[fic] Minho/Key - SHINee - Painted In Your Dream
Title: Painted In Your Dream
Author: fonulyn
Rating: PG
Pairing: Minho/Key
Warnings: --
Disclaimer: I own no one, only my dirty imagination.
Summary: Minho hasn’t slept in days. He doesn’t know when he last ate, either, but he knows he must have because he’s not feeling any hunger. All he can focus on is the way the paint fills the empty canvas, how the strokes of his brush slowly, bit by bit, bring more life to the one he’s trying to bring to life.
Comments: This was also written for a tumblr meme, originally here, for modernkids~
The windows are barred open as wide as they’ll go, but the pale moonlight doesn’t offer much to work with. There’s an old oil lamp on the table, right on the edge and as far from the paints as possible, creating a fire hazard with the solvents slowly vaporizing in the summer heat. There are palettes thrown haphazardly on every flat surface available, some of them scraped free of paint, some covered in drying colours and some still in use.
Minho hasn’t slept in days. He doesn’t know when he last ate, either, but he knows he must have because he’s not feeling any hunger. All he can focus on is the way the paint fills the empty canvas, how the strokes of his brush slowly, bit by bit, bring more life to the one he’s trying to bring to life. It has to be perfect, he has to be perfect, and Minho wills his hands to not shake as he adds another line, another dot of colour.
His previous attempts are all lying in a messy pile on the floor. Some of them are ripped apart, some stomped on, some simply cast aside unneeded. Most of the paintings are almost identical but they’re still not what Minho is aiming for. He paints a picture after picture but he never gets the slant of those eyes just right, or the line of that jaw, or the correct shade of pink on those lips.
Never has it been perfect.
Once, the house was bustling with life. Once, painting was merely a hobby for him. Yet with the passing of his mother, and shortly after his father, he was left alone to manage the whole household and things began to escalate. It’s been years, and by now he couldn’t even say when the last of the servants left, leaving him alone in the house that is threatening to fall apart around him. He wouldn’t be able to tell how something that stemmed from loneliness turned him even lonelier in the end.
The worse it gets, the less he even notices. Painting has become an obsession where working for a week alternates with sleeping away several days at once. There are moments when he feels he gets it right, when he thinks he’s finally perfected the painting, but he never has. In the end it’s always wrong, it’s wrong again, and his temper gets closer and closer to snapping.
This time is no exception.
It’s wrong.
In a fit of rage Minho flings the painting off its easel. The movement sends it careening straight into the piles of paper, paint and failed paintings cluttering the table. He’s already reaching out to grab another white, new canvas as he hears something crackle. At first he dismisses the sound but when he turns, he realizes what he’s done. The oil lamp.
Minho barely has time to turn and run, to scramble out of the room and out of the house, as the fire spreads fast on his heels. Eventually he doesn’t even know how he makes it outside, with the way the dry wood catches fire like the thinnest paper, going up in flames within mere seconds.
For the rest of the night, Minho stands outside his house, watching the fire lick up into the sky. He doesn’t run for help, there’s nothing anyone could do anyway, and so he simply stays there and says silent goodbyes to what once was his whole life.
It feels like an eternity has passed before the house is in ashes. With it, it has burned away all the anger from within the painter, has scorched away the bitter rage he held inside.
It’s time to start anew.
Years pass.
Minho’s aunt takes him in, for old time’s sake, and offers him a place to stay. He’s pitied now, the young man who lost his entire family first, and then his home in a tragic accident. People treat him like he’s made of glass, dodge out of his way and try to give him room. He doesn’t mind. In a backwards way it feels like a blessing, the peace and quiet he’s entitled to while he tries to learn to live again.
He does enjoy being surrounded by people at times, as long as he doesn’t need to interact with them too much. He likes the sounds of life, the chattering all around, the way people hurry past him at the marketplace without paying him any attention. It makes him feel he belongs without being burdened. Maybe that’s why he always volunteers when someone needs to go to the marketplace. He might not be good at bargaining for the best prices but his aunt can afford it, and she’s glad to send him out of the house for a while, thinking it’ll do him good.
There’s a crowd in front of the stall he usually buys fruit from so he heads further, ventures deeper into the marketplace to see another one. True enough it doesn’t take long, but there are people waiting even in front of that one. Not so many, though, so he stops there and waits. It makes his heart beat a little faster to do something that breaks out of his norm, so he doesn’t even notice when there are no others in front of him and the stallholder is talking to him.
“Sir? Sir. What can I get you?” The words are polite but the tone they’re spoken in isn’t. It’s rather exasperated, frayed thin enough to be on the edge of snapping. It makes Minho look up, finally, and what he sees makes him freeze in place.
This man. His painting. This is the man he spent years trying to paint.
Except when he begins to look more closely, it’s all wrong. The shape of the man’s eyes is still off, his lips aren’t quite the same shade Minho had been trying to paint. The line of his jaw is different, too, and the tone of his skin maybe a notch lighter than in Minho’s paintings. Still there’s something that captivates Minho’s attention. The man looks tired, there are dark circles under his eyes and a disapproving frown on his mouth, and he keeps staring at Minho critically.
That’s when Minho realizes he hasn’t even opened his mouth yet. Somehow he stumbles over his words as he tells what he wants - pears, his aunt had ordered - and pays for them. The man obviously expects him to move on, to leave now that he got what he asked for, but there are no others in the line so Minho stays, trying to figure out what to say.
“Uhm. What’s your name?” he asks, a pleased little buzz going through him as he has the stallholder’s attention again.
“My name?” the man repeats, huffing. “What do you need that for?” There’s a hint of amusement in the way he’s eyeing Minho now, though, his lips almost curving up.
“I’m Minho,” Minho smiles.
“Well, Minho.” Now there is definite amusement, a short puff of laughter following. “I’m Kibum. And I’m busy, there are customers here.”
Indeed, during their exchange more people have gravitated towards the stall, some already more or less impatiently waiting for their turn to get what they came for. Kibum looks exhausted, but he tries to cover it by squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, already taking a small side step closer to the next person in line. That’s when Minho speaks up, without even thinking. “I could help?”
Kibum’s eyes fly wide as he spins back around, looks straight at Minho with surprise. “Help?”
“Help,” Minho confirms. It’s not like he has anything better to do, anyway, if he spends more time on the marketplace it’s only a good thing, for everyone.
For a moment it seems like Kibum will decline, hesitation clear on his face as he freezes. He considers Minho for a good while, until the murmurs of other customers starts to get too demanding in the background. Finally, his expression melts into an approving one. “Then what are you waiting for, get in here.”
If burning his house down was one big turning point in Minho’s life, he feels that going around the simple table filled with various fruit is another. He may not know Kibum, not yet, but he soon learns he enjoys the sharp orders he’s expected to follow, as well as the quick genuine smiles he gets as a reward whenever he does something well.
The next day, he comes back.
Eventually, he stays.
---
(1428 words)
add | masterlist | request | random | tumblr? ;3
SO some random crazy painter Minho? I hope it makes sense, haha.
title shamelessly nicked from a Charon song.
@DW.
Author: fonulyn
Rating: PG
Pairing: Minho/Key
Warnings: --
Disclaimer: I own no one, only my dirty imagination.
Summary: Minho hasn’t slept in days. He doesn’t know when he last ate, either, but he knows he must have because he’s not feeling any hunger. All he can focus on is the way the paint fills the empty canvas, how the strokes of his brush slowly, bit by bit, bring more life to the one he’s trying to bring to life.
Comments: This was also written for a tumblr meme, originally here, for modernkids~
The windows are barred open as wide as they’ll go, but the pale moonlight doesn’t offer much to work with. There’s an old oil lamp on the table, right on the edge and as far from the paints as possible, creating a fire hazard with the solvents slowly vaporizing in the summer heat. There are palettes thrown haphazardly on every flat surface available, some of them scraped free of paint, some covered in drying colours and some still in use.
Minho hasn’t slept in days. He doesn’t know when he last ate, either, but he knows he must have because he’s not feeling any hunger. All he can focus on is the way the paint fills the empty canvas, how the strokes of his brush slowly, bit by bit, bring more life to the one he’s trying to bring to life. It has to be perfect, he has to be perfect, and Minho wills his hands to not shake as he adds another line, another dot of colour.
His previous attempts are all lying in a messy pile on the floor. Some of them are ripped apart, some stomped on, some simply cast aside unneeded. Most of the paintings are almost identical but they’re still not what Minho is aiming for. He paints a picture after picture but he never gets the slant of those eyes just right, or the line of that jaw, or the correct shade of pink on those lips.
Never has it been perfect.
Once, the house was bustling with life. Once, painting was merely a hobby for him. Yet with the passing of his mother, and shortly after his father, he was left alone to manage the whole household and things began to escalate. It’s been years, and by now he couldn’t even say when the last of the servants left, leaving him alone in the house that is threatening to fall apart around him. He wouldn’t be able to tell how something that stemmed from loneliness turned him even lonelier in the end.
The worse it gets, the less he even notices. Painting has become an obsession where working for a week alternates with sleeping away several days at once. There are moments when he feels he gets it right, when he thinks he’s finally perfected the painting, but he never has. In the end it’s always wrong, it’s wrong again, and his temper gets closer and closer to snapping.
This time is no exception.
It’s wrong.
In a fit of rage Minho flings the painting off its easel. The movement sends it careening straight into the piles of paper, paint and failed paintings cluttering the table. He’s already reaching out to grab another white, new canvas as he hears something crackle. At first he dismisses the sound but when he turns, he realizes what he’s done. The oil lamp.
Minho barely has time to turn and run, to scramble out of the room and out of the house, as the fire spreads fast on his heels. Eventually he doesn’t even know how he makes it outside, with the way the dry wood catches fire like the thinnest paper, going up in flames within mere seconds.
For the rest of the night, Minho stands outside his house, watching the fire lick up into the sky. He doesn’t run for help, there’s nothing anyone could do anyway, and so he simply stays there and says silent goodbyes to what once was his whole life.
It feels like an eternity has passed before the house is in ashes. With it, it has burned away all the anger from within the painter, has scorched away the bitter rage he held inside.
It’s time to start anew.
Years pass.
Minho’s aunt takes him in, for old time’s sake, and offers him a place to stay. He’s pitied now, the young man who lost his entire family first, and then his home in a tragic accident. People treat him like he’s made of glass, dodge out of his way and try to give him room. He doesn’t mind. In a backwards way it feels like a blessing, the peace and quiet he’s entitled to while he tries to learn to live again.
He does enjoy being surrounded by people at times, as long as he doesn’t need to interact with them too much. He likes the sounds of life, the chattering all around, the way people hurry past him at the marketplace without paying him any attention. It makes him feel he belongs without being burdened. Maybe that’s why he always volunteers when someone needs to go to the marketplace. He might not be good at bargaining for the best prices but his aunt can afford it, and she’s glad to send him out of the house for a while, thinking it’ll do him good.
There’s a crowd in front of the stall he usually buys fruit from so he heads further, ventures deeper into the marketplace to see another one. True enough it doesn’t take long, but there are people waiting even in front of that one. Not so many, though, so he stops there and waits. It makes his heart beat a little faster to do something that breaks out of his norm, so he doesn’t even notice when there are no others in front of him and the stallholder is talking to him.
“Sir? Sir. What can I get you?” The words are polite but the tone they’re spoken in isn’t. It’s rather exasperated, frayed thin enough to be on the edge of snapping. It makes Minho look up, finally, and what he sees makes him freeze in place.
This man. His painting. This is the man he spent years trying to paint.
Except when he begins to look more closely, it’s all wrong. The shape of the man’s eyes is still off, his lips aren’t quite the same shade Minho had been trying to paint. The line of his jaw is different, too, and the tone of his skin maybe a notch lighter than in Minho’s paintings. Still there’s something that captivates Minho’s attention. The man looks tired, there are dark circles under his eyes and a disapproving frown on his mouth, and he keeps staring at Minho critically.
That’s when Minho realizes he hasn’t even opened his mouth yet. Somehow he stumbles over his words as he tells what he wants - pears, his aunt had ordered - and pays for them. The man obviously expects him to move on, to leave now that he got what he asked for, but there are no others in the line so Minho stays, trying to figure out what to say.
“Uhm. What’s your name?” he asks, a pleased little buzz going through him as he has the stallholder’s attention again.
“My name?” the man repeats, huffing. “What do you need that for?” There’s a hint of amusement in the way he’s eyeing Minho now, though, his lips almost curving up.
“I’m Minho,” Minho smiles.
“Well, Minho.” Now there is definite amusement, a short puff of laughter following. “I’m Kibum. And I’m busy, there are customers here.”
Indeed, during their exchange more people have gravitated towards the stall, some already more or less impatiently waiting for their turn to get what they came for. Kibum looks exhausted, but he tries to cover it by squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, already taking a small side step closer to the next person in line. That’s when Minho speaks up, without even thinking. “I could help?”
Kibum’s eyes fly wide as he spins back around, looks straight at Minho with surprise. “Help?”
“Help,” Minho confirms. It’s not like he has anything better to do, anyway, if he spends more time on the marketplace it’s only a good thing, for everyone.
For a moment it seems like Kibum will decline, hesitation clear on his face as he freezes. He considers Minho for a good while, until the murmurs of other customers starts to get too demanding in the background. Finally, his expression melts into an approving one. “Then what are you waiting for, get in here.”
If burning his house down was one big turning point in Minho’s life, he feels that going around the simple table filled with various fruit is another. He may not know Kibum, not yet, but he soon learns he enjoys the sharp orders he’s expected to follow, as well as the quick genuine smiles he gets as a reward whenever he does something well.
The next day, he comes back.
Eventually, he stays.
---
(1428 words)
add | masterlist | request | random | tumblr? ;3
SO some random crazy painter Minho? I hope it makes sense, haha.
title shamelessly nicked from a Charon song.
@DW.