back and forth

Minho/Key - Little Thought

everyglance — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 17:25:33 GMT

Title: Little Thought
Pairing: Minho/Key
Word Count: 1, 391
Type: One-shot, PG

It’s Kibum’s third day into the job at the quaint little café, putting finishing touches onto a perfect cup of caramel macchiato when a boy wearing a sleek navy suit and with hair impeccably done walks in; the ringing of the bell announcing his arrival. Tall Boy, Kibum observes, promptly stalks up to his friend at the cashier after which they exchange a few quick words and said cashier friend pushes back the swinging little door that separates the people that are supposed to know each other from the others that (apart from those who come accompanied) usually don’t.

“Hi,” Kibum says, originally intended as a single-word sentence – but after a few silent moments pass without the slightest bit of reaction from Tall Boy, continues, “I suppose you’re the new addition Onew mentioned a couple of days ago?”

Only at that question does the subject Kibum is addressing respond to him, giving him a curt nod and offering his hand by way of introduction, “Good afternoon, I’m Minho. How may I address you?”

Slightly amused by Tall Boy’s – Minho, now – using of pleasantries at the café’s less than formal setting, Kibum gives a little chuckle and goes back to the waffles that command some decorating on the glistening white plate in front of him.

“Save it. You won’t need much of that anyway. I’m Kibum.”

Kibum soon realizes Minho – The Minho, maybe, is a cousin of Onew’s fresh out of college looking to start a little business of his own; looking, first, at acquiring some managerial experience. He realizes pretty soon that Minho spends almost all of his time at the café; striking up random conversations with customers, looking through the accounts, brainstorming franchising ideas and coming up with possible new ways of reinventing the little place.

After yet another night with Kibum working the late shift and Minho staying up in a corner of the café looking through yet another thick book with a little black calculator at his side, Kibum pretty much decides if this is the company he’s going to be getting for quite a while in the future he’d best at least try to remotely enjoy it.

Decision made.

“Chai Latte?”

It’s been over a month, maybe two and Kibum now knows that Minho loves latte, especially with an extra spoonful of milk, mocha (preferably with dark chocolate syrup) and – among the teas – exclusively English Breakfast. Out of the things Minho decidedly hates; or dislikes, as Minho puts it, Kibum can’t for the life of him understand why green tea falls under that category. Jasmine and mint probably deserve it, however.

Kibum’s also managed to successfully decipher Minho’s Dressing Code. On Mondays it’s Minho @ Basic House (because seriously every start of the week Kibum feels like he’s about to haemorrhage from the lack of actual colour), Checkered Tuesdays, Suit Up! Wednesdays, Print Shirt + Blazer Thursdays, Whatever-Minho’s-Actual-Mood-Is Fridays.

Sometimes Kibum just wants to tell Minho that he’ll be his shopper free of charge and Minho will never have to go through the pain of shopping for the rest of his life; simultaneously saving everyone the pain of watching all that potential in Minho’s body go to waste beneath those ordinary clothes.

It’s just the two of them in the café spending yet another late night, Minho mulling over the stacks of paper he somehow dug out from the backroom, Kibum habitually asking Minho if he’d rather stay because the smell of coffee is almost driving me insane and that is never good and therefore a signal for me to kind of pack up and hustle back and spend some quiet time with my couch I rarely find appealing when the knot at the back of his apron gets stuck and even before he can get himself to the nearest mirror Minho is already behind him, a hand at the small of his back and quietly tugging at the string.

Kibum stills and sure enough, the knot comes loose after a few moments – after which Minho gives him a little pat on the shoulder with an air of finality and goes back to settle at his corner. Kibum thinks of a thanks then on to some distant thing about pleasantries and decides to just hang his apron up instead.

“Well. I’ll be going, then.”

If Kibum has ever gone beyond thinking of Minho as being anything more than attractive, it most certainly wasn’t his fault. All those late nights and seeing a pair of full lips quietly sipping whatever drink he’d decide to make, whipped cream framing the slight smile Kibum occasionally received was bound to make his mind go places one day.

Kibum figures he’s probably overthinking a little, considering he’s not been with anyone for a long time (that much he admits to himself) and his hormones are, regardless, normal testosterone level.

But no; nothing good would ever come out of developing feelings for Minho, not Minho, not The Minho – probably ramrod straight and looking to settle down to a peaceful quiet family life in a couple of years after achieving, god knows, whatever kind of stability he wanted in whichever of life’s aspects.

Not so little the thought after all, Kibum thinks.

Or maybe Kibum’s self-derived conclusion of Minho’s sexuality what he alone seems to think, because god knows, only god knows and Kibum is thanking the great good lord above when Minho leans across the table after a whole day of tiring, exhausting work to frame Kibum’s face in his gentle hands and they kiss; Kibum’s hands tightening in the pocket of his apron, little wane lights blinking outside the glass pane of the café, everything slowing to a stand-still and Kibum – can almost hear Minho’s heartbeat.

When they part, Minho’s looking at him with an inexplicable look on his face, as if Minho’s just had some sort of epiphany and is struggling to put things into words. Kibum hesitates, because in his point of view he obviously wasn’t the one who had any explaining to do, at which Minho decidedly stands up, so sudden the chair he’s sitting on tips over, walks the width of the table to Kibum, sits on it and re-commences the kissing.

Kibum feels Minho’s soft, full lips on his own; feels Minho’s hands stroking the line of his neck, feels them running through his hair, grabbing on to his shoulders, pulling him up – the rate at which things are happening, however, Kibum cannot seem to grasp; his body just seems to respond to Minho’s, their bodies glued together like electromagnetic forces having found their center field and now working their magic stronger than ever.

This time, Minho pulls away, only to utter “Will you come home with me”, the words barely hovering in the air before Kibum finds the both of them hastily securing Little Thought and hailing a midnight cab down south.

-----

Minho wakes up to the smell of eucalyptus and sleep, the rustle of bed sheets next to him, the warm feeling of knowing Kibum is next to him in the morning. He watches as Kibum sleeps, mesmerized, the gentle even heaving of Kibum’s beautiful ivory chest and Kibum’s hands clenched around fistfuls of the pillow.

Minho has so many things he’d like Kibum to hear, to know; like how about we run away together or maybe, instead, right from the beginning like walking through the door of Onew’s café intent on pursuing a career but watching that ambition fall right to pieces in front of the perfect boy behind the counter with the caramel squeeze bottle creating little zigzag lines on a cup of coffee, all the late nights well spent getting to know more about Kibum’s sense of criticality and tastefulness – in coffee, television, literature, film; his dreams and hopes and maybe if someone had casually asked Minho one of those days if he loved loved Kibum, Minho probably would have to hesitate.

Minho counts Kibum’s eyelashes, inspects the folds and creases along the sides of Kibum’s eyes, notices the way Kibum’s hair catches the light of the late morning and doesn’t miss it when Kibum opens his eyes slowly, eyelids heavy from sleep; to greet him with a warm gentle smile like a familiar lover, Minho’s hands rustling through the bed sheets to pull Kibum closer to him.

“Good morning, Minho.”

just wanted to say:

everyglance — Sat, 09 Apr 2011 16:40:01 GMT

This is not an abandoned writing journal - just one with (severe) writer's block.

Minho/Key - Only You Can (Make Me Feel)

everyglance — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 17:59:50 GMT

Title: Only You Can (Make Me Feel)
Pairing: Minho/Key
Word Count: 1, 220
Type: One-shot, PG
Notes: This is extremely self-indulgent (I let myself be, for once) and kind of fluff-inserted here and there, kind of cheesy, mostly just to help me feel better and working as part of an obligatory fic thing for Kibum's now belated birthday. Unbeta-ed, as usual. (If anyone's willing to be my beta, I'm looking for one, kindly give me a heads up! Just drop me a PM.) Thank you for reading. P.S. it's kinda like 2am+ right now and my brain isn't exactly in the best of situations, but this is extremely relevant to fic below.

Key lets Nicole in, the small space that is the living room filled with laughter, loud chatter and too many people. From his position at the door, Key counts – Jonghyun, Mir, Dongwoon, Seunghyun, Jinwoon, Nana, and probably ten more people or so, a birthday cake in the middle of them. The birthday cake isn’t touched, it’s positioned right in the middle, peaceful and undisturbed, with the plastic knife and candles lying right by its side.

“Kibum can we please blow the candles already,” is what Jonghyun tells him when he returns to the seat at the center of the crowd, with some of the other chiming in, they’ve all got curfews, managers to account to, stalker fans to reassure. Key shakes his head, a big grin spreading across his face but which doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s barely late, most of the party’s just arrived, I want you guys to stay longer!” Key is aware that he sounds like a spoilt brat, like the world revolves around him, like… He isn’t waiting for anybody. Nobody at all. Besides, he’s got a right, it’s his goddamn birthday, and if the people in the room weren’t going to give in to him on his special day, they might as well forget it.

So the people leave one by one, Key sees them, first to go being Seunghyun and his band mates from F.T Island, after which he can’t remember the order anymore. All he knows is that at 11, he’s looking at only Jonghyun and Nicole around the table.

The three of them avoid mentioning a certain name like the plague, they twist and turn and talk about everything else under the sun – or maybe it was the moon, then, instead – and try to humor the birthday boy, to fight and keep his mind off what the three of them know he’s thinking. And the birthday cake sits in the center of the table, still uncut, still untouched, the cold air in the cake box slowly vapourizing, forming droplets, drip drip drip on the cardboard surface.

It’s 11:30. Nicole leaves.

11:45. “He won’t be able to make it, Kibum-ah.” Key fights the urge to ask whoever’s speaking to shut up.

He reads the birthday wishes in his phone again. The first came from Dongwoon, a minute too early, then Jinwoon’s, right on time, Jonghyun’s, Wonbin’s, Joon’s, Mir’s, the rest of BEAST, Onew’s and Taemin’s…. the time on the top right corner of his phone reads 11:55. Jonghyun’s putting the candles into the birthday cake.

Jonghyun lights the candles, sings Key a sweet, sweet, almost beautiful birthday song, tells him not to stay up too late, then walks out to the balcony of the birthday boy’s Daegu home. Key knows he’s going to be on the phone with Jessica, the both of them, always, right before midnight.

He sits on the floor in the middle of the living room, staring at the birthday cake with the candles reluctantly blown out, the wax dried on the multi-coloured sticks making little dents in the smooth surface of vanilla, mind blank.

Suddenly a shadow is cast over him. He sees the mark of a drip of water on the wooden floor.

He looks up.

Then it is like “Kibum, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it back in time, I ran, I seriously ran from that place – you know where I was, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back in time, I’m sorry, I’m so so so sorry – “

His arms are around the younger boy’s neck, hugging him tightly, the tears warm on his face, all Kibum knows, all he is sure of, is the build of Minho, the touch of Minho, the smell of Minho, how sweaty Minho is but what does he care, Minho Minho Minho and then he decides that whatever time it is, whatever time is, it isn’t important because right then, right there, he’s got all he wanted, all he wants and all he’ll ever want.

When they finally pull apart, it’s for Minho to wipe the tears off Kibum’s face, to give him another long list of “sorry”s, right in his eyes this time, after which the birthday boy points at the cake.

“I wanted to wait till you came to blow the candles out. But… Jonghyun insisted, said it was my birthday, and cakes – or one, at least – has to have its candles blown out on the actual birth date, otherwise the wish wouldn’t work anymore.”

Minho nods, slowly, as if pondering a very serious thought, at which Kibum decides to ask, opening his mouth again – “But why not a birthday wish, at the very least, on my birthday? It’s my birthday, you know, if you couldn’t be here in person you could, definitely, drop me a wish, couldn’t you?”

Minho takes out his phone from his back pocket, presses the power on button, presses it again. The screen doesn’t light up.

“I… left my charger back at the dorm. On Tuesday. When manager hyung told us we could go back to our families for Chuseok. I forgot to pack it in.” Minho’s voice is sincere, full of apology. Kibum gives him a long, hard look – and notices the bouquet of roses in his hand.

“Is that…” his hands move to point at the wrapped box that Minho casually put on the table, the traditional plaid stripes characterizing the brand, brown and black, brown and black.

“Perfume? Yeah.”

“But I’m not 21… Yet.”

Minho gets up from the sofa, walks up to Kibum, looks into his eyes. “It doesn’t really matter, you know, you’re already in a relationship. Guess that means you’re mature enough.”

Kibum wants to say something back in return, maybe something like no, it matters, I’m a secret upholder of tradition and all the old values that nobody cares for nowadays, things like love that lasts a lifetime, only one person can make you feel a particular way – but Minho kisses him, kisses him long and hard, the feeling not something electric that jolts through but a warmth that spreads slowly, all the way into the depths of his heart, through his body to his fingertips, his toes, and love grinds into him like a pit at the bottom of his stomach, a particular feeling that Kibum thinks he can take a lifetime getting to know, a lifetime to fully comprehend.

Minho’s hands run down the small of his back, circle his waist, draws him closer in, closer, closer, till their bodies are both pressing together and the light of the room burns brighter and hotter than Kibum ever remembers it. The both of them stand that way for endless moments, Kibum’s hands entwined around Minho’s neck, Minho’s tight around his waist, swaying to silent music. The birthday boy would have missed the words if not for his head resting on Minho’s chest, feeling it heaving only slightly but surely, “Happy birthday Kibum.”

Kibum smiles, his lips slowly curving to form a crescent that lights up his eyes, dazzling, brilliant, unwavering. He knows, in his heart he knows, one of those things that only the heart can tell, and only time can prove. That Minho’s the one, just one, merely one, simply one, but the only one.

Jonghyun/Onew - Paper Planes

everyglance — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 15:03:10 GMT

Title: Paper Planes
Pairing: Jonghyun/Onew, side Minho/Key
Word Count: 1, 223
Type: One-shot, PG
Notes: For runawaylane. This is my first time ever writing JongYu, and I hope I did, at least, a somewhat amateurish and acceptable job. As always, much thanks for reading and comments are always appreciated!

III

Jonghyun presses the top two edges of the small piece of paper together, slowly bringing their sharp points to a center fold, presses them neatly down and carefully bends in the shape.

He remembers one of his first memories of Jinki, of the two of them lying down on the practice room, horizontal straight, tired to the bone. He thinks of that time they had lunch together at McDonalds, Jinki having to save up a week straight to be able to afford him a birthday treat. He recalls one of his first thoughts about Jinki, how he thought he would never be able to get along with the older boy.

-

“Teach me how to fold paper planes, Jonghyun-ah,” Jinki says one day over scrambled eggs and hot coffee, all too early in the morning with the rays of sunlight barely peeping through the curtains; them in the kitchen, the other three still sleeping. Taemin was alone in the room Jinki shared with Onew and Key, the latter having escaped to Minho’s side in the course of the night.

Jonghyun looks up and thinks that all of them would need more time for this, more time outside of practice and performing and learning the skills of variety, more time for the older boy to be able to learn the subtleties of the folds and the careful maneuvering of smooth white paper – but he says Okay anyhow, the words escaping his lips before he can withdraw them, because just like any promise made, a promise made to Jinki is easy.

The difficult part comes in keeping it.

IV

His hands bring in the outer recesses of white, mind working simultaneously to best gauge its circumference and fold with precise relativity, for every paper plane is different. The mirroring sides look all too sharp and hostile, the smooth sides cutting through space as if an avant-garde design, and already can Jonghyun see the gaping difference amid their symmetricality.

Jinki’s face shape simply appeals to Jonghyun, in all definition of the word. He likes how it isn’t too sharp at the edges, around the cheekbones, how Jinki doesn’t at any point look malnourished or overfed. Jonghyun finds perfection in balance, in the unlikely coming together of people, in how he almost always inexplicably eventually warms up to those he doesn’t categorize under the ‘Like’ list even after a few times of meeting.

-

“Fold in, uh, together, right?” The younger boy nods. “No wait it looks wrong. Jonghyun-ah,” Jinki finishes for what seems like the nth time that day. As for Jinki’s valiant attempt at paper planes, Jonghyun had given the leader, by mouth, a fixed set of instructions to follow according to which should have been relatively easy. Jonghyun sighs and goes look properly, now, and repeats the folding procedure for the umpteenth time.

The five of them are in the van, the place the most time is spent in nowadays, travelling from one place to another promoting yet another new song full of catchy beats and rhythmic movements, tunes pulled and put together all too easily from the automatically varying decibels of the computer, spun like a maze half finished and lacking its crux.

He gives a casual glance to the elongated backseat, the space for three being filled by the shapes of only Minho and Key, Minho snuggling warmly into Key’s neck, asleep, with the other boy typing away at the mini-device carefully positioned on his lap. The clacking of the keyboard stops suddenly, Key aware of Jonghyun’s gaze – to which the younger boy looks up and mouths a slow what. Jonghyun shrugs his head slowly, a gentle smile forming on his lips, turns to face the person folding paper planes across of him.

Jonghyun wonders how long it’d take for him and Jinki to reach their kind of middle.

V

He folds another half. In his hands, the small, folded piece of paper looks incomplete; its wings all too ready for flight but then again seeming to lack something essential in its construction.

-

“God, not again, who’s left all these lying on the floor!” is what Jonghyun comes back to one evening, Key’s shrill voice filling the apartment and subsequently seeing Jinki hurriedly scuffling around tidying up the mess. He bends down and picks up one of the strewn paper planes, fingers its folds, learns its angles, figure and balance, just like how he has familiarized himself with the feel of silent, quiet love, of promises made too easily and dreams dreamt too freely. He sees Jinki pick up the planes one by one, fragile structure by fragile structure, cradling them carefully in his arms, not throwing even a single one of the overpopulated shapes into the nearby rubbish bin. Jonghyun cannot help but ask why not the bin, you’re going to clutter up your room with that and Key will throw another fit, in which they inevitably might end up in the same end place anyway.

“But that’d be different, then, Jonghyun, see, their road leading to the bin. Besides, I can house them in your room, right? Temporarily?” In his mind, an argument – or lack of it – barely begins to form before Jinki smiles at him, the older boy’s previously serious face losing all resoluteness, and he cannot help but nod, slowly and resignedly.

-

Jonghyun looks at the mass of paper planes in front of him, all done by Jinki’s hand, each having a unique fold and special curve that he will never be able to replicate, to reconstruct. It is then that his eyes fall on a small bit of dark, marked lead right at the center of one of the planes, the black marking gaping out amidst a sea of white. When he unfolds the plane, all he sees are three simple words written in neat, tidy Hangeul, his full name; the bit of space after slightly creased by eraser marks. He doesn’t know exactly what to think.

VI

Jonghyun takes up his finished paper plane, opens it carefully and writes the four syllables of love* onto its center, engraving it like a lost love song which has finally found the right lyrics, a lonely cry in the night that, at long last, meets fulfillment. Jonghyun pads softly into Jinki’s room, Taemin and Key sound asleep in their bunks, slips his paper plane into the smooth cushion of the oldest boy’s covers. He lingers for just over a few seconds, just enough to contemplate the way Jinki sleeps, take in Jinki’s scent, have Jinki just a few inches away from him but yet so overwhelmingly close.

Jonghyun understands.

II
Some people believe that endings are merely the start of new things, that when one door closes another opens. Others, instead, choose to trust in the idea of beginnings only being of relation to the end, that a start is simply a means to an ultimate endpoint.

Jonghyun prefers to live in the idea of middles, him liking to finger the concept of possibility and the unknown, indulge in the wide span of forking paths that diverge from a common point, play around with the ability to write and rewrite things without ever having to pause for the eraser. He scribbles these scenarios on little paper planes, watching them take flight into the sky, the background in front of him panned out wide – blue and vast, ever waiting.

* referring to I Love You in Korean, saranghaeyo.

Minho/Key - Words, Spaces (Me and You)

everyglance — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 09:13:56 GMT

Title: Words, Spaces (Me and You)
Pairing: Minho/Key
Word Count: 346
Type: Drabble, PG

Kibum doesn’t know words.

He doesn’t understand the slow, careful maneuvering of sentences, of structure, and therefore bypasses that tradition, choosing instead to let communication escape him interrupted, in short coarse stuttering and random utterances that by no means betray his emotions.

So he is glad that between Minho and him, they don’t talk. All they know, all they understand, all they do – the both of them manage to keep their relationship safely out of the hold of Emotion, or so he thinks and likes to think.

It always begins with a look, a knowing look, a look comprising half of desire and half of want, nothing of Need. Then Minho gets up, excuses himself, Jonghyun and Onew glued to the television set watching High Kick through the Roof and Taemin completing his homework. When Minho goes out of sight does Kibum quietly stalk out of the living room, not bothering to leave any thing even remotely like a single syllable hanging in the air to account for his absence.

In the room, what permeates the air is the heavy strung out weight of desire, their belts clinking in the hasty rush to take them off, the rushed pulling down of zips and short staggered breaths. There is only movement; arms around one another, arms around the waist, around the thighs, around every single part of Minho Kibum can possibly reach. They chart uncharted territory and Kibum always feels as if he’s conquered just a little bit more of Minho every time they do this. Then he lies on the bed, exhausted, listening to Minho shuffling around the room picking up the pieces of their abandoned clothing, putting them on, after which the soft click of the door rings in the room with an air of finality.

Kibum turns to his side and lets the thoughts in his head run wild, the words forming sentences that reach on for forever, across the span of the city, transcending miles and miles all the way back to where the green fields reach all the way into the horizon.

Minho/Key - Alternate Universe

everyglance — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 14:20:34 GMT

Title: Alternate Universe
Pairing: Minho/Key
Word Count: 2, 279
Type: One-shot, PG

Minho’s not someone Kibum would consider his best friend.

It wasn’t until silly fangirls started pairing them up just because they stood side by side during official group events that he seriously started thinking about his relationship with Minho; Minho’s always just been there, as some – one, or thing, that Kibum that never exactly acknowledged, but just treated as part of the family, because the rest of them did.

Jonghyun was the one Kibum always hung out with, be it at the dormitory or anywhere else, walking side by side with him at airports, going shopping together, fooling around both in front of the camera and backstage, even teasing one another about their sexuality and joking about how they’d both get married by 40 if they weren’t already attached. At least Kibum knew he had an increased likelihood to fall back on this, he had always known. And he’d always thought of Jonghyun as being not that bad a choice.

Maybe the pivotal moment between him and Minho happened when the group won first placing on their very first week of promoting Juliette, him sobbing into Minho’s arms while Minho slowly twirled around the stage like the both of them were at some wedding in the midst of a slow dance, allowing Kibum the use of his comforting shoulder – I know, I know, we did it, shh now don’t let the fans worry – and even silently checking up on him at the dorm after the day’s events.

After that, everything happens almost like magic.

He finds it much easier to talk to Minho, about random what ifs and their all-too-long contracts with the company, their families and past schooling experiences (mostly past for him, now, but ongoing for Minho – he pities that boy at times just because). They’ve even ventured onto the topic of girls, occasionally, Minho asking him if he has even the slightest bit of interest in Nicole because you’re leading that girl on, you know and their discussing what they’d honestly truly like in their ideal types.

But Kibum finds it difficult to breach the topic of sexuality with Minho; he’s afraid to put too much heart into what he’s saying, he’s afraid of how Minho might respond and what he might say, if what he said would change anything between them. It was much easier with Jonghyun previously as everything was mostly a joke; he could bare his fucking heart all he wanted and still laugh it off in the end, ignoring the way something in his chest vaguely hurt. The safe thing about Jonghyun was him always assuming that no matter whatever they said, the both of them would still turn out straight in the end – we’d most definitely be married by the time we reach 40, maybe I’ll already have had a team of children by then, I’ll name 4 out of the… I don’t know how many, maybe 9, children after you guys; all this said with a wiggle of his brow and a silly smile on his face.

Kibum doesn’t actually know how it happened, how his head had – at that night in Thailand – his body physically leading Minho away from the rest of the boys in the room he and Taemin shared into the one Minho shared with Jonghyun, and telling him, in soft gentle tones that you know, I am… not. Straight, he adds, to the puzzled look that Minho gives him.

Even Kibum finds the way he’s telling Minho this abrupt, there had been no sign or warning whatsoever prior to this; he should have chosen a better time, a better place to tell him – not at some isolated hotel room in the middle of the night. The only thing Minho does is to look blankly back at him, after awhile Minho comes across as regarding Kibum with fear, even, and the next thing Kibum knows is that he’s now left in the room alone.

Whatever, Kibum tells himself, pretending nonchalance to nobody in particular; because he knows if he gives in to his feelings that would mean that he’s lost, that he would have given in to sadness and stupid self-pity. We’ll all have to live out our contracts anyway, he’s stuck with me for at least another few more years whether he likes it or not, and if this means we’re done then so be it.

So Kibum is surprised when Minho treats him with extra care the next day, Minho bothering to even out his messy fringe at the event and hold him carefully by the waist, telling him stop posing, our time here is over. He secretly feels at ease with Minho’s wordless acceptance, Minho having saved what might have almost been like a morning-after awkward talk between the two of them.

He finds the months after his revelation seeming almost a little too peaceful; the both of them comfortably lapsing back into their usual albeit improved dynamics with Kibum still hanging around with Jonghyun for the most part – out of habit and not anything else.

What eventually surprises Kibum comes when he watches the Dream Team Couple Special on television, the way Minho interacts with Krystal, the way he squeezes her arms after the both of them succeed at clearing the obstacles, how he high-fives her and their fingers end up entwined, even if it’s just for a second or two. He never knew of the two of them. If the rest of the boys did, none of them had told him. Damn Jonghyun.

He finds himself having to gulp down something stuck in his throat while watching, having to lick his dry lips (maybe the new brand of lip balm wasn’t working very well) every few seconds, and despite his trying very hard not to think about it, the image of Minho and Krystal together just implants itself in his mind throughout the entire day. He cannot bring himself to look at Minho the entire day, he simply cannot, and therefore he does not.

At night, when Kibum finds himself unable to fall asleep even after desperately trying for about an hour, distraction comes in the form of technology – he logs on to the computer to update his me2day and amuses himself with the number of fans replying to his post, carefully reading through every single one of their comments, even those in English and the occasional Chinese or Japanese.

He finds himself pondering over the reasons as to his behavior, him slowly sipping his milk tea and staring out into the darkness of Seoul from their dormitory, little specks of lights blinking back at him in response across the span of the city, just a bit like Morse code and wordless conversation.

Minho never had promised him anything, never had said anything – much less promised – but Kibum still somehow finds something in him that has him unwilling to accept what he saw, as if Minho owed him an explanation. It doesn’t makes sense, he thinks. There never were any words exchanged about this, no expectations, not that he was ever aware of, but he still feels like he’s been letdown.

As usual, all of Kibum’s thinking amounts to nothing – most probably his reason for hating to think, he figures. He climbs back to bed, mentally exhausted, and dreams about starting a family.

In the days that follow, Kibum finds himself subtly putting distance between him and Minho, trying to put as much space between them as he can get, however much he can; drawing invisible boundaries between himself and someone whom he sees almost every waking hour, them carrying out their group activities together, going countries together, doing promotional activities together. He boards airplanes with Jonghyun and Taemin by his side, occupies himself with mindless jokes that Onew occasionally throws him, and spends exponential amounts of time texting and chatting with Nicole even at their very own dormitory, all in a bid to convince himself otherwise of how he is feeling.

Maintaining his seemingly logical front about the whole thing isn’t easy. Kibum finds himself venturing dangerously close to the boundary’s peripherals – he sticks his body closer to Minho’s during events, sometimes, so close that he can feel Minho’s body heat; so close that he can almost hear, almost feel the thump, thump, thump of Minho’s heart. He lets his mind wander off occasionally, something he would previously never do standing in front of throngs of screaming fans, exploring the infinite possibilities. He thinks about the Many-Worlds Interpretation he read up a few days ago, what the alternate universe Minho and alternate universe Kibum might be doing; if in one of those other worlds, Kibum might be making Minho a sandwich lunch with a carrot heart and red love note in it just about now, or Minho were to be allowing Kibum the use of his shoulder, Kibum comfortably snuggling into the curves of Minho’s neck and dozing off peacefully in the back of their white van.

But no, Kibum thinks, reality always a cruel wrench making him feel sick to the stomach; it wouldn’t be possible. Not ever. At least not when Krystal – and a whole bunch of girls, fangirls, too, at that – was to be up in front ahead of his line just because she was what she was; he with an additional s in front to complete the word.

Kibum’s almost got himself convinced, almost got his act straight up into his head as fact; when the five of them board a plane for Shanghai to appear as guests at their fellow label mate’s concert.

Everything seems to be going smoothly, at least by his standards it does, something which Kibum is truly grateful for. Minho’s always had a tendency to perform additional fan service overseas; almost always involving Kibum, seeing as how the both of them were, going by official group positions, supposed to be standing side by side. The concert is almost coming to an end, the whole ‘surprise’ birthday bash for Jessica being over and done with; when Kibum, god what was he thinking then, casually remarks to Minho that maybe they should walk to the front and thank the crowd together with the girls. What comes after that is completely unexpected.

Minho abruptly takes him by the hand and leads him to the front of the stage where the other boys are, for them to say their last thank-yous; Kibum not being able to do anything but simply stare at Minho for one second, just that single second, the second where a Minho from an alternate universe had crossed with the Minho that Kibum really knew, or the Minho that Kibum thought he knew.

There isn’t any heart-in-throat feeling for Kibum, isn’t any it’s finally happening, isn’t any love requited at last. It’s just a soft, silent resignation, the recognizing and understanding of the word never and a wordless acceptance. Their relationship had never been, probably will never be of many words, Kibum realizes.

The alternate universe Minho passes over quickly enough, Minho releasing his hand just as soon as the both of them are in the front. Kibum’s arm instinctively reaches back, his hands searching for Minho’s but only managing to brush the skin on the palm of Minho’s hand. Kibum manages to hide his disappointment throughout the remaining of the concert, him wanting to extend the mere minute or so left in front of the fans to multiple minutes, hours, days, even, just to keep his mind off what had just happened.

Kibum lingers onstage even after the other four have left, waving repeatedly to the screaming fans and saying goodbye, goodbye, goodbye in Korean and goodbye in Chinese and goodbye in English, every single language he had ever previously learnt, every single language he could bring himself to remember.

Back at the hotel, amidst the usual packing and scuffling of team members to quickly get rid of some fan presents they could not afford to bring back, Kibum stays unusually silent. His hands move mechanically, dumping a few bottles of toiletries into his hand-carry together with a random book to read, not particularly paying attention to its title, which when he glances across its cover reads The Little Prince. He chooses to listen to music throughout the trip to the airport and on board the plane, only removing his earpieces out of respect to the fans at the airport; again being the last to clear customs, busily waving goodbye to the many faces of adoration and worship.

In Korea, all of them having finally earned the right to some rest and recuperation, Kibum finds himself lying awake in the dormitory, blinking up at the plastered walls of the ceiling; quietly listening to the smooth rhythmic breathing of three of the members. He surrenders to insomnia after an hour or so, gets up and walks to the neighbouring room where Jonghyun is scribbling down jumbled words that seem to be lyrics in one of Taemin’s math exercise books, Jonghyun evidently having had too many ideas in his head leftover from the trip he could not contain.

Kibum takes a slight peek over Jonghyun’s shoulder, letting a quick smirk flicker across his face.

“Jessica, again? Seriously?”

Jonghyun’s response comes in the form of him scribbling even more furiously, the pencil lead making black marks on the white paper across the neat red horizontal lines, overlapping the colours; black, white, black, red.

Kibum thinks about the lyrics that Jonghyun’s written before; lovers at cafes, bookshops, out shopping, at school, even, and then he asks, “Where are you guys at, this time?”

Jonghyun swivels around to face him.

“In,” he corrects Kibum, “an Alternate Universe.”