for letting himself down, for existing, for - Eunsook was whispering something to him.
“…nothing to apologize for, do you understand? You’re beautiful, Minho. Alright? Amazing and brave and - “ she choked slightly as Minho clung onto her, scared of the rest of the world. He wanted to shrink, shrink, grow smaller, so he could fit properly and sit on her lap and have her long hair fall about them and he could just curl up and sleep and feel safe and protected -
“…listen, you’re a man, Minho. I know you’re a little boy, but you’re a man, too. Shh,” she patted his head, and he pressed his nose ferociously against her collarbones, little, raw, animal sounds tearing from his throat.
“It’s going to be okay,” she hummed, repeating the phrase softly into his hair like a song, and Minho closed his eyes as warm drops pattered onto his skin, and relaxed slowly, exhausted.
Eunsook sighed, quietly, as she closed the door behind him and turned around to survey the horribly rumpled sheets. With a weary shrug, she traipsed to the couch and fell on it, sleeping at once.
“Yah, Yunnie!”
The light had turned from light grey to bright yellow.
“Boooon,” Eunsook smiled sleepily, eyes still closed. “Give me a kiss!”
“Aigo,” Gwiboon chuckled as she sat on Eunsook's lap and leaned down to hug her and brush her mouth against the other's nose. “Now tell me, what's with the mess?”
Eunsook sat up and stretched. “I actually made friends this time. We stayed up 'til like five or something, okay, don't make me clean up this time.”
Gwiboon rolled her eyes, “Bet he was a lost puppy or something.”
“You're not one to talk, kitten.”
“Neither," Gwiboon preened, flexing her legs in the air, making Eunsook's breath catch, "Are you. You didn't charge him, did you?”
“Of course not!” Eunsook looked scandalized, shaking her head vaguely away from the skirt that was sliding lower up Gwiboon's waist.
“We're trying to make it through here, aein,” Gwiboon stopped everything and buried her head in her hands. “We have nobody to rely on and we need to get to college!”
“We work three jobs each for exactly this reason. We'll make it, Boon. A little niceness doesn't hurt, sometimes,” Eunsook rubbed her shoulders, and Gwiboon mumbled confused nothings as she leaned into the curve between Eunsook's neck and shoulder, sighing.
“I went there.”
Kibum didn't need explanation, his eyes bulged. Minho enjoyed the sight with satisfaction.
“And?”
Minho smiled, stayed quiet. (“Beautiful.”)
Kibum begged him constantly throughout the week, even dragged him to the ice cream stall near the bus stop and fed him ice cream, to know what had happened.
“She'f a really nife perfon, Kibuh,” Minho said, finally, through a mouth of strawberry scoops. “Nifest I'f effer het - boy this is cold.”
“Ice cream, pabo,” Kibum rolled his eyes, quickly wiping a little that dribbled down his lip. “Also,” he added, making an obnoxious face as he took another uncomfortably cold bite, “There goes the illusion that I was your best friend. You're the nicest person I've ever met, Kibum, he weeped as he bled onto the floor,” he dramatized with a pose, and Minho laughed himself silly.
“Kibum!”
a/n: petrichor is the smell of rain falling on dry ground