the thing about minho’s questions: (1) they’re usually rhetorical, and there’s never enough time given to answer, almost like minho doesn’t really want to hear an answer, doesn’t want anyone to take his questions, his tangible thoughts, and stretch them out into something worth contemplating and (2) he knows it isn’t on purpose, but they sound too poetic, too lyrical, too much like the start of a long, long brokenhearted free-verse about mortality and its implications.
technically, he doesn’t say aloud (because really, if he fucking did, it’d be asking for a punch to the shoulder—and however teasing minho makes it doesn’t do much to nullify the ache), we’re all dying.
technically, he doesn’t say aloud (because he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to think about it, and he hates himself for bringing it up in the first place because he feels sick just considering it), i’ve seen plenty of people die. slowly. painfully. agonizingly.
his mom. his cousin—and maybe his cousin’s still dying. maybe that’s the worst part.
“you look like shit,” dean says, halfway mulling over his thoughts, over minho’s words (and the way they fall off of his tongue, in strings, in ribbons, and the way those strings, ribbons tangle into knots and things left complicated and neglected and—). “first time meeting you, that’s what i thought. well, first, i thought, this guy looks as lonely as i do. and then you lit your cig and i saw your face and was like, oh man, this guy looks like shit.” he’s teasing, halfheartedly, but he’s teasing nonetheless and he lets it show through the stupid grin on his face.
things should be easier. for everyone, yeah, but for minho, especially. it doesn’t make sense to him sometimes how fucked up and wildly coincidental circumstances have to be and he wonders (probably too often for his own good) what kind of guy minho would have become if he’d stayed in busan, found solace in bustling fish markets and crowded beaches instead of being shotgunned into maturation too quick, too too quick, for the body of a nineteen-year-old.
but that isn’t his business. it’ll never be his business so he doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t bother asking a follow-up question. all he does is laugh (defensive mechanism); all he does is laugh (cheap method of covering up his thoughts); all he does is laugh (that’s it, just a laugh).
minho doesn’t need answers (he should know being alive is all that matters to dean anyway—it’s all that counts, everything else is just frills, they’re just add-ons, but being alive and breathing next to him? that’s enough). minho doesn’t need interrogation (and it’s good, because dean doesn’t have the heart for it).
“don’t be cheap, dude. you don’t want a fucking ring or something? i mean, i can’t get you anything but those cheap plastic ones at the dispensers but at least ask.” it’s too easy to smile in spite of everything, and he doesn’t regret it, hate it now, but he might tomorrow. “looks like you’re the romantic. one kiss is enough to seal the deal, huh? or maybe you just love me that much.”
he laughs again. it’s stupid, it’s ridiculous how simply it keeps happening. maybe the circumstances aren’t ever in their favor but there’s too much mirth to be found in company alone—easy company, company that doesn’t corner him emotionally, mentally. company that’s just as off-kilter as he is.
all the way to the convenience store, he doesn’t say a word. all he has to offer are constant grins, fluctuating expressions—there are some things that don’t merit words, that don’t need words, and it’s funny how many of those things exist between himself and minho. it’s convenient, if anything. he gets tired of talking too sometimes and it’s nice knowing empty silences are anything but (never empty, not totally; there’s always the weight of something too palpable, unspoken—maybe it’s just understanding—sitting between them).
the jingle of the convenience store entry bell strips dean’s thoughts of frivolous things. he glances at the counter and almost laughs—same cashier.
“you jealous? worried? he won’t take your spot in my life or anything,” dean teases, and he bumps his shoulder against minho’s like a kid, shit-eating grin too bright on his face for an hour this obscure. “he can’t compare, anyway. doesn’t look like a rottweiler. the appeal is lost right from the get-go.”
quietly, he swerves into one of the aisles, going straight to the wall to grab a plastic bottle of banana milk and then to the opposite side to retrieve his ice cream. there’s no telling how long he’ll kill time here, and he doesn’t mind not knowing.
while he’s setting the items down on the counter next to minho’s selections, he offers a smile to the cashier, and then a wayward glance to the cigarettes being scanned.
always menthol. he doesn’t comment. all he does is jam his hands into his jacket pockets, pursing his lips idly while letting his gaze rake over whatever else is in his vicinity, too-bright under the fluorescent lights.
“you think you’re gonna miss this?” he asks suddenly, and it’s automatic, how his eyes fall to minho’s face again to take in every shift of his expression. “i guess that’s a cool, chill way of indirectly asking what you’re going to do after sunhwa. got any plans?”
