pairing: heemin. minmi + others.
summary: is there balm in gilead?
warning: eventual violence, implying of things, and stalking; and possible grammatical errors.
Two bodies were found in the back lot of the Holder Company. The bodies appear to be shot, one multiple times. They have yet to be identified. We'll keep you updated.
"And that's that." He crushed the cigarette butt under his boot. The remote control was cold to the touch as he pressed the off button. He stood up stretching the muscles in his back, groaning in satisfaction. He shut the lights off, leaning against the wall. "Are you coming?"
There was no response from the dark. He sighed, flipping the light on. He walked slowly to the deep red chair in the corner of the room, adjacent to the television. A cautious hand was placed on the messy hair of the curled figure in the chair. This time the boy did not flinch as he pushed his arm under his knees. He lifted the boy off the chair, flipping the light off with his shoulder. The boy rolled onto his right side when he was placed on the bed, over the covers because he knew they would be kicked off at around two am. The elder crawled under the covers after removing his shoes, sleeping just long enough to repeat the process again around three am. It was going to be a long eternity.
It's unhealthy. It can't be this way. Conversation is the best way to start a relationship.
A smile. An eyebrow raised in surprise. Another smile. A slight brush of hands. That's all. His hands found warmth around his cardboard coffee cup. He was obvious. He stared, but he didn't quite care at that time of the day. He could hear his voice echoing in the cafe, soft and sweet and filled with a sound that he could only describe as an angel's voice.
The sound of the cash register opening, the smell of coffee, and the angel's voice. The day was perfectly rainy day. The cashier smiled at him softly when he left.
His car ran perfectly home, not stalling on the roadways, or spluttering when the light turns green. He got into his apartment easily, not having to wiggle the key, but all was shattered when he saw the black converse at the door.
The grey socked clad man, feet up on his precious glass coffee table, and smoking his cigarettes. He clumsily took his boots off, rushing to snatch the cigarette from his perfect fingers, and his perfect lips, and his perfect self. He finished it off, snuffing it out before throwing it on the ashtray angrily.
"What?" the god-like man asked lazily.
"That's my stuff. I paid money for it. My money." He kicked his feet off the coffee table.
"And how did you obtain this money?"
He went silent, racking his brain for a witty response. The smoke fogged his vision, and he simply snarled.
He reeked off old men cologne, and the smell of linoleum halls, clean linoleum halls.
He came home to find feet on his glass coffee table and someone on his computer. "Kibum, I swear to god-"
"You don't believe in god."
He sat down next to him, praying that his clothes would not smell like the old men cologne and the clean linoleum halls. On the screen of his computer a slideshow played. A young boy, his class ring shining the sunlight. A half smile graced his almost flawless face; acne dawned his skin showing exactly how young he was. His school uniform hung off his thin figure, long legs causing his pants to be just the slightest bit too short. His messy hair filled with a slight natural curl fell right on his brow line, giving his eyes a darker look. The photos followed him out of the school gates and onto the streets. They followed him to a street vendor, picking up on the few times he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. They ended at a small home, showing him just as he shut the door.
"Nevermore." "You said that last time."
And the days dragged on slowly, heat fading into the cool breeze of fall, and eventually snow fell upon the concrete streets. The high school with a grey scarf wrapped around the majority of his face as he laughed, a loud truthful laugh the complete opposite of the soft rain drops of the angel cashier.
The cashier who now adorned turtle necks, and tight jeans that clung to his thighs. His cheeks were always stained a pretty light red, like a perfectly placed blush. His eyes were bright, and his smile was wide. He was hyper, bouncing on his toes to retrieve orders. He sat outside on his breaks, and smiled at texts that he could not read.
"And you say I have problem." Kibum, at all the wrong moments. "Heenim-"
"Shut the hell up, you disrespectful-"
The night ended quickly, Kibum with his feet on the glass coffee table, and the elder bleaching his shirt of all the blood stains it had obtained in the last hour.
He admired the curve of the cashier's backside as he retrieved the cash that fell from his small hands. His fingernails shone in the light, a thin sheet of clear polish over them. His hair was pinned off his forehead today, and that was simply more skin for him to admire. More beautiful white skin, that looked soft to the touch.
His phone dinged, and his eyes glanced over the words. I can feel your eyes stalking him from over a mile away. A mile away meant Kibum would come home with the linoleum smell, the clean clean linoleum smell that wanted him to stain his shirt again with the blood of someone a little less innocent.
Kibum's blood would fit perfect into the stripes of his shirt.
Kibum was an unbroken silence, and a stillness without answers. He sat straight, thumb pressed to his lips as he observed the young boy across the street. He was at the vendor, mouthful of chicken as he pushed the girl's hand from his upper thigh. A sad look crossed her face, and she returned to her food. A victorious look crossed Kibum's face. He was a terrible, terrible person because this boy could still not hold his chopsticks correctly, and called the chef an old man.
He smirked, strutting away leaving the girl to pay for their meal. She hurried to retrieve her hot pink change purse from her bag. Her high heels clicked loudly as she rushed after him, calling a pet name as she ran.
"What a rude child." And this night, both men were treating their black eyes and bruised knuckles.
Bright red hair. Long, long legs. Pants that reached right above the ankle. A classy strut. An award winning smile. Cat eyes. Fringe, fashion, and a classy act. He wanted to punch this man directly in his perfect face.
His accent was attractive. He did not stumble with his words. He spoke respectfully, and lightly touched people to show affection. He felt the glass of his heart shatter as this classy foreigner shared a kiss with his angel. His angel tainted by this high-class demon, strutting in with his Gucci shoes. How dare he.
And so he watched. Watched as their relationship blossomed. Watched as they moved the boxes into his angel's home after only one week. It was summer. Hot afternoons filled with hot kisses from a one bedroom apartment room. Kibum watched as his highschooler attended parties. His khaki capris, and his polo shirt, refusing to remove his shirt at the pool. His highschooler preparing for senior year. His highschooler brushing off more girls that seemed to never stop flirting. Kibum was content, and he was not.
He was red faced waiting for his stranger to come knocking at his door. Fall at his feet, and promise to stay. He didn't even know his name.
Over the course of a few weeks, the kid entered his last year of high school, brushed off more girls, and the angel lost his job. He soon found the other was not there legally, unable to get a job, unable to lift a single finger. He watched as his angel sat on the curb, red-rimmed eyes, begging for money. Food became scarce, and the angel gave up his portions for his lover. His full cheeks grew thin until the bone of his cheek was showing, and the circles under his eyes grew darker.
He watched, dropped twenties into his cups when he had fallen asleep leaning against a building. They did not last long though. The two ended up in the alleys, occasionally in shelters, leaning against the sides of buildings. His angel slept without the comfort of heat. The blanket covering the taller one, roots showing in his now dull, dirty hair.
His fingers grew heavy as his conscious grew dim.
a/n: activated poe references as a challenge to myself.