A huff. Like a child who had just been denied something from the store. Newt might find it funny now, obnoxiously filling the room with a blanket of laughter, but if he wasn’t held back by being ridiculously stupidly helplessly in love ( 🤮 ), Minho could kill a man with his biceps alone.
So Newt had that to watch out for. Obviously.
His own quiet laughter interlaces Newt’s, breaking through his bitter expression. Newt sure was talking a lot of shit for someone who had just joined their fingers together and was now running lightning across his palm. A delicate storm that came with the crashing of the moon and the sun. “ Phft, —— “ Minho adds his own pressure, curling his fingers against Newt’s knuckles in a staggering display of hubris. Holding. Not letting go. Years of build up, years of wanting someone he KNEW he couldn’t have. As far as he was concerned, Minho had too much love and only one night to get rid of it all. Drain the bathtub before he flooded the house. “ —— ya doin’ a real trash job of breakin’ them, “ his words merged with the ambience, spoken into Newt’s hair as his jaw reposed against it. Leaning. Eyes shut. At peace.
“ Truce, I promise, —— “ a yawn, a shift as he snuggles up closer to Newt, thumb running soothing circles against skin. “ —— I won’t kill ya. Not tonight, “ not any other night, either.
Briefly, just for a second, he untangles their hands, tugging the white knit further up their bodies, effectively tucking them in. The room wasn’t cold, it would be enough for the night. Hands meet once again, unwilling to lose his fleeting moment. Minho would kill anything or anyone that tried to interrupt them right then, on sight.
It was only a matter of time before he, too, would fall prey to the chasm below them and slip into nonsensical dreams. But for a little bit longer, Minho wanted to relish in his situation. The alcohol was slowly leaving his system, setting off the trickle of a sand timer. Once it filled, the man next to him would no doubt leave, and the brumous façade Minho sat behind would again become his home. So his only option was to fight against oscitancy for as long as his body would allow.
Thumb slows, growing absentminded and soft as morning light. Some awful, self-destructive instinct ingrained within him wanted to tilt his head and press his lips against Newt’s crown of hair ( do not !!! ) The part of him that created every other bad decision that had ruined his life thus far. A swallow. Minho wouldn’t be doing that. They were in enough shit already without him adding a nuke to the pile of limbs.
“ Are you comfortable ? “ was he asking if Newt was comfortable enough to sleep on the couch, with his bad leg, or if he was comfortable sleeping in his arms ? Who knew, Minho didn’t.
There was a slight possibility that Newt might’ve shot himself in the foot, because Minho was reciprocating the touch immediately. Fingertips were pressing into knuckles, steadying Newt’s fingers and fighting off the tremors that still lived there. He was shaking, but only slight. Aftershock. A consequence of the trauma that had both been planted and upheaved that evening. Growing up, when something traumatic happened in his family, they’d drink tea with sugar as if I’d stop the shakiness in its tracks. It didn’t, and nor did Minho’s hand, but both helped.
Only, this home was slowly being uprooted.
Each reckless stroke against calloused skin was sending his heart racing. Churning the contents of his stomach into a fluttery mess of alcohol and flower petals ( he was twenty one. he didn’t feel twenty one. ). Sure, he could stop, quit self-sabotaging and have some self-preservation . . . but it wasn’t anywhere near as desirable an option as the chiromancy he was conducting against palm. The slow drag of his thumb carefully mapping out each crevice, each crease. Heart lines. Life lines. — scars ( i’m sorry :( )
Should’ve quit whilst he was ahead.
Cheek nestles further against Minho’s shoulder, searching for a comfortable spot to sleep in which wouldn’t leave him with a bent neck in the morning. Body is adjusted too, working in tandem with the all-too-small-couch to ensure that he’d conquered every last drop of Minho’s personal space. Served him right for being a bulky fucker and hogging the space, anyway. Eyes roll behind closed eyelids. “ ‘m workin’ up to it. patience. “ Spoken as if he were reprimanding a child. Thumb playfully pining Minho’s down and tightening around it like a viper Stop being a smart ass. The grip is loosened, and Newt goes back to lazy strokes. The calculation and curiosity slipping from them with each passing minute. “ gotta wait til you’re asleep, first. catch ya’ nice n’ vulnerable. “ Mumbled through a smile, Newt instantly breaking the truce they had just called.
Not dying tonight didn’t sound very promising, anyway, but Newt supposed it was a momentary relief from his shoulders. It was good enough. Everything was good enough. He was cozy, comfortable, safe, reposing against exceptional company. His exceptional company was tugging the blanket over them, drowning two bodies together beneath an ocean of knit. It was better than good enough. It was like, really, really good. Newt couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt comfortable and secure enough to sleep without laying awake for hours on end first. Yet, it was beginning to get harder to stay awake than it was to drift off. He was meandering across gentle waves, letting the tide consume him. Thumb stops, and Newt readjusts their hands, locking them tight and placing them comfortably atop the blanket.
Eigrengrau had began to succumb to the abyss.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And, his eyes were open to the living room again.
“ ——— ya’ think i’d still be here if I wasn’t ? “ Newt chuckles, instantly reminded of sleepovers and drunken nights spent sleeping on the floor of friends apartments. Memories made relevant by Minho’s consistent inability to keep quiet whilst people were trying to sleep.
It was okay. It was a sweet question.
“ ——— Are you comfy, Minho ? “
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