#minuchr

And it’s Minwoo.

That note is more an additive, one he keeps suppressed in a binding chain of tightening malice. Strangling a small light until it’s silent. He’s helped smith this one, too. A metal hot with abhorrence and surrounding him with like an impervious ward. There’s no greeting when he’s arrived at what location the other’s phone pins him at. 

There’s urgency though it’s wordless. Minwoo is bloodied. Sunan doesn’t elaborate and leaves him like that in his mind, remains unconcerned beyond what basic humanity required. He brings him to the hospital. He stays until his morality is reassured with a doctor’s insistent promise that Minwoo would recover. Something recoils internally, rebuttal again, as if he’d wanted to elucidate, rectify in the chance the doctor mistakes him as someone more personal. He swallows the bile back down and he leaves.

It’s not simple enough, though. Three resounding knocks beat against the door to his apartment two days later. He’s atop his feet curiously, door swung aside. 

It’s Minwoo, again. Something recoils, again. 

Again, he envisions himself as the man disarmed, though not by choice but by accident. As if he’d gone out without his weapon beside him. He’s patting himself down in his mind, looking for something to oppose the other with but he has nothing. Minwoo has nothing, either. There’s a stalemate between them, corps-à-corps waged by their met eyes. He’s silent until he’s not.

“Why are you here?”

there are few things in life worst than feeling a headache brewing at the back of his mind and knowing it’s going to leave you bedridden for a few days – but hansol thinks feeling a headache brewing at the back of his mind and knowing it’s going to leave you bedridden for a few days at a club takes the cake.

it’s fine. he tells himself that if he downs another shot of soju like it’s water, he’ll actually start to believe that it’s normal to live at madholic in a (frankly, poor) attempt to dissuade himself from thinking about what life is like outside the building, which is another shitshow in itself after the events at the nams’ island. it doesn’t really work because he gets kicked out everyday at 6am on the dot, pukes his insides out on the sidewalk like everyone else around him, and then rinses and repeats the day again and again, like a music box on repeat.

except the music box is broken and the chords are all twisted and ugly, obviously. whatever.

the night is no different, and he’s turned the blaring music and prattle of people down in his mind to white noise because thinking of it as anything else will make his stomach turn, head on the table face down to combat the bright purple strobe lights dancing across people’s faces as he massages his temples with shaking hands. even with his eyes closed, sabrina’s unanswered text from two days ago is imprinted onto his eyelids, a simple ‘where have you been recently?’. he doesn’t have an reply.

when he opens his eyes, there’s a sudden lurch in his stomach that makes him blink again, crane his neck for confirmation as though he could recognise a single person past the flock of bodies on the dance floor. he can’t, and it’s with a quickened heartbeat that he rests back in his chair, tuning into the conversation of the people sitting around him instead.