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It’s hard. Hard to breathe when you are drowning.
That’s how it feels when you bottle the emotions for so long, and it’s painful. It really is. But, sometimes, the pain is good.
Minho knows, he knows that he should have left the water fall way earlier but he couldn’t. The tears are way more painful than the indifference. He had made a good job till today, everyone stopped asking long ago. He was grateful for theat because with every question his heart shattered a bit more.
The serious look and the vague responses were the defense of a broken boy, that’s what he was. That’s what he is.
That’s what Minho is, and he knows.
No one else knows but he does, and he used to think that was good. The fewer people knew the better, that way no one would force words out of him. No one would force him to understand his emotions. But, when he saw himself immersed in a fight, he understood that he was alone. When he returned home with a body full of bruises no one asked, they no longer worried about him.
It was his fault, he knew.
Minho built himself with cold ice until nobody was willing to approach him, and he was proud of that. But today he wished someone could have broken his shell, that someone would care enough to ask.
It was too late, and he knew.
Minho is alone like he had always been. The night sky projecting light through the moon and the stars, just enough for him to see. He hated the darkness because it had always brought the fears to life, he still hated how vulnerable he was with the black surrounding him.
The water tries to calm him with his sound and the sand between his fingers tries to make him play. He isn’t a kid now; the beach isn’t a scape anymore. But, it’s that true? Can’t his heart find pace just because he grew up?
It’s a lie. One of the multiples he had told himself, and he knows.
He also knows what he needs, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Minho can’t cry even if the tears are turning his vision blurry, he kept them for so long that now isn’t able to let them fall. He is hurting. It hurts more than any wound and a bandage won’t help.
The quiet wind blows him away until he reaches a park, letting himself fall under a tree. All of this started when he discovered the cruelty of bottling the happiness with the pain, at that following all the emotions a person can feel. It was cruel, but it was the only thing that kept him going. He followed the life even though he seemed dead.
He wasn’t dead, and he knew that, but he pretended. It was easier.
This is who he was, who he is. These were his memories, these are his memories, even though he can’t put them in order anymore.
Maybe it was the time to speak, to let out everything, but no one was there to listen. Maybe he could speak to himself, would that relive the burden a little? He didn’t know and, when he searched for his voice, it was nowhere to be found.
Minho was angry and scared, two emotions that were only the surface of all. He was feeling much more. Minho feels, maybe more than anyone, but no one knows, not even him.
“Fuck.” he manages to breathe out, holding his chest when he realizes.
He feels and he doesn’t want to, but it’s too late to tell himself that everything is okay just to endure a little longer. The broken pieces can’t be collected anymore, and he knows that.
It’s just time to try something else, something that would distract him from the pain. He doesn’t need a solution just yet, only something to disconnect a little. Minho is at his limit, just waiting for the barrier to open and scatter him around. His barrier is trembling, but he taught it to hold even when he didn’t want to. It became a habit after so many years, and now that he is begging it to broke it won’t.
The wind starts to blow again, maybe wanting him to leave or maybe because that’s his function in life. In any case, Minho feels his body shiver, and it is the first thing in hours that shoves the pain away for a second. It’s only for a second but it feels good. He realizes that he can fight pain with pain, and that’s why he is now standing in front of the tree.
The first punch sends a wave of pain through his arm, and a little groan escapes his lips. After a moment, he smiles. It works, the physical pain can turn on the silence, it can conquer the realm that the emotional pain is defending. So, he hits again, hand in a fist meeting the tree again and again with a solemn determination.
The pain circulates his body and his knuckles bleed, but he doesn’t stop. It feels good even though the smile is no more on his lips. He knows is temporal and yet, he hits again.
His breath is becoming irregular, and he has no more strength in his body, but he can’t stop punching the tree. If he stops, he will have to face it again. He is determined to let the conscience slip away, sure that the morning will erase all his emotions, turning him again into the ghost of a person.
Minho is lying to himself again, and he knows. It’s easier this way.
Suddenly, he stops feeling the pain. It’s not because he is used to it, his hand is still aching, but because his fist doesn’t meet the tree again. A hand is holding his wrist, his arm stopped just a few centimeters away from the tree trunk. Saying that the surprise has taken over it’s almost too weak, his eyes staring at the hand around his wrist and his mouth slightly open.
“What are you doing?” it’s a calm voice with no hint of any other emotion, as if the person hadn’t just witnessed how some stranger was punching a tree.
Minho turns around, slowly, and his eyes meet with a boy around the same age as him, or maybe younger. The boy is handsome and a soft vibe surrounds him, that’s what Minho thinks. Dark hair against tanned skin, vivid eyes looking at him, and lips pressed into a thin line. Minho almost forgets that the time is passing, believing the boy in front of him a dream.
Because, why would someone stop him? Why would a stranger stop him?
“Feeling.” is all he answers, eyes looking down, where the boy’s hand was still touching his skin, before looking up again.
“Feeling? You were punching a tree. There are other’s ways to feel, you know?” the stranger seems confused, almost amusingly confused.
Minho finds himself wondering why he is talking to a stranger or, more importantly, why is some stranger talking to him. It’s the first time he sees that boy and he doesn’t like him. For no reason, he doesn’t like him.
In reality, there are a thousand reasons why he doesn’t like him. Starting with the way he dared to approach him and finishing with the fact that his emotions are perfectly delivered. The only odd thing is that he seems like the calm water, even though he had to stop Minho from breaking his hand
“Yeah, I know. But is the only way to…” Minho stops himself, realizing with wide eyes that he almost told a stranger his secrets. “Nevermind.”
He looks down again, where the boy was still holding him, before raising his eyes once more. Minho can’t describe what is happening or what he is feeling, it’s not like he could before but, for some reason, this time is getting on his nerves. It’s almost as if he isn’t in control of himself, as if the stranger can read him like an open book even though he is only staring in silence.
It starts to become uncomfortable, the silent boy just staring at him and Minho wanting to escape. He tries, without a word he tries to escape the grip the other has on him. His eyes travel again to his wrist while his hand comes to help, trying to pull the boy’s fingers away. It’s hard, the boy isn’t doing anything but Minho can’t open his hand as much as he tries.
He grows impatient and stops, ready to face the other and say something. He is not given the opportunity to do so. The boy pulls his arm and, inevitably, his body follows. He wasn’t expecting that.
He also wasn’t expecting to feel something soft against his lips as soon they are in reach. It takes a couple of seconds for him to realize that the soft thing is the boy’s lips, and it takes a little more to admit that they taste good, a trace of vanilla on them. At one point, Minho closes his eyes and returns the kiss.
That seems the signal to stop because the boy pulls away, even his hand abandon Minho’s wrist. Now it’s Minho’s turn to stare, ears turning red and mouth open in silent words.
Minho is embarrassed and confused, a storm trying to reign in his thoughts, trying to understand what had just happened. He doesn’t like that feeling, either the one that felt warm when they were kissing. No, they weren’t kissing. The boy kissed him without asking, Minho should be grossed out. He isn’t, as much as he tells himself that he should, he isn’t.
The thing he doesn’t realize is that he is feeling, he is feeling after a long time. A feeling without name escaped the bottle and is now free to roam around his body, and maybe the bottle sealed again but the stranger already saw through him. The boy has now the power to crack Minho’s barrier or to show how to do it himself, and he chooses to reach his hand. A stranger chooses to help.
“I’m Seungmin.” a smile breaks the boy’s calm looks and, when Minho manages to close his mouth, he already knows.
This time is Seungmin who knows how broken Minho is, he knows that it would be hard to put the pieces back and that Minho thinks he doesn’t need help. He knows all of that but he chooses to stay.
“Minho.” just like a whisper the words fall out of his mouth, enough for Seungmin to know that he is accepting his help.
It’s the first time that Minho doesn’t know, the first time in so long. It’s also the first time Seungmin knows.
It's the first time Minho doesn’t know but Seungmin already does.