#;vindr

[mpminho-blog]

| “Close your eyes and pretend it’s a bad dream. That’s how I get by.”

Minho as Capt. Jack Sparrow

[mpminho-blog]

Why is the rum always gone? | Minho&Hana

halloween madness with @mpxhana

What’s the best thing about being dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow for Halloween? Minho was whistling to himself as he sauntered into the Hallow’s Eve ball hosted by the council. Aside from the fact that his pirate’s costume was barely passable as Sparrow’s (the mustache was as fake as they come), Minho thought he looked pretty good all things considered. He got the swagger down for sure, swaying to and fro haphazardly around party goers but careful not to actuall hurt anybody.

The best thing about dressing up as Jack for Halloween? 

“Booze~” He crooned, brandishing “his props”, a large bottle of Captain Morgan rum and taking a swig. Most people would have gone without the actual rum, but Minho was all about authencity.

“Hana, hana!” He hollered appearing like a cloud of smoke behind the baker dressed as Moana. She looked good, and Minho ignored the hint of the sea that threatened to make him run for the hills.

“Treat or treat?” He chirped, brandishing the rather large plastic container filled to the brim with his own special brew of vodka gummy bears. He had taken a few already on the way over and he had to go back to his apartment to refill the tub, hence why he arrived a little late.

Which was fine by him, seeing as how the party was just starting to get into full swing. “Danced with anybody yet?” He asked as he popped a gummy bear in his mouth and washed it down with some rum. Was he drunk? Or pretending to be drunk? That was the question.

[mpminho-blog]

An Encore || Self-Para

A/N: I need to process my feelings and writing is the only way I know how that won’t make me into a quivering mess all over again. I have placed this under read more, if you’re on mobile, please scroll past quickly since there will be triggers of suicide, death, and depression. 

Minho was cold.

The winds that had gradually become second-nature to him seemed to be chilling him to the bone, where once they wouldn’t even make him blink or shiver. He paused and let loose a soft breath, unleashing the control he had on the gale-force winds he had been summoning on the rooftop of the bakery. Sometimes, he came up here to think. When baking didn’t seem enough and when the smiles he put on were too much for the day.

The wind brought him stories and today, of all days, was not something he ever wanted to hear about.

News from Seoul.

He had left lots of friends back in his hometown, most of whom didn’t know he was a demigod, but all of them dear to him. He left because he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain the polarizing differences of his demigod blood to their mortality, and the crushing loneliness of being surrounded by people had driven him almost mad. The smiles and laughter he gave then, were echoes.

But amongst all those friends, Minho had one who glimpsed for who he was. Just a small glimpse but it had been enough. 

As they were both in the entertainment industry then, it wasn’t too difficult to find something in common, but it was more than their day jobs that made them bond. Jonghyun was like an older brother to Minho, always looking out for him during shoots and even after, when he’d wrangle him to eat dinner with him, with the excuse that his apartment was too quiet without the noise of his older sisters. Those late night dinners and drinking sessions deepened their friendship like no photoshoot could, and Minho could remember his hyung had been the few outside his family he had cried to. About his mother, his grandparents, his loneliness. Jonghyun hadn’t treated him any different, had always listened with gentle eyes and never, not once, commented on how different Minho was during the day when the cameras were watching. When Taemin was with him, when he was Minho. For that alone, Minho loved him.

And now, the winds brought Minho news of his death. Shocking and forceful like a hurricane. The news had come barreling to him, that he had dropped the mixing bowl he was holding and he had to escape. It couldn’t be.

Death was an ugly thing. Unforgiving and cruel and unfair. Minho didn’t expect him of all people to leave so early. So soon. Without goodbye. How could he? 

Was there any poetic justice or romanticism in his death? Was the tragedy heavy enough for those who view him through their heavily tinted lenses? 

Minho stood there, on the rooftop, the rush of his thoughts summoning even more winds, slicing through the air and whipping his hair with the intensity of the beat of his heart. No one had ever seen Minho grieve, not even Taemin or the many lovers that had paraded through his arms. Only Jonghyun. 

And now he was gone.

“What am I going to do now, hyung?”  

The wind held no answers, and Minho was cold.