(no subject)
après-midi
minho/onew, pg-13, 805ⓦ
Note: Thank you, Dahlia. Inspired by this. Highlight for in-text translations.
Jinki's lighting up his third, revolver and cigarette in one hand, Zippo in the other, when Minho gets back. He circles the car, opening up the trunk with a jangle of keys, and tosses the brown bag inside. It lands somewhere between a shotgun and a Jersey license plate. Jinki's gaze flicks upward to meet Minho's when the trunk slams shut, license plate rattling. He opens his mouth, sluggish and summer-drugged, lets the smoke blow into Minho's face. Minho leans in and steals the cigarette in response, brings it to his own mouth. The end is a little wet with Jinki's saliva; he curls his tongue around it, inhales ninety-nine percent nicotine, one percent Lee Jinki.
There is a scrap of paper in Minho's pocket with scrawled directions to a run-down motel. Jinki props his bare feet up on the dashboard and croons broken-hearted love songs in lieu of the long-gone radio, over the stinging summer heat, the dry and thrumming engine. This, too, is routine, Minho stealing glances of him through the rearview mirror like a shy, greedy-fingered thief. They pull in just after the sun has set, and Minho parks the car in reverse, ground rocky under the wheel.
Wingtip shoes, he's saying. Sobranie Black Russians. Anything you like. Minho's voice, Jinki thinks, is like liquor, dark and warm, curling in the pit of his stomach. Full of promise, hope, dreams. Minho, he knows, plays for keeps. He runs a fingernail along the dust gathering in between the floorboards.
They wake up on opposite sides of the bed. A twenty dollar bill sticks to the heel of Jinki's foot when it ventures, with great reluctance, out from between rumpled sheets and blankets. He toes it off, leaves the blankets bunched up like an island in the middle of the bed. Minho is sitting on the only chair in the room, cleaning his gun. Bleeding through the front page of the newspaper Minho has spread across the floor is the word WANTED, bold and thrilling. Jinki adds an extra egg to his omelette.
There is a round hole in the glass of the driver's window, big spiderweb cracks like veins, laced with blood. Jinki had glanced-locked eyes with the man, involuntarily-just before Minho had reached over the steering wheel and pulled the trigger. Running, Minho had always said, is the easy part. Minho used to win marathons, but things are different now.
That night Minho runs a rough palm over the calf of Jinki's left leg, warm and dry like summer. He drags Jinki's ankle down, moves up to taste the warmth pooling at his collarbones. They move together, quietly, letting the darkness fade them into obscurity, and dreams.
Minho is meticulous when he shaves, straight razor held tightly between his index finger and thumb. Jinki watches the shift of his shoulder blades, pale and wire-tight. People are eighty percent water, he'd read once; he believes it then, watching the muscle twist and pull under fragile inches of skin.
Tu te souviens-
Do you remember-
-le temps de la valise! Laughter, soft.
-the time with the suitcase!
Je me disais que tu m'en voulais peut-être.
I thought maybe you were upset with me.
Silence, and then: your hair is getting long.
It smells faintly of gardenias. The water sloshes, gently, when Minho moves in the bathtub to reach for the bar of soap. The bathroom floor is covered in locks of dark, wiry hair; it is gritty under Jinki's bare feet, abandoned. The scissors are like a loaded gun, heavy in his hand.
There was a lake, once. Minho's blazer was folded on the driver's seat, all the way back in the car. Jinki flicked water at him with a bare toe. Minho sidestepped the spray easily and laughed, one hand on the band of his wristwatch. It caught in the sun, for a moment; Jinki blinked and there Minho was, refracted in the sunlight, grey waistcoat and button down collar. There was a lake, or could have been.
You're a landmark all on your own, is what Minho says, the first time he meets Jinki. He's shooting old, dusty bottles, lined up on a fence off the side of the road. Jinki's holding onto a litre of pop, a sweltering, skinny-necked glass bottle. Minho's hair is wild, curled into the nape of his neck like tendrils; he smiles and Jinki, Jinki says yes.
(Jinki always reads the same poem to him, off a folded piece of paper; Minho remembers something about a bruise, a five-fisted kiss. Or maybe it was something about sand, hot sand and fire ants. Or a house and a door and two pairs of shoes. It's about love, anyway. He remembers that much. What stays, will stay.)
minho/onew, pg-13, 805ⓦ
Note: Thank you, Dahlia. Inspired by this. Highlight for in-text translations.
Jinki's lighting up his third, revolver and cigarette in one hand, Zippo in the other, when Minho gets back. He circles the car, opening up the trunk with a jangle of keys, and tosses the brown bag inside. It lands somewhere between a shotgun and a Jersey license plate. Jinki's gaze flicks upward to meet Minho's when the trunk slams shut, license plate rattling. He opens his mouth, sluggish and summer-drugged, lets the smoke blow into Minho's face. Minho leans in and steals the cigarette in response, brings it to his own mouth. The end is a little wet with Jinki's saliva; he curls his tongue around it, inhales ninety-nine percent nicotine, one percent Lee Jinki.
There is a scrap of paper in Minho's pocket with scrawled directions to a run-down motel. Jinki props his bare feet up on the dashboard and croons broken-hearted love songs in lieu of the long-gone radio, over the stinging summer heat, the dry and thrumming engine. This, too, is routine, Minho stealing glances of him through the rearview mirror like a shy, greedy-fingered thief. They pull in just after the sun has set, and Minho parks the car in reverse, ground rocky under the wheel.
Wingtip shoes, he's saying. Sobranie Black Russians. Anything you like. Minho's voice, Jinki thinks, is like liquor, dark and warm, curling in the pit of his stomach. Full of promise, hope, dreams. Minho, he knows, plays for keeps. He runs a fingernail along the dust gathering in between the floorboards.
They wake up on opposite sides of the bed. A twenty dollar bill sticks to the heel of Jinki's foot when it ventures, with great reluctance, out from between rumpled sheets and blankets. He toes it off, leaves the blankets bunched up like an island in the middle of the bed. Minho is sitting on the only chair in the room, cleaning his gun. Bleeding through the front page of the newspaper Minho has spread across the floor is the word WANTED, bold and thrilling. Jinki adds an extra egg to his omelette.
There is a round hole in the glass of the driver's window, big spiderweb cracks like veins, laced with blood. Jinki had glanced-locked eyes with the man, involuntarily-just before Minho had reached over the steering wheel and pulled the trigger. Running, Minho had always said, is the easy part. Minho used to win marathons, but things are different now.
That night Minho runs a rough palm over the calf of Jinki's left leg, warm and dry like summer. He drags Jinki's ankle down, moves up to taste the warmth pooling at his collarbones. They move together, quietly, letting the darkness fade them into obscurity, and dreams.
Minho is meticulous when he shaves, straight razor held tightly between his index finger and thumb. Jinki watches the shift of his shoulder blades, pale and wire-tight. People are eighty percent water, he'd read once; he believes it then, watching the muscle twist and pull under fragile inches of skin.
Tu te souviens-
Do you remember-
-le temps de la valise! Laughter, soft.
-the time with the suitcase!
Je me disais que tu m'en voulais peut-être.
I thought maybe you were upset with me.
Silence, and then: your hair is getting long.
It smells faintly of gardenias. The water sloshes, gently, when Minho moves in the bathtub to reach for the bar of soap. The bathroom floor is covered in locks of dark, wiry hair; it is gritty under Jinki's bare feet, abandoned. The scissors are like a loaded gun, heavy in his hand.
There was a lake, once. Minho's blazer was folded on the driver's seat, all the way back in the car. Jinki flicked water at him with a bare toe. Minho sidestepped the spray easily and laughed, one hand on the band of his wristwatch. It caught in the sun, for a moment; Jinki blinked and there Minho was, refracted in the sunlight, grey waistcoat and button down collar. There was a lake, or could have been.
You're a landmark all on your own, is what Minho says, the first time he meets Jinki. He's shooting old, dusty bottles, lined up on a fence off the side of the road. Jinki's holding onto a litre of pop, a sweltering, skinny-necked glass bottle. Minho's hair is wild, curled into the nape of his neck like tendrils; he smiles and Jinki, Jinki says yes.
(Jinki always reads the same poem to him, off a folded piece of paper; Minho remembers something about a bruise, a five-fisted kiss. Or maybe it was something about sand, hot sand and fire ants. Or a house and a door and two pairs of shoes. It's about love, anyway. He remembers that much. What stays, will stay.)