from paris, with love.
“what does falling in love mean?”
sunshine seeps into the room through the tiny cracks in the curtains, radiating small yellowish spots all over the carpets, floorboards and bed sheets. they’re huddled under the blanket (nose to nose, knee to knee and feet tangled in each others’) silently, gathering each other’s warmth; the others have gone off to breakfast, but they don’t care since this is the only time in which they can be them.
“i don’t know,” whispers minho, the huskiness of his voice making her toes tingle. his fingers thread deeper into her dark tresses, snarling into them, but because it’s him, it doesn't hurt. “what do you think?” small whiffs of air enter the blanket, making a perfect balance between its coolness and the balminess of his breath against her cheeks.
her fingernails scrape against the cotton material of his t-shirt. “i don’t know, either, but i think we have to come pretty close, right?” yuri’s doe eyes close as she inhales his scent (a concoction of cologne, wine, paris and her) thoroughly, storing it away in the back of her mind for future reference, in case she should forget.
which she knows - hopes - she won’t, but life may have other plans for them and although she is afraid, she knows she must let nature take its course should anything occur. trying to salvage something that is destined to be broken can never be the right thing to do, because then the chinks in their hearts can’t be filled anymore, not by themselves nor anyone else.
“i think so.” often, minho wonders if the others go through the same thing; a limited period of time in which they have to depict love (because otherwise, they have no time and no energy and no heart for it anymore and they shouldn’t have even started it) and then lapse into this genteel pretense after all the shirts have been put on and the lipstick prints wiped away.
the two of them don’t say much nor do they do much, either; they just stay under the blanket, fingers intertwined with their breaths and scents fusing together. “i think i have to go,” whispers yuri, strands of her hair falling into her face. he tucks them back into place and replies, as always, “i know.”
it’s painful but they’re so used to it until the ache has dulled into a monotonous sensation; they remain in each other’s embrace (because his arms are made to hold her and she just fits so, so perfectly in them that sometime she doubts this is all real) and bid goodbye fifteen minutes later, with nothing but a chaste kiss and squeeze of their hands.
good luck on your upcoming promotions and i love your new choreography! are the things that follow after their platonic meetings; polite little greetings that are rehearsed and scripted, because they don’t have anything else to say since they already have too many things to feel.
minho and yuri are still grateful, though, because unlike the others, they get eighteen minutes - and forty-three seconds (until sooyoung comes pounding on the door).