[fic] Minho/Key - SHINee - Shadegrown; part 3/3
Title: Shadegrown
Author: fonulyn
Rating: NC17? tho maybe more R
Pairing: Minho/Key
Warnings: uhm technically Key isn’t human?
Disclaimer: I own no one, only my dirty imagination.
Summary: Minho would run, he really would. But the look in those pale blue, almost white eyes makes him stop, piercing him and rooting him into the spot. This must be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Comments: I’m so sorry this is so late ;; I have no excuse, I just plain forgot!
Previously happened; part I, part II
Minho doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to watching the whiteness gradually bleed out of Kibum’s eyes, replaced by the deep brown as if it’d never been there in the first place. The rest of the transformation is so subtle it’s barely noticeable, only lines and angles shifting. Minho has never seen Kibum transform fully, not after he brought him home and learned he was more than a bloodthirsty creature.
Things have changed since then. Things have changed so much, it feels like a different lifetime to Minho. He’s not completely sure if he’s allowed to, even after what they’ve done, but he can’t deny himself the pleasure of leaning down to steal a slow, savouring kiss. He half expects to be pushed away but instead Kibum opens up for him, melts into it willingly with a barely audible gasp.
When Minho finally manages to let go, with a little nip of his teeth on Kibum’s lower lip, he carefully shifts on the mattress so they’re lying side by side. Kibum stays unmoving, but his features are relaxed, a light sheen of sweat shimmering on his skin. He looks ethereal in the moonlight glow.
“What exactly are you?”
It’s not accusatory, it’s in no way hostile, and maybe that’s what makes Kibum’s reaction as mild as it is. He merely tenses, his breath catching momentarily, before he relaxes back into the cushions. “I don’t know.” He pauses, for long enough that it seems he won’t say more, and when the words come they’re almost inaudible at first. “There hasn’t been anyone to ask from. For as long as I remember.”
Minho closes his eyes against the way the words slash at his insides. He had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed… He knows it’s backwards and stupid, but he wants to collect Kibum in his arms and keep him there, tucked away from the world. He almost laughs as he realizes he sounds like a hero from one of those stories his mother used to tell him, the ones he first idolized and then grew to understand were unfortunately mere exaggerations of the better human qualities.
The urge to protect is still there, though, and carefully he reaches out to place his palm on Kibum’s shoulder. It’s not shrugged off so he slides closer, draping his arms across Kibum’s chest. It’s not usual for them to get up in each other’s personal space like this, at moments like this, but Minho can’t deny it’s something he’d like to change. “What is your real form?”
Kibum relaxes palpably, a slight upturn curve of his lips underlining his reply. “They all are.” He probably expects the indignant huff that follows as an answer, and graciously goes on without being prompted further. “I’m most comfortable like this. But I can’t cut off any of them. They’re me.”
“They? How many - Are there forms I haven’t seen?” Minho asks further, now that the answers are actually forthcoming, properly for the first time ever.
“Yes.”
Minho hums. A part of him wants to know how all those different shapes would look like, but another part is reluctant to receive that particular bit of information. So instead, he lets it rest, only muttering a soft “You could show me, once.”
He doesn’t expect anything to come of it, but automatically follows the movement when Kibum raises his hand. Then, right there, in front of his eyes the slender human fingers begin to elongate into crooked claws, protruding from disfigured joints. This is the part he’s seen before, but it still makes his heart leap and start racing.
Yet, Minho doesn’t pull back. He watches until the transformation finishes, and carefully reaches out to touch. The nails are rough underneath his fingertips as he traces the shape, surprised at how his hands aren’t shaking.
When he looks up, Kibum is looking right back at him, electric blue swimming in his eyes as if threatening to take over. It’s different from the usual white, but very close, enough to be mistaken from distance.
It feels like a step forward. To convey that, Minho leans in and kisses Kibum. Under his touch, the uneven surface of the claws slowly melts away, making way to fingers tangling with his own.
White hot searing pain.
There’s no other way to describe what Minho is going through, and as much as he now knows he’s dreaming there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He’s helpless but to watch, to live through the same torment night after night. The dreams have never been this frequent, nor this intense. There are breaking bones, snapping with a sickening crunch only to reform again from the splinters. There are bruises, cuts, low blows that leave him spitting blood and shaking, he’s knees on the muddy ground.
He wakes up screaming in pain.
Minho’s shirt is matted down against his skin with sweat but he feels cold, freezing cold, and sinks under the covers to chase away the bone-deep chill. “Another dream,” he whispers, shakily. He can still feel Kibum’s eyes on him, even if the silence drags on so long he almost feels like breaking it. He’s shivering from head to toe, until suddenly there’s a warm presence right by his side.
Carefully, Kibum places his palm on Minho’s shoulder, the only firm contact between them even though they’re hovering so close they could be glued together with one slight shift. Minho can’t see Kibum’s face, but he hears the roughness of his voice clear as day. “Those are not dreams.”
Not dreams.
A part of Minho doesn’t even want to ask; he’s certain he isn’t going to like the answer. Yet he can’t hold back, not even realizing he’s speaking before he’s breathed out his question. “What are they?”
Kibum’s answer is a single word, yet he almost chokes on it.
“Memories.”
Minho doesn’t expect to wake up alone. Throughout the night he keeps lingering between sleep and awake, and the only thing that manages to soothe him is the steady presence next to him, the thin arm that sneaks around him somewhere in the darkest hours. Somehow, it helps him to sink into dreamless rest, at least for a few precious moments.
When he finally blinks his eyes open he’s unbearably cold. Also unbearably alone.
He’s never felt disappointment quite like this. It sits heavy in the pit of his stomach and makes him tense, gritting his teeth. He knew to expect this. Something they shared couldn’t possibly last forever and Minho feels stupid, gullible, even believing it for a heartbeat.
There isn’t really any place to hide in his small apartment but he goes on a frantic search anyway, fuelled by anger, even if he’s not quite sure what he’s angry at. There’s no sign, at all, in any of the rooms. It’s like Kibum has disappeared with the snap of his fingers, leaving nothing behind. The only sign he was ever there is the blanket on the floor right next to the window, the place he used to occupy more often than not.
That’s exactly where Minho finds himself spending the rest of the day, legs drawn close to his chest and his head resting on his knees. Maybe, if he focuses long enough, pretends hard enough, he can open his eyes and find Kibum back, right here.
The next days, Minho spends wallowing in self pity. Everything reminds him of Kibum and he tries to shut it off, tries to focus on anything that’d allow him a moment of rest. He drowns himself in work, enough to make Jonghyun give him odd looks for being extraordinarily diligent. He drags the blankets out of his bed and sleeps on the floor instead, even if he’s not completely sure what he’s trying to accomplish with that. The bed simply reminds him of Kibum, merely by existing. As does the shelf in the other room, the broken glass of the window, or the doorway to his empty kitchen.
When did he ever turn so pathetic?
Until he decides enough is enough. He’s man enough to stop crying over the past, and instead try his best to change things. He’s nothing if he’s not stubborn and he knows he’s not giving up. Even if there’s nothing else for him to go by except a single name and a vague description. He has contacts and he’s going to use them, and he is going to find Kibum even if it’s the last thing he does.
If he doesn’t? Well, he’s going to have to figure out a way to let go. For now, he’s not going to think about it. For now, he’ll focus on the hope that things might still be salvageable.
In the midst of it all, he doesn’t even realize the nightmares have stopped.
There are dreams, though. Dreams mixing memories with unvoiced hopes. Dreams that almost feel like premonitions. Like promises.
If he’s being honest with himself, Minho has to admit he never thought things would pan out as they eventually do. He stumbles back to his apartment late, after a particularly exhausting day at work trying to focus on everything he needs to get done. On top of his actual work he has these plans, he has ideas on how to find Kibum to at least see him again, to talk to him.
Kibum is there. He’s occupying the end of the worn couch, his eyes trained on Minho the second he steps in and closes the door behind him. It feels so unreal it takes Minho a good while to make his limbs work, to actually process that he’s not hallucinating or making things up. Kibum is actually there, before Minho has had the chance to properly initialize the operation to find him.
“Minho.” Kibum’s voice is soft as he practically breathes out Minho’s name, looks at him with cautiousness written all over his posture. It’s like he’s not quite sure what to do, what to say, and Minho can’t say he’s any better. Quickly he makes his way over, gingerly sitting next to Kibum.
Only then he realizes there’s something that isn’t quite right. Kibum’s features are sunken, like he’s been sick, and that’s not even nearly the worst part. There are dark, fading bruises on his face, caked blood on his clothes, and he looks like he barely crawled out of a fight intact. He holds his left hand carefully over his ribs, his breaths slow and shallow.
“I needed to,” Kibum begins but visibly hesitates. He lets his eyes slip shut, and when he finally looks up again there’s a certain glow on the edges, almost as if it’s involuntary and he can’t keep it under control completely. “I had to take care of things. Now there’s no one left, coming after me. It’s safe.”
He sounds almost apologetic, but there’s too much of the weird stubborn tension for that. He’s defiant, his chin angled up, and still he seems to be pleading for Minho to understand.
In a way, Minho does.
Slowly, his heart starts beating again, kickstarting after it dropped into the pit of his stomach at the sight of Kibum sitting on his couch, battered and bruised. He reaches out, his fingertips brushing over Kibum’s cheek, right over the yellowing skin that’s almost healed.
That is all they need; it’s like the world instantly snaps into motion. Minho’s arms slip around Kibum, pulling him into a warm embrace, and there’s no hesitation before it’s returned. Somehow, this feels more intimate than anything they’ve been though, with the sheer emotion laced into the way they’re holding on to one another.
The broken noise that slips free from Kibum as he buries his face into Minho’s neck shows more than any words could ever tell.
It’s not the first time for them but it could as well be for how intense it is, for how easily it strips Minho of every shred of self control he has. Kibum is on top of him, shifting down in such a slow, deliberate way it makes Minho want to push up to meet the movement, to bury himself in the rest of the way. Instead he holds still, grits his teeth and tries to stay completely unmoving. Kibum must have a broken rib or two, judging by the bruising, and Minho doesn’t want to cause any more damage by being overeager.
He can’t deny though, it’s a test for his self control like nothing else. Already having Kibum above him, shaking apart with every shift of his hips, makes for such a stunning sight he finds his breath catching in his throat. A part of him wants to roll them around and fuck Kibum into the mattress, hard and fast and still barely enough to put out the fire within, and he doesn’t really know how he manages not to.
Kibum braces his palms on Minho’s shoulders, his touch icy cold, and it gains him enough leverage to start a steady pace. At first it’s tentative, both of them trying to figure out the best way to angle their hips, how to gain the most of it to soothe the deep ache of longing deep within. Yet it grows more desperate, more instinctual with every passing moment as the need takes over and pushes the uncertainty to the background.
When Minho pulls Kibum down for a deep kiss, swallows the broken moans spilling from his lips, they’re both so close that there’s no finesse in it. Minho runs his fingers down Kibum’s spine and can feel every knob, sharper than they should be. He thinks that Kibum’s body temperature is dropping even further but he can’t be sure, not when he can’t catch a clear thought at all.
They come undone in a mess, neither of them sure of the details later as it’s such a blur of movement and sensation. Kibum clings on to Minho throughout it, as if he’s afraid that something will tear them apart while he’s not willing to let go.
After, they focus on breathing until the moment stills. Minho’s palm is resting on Kibum’s hip, the only connection between them for now. He wants to ask a million things but he tries to hold back, tell himself that this is enough, this is more than he thought he’d get. He doesn’t think he’s being obvious about it, but apparently he’s not as good at controlling his features as he thinks he is.
The expression Kibum gives him is undecipherable, but there’s something so primitive in his eyes it leaves him raw, vulnerable. “I’m not,” he whispers, “good at expressing human emotion.”
For some reason, the admission sends a surge of intense relief through Minho.
“Neither am I,” he says, his chuckles deep and low and so infectious he manages to draw a huff of laughter from Kibum. It finally feels like Kibum isn’t on the run anymore, distancing himself with everything he does. Instead he’s there, he’s still next to Minho, and he’s not going to disappear into thin air if Minho as much as blinks.
Kibum stretches, his movements languid, and it’s impossible to not stare. At first almost hesitantly, Minho runs his palm along Kibum’s side from hip to shoulder, then using the opportunity to firmly pull him closer. “Why did you come back?”
There’s silence for so long Minho almost drifts off, but then he’s pulled back to awareness by a low voice. “Remember what you told me?” Kibum asks. “That first time.” His eyes are closed but there’s no hint of distress on his face, his features relaxed and open in a way Minho has never seen him before.
Instinctively Minho leans in, rests his forehead against Kibum’s temple and breathes. “Yes.” He thinks he remembers every word they exchanged, every touch they left on each other’s bodies, and he hopes that the memory of that won’t ever fade.
“No one ever said that to me. Not before you.” The statement is not bitter, it’s a mere observation, and yet Minho knows to put enough weight on it, to appreciate it for what it is.
He stays, right there, wrapped around Kibum and tangled with him the best they can. It’s the only way he can show he still means those words, lives by them.
I don’t want to hurt you.
The thing is, to Minho Kibum feels more human than anyone he’s ever known.
Or maybe human has never been what he was looking for.
The window is still broken but somehow, Minho almost feels like he shouldn’t replace it. He knows it’ll be necessary come winter, when the first proper snowstorms will actually hit them with force. Yet the spot below the broken, smudged glass is where they’ve spent hours reading, or simply soaking in each other’s presence, huddled close to avoid the draft the countless cracks let through.
He watches as Kibum traces the symbols on paper with a long finger, listens to every carefully enunciated word. It’s like a calm trance, until he clears his throat to break it. He knows he won’t get an answer if he doesn’t directly ask for it, and he’s learning to seize the moment whenever he can.
When Minho opens his mouth, the question he wants to ask refuses to come out. Instead, he swallows hard, his eyes averted down as he quickly exhales the words. “Don’t you have anywhere to be?” He would like to say his heart isn’t beating madly as nervousness pools inside of him, makes his palms clammy. He focuses on the way Kibum’s finger’s still on the paper, how he takes his time to answer.
Finally, Kibum nods, the movement barely noticeable in the periphery of Minho’s vision. “Yes.” The answer is simple, easy, and obviously truthful.
It also makes Minho’s heart drop, the nervous anticipation already making way to disappointment. He doesn’t know why it’s so important for him that Kibum stays. At least he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. He’s almost ready to ask for it, but he bites his lip and holds it back. It’s not his place to hold Kibum down, to trap him here against his will. He’s going to be a grown up about it and let Kibum make his decisions.
That is at least how he talks himself through the moment, until he looks up and meets Kibum’s gaze. There’s a hint of amusement there, a slight upwards curve on Kibum’s lips, and instead of the expected anger all Minho feels is relief.
He doesn’t move an inch, but then Kibum’s lips are on his and Kibum’s hand is twined in his hair. In one slow movement Kibum shifts closer until he’s practically sitting in Minho’s lap, and it’s so good, so good, so good, just holding each other and feeling the shared warmth.
When Kibum pulls back his eyes are glowing embers, not a hint of pale blue in them. He’s smiling, a dimple appearing on his cheek, and Minho smiles right back at him.
Kibum whispers a low right here against the bow of Minho’s upper lip and it feels like a promise of so much more.
The floorboards are cold and the windowpane rattles in the storm forming outside. The draft causes shivers on heated skin as they instinctively search for even more closeness, sharing space. The press of Minho’s fingers is insistent as he digs them into Kibum’s skin, runs his blunt nails down the pale expanse of his back.
Kibum presses a feathery kiss under Minho’s jaw, brushes his lips down his long neck until he can rest his forehead in the crook of Minho’s shoulder.
This, right here, is what anchors them to reality.
This is it.
---
(11 624 words altogether)
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koukainai asked me yesterday why I didn’t post the last chappie and I went all O_O since I had totally forgotten there even was a fic to update, lmao. so, my deepest apologies /bows
also I’d like to thank koukainai and neezoy for discussing the history of lube with me at 2 am. was very enlightening.
idk. so. here.
@DW.
Author: fonulyn
Rating: NC17? tho maybe more R
Pairing: Minho/Key
Warnings: uhm technically Key isn’t human?
Disclaimer: I own no one, only my dirty imagination.
Summary: Minho would run, he really would. But the look in those pale blue, almost white eyes makes him stop, piercing him and rooting him into the spot. This must be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Comments: I’m so sorry this is so late ;; I have no excuse, I just plain forgot!
Previously happened; part I, part II
Minho doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to watching the whiteness gradually bleed out of Kibum’s eyes, replaced by the deep brown as if it’d never been there in the first place. The rest of the transformation is so subtle it’s barely noticeable, only lines and angles shifting. Minho has never seen Kibum transform fully, not after he brought him home and learned he was more than a bloodthirsty creature.
Things have changed since then. Things have changed so much, it feels like a different lifetime to Minho. He’s not completely sure if he’s allowed to, even after what they’ve done, but he can’t deny himself the pleasure of leaning down to steal a slow, savouring kiss. He half expects to be pushed away but instead Kibum opens up for him, melts into it willingly with a barely audible gasp.
When Minho finally manages to let go, with a little nip of his teeth on Kibum’s lower lip, he carefully shifts on the mattress so they’re lying side by side. Kibum stays unmoving, but his features are relaxed, a light sheen of sweat shimmering on his skin. He looks ethereal in the moonlight glow.
“What exactly are you?”
It’s not accusatory, it’s in no way hostile, and maybe that’s what makes Kibum’s reaction as mild as it is. He merely tenses, his breath catching momentarily, before he relaxes back into the cushions. “I don’t know.” He pauses, for long enough that it seems he won’t say more, and when the words come they’re almost inaudible at first. “There hasn’t been anyone to ask from. For as long as I remember.”
Minho closes his eyes against the way the words slash at his insides. He had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed… He knows it’s backwards and stupid, but he wants to collect Kibum in his arms and keep him there, tucked away from the world. He almost laughs as he realizes he sounds like a hero from one of those stories his mother used to tell him, the ones he first idolized and then grew to understand were unfortunately mere exaggerations of the better human qualities.
The urge to protect is still there, though, and carefully he reaches out to place his palm on Kibum’s shoulder. It’s not shrugged off so he slides closer, draping his arms across Kibum’s chest. It’s not usual for them to get up in each other’s personal space like this, at moments like this, but Minho can’t deny it’s something he’d like to change. “What is your real form?”
Kibum relaxes palpably, a slight upturn curve of his lips underlining his reply. “They all are.” He probably expects the indignant huff that follows as an answer, and graciously goes on without being prompted further. “I’m most comfortable like this. But I can’t cut off any of them. They’re me.”
“They? How many - Are there forms I haven’t seen?” Minho asks further, now that the answers are actually forthcoming, properly for the first time ever.
“Yes.”
Minho hums. A part of him wants to know how all those different shapes would look like, but another part is reluctant to receive that particular bit of information. So instead, he lets it rest, only muttering a soft “You could show me, once.”
He doesn’t expect anything to come of it, but automatically follows the movement when Kibum raises his hand. Then, right there, in front of his eyes the slender human fingers begin to elongate into crooked claws, protruding from disfigured joints. This is the part he’s seen before, but it still makes his heart leap and start racing.
Yet, Minho doesn’t pull back. He watches until the transformation finishes, and carefully reaches out to touch. The nails are rough underneath his fingertips as he traces the shape, surprised at how his hands aren’t shaking.
When he looks up, Kibum is looking right back at him, electric blue swimming in his eyes as if threatening to take over. It’s different from the usual white, but very close, enough to be mistaken from distance.
It feels like a step forward. To convey that, Minho leans in and kisses Kibum. Under his touch, the uneven surface of the claws slowly melts away, making way to fingers tangling with his own.
White hot searing pain.
There’s no other way to describe what Minho is going through, and as much as he now knows he’s dreaming there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He’s helpless but to watch, to live through the same torment night after night. The dreams have never been this frequent, nor this intense. There are breaking bones, snapping with a sickening crunch only to reform again from the splinters. There are bruises, cuts, low blows that leave him spitting blood and shaking, he’s knees on the muddy ground.
He wakes up screaming in pain.
Minho’s shirt is matted down against his skin with sweat but he feels cold, freezing cold, and sinks under the covers to chase away the bone-deep chill. “Another dream,” he whispers, shakily. He can still feel Kibum’s eyes on him, even if the silence drags on so long he almost feels like breaking it. He’s shivering from head to toe, until suddenly there’s a warm presence right by his side.
Carefully, Kibum places his palm on Minho’s shoulder, the only firm contact between them even though they’re hovering so close they could be glued together with one slight shift. Minho can’t see Kibum’s face, but he hears the roughness of his voice clear as day. “Those are not dreams.”
Not dreams.
A part of Minho doesn’t even want to ask; he’s certain he isn’t going to like the answer. Yet he can’t hold back, not even realizing he’s speaking before he’s breathed out his question. “What are they?”
Kibum’s answer is a single word, yet he almost chokes on it.
“Memories.”
Minho doesn’t expect to wake up alone. Throughout the night he keeps lingering between sleep and awake, and the only thing that manages to soothe him is the steady presence next to him, the thin arm that sneaks around him somewhere in the darkest hours. Somehow, it helps him to sink into dreamless rest, at least for a few precious moments.
When he finally blinks his eyes open he’s unbearably cold. Also unbearably alone.
He’s never felt disappointment quite like this. It sits heavy in the pit of his stomach and makes him tense, gritting his teeth. He knew to expect this. Something they shared couldn’t possibly last forever and Minho feels stupid, gullible, even believing it for a heartbeat.
There isn’t really any place to hide in his small apartment but he goes on a frantic search anyway, fuelled by anger, even if he’s not quite sure what he’s angry at. There’s no sign, at all, in any of the rooms. It’s like Kibum has disappeared with the snap of his fingers, leaving nothing behind. The only sign he was ever there is the blanket on the floor right next to the window, the place he used to occupy more often than not.
That’s exactly where Minho finds himself spending the rest of the day, legs drawn close to his chest and his head resting on his knees. Maybe, if he focuses long enough, pretends hard enough, he can open his eyes and find Kibum back, right here.
The next days, Minho spends wallowing in self pity. Everything reminds him of Kibum and he tries to shut it off, tries to focus on anything that’d allow him a moment of rest. He drowns himself in work, enough to make Jonghyun give him odd looks for being extraordinarily diligent. He drags the blankets out of his bed and sleeps on the floor instead, even if he’s not completely sure what he’s trying to accomplish with that. The bed simply reminds him of Kibum, merely by existing. As does the shelf in the other room, the broken glass of the window, or the doorway to his empty kitchen.
When did he ever turn so pathetic?
Until he decides enough is enough. He’s man enough to stop crying over the past, and instead try his best to change things. He’s nothing if he’s not stubborn and he knows he’s not giving up. Even if there’s nothing else for him to go by except a single name and a vague description. He has contacts and he’s going to use them, and he is going to find Kibum even if it’s the last thing he does.
If he doesn’t? Well, he’s going to have to figure out a way to let go. For now, he’s not going to think about it. For now, he’ll focus on the hope that things might still be salvageable.
In the midst of it all, he doesn’t even realize the nightmares have stopped.
There are dreams, though. Dreams mixing memories with unvoiced hopes. Dreams that almost feel like premonitions. Like promises.
If he’s being honest with himself, Minho has to admit he never thought things would pan out as they eventually do. He stumbles back to his apartment late, after a particularly exhausting day at work trying to focus on everything he needs to get done. On top of his actual work he has these plans, he has ideas on how to find Kibum to at least see him again, to talk to him.
Kibum is there. He’s occupying the end of the worn couch, his eyes trained on Minho the second he steps in and closes the door behind him. It feels so unreal it takes Minho a good while to make his limbs work, to actually process that he’s not hallucinating or making things up. Kibum is actually there, before Minho has had the chance to properly initialize the operation to find him.
“Minho.” Kibum’s voice is soft as he practically breathes out Minho’s name, looks at him with cautiousness written all over his posture. It’s like he’s not quite sure what to do, what to say, and Minho can’t say he’s any better. Quickly he makes his way over, gingerly sitting next to Kibum.
Only then he realizes there’s something that isn’t quite right. Kibum’s features are sunken, like he’s been sick, and that’s not even nearly the worst part. There are dark, fading bruises on his face, caked blood on his clothes, and he looks like he barely crawled out of a fight intact. He holds his left hand carefully over his ribs, his breaths slow and shallow.
“I needed to,” Kibum begins but visibly hesitates. He lets his eyes slip shut, and when he finally looks up again there’s a certain glow on the edges, almost as if it’s involuntary and he can’t keep it under control completely. “I had to take care of things. Now there’s no one left, coming after me. It’s safe.”
He sounds almost apologetic, but there’s too much of the weird stubborn tension for that. He’s defiant, his chin angled up, and still he seems to be pleading for Minho to understand.
In a way, Minho does.
Slowly, his heart starts beating again, kickstarting after it dropped into the pit of his stomach at the sight of Kibum sitting on his couch, battered and bruised. He reaches out, his fingertips brushing over Kibum’s cheek, right over the yellowing skin that’s almost healed.
That is all they need; it’s like the world instantly snaps into motion. Minho’s arms slip around Kibum, pulling him into a warm embrace, and there’s no hesitation before it’s returned. Somehow, this feels more intimate than anything they’ve been though, with the sheer emotion laced into the way they’re holding on to one another.
The broken noise that slips free from Kibum as he buries his face into Minho’s neck shows more than any words could ever tell.
It’s not the first time for them but it could as well be for how intense it is, for how easily it strips Minho of every shred of self control he has. Kibum is on top of him, shifting down in such a slow, deliberate way it makes Minho want to push up to meet the movement, to bury himself in the rest of the way. Instead he holds still, grits his teeth and tries to stay completely unmoving. Kibum must have a broken rib or two, judging by the bruising, and Minho doesn’t want to cause any more damage by being overeager.
He can’t deny though, it’s a test for his self control like nothing else. Already having Kibum above him, shaking apart with every shift of his hips, makes for such a stunning sight he finds his breath catching in his throat. A part of him wants to roll them around and fuck Kibum into the mattress, hard and fast and still barely enough to put out the fire within, and he doesn’t really know how he manages not to.
Kibum braces his palms on Minho’s shoulders, his touch icy cold, and it gains him enough leverage to start a steady pace. At first it’s tentative, both of them trying to figure out the best way to angle their hips, how to gain the most of it to soothe the deep ache of longing deep within. Yet it grows more desperate, more instinctual with every passing moment as the need takes over and pushes the uncertainty to the background.
When Minho pulls Kibum down for a deep kiss, swallows the broken moans spilling from his lips, they’re both so close that there’s no finesse in it. Minho runs his fingers down Kibum’s spine and can feel every knob, sharper than they should be. He thinks that Kibum’s body temperature is dropping even further but he can’t be sure, not when he can’t catch a clear thought at all.
They come undone in a mess, neither of them sure of the details later as it’s such a blur of movement and sensation. Kibum clings on to Minho throughout it, as if he’s afraid that something will tear them apart while he’s not willing to let go.
After, they focus on breathing until the moment stills. Minho’s palm is resting on Kibum’s hip, the only connection between them for now. He wants to ask a million things but he tries to hold back, tell himself that this is enough, this is more than he thought he’d get. He doesn’t think he’s being obvious about it, but apparently he’s not as good at controlling his features as he thinks he is.
The expression Kibum gives him is undecipherable, but there’s something so primitive in his eyes it leaves him raw, vulnerable. “I’m not,” he whispers, “good at expressing human emotion.”
For some reason, the admission sends a surge of intense relief through Minho.
“Neither am I,” he says, his chuckles deep and low and so infectious he manages to draw a huff of laughter from Kibum. It finally feels like Kibum isn’t on the run anymore, distancing himself with everything he does. Instead he’s there, he’s still next to Minho, and he’s not going to disappear into thin air if Minho as much as blinks.
Kibum stretches, his movements languid, and it’s impossible to not stare. At first almost hesitantly, Minho runs his palm along Kibum’s side from hip to shoulder, then using the opportunity to firmly pull him closer. “Why did you come back?”
There’s silence for so long Minho almost drifts off, but then he’s pulled back to awareness by a low voice. “Remember what you told me?” Kibum asks. “That first time.” His eyes are closed but there’s no hint of distress on his face, his features relaxed and open in a way Minho has never seen him before.
Instinctively Minho leans in, rests his forehead against Kibum’s temple and breathes. “Yes.” He thinks he remembers every word they exchanged, every touch they left on each other’s bodies, and he hopes that the memory of that won’t ever fade.
“No one ever said that to me. Not before you.” The statement is not bitter, it’s a mere observation, and yet Minho knows to put enough weight on it, to appreciate it for what it is.
He stays, right there, wrapped around Kibum and tangled with him the best they can. It’s the only way he can show he still means those words, lives by them.
I don’t want to hurt you.
The thing is, to Minho Kibum feels more human than anyone he’s ever known.
Or maybe human has never been what he was looking for.
The window is still broken but somehow, Minho almost feels like he shouldn’t replace it. He knows it’ll be necessary come winter, when the first proper snowstorms will actually hit them with force. Yet the spot below the broken, smudged glass is where they’ve spent hours reading, or simply soaking in each other’s presence, huddled close to avoid the draft the countless cracks let through.
He watches as Kibum traces the symbols on paper with a long finger, listens to every carefully enunciated word. It’s like a calm trance, until he clears his throat to break it. He knows he won’t get an answer if he doesn’t directly ask for it, and he’s learning to seize the moment whenever he can.
When Minho opens his mouth, the question he wants to ask refuses to come out. Instead, he swallows hard, his eyes averted down as he quickly exhales the words. “Don’t you have anywhere to be?” He would like to say his heart isn’t beating madly as nervousness pools inside of him, makes his palms clammy. He focuses on the way Kibum’s finger’s still on the paper, how he takes his time to answer.
Finally, Kibum nods, the movement barely noticeable in the periphery of Minho’s vision. “Yes.” The answer is simple, easy, and obviously truthful.
It also makes Minho’s heart drop, the nervous anticipation already making way to disappointment. He doesn’t know why it’s so important for him that Kibum stays. At least he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. He’s almost ready to ask for it, but he bites his lip and holds it back. It’s not his place to hold Kibum down, to trap him here against his will. He’s going to be a grown up about it and let Kibum make his decisions.
That is at least how he talks himself through the moment, until he looks up and meets Kibum’s gaze. There’s a hint of amusement there, a slight upwards curve on Kibum’s lips, and instead of the expected anger all Minho feels is relief.
He doesn’t move an inch, but then Kibum’s lips are on his and Kibum’s hand is twined in his hair. In one slow movement Kibum shifts closer until he’s practically sitting in Minho’s lap, and it’s so good, so good, so good, just holding each other and feeling the shared warmth.
When Kibum pulls back his eyes are glowing embers, not a hint of pale blue in them. He’s smiling, a dimple appearing on his cheek, and Minho smiles right back at him.
Kibum whispers a low right here against the bow of Minho’s upper lip and it feels like a promise of so much more.
The floorboards are cold and the windowpane rattles in the storm forming outside. The draft causes shivers on heated skin as they instinctively search for even more closeness, sharing space. The press of Minho’s fingers is insistent as he digs them into Kibum’s skin, runs his blunt nails down the pale expanse of his back.
Kibum presses a feathery kiss under Minho’s jaw, brushes his lips down his long neck until he can rest his forehead in the crook of Minho’s shoulder.
This, right here, is what anchors them to reality.
This is it.
---
(11 624 words altogether)
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koukainai asked me yesterday why I didn’t post the last chappie and I went all O_O since I had totally forgotten there even was a fic to update, lmao. so, my deepest apologies /bows
also I’d like to thank koukainai and neezoy for discussing the history of lube with me at 2 am. was very enlightening.
idk. so. here.
@DW.