heartshaped
Title: heartshaped
Pairing: Jonghyun/Minho
Rating: PG
Summary: You never asked for his heart.
A/N: My first jongho. Wow, isnt this journal full of firsts. Let's see how this goes.
heartshaped.
You were careful.
You never asked for his heart.
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See, the waiting line’s too long. Girls with pigtails and glasses and closetfuls of pictures, women with blackberries and red nails, that see-through lie that will occasionally text him during photoshoots, that boy with the white neck, standing lost and sleepy in front of the fridge every morning.
The line’s too long and you are not much for waiting, so you never asked for his heart.
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It’s not his fault; he was born this way. A human deathtrap, a fly strip for fascination and double-takes.
You blame it on the vocal chords, the cheekbones and the eyes, the luscious bottom lip that smiles like it can make you happy.
You blame the entire mix, the cocktail that is arsenic and heaven stirred and served with a twist of lemon, such a small drink enough to get the whole world stumbling.
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He’s perfect by nature, pretty like only tiny poisons are, but you never had an appetite for self-destruction.
It was not hard to resist him.
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Does he make it hard?
Of course he does.
He spills out words so easily, sarang, saranghae, saranghamnida, he carves love out of air and confetti, he touches his nose to your neck when he speaks- and you’ve always been a sucker for love and words and deep brown eyes, but you won’t fall for this.
Not because you’re anything more genuine, not because you’re better -which you are- but because of some twisted sense of pride, you will not be one of many and you will not smile when he pretends to kiss you.
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It’s not like he’s lying though, he means it when he says it,
sarang,
saranghae,
saranghamnida,
and when his fingers brush the boy’s ear when he’s standing in front of the fridge each morning, he does it ‘cos he wants to.
It’s just that he means it differently; it’s just that he hasn’t understood yet that the thing in his ribcage can do more than just beat.
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So you never asked for his heart, ‘cos all you’d get would be a bloody muscle, a bit of glitter and a chorus line.
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You’ve warned him.
Because you love him, and because your arms have learnt the shape of his shoulders when he cries his makeup off, you don’t want this to end badly. You don’t want it to end, period.
So you lean against the windowsill and tilt your head and smile.
don’t play with me, hyung.
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Don’t play with me hyung, you don’t want to play with me.
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The thing is he does though, he does want to play with you, like he wants to play with everybody else. He’s safe, no-one will ever toss the ball back, no-one will pick up the stack of cards and pile chips on the table, stand up and say I dare you.
He’s on his own in this game, king of the world, the entire universe dancing around him, a merry-merry-merry-go-round and in the middle a bright little flame with puppy eyes that no-one dares touch, for fear of losing a finger.
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So he smiles at you, all teeth and gleeful bad intentions, and pushes up to his tiptoes to fake another kiss.
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On the ride back nobody speaks. He keeps his arms crossed and licks his lips like he can’t help it. He sneaks glances at you through the rear-view mirror, like you do, but he was never subtle with that stuff-he was never the quiet one that had to rely on reflections.
Every time he looks at you you can feel it like a brand on your forehead and you curve your mouth upwards to drive him crazy. You can hear him breathing.
There is some truth in every silly stage name, you think, and you were never afraid of fire.