(no subject)
my heart stood still
minho/onew, pg, 1082ⓦ
Note: Inspired by Rupert Brooke's The Hill. For Jeny; happy birthday.
05 Sit a while, and be still with me. We'll play Pachebel in the lazy afternoons, I'll run my fingers over the rough skin of your elbow. Hold still, and I will find all the ways to make you come alive.
The sun sets early in the countryside, shifting out of its high perch and setting alight the higher reaches of leaves. The songbirds are nesting, the dragonflies out and the squirrels in hiding. A wind chime tied to the leaning bough of a tree tinkles, the sound gentle and bright. At the foot of the bee hive, stems of canary grass are starting to grow.
Jinki's footsteps are soft, the heavy press of tall boots padded with the rush of grass and wind. He whistles the same two notes together like a bird call, re mi, mi re, mi re, as he cuts a path through the grass, movements clumsy but practised in a beekeeper’s suit. To the east, the daffodils Minho has planted have begun to bloom in earnest, in bright, sunny yellows.
Sugar crystals line the rim of the jar nestled in his hands, crumbling when he unscrews the lid to fill the feeder frame with rich, golden syrup. Inside the hive, honeybees buzz and hum to each other in a secret language, a swarm of tiny bodies and fragile wings; he holds his breath without meaning to, watching them until the sun overtakes the hill, bright in his eyes.
The walk downhill is easier, a winding path back to the little whitewashed house with its leaning eaves, where he hangs up his suit, like the mark of the end of a day. When he opens the door, Minho is there, smelling of hickory and earth; it makes Jinki smile.
Inside the house, there is a home, a rickety wooden table with an empty glass bottle on top, orange root beer label half torn off; a rabbit Minho had carved out of basswood for Jinki, the lines rough; a delft blue plate that had chipped like a tooth on the rim.
He can hear the drone of the oven, busy; there is a recipe for cherry and almond muffins lying on the counter next to the mail, along with a miscreant dash of flour. The sun splinters at the edge of the window and winks out of sight as he leans over the back of Minho's chair to say hello.
04 We're still twenty-two states away from finishing our state quarters collection, because I accidentally spent Arkansas on gas. (I’m still learning how to leave behind the warmth of your body's proximity.)
They're lying in the last refuge of shade, Minho's head resting against the side of Jinki's stomach. Jinki is reading a battered copy of Faulkner out loud. Minho shifts, the movement revealing a sliver of skin before Jinki reaches out and tugs his shirt back down, mid-sentence. Minho smiles; the grass tickles the back of his neck.
Jinki's English is precise and careful, different from the easy, soothing lilt of his Korean. The cadence is familiar, though, as is the way the tips of Jinki's fingers linger on the pages as he flips them from left to right, backwards instead of forwards.
Caddy smelled like trees, Jinki is saying. Minho turns, then, nose digging into Jinki's stomach, just under the rib. Jinki yelps, curling inwards in a clash of limbs. Minho laughs, narrowly avoiding a knee as Jinki regards him balefully, still clinging to the book as he unfurls, gingerly.
Jinki smells like springtime and clean laundry, something sweet and warm; comfort, even in the middle of June. Minho pulls himself up, and Jinki's expression changes at the intent on Minho's face, eyes no longer wide. He slides his fingers out from between the pages as Minho leans in.
When he kisses Jinki, he can taste Jinki's lip balm, lingering on his tongue. Jinki's curled a hand around the back of his neck, fingers in his hair. The shade has shifted, and Minho can feel the sun on his back, shining bright and relentless.
"Study break?" Jinki asks, and Minho's eyes curve into a smile.
03 White tuxedos, fine wine and shrimp cocktails - they say this is the life, but I know better.
Jinki is eyeing his glass of champagne like he's reading the meniscus, trying to decide if he should pipette another two millimetres out or if he's had enough. It'd be easier if they weren't on a cruise ship, but that's Minho's fault, not Jinki's.
"You hate it, don't you?" Minho says conversationally, having sidled up to him with his own flute sometime between now and Jinki's last covert glance. Minho's smiling; he looks completely at ease in Ozwald Boateng - whereas Jinki just wants to make a joke about boating in Boateng without returning looks that could persecute.
Christmas lights have been strung up around the ship, and people are dancing in pairs on the deck, swaying to the sounds of the jazz ensemble - Tony Bennett and Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra, all the classics. The piano reminds Jinki of silverware, the tinkle of china and polite conversation. "I liked the phyllo cups," Jinki says, finally. They really had been very nice - Swiss chard and two types of cheeses, still oven-warm.
"What about me?" Minho says, teasingly, and there are lights in his eyes that have nothing to do with Christmas.
"I'm only here because I like you," Jinki admits.
Minho throws his head back and laughs. "I'll drink to that."
02 I'm here, we're together, so hang up your winter coat.
Kibum moves for his hand and Minho takes it, glancing down the row - Taemin and Kibum's hands in either of Jonghyun's, Taemin's hold sliding down from Jinki's wrist to his hand.
When they bow, it hits Minho like vertigo, the adrenaline, the screams, the pride and joy and happiness and love. Minho straightens, tugs Kibum in by the hand until he's reached Jinki. Jinki's shirt is wet, his hair clinging to an up-do, eyes shining with tears he's trying to hold back. Minho sweeps him into a hug, and feels three pairs of arms encompass the two of them.
He can feel heat soaking though the damp fabric of his shirt; Jinki is crying. "We're going," Kibum laughs, voice shaky against the back of Minho's neck, and even if they're not in the right formation, they shout the rest, fingers tight: ultra SHINee transformation!
01 Love: perhaps there are better words, but I don't know them.
minho/onew, pg, 1082ⓦ
Note: Inspired by Rupert Brooke's The Hill. For Jeny; happy birthday.
05 Sit a while, and be still with me. We'll play Pachebel in the lazy afternoons, I'll run my fingers over the rough skin of your elbow. Hold still, and I will find all the ways to make you come alive.
The sun sets early in the countryside, shifting out of its high perch and setting alight the higher reaches of leaves. The songbirds are nesting, the dragonflies out and the squirrels in hiding. A wind chime tied to the leaning bough of a tree tinkles, the sound gentle and bright. At the foot of the bee hive, stems of canary grass are starting to grow.
Jinki's footsteps are soft, the heavy press of tall boots padded with the rush of grass and wind. He whistles the same two notes together like a bird call, re mi, mi re, mi re, as he cuts a path through the grass, movements clumsy but practised in a beekeeper’s suit. To the east, the daffodils Minho has planted have begun to bloom in earnest, in bright, sunny yellows.
Sugar crystals line the rim of the jar nestled in his hands, crumbling when he unscrews the lid to fill the feeder frame with rich, golden syrup. Inside the hive, honeybees buzz and hum to each other in a secret language, a swarm of tiny bodies and fragile wings; he holds his breath without meaning to, watching them until the sun overtakes the hill, bright in his eyes.
The walk downhill is easier, a winding path back to the little whitewashed house with its leaning eaves, where he hangs up his suit, like the mark of the end of a day. When he opens the door, Minho is there, smelling of hickory and earth; it makes Jinki smile.
Inside the house, there is a home, a rickety wooden table with an empty glass bottle on top, orange root beer label half torn off; a rabbit Minho had carved out of basswood for Jinki, the lines rough; a delft blue plate that had chipped like a tooth on the rim.
He can hear the drone of the oven, busy; there is a recipe for cherry and almond muffins lying on the counter next to the mail, along with a miscreant dash of flour. The sun splinters at the edge of the window and winks out of sight as he leans over the back of Minho's chair to say hello.
04 We're still twenty-two states away from finishing our state quarters collection, because I accidentally spent Arkansas on gas. (I’m still learning how to leave behind the warmth of your body's proximity.)
They're lying in the last refuge of shade, Minho's head resting against the side of Jinki's stomach. Jinki is reading a battered copy of Faulkner out loud. Minho shifts, the movement revealing a sliver of skin before Jinki reaches out and tugs his shirt back down, mid-sentence. Minho smiles; the grass tickles the back of his neck.
Jinki's English is precise and careful, different from the easy, soothing lilt of his Korean. The cadence is familiar, though, as is the way the tips of Jinki's fingers linger on the pages as he flips them from left to right, backwards instead of forwards.
Caddy smelled like trees, Jinki is saying. Minho turns, then, nose digging into Jinki's stomach, just under the rib. Jinki yelps, curling inwards in a clash of limbs. Minho laughs, narrowly avoiding a knee as Jinki regards him balefully, still clinging to the book as he unfurls, gingerly.
Jinki smells like springtime and clean laundry, something sweet and warm; comfort, even in the middle of June. Minho pulls himself up, and Jinki's expression changes at the intent on Minho's face, eyes no longer wide. He slides his fingers out from between the pages as Minho leans in.
When he kisses Jinki, he can taste Jinki's lip balm, lingering on his tongue. Jinki's curled a hand around the back of his neck, fingers in his hair. The shade has shifted, and Minho can feel the sun on his back, shining bright and relentless.
"Study break?" Jinki asks, and Minho's eyes curve into a smile.
03 White tuxedos, fine wine and shrimp cocktails - they say this is the life, but I know better.
Jinki is eyeing his glass of champagne like he's reading the meniscus, trying to decide if he should pipette another two millimetres out or if he's had enough. It'd be easier if they weren't on a cruise ship, but that's Minho's fault, not Jinki's.
"You hate it, don't you?" Minho says conversationally, having sidled up to him with his own flute sometime between now and Jinki's last covert glance. Minho's smiling; he looks completely at ease in Ozwald Boateng - whereas Jinki just wants to make a joke about boating in Boateng without returning looks that could persecute.
Christmas lights have been strung up around the ship, and people are dancing in pairs on the deck, swaying to the sounds of the jazz ensemble - Tony Bennett and Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra, all the classics. The piano reminds Jinki of silverware, the tinkle of china and polite conversation. "I liked the phyllo cups," Jinki says, finally. They really had been very nice - Swiss chard and two types of cheeses, still oven-warm.
"What about me?" Minho says, teasingly, and there are lights in his eyes that have nothing to do with Christmas.
"I'm only here because I like you," Jinki admits.
Minho throws his head back and laughs. "I'll drink to that."
02 I'm here, we're together, so hang up your winter coat.
Kibum moves for his hand and Minho takes it, glancing down the row - Taemin and Kibum's hands in either of Jonghyun's, Taemin's hold sliding down from Jinki's wrist to his hand.
When they bow, it hits Minho like vertigo, the adrenaline, the screams, the pride and joy and happiness and love. Minho straightens, tugs Kibum in by the hand until he's reached Jinki. Jinki's shirt is wet, his hair clinging to an up-do, eyes shining with tears he's trying to hold back. Minho sweeps him into a hug, and feels three pairs of arms encompass the two of them.
He can feel heat soaking though the damp fabric of his shirt; Jinki is crying. "We're going," Kibum laughs, voice shaky against the back of Minho's neck, and even if they're not in the right formation, they shout the rest, fingers tight: ultra SHINee transformation!
01 Love: perhaps there are better words, but I don't know them.