Sewing Machine
Title: Sewing Machine
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: G - drabble
A/N: Another in my late night minkey drabbles. :]
--
For the millionth time that night, Key let out a sigh and dragged a hand over his face.
He wasn’t eating cereal.
He wasn’t eating ice cream.
And he wasn’t staring at the cupboards, willing them to give him answers in their freshly stained glory.
He was staring at his sewing machine and his various tools strewn about on the kitchen table, the fabric wrinkled under the needle and his socked foot resting next to the pedal on the floor. He blinked sleepily at the machine, looking at how the chrome shined in the light, how the sparkly pink string that he had searched and searched and searched to find in every store ever in South Korea glittered prettily. He studied the arm of it, he studied the knob, he studied the spool and he studied the needles.
He knew this sewing machine inside and out; it had been his late grandmother’s, and she had given it to him as a graduation gift right before she passed away.
She had kept it in mint condition, circa 1957, since it was her first and only sewing machine, ever.
And he had kept just as good care of it, if not better, making sure that it always shined and was always ready to take a spin.
Feline eyes drooped down to the fabric that was bunched under the needle, where things had gotten jammed up and tangled and his thread had become unattached somewhere, but as soon as he shut off the machine and flipped open the lower compartment, he just lost motivation.
And so he stared at the machine, as if it held the meaning of life.
“I think you have issues with inanimate objects.”
Minho had appeared out of nowhere but Key didn’t jolt, the other rappers’ voice much too soft to startle him. Key raised his eyes to watch the taller boy slip into the chair across from him, a soft smile on his lips.
“Do not,” Key said, his response delayed and lethargic.
“Do you need to go to the doctor?” Minho asked.
Key knew it wasn’t because he was sick.
It was because he couldn’t sleep.
Then again, insomnia was a sort of sickness.
“No,” the diva said, sitting up some and shaking his head.
Minho nodded, though he clearly thought that Key should seek help with this little issue. The other rapper reached out and carefully brought the sewing machine to him, peering into the lower hatch and reaching in with nimble fingers to re-thread the needle, twist the knob, and get things going again as he shut the compartment. Key watched with mild interest, wondering why Minho always came to save the day.
Minho couldn’t answer the question to the meaning of life.
He could help stain cupboards, he could help finish a bowl of ice cream, and he could fix a sewing machine, but he didn’t hold the meaning of life.
Key wasn’t going to stop looking for it.
“Hey.”
Key glanced up and suddenly Minho was standing next to him; when did he move?
“Come on. You can do that in the morning.”
Letting out a slow exhale, Key stood up and took Minho’s offered hand, lacing their fingers as he shut off the light of the sewing machine and unhooked the pedal. They walked back to the bedroom, Key rubbing his eyes and yawning sleepily as they entered the room and clambered into bed together.
A few moments of silence and Minho’s breathing evened out, while his hold around Key stayed strong and secure.
Key listened to Minho’s heart beat and stared at the shadows on the wall, of the rain hitting the window.
Minho didn’t have the answer to life.
But he knew how to solve a million other problems.
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: G - drabble
A/N: Another in my late night minkey drabbles. :]
--
For the millionth time that night, Key let out a sigh and dragged a hand over his face.
He wasn’t eating cereal.
He wasn’t eating ice cream.
And he wasn’t staring at the cupboards, willing them to give him answers in their freshly stained glory.
He was staring at his sewing machine and his various tools strewn about on the kitchen table, the fabric wrinkled under the needle and his socked foot resting next to the pedal on the floor. He blinked sleepily at the machine, looking at how the chrome shined in the light, how the sparkly pink string that he had searched and searched and searched to find in every store ever in South Korea glittered prettily. He studied the arm of it, he studied the knob, he studied the spool and he studied the needles.
He knew this sewing machine inside and out; it had been his late grandmother’s, and she had given it to him as a graduation gift right before she passed away.
She had kept it in mint condition, circa 1957, since it was her first and only sewing machine, ever.
And he had kept just as good care of it, if not better, making sure that it always shined and was always ready to take a spin.
Feline eyes drooped down to the fabric that was bunched under the needle, where things had gotten jammed up and tangled and his thread had become unattached somewhere, but as soon as he shut off the machine and flipped open the lower compartment, he just lost motivation.
And so he stared at the machine, as if it held the meaning of life.
“I think you have issues with inanimate objects.”
Minho had appeared out of nowhere but Key didn’t jolt, the other rappers’ voice much too soft to startle him. Key raised his eyes to watch the taller boy slip into the chair across from him, a soft smile on his lips.
“Do not,” Key said, his response delayed and lethargic.
“Do you need to go to the doctor?” Minho asked.
Key knew it wasn’t because he was sick.
It was because he couldn’t sleep.
Then again, insomnia was a sort of sickness.
“No,” the diva said, sitting up some and shaking his head.
Minho nodded, though he clearly thought that Key should seek help with this little issue. The other rapper reached out and carefully brought the sewing machine to him, peering into the lower hatch and reaching in with nimble fingers to re-thread the needle, twist the knob, and get things going again as he shut the compartment. Key watched with mild interest, wondering why Minho always came to save the day.
Minho couldn’t answer the question to the meaning of life.
He could help stain cupboards, he could help finish a bowl of ice cream, and he could fix a sewing machine, but he didn’t hold the meaning of life.
Key wasn’t going to stop looking for it.
“Hey.”
Key glanced up and suddenly Minho was standing next to him; when did he move?
“Come on. You can do that in the morning.”
Letting out a slow exhale, Key stood up and took Minho’s offered hand, lacing their fingers as he shut off the light of the sewing machine and unhooked the pedal. They walked back to the bedroom, Key rubbing his eyes and yawning sleepily as they entered the room and clambered into bed together.
A few moments of silence and Minho’s breathing evened out, while his hold around Key stayed strong and secure.
Key listened to Minho’s heart beat and stared at the shadows on the wall, of the rain hitting the window.
Minho didn’t have the answer to life.
But he knew how to solve a million other problems.