Words
Title: Words
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: G - drabble
A/N: I love writing stuff like this. :] I dunno it just really elates me when I’m in a shitty mood.
--
Key sighed and twirled the pen in his fingers, staring at his notebook as he sat at the kitchen table.
It had been a week since he had been up in the middle of the night, but for some reason something in his brain was nagging at him tonight.
He blinked sleepily down at his notebook, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.
Words were on the tip of his tongue, dancing on his finger tips, but nothing was happening.
For some reason his brain wasn’t connecting to his hand.
Which was stupid, because his hand was moving, which meant brain activity was happening, but…
The page was blank.
He flipped the pen in his hands again; he couldn’t even doodle.
Putting his elbow on the table and resting his cheek in his palm, he let out a heavy sigh as he touched the pen to the paper, the black ink almost spilling out of it, as if it was tired of the anticipation of being used, as if it was literally bursting to put words on the paper.
Key wished the pen could give some of its excitement to his brain.
Maybe then he could actually write something.
The chair next to him scooted and Minho’s presence was detected by Key’s rapidly accelerating heart beat coupled with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.
“Anything good?” Minho asked, his voice soft as his hand settled on the back of Key’s chair.
“Mmm. Not really,” Key hummed as Minho leaned closer to peer at the empty page.
“You never were the song writer,” a smile was evident in his teasing tone.
“Something was there,” Key said, biting on his thumb idly. It was a habit, a habit he couldn’t kick, just like how he couldn’t stop fidgeting with his ears or hair. “Something was on the tip of my tongue and was dying to be let out. But… my hand doesn’t want to write it.”
“So maybe you should say it,” Minho prompted, resting his chin on Key’s shoulder. “Record it on your phone.”
Key’s head tilted to rest against Minho’s, “No… it needs to be written out. So I can show people.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for them to hear it?”
“Actions speak louder than words,” Key said.
It was a true statement, however. You could tell someone something all of the time, but until you actually show them, they might not get the full picture.
Hit with a sudden inspiration, Key scribbled in his neat scrawl, before smiling in satisfaction to himself.
“There.”
Minho lifted his head off of Key’s shoulder and looked at the page.
Three words, in cursive English.
I love you
The younger rapper chuckled, “You words and actions are the same.”
“But this one gets my point across,” Key smiled.
After all, he had been up all night thinking about it.
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: G - drabble
A/N: I love writing stuff like this. :] I dunno it just really elates me when I’m in a shitty mood.
--
Key sighed and twirled the pen in his fingers, staring at his notebook as he sat at the kitchen table.
It had been a week since he had been up in the middle of the night, but for some reason something in his brain was nagging at him tonight.
He blinked sleepily down at his notebook, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.
Words were on the tip of his tongue, dancing on his finger tips, but nothing was happening.
For some reason his brain wasn’t connecting to his hand.
Which was stupid, because his hand was moving, which meant brain activity was happening, but…
The page was blank.
He flipped the pen in his hands again; he couldn’t even doodle.
Putting his elbow on the table and resting his cheek in his palm, he let out a heavy sigh as he touched the pen to the paper, the black ink almost spilling out of it, as if it was tired of the anticipation of being used, as if it was literally bursting to put words on the paper.
Key wished the pen could give some of its excitement to his brain.
Maybe then he could actually write something.
The chair next to him scooted and Minho’s presence was detected by Key’s rapidly accelerating heart beat coupled with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.
“Anything good?” Minho asked, his voice soft as his hand settled on the back of Key’s chair.
“Mmm. Not really,” Key hummed as Minho leaned closer to peer at the empty page.
“You never were the song writer,” a smile was evident in his teasing tone.
“Something was there,” Key said, biting on his thumb idly. It was a habit, a habit he couldn’t kick, just like how he couldn’t stop fidgeting with his ears or hair. “Something was on the tip of my tongue and was dying to be let out. But… my hand doesn’t want to write it.”
“So maybe you should say it,” Minho prompted, resting his chin on Key’s shoulder. “Record it on your phone.”
Key’s head tilted to rest against Minho’s, “No… it needs to be written out. So I can show people.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for them to hear it?”
“Actions speak louder than words,” Key said.
It was a true statement, however. You could tell someone something all of the time, but until you actually show them, they might not get the full picture.
Hit with a sudden inspiration, Key scribbled in his neat scrawl, before smiling in satisfaction to himself.
“There.”
Minho lifted his head off of Key’s shoulder and looked at the page.
Three words, in cursive English.
I love you
The younger rapper chuckled, “You words and actions are the same.”
“But this one gets my point across,” Key smiled.
After all, he had been up all night thinking about it.