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Minho had a love-hate relationship with being touched—being hugged, being tapped on the shoulder, a hand in his own, arms wrapped around his waist—it’d feel heavenly, but like he downed to hell at the same time.
In most instances, he didn’t mind; his friends could hug him, or give him a high five after winning a heated game of Mario Kart. (“Wow, Minho, I never knew you were good at this game.”, “Did I never tell you I absolutely bang at Mario Kart?”) It’s not like he never noticed his fear of them commenting on his body as they wrapped their arms around him, he’d pray—every single time—for them to shut their mouth; and so they did.
That’s until he met Jisung.
Minho bordered on giving up on his cigarette—there was too much wind and his shaking hands were unable to light the butt of it. He’d almost thrown his lighter against the wall, it barely had fuel anymore anyway, when a hand coming out of nowhere stopped his arm from moving. “Let me try.”
“Hm?” Minho turned around, just to be met by a hood pulled over a stranger’s head. His face was almost completely covered up, aside from the slight illumination igniting his eyes. The unfamiliar boy was dressed in a black hoodie and baggy jeans—both nearly two sizes too big on him. Realisation hit Minho; he handed his lighter to the person in front of him and put the cigarette back into his mouth. “Sure, go for it.”
The stranger put his hand near the end of the cigarette, guarding it from the wind. It lit in under three attempts. “Thank you—”
“Jisung.”
“Thank you, Jisung.”
Jisung backed away, lingering a hand on Minho’s waist. He would’ve pulled away, shaking off the hand and coming up with a lame excuse—he shouldn’t even need an excuse, this complete stranger was touching him—but it had felt better than any other touch in his life.
“You’re skinny.”
Minho rolled his eyes, took a drag of his newly lit cigarette and blew the smoke right into Jisung’s face. “I work for it.”
Jisung put his second hand onto the other side of Minho’s waist, right onto his hip bone. “Who are you so skinny for?” He ripped Minho’s cigarette out of his hand and took a drag, before putting it back into Minho’s mouth.
“Myself.” Minho muttered, past the stick between his lips.
Jisung was now closer than anyone had ever been to Minho, two hands on his hips, bodies barely leaving space for breathing. “How high are you, be honest.”
Jisung leaned backwards, his fingers still lingering above Minho’s hip bones. “What do you think, I’d never do this if I was sober.”
“And can you prove that to me?”
Jisung pulled his left hand away and grabbled into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “My number.”
“You just had that ready?”
“I’m always ready to meet pretty boys.”
Jisung hovered his hands over Minho’s stomach, circling the dips next to his hip bones. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
Two weeks ,
Two weeks is about how long they knew each other, having spent every day since the day they met either texting each other or accompanying each other with cigarettes. Not once in his life had Minho felt as happy as he did then—he hadn’t ever felt as sick as he did then, though.
Jisung’s words were ravishing, just as much as they were painful.
He wanted to be beautiful to himself, starving his body to be able to look into the mirror next to his bed. Now, he had to be beautiful to Jisung; starving so Jisung could wrap his arms around his waist and whistle, like he’d always do.
Minho took Jisung’s hand, resting them both on his stomach. “And you’re pretty.”
Jisung pried his hand out of Minho’s grip and pushed his body up, so he could hover over Minho with his thighs pressed into his hip bones. His hands roamed Minho’s stomach and chest, while he pressed small kisses around his belly button. “You’re prettier.”
Minho’s stomach growled, signifying the hunger that was running through his body. Jisung laughed, blowing air onto Minho’s chest. “Even prettier when you starve for me, baby.”
Minho was hunched over the toilet, two fingers into his throat as he gagged out the food he previously consumed. Jisung was behind him, combing his fingers through his hair and whispering into his ear (“you’re okay,” “let it all out,” “I’m here.”).
Minho wiped his mouth and sat upright, back leaning against the white stone of the toilet he just threw up in, he faced Jisung. “What are we?”
He couldn’t think on an empty stomach, he couldn’t think when his brain yelled at him to eat and starve at the same time.
Jisung was taken aback, but his fingers still lingered in Minho’s clitted hair, “what do you mean?”
“You hold my hair back when I’m throwing up, you share your smokes with me and you kiss me in places I’ve never been kissed before.”
“That’s what friends do, isn’t it?” Minho’s face dropped, more than it already had, making Jisung furrow his brows in question, “You want to be more than just friends?”
Minho wrapped an arm around the back of Jisung’s neck, his hand playing with the hairs covering Jisung’s nape. His other arm went to Jisung’s waist, which was an uncomfortable position since they were still located on the tiled floor. “Yeah.”
Jisung leaned in, pressing his lips onto Minho’s, who emitted a silent open-mouthed gasp onto Jisung’s lips; he immediately pulled away.
“ Gross, I just threw up and you want to kiss me?”
“You could sit here with blood on your lips, and I’d still want to kiss you.” Jisung put both his hands onto Minho’s slimming face, and pulled him into his proximity. “You’re worth it.”
As he sat there, back pressed into the toilet seat, his fragile legs touching the cold voice; his head yelled starve more or throw up the rest of your dinner.
All his life Minho had tried to find someone who could quiet the voices, someone who told him what they said wasn’t true— was never true.
Instead, he found someone who made the voices a little less difficult to handle.