Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a bright morning when Minho wakes up. Beams of light spill from his blinds onto his covers, still strewn from the night before–tangled between his and his lover’s bare legs. He can hear the faintest chirps from the robins that made a home from their peach tree beside their bedroom window. Other than that, it’s silent. It’s a quiet Sunday.

Minho lies still, feeling his own chest rise and fall with his breaths. The tufts of Jisung’s hair tickle his neck, and the protective arm around Minho’s waist has grown loose over the night. It, too, matches the gentle rhythm of Minho’s breathing. He doesn’t have to look to know that the other is still asleep.

Jisung always ends up clinging to Minho at some point during the night. Minho knows that he doesn’t mean to–Minho’s not fond of long-term cuddling, as he gets too hot–but he can’t push away his dear. It’d be cruel to reject his love language. So, Minho lets Jisung remain draped over his body for the time being.

Besides, it was still the weekend. There’s no rush to get up. Breakfast, sure, but even then, Minho’s stomach can’t fathom eating anything within the first hour he’s up. He’ll just have to lie there for the time being, which doesn’t sound like such a bad thing.

Minho’s phone sits face down on the side table. Behind it, his alarm clock displayed in large, bold, blocky numbers that it was 8:21 in the morning. It’s still early for a Sunday, and Minho’s aware that Jisung won’t wake up before ten on days like this. Minho, on the other hand, has always been an early riser.

He enjoys the stillness of the morning. During the week, he’s often up at dawn when the warm glow of the sun’s ‘hello’ tickles his skin. Minho’s fond of the calm before the storm, meaning before he has to stir his lover awake from his deep slumber so that he and Minho aren’t late for work.

Their schedules aren’t too bad compared to each other. Minho has to at least make sure Jisung’s in the kitchen with a mug of hot, hot coffee between his lips before Minho can step out of the house and drive to the dance studio. His advanced class at nine awaits him.

The boy awake looks up, and the grooves in his ceiling stare back at him. The air in the room is still stale from the night’s previous events–the sheets are a different story. They pool around the two of them, encasing them in a fabric cocoon. Their condition is brutal.

Traces of the haphazardly sprayed lavender mist, which his dear claims help with Minho’s poor sleeping habits, remain on his pillowcase. They’ve tried eucalyptus before to aid him in his rougher nights, but lavender always managed to lull Minho into sleep quickly–a deep sleep. Its potency diminishes drastically throughout the night, though. So now, having been plenty of hours past its peak effectiveness, it isn’t enough to mask their combined musk.

The memory it brings makes Minho’s throat go dry.

He lifts the arm around his midsection, gently setting it down between their two bodies. His chest feels heavy and empty all at once–much different from the fondness of morning. Shifting slowly, Minho manages to get out from underneath his lover’s grasp. He can’t look at the sleeping boy without his eyes stinging now.

Minho manages to leave the bed quickly and quietly so as not to disturb the other. Soft footsteps are muffled by their beige carpet before he leaps onto the bathroom tile connected to their room. He swings the door quickly to prevent the creaky hinges from singing and then gently locks it into the grooves of the entryway.

He sighs heavily. His mouth feels stuffed with cotton. Grimacing, Minho feels his chest begin to extend and collapse rapidly, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He grips the counters of the sink hard enough for his fingertips to turn white while he hangs his head low.

His brain is his thoughts’ personal racetrack; they run in circles, too swift to pinpoint and understand. They make him dizzy, nausea catching up to the rest of his body. Minho’s elbows shake under the pressure he puts on them to keep him up.

Minho looks up to the ceiling with his eyes scrunched shut. The minimal light flowing from the small window next to him feels too strong on his eyes. He can’t even imagine what it’d be like if the fluorescents were on.

Colors pool under his eyelids, pressing into his otherwise closed vision. He pulls away from the sink to use his palms to rub at his eyes, only enforcing the splashes and swirls of rouge reds and ocean blues. Minho opens his eyes to stop the painting from forming on his retina.

It’s when he looks in the mirror for the first time that he notices that a mix of these colors appears on his skin. They trail down his neck, so dark that they look like gaping holes trailing under his sleep shirt. He doesn’t miss the one just under his jaw, bringing his hand up to it. Minho can’t help but wince when he touches it; a dull pain travels under the fresh bruise.

Something that Minho should admire leaves him in more of a mess than before.

It feels like there isn’t enough air in the room. Gasping, he inhales an absurd amount of air and exhales less than half of the intake. The nausea only worsens with every repeat–the room gets smaller and smaller until he’s sure he’ll suffocate.

His knees buckle beneath him, and his legs threaten to fold in on themselves if he doesn’t get onto the ground soon. Slowly and cautiously, Minho lowers himself down, turning so that his back is against the cabinets underneath the sink. He draws his shaky legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly.

He tries to remember what his therapist, Sana, tells him to do. Minho attempts breathing in through his nose for four, holding for seven, and out for eight. To him, holding his breath was always the most challenging part of the technique. Hiccups often worm their way out.

It doesn’t work as much as he wishes it did, but the reminder is enough to keep him from passing out right then and there. His vision’s still blurry, but at least he’s conscious.

His exhales come out shaky and uneven, and he knows his inhales aren’t any better, being sharp and short. Minho’s trying.

His hands tremble horrifically, but he tries tapping his fingers with his thumb in a pattern. In each round, one finger is skipped, and the following finger is missed next, and so on. It helps him focus on the little game on his hands rather than the impending doom eating away in his chest.

Memories of the past life he lived threatened to breach his mind, and they almost had not once but twice. Once with the sheets and the other in the mirror, it isn’t looking good for Minho.

Sana told him it’s common to have triggers related to his past relationship. It’s just that it’s been a few years now, and most of the time, Minho’s able to associate the worst of his experiences with new memories made with Jisung.

Today was not that day.

It’s almost like he can feel phantom hands roam over his body, leaving goosebumps and the hairs on his skin alert in its wake. Minho may be aware physically that there’s no one in the bathroom with him, but mentally, it’s like he’s back to his old, dingy, run-down motel room being felt up and down by a man who claimed to have loved him.

He can smell the cigarettes on his skin, and even worse, he can feel the minor circular burns left by Hee-Chul, who puts them out on his collarbones, his neck, anywhere and everywhere. There’s a permanent mark on his stomach from where a cigar was put out in anger.

As far as Minho’s aware, all his clothes cling loosely to his body. He knows he still has all his clothes on. It’s proof that he’s safe.

To further convince himself, he repeats his address to himself. Muttering the specific combinations of numbers and words in the small bathroom, Minho knows that if he were genuinely stuck with that man, he wouldn’t know the place he lives in now.

Minho was never allowed out of the motel room. Even if he complained that he was beginning to get a vitamin D deficiency from never seeing the sun or if he just wanted to help by getting the mail for them, the man forbade Minho from ever leaving the room. Like the young boy he was, Minho listened to his elders.

Sana has repeatedly explained to him that it wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t left sooner. Minho had been given multiple chances a day to exit out the front door while Hee-Chul gambled the hours away. He never did because he loved him.

Minho yearned for the jaw-line kisses after midnight brawls. He looked forward to his breakfast apologies before he left for the day. Somehow the breathy “I love you’s” while he rocked back and forth over his body was worth hearing more than the struggle and convincing it took to be put in Minho’s position.

Minho was only 17, and Hee-Chul was 42.

The age difference didn’t matter when Minho turned 18.

Minho doesn’t realize how far he’s gone until he hears a familiar voice. It’s warbled, almost as if underwater, but he can hear it nonetheless. It beckons him, pulling his head out from between his legs.

“There we go, baby, good job.”

Minho still feels tremors traveling through his body, so he remains tight and taut. His muscles strain with his attempt to stay small. With his head up, though, he can slowly open his wet eyes.

Jisung.

His lover.

“Hey there, my lovely,” he says, crouching in front of him. “Can I touch you?”

Minho sniffles; his vision is so blurry that he can’t make out any of the attractive features of Jisung. Nonetheless, he’s there, and Minho nods in response, not trusting his voice.

He feels his arms wrap around him gently, naturally pulling him into Jisung’s warm embrace. One hand rubs his back, and the other cradles his head, massaging the nape of his neck. It’s nothing like Hee-Chul’s death grip on his head that took chunks of hair from his scalp or the moon-shaped fingernail crescents embedded in his skin after a notably rougher night.

Minho feels safer in his lover’s arms. It doesn’t stop the ugly sobs that crawl from the back of his throat or the snot that runs down his nose and onto Jisung’s sleep shirt. Nonetheless, he feels safer.

Jisung hums praises softly paired with kind, kind words.

“That’s it, baby. I’ve got you now.”

Minho only cries harder.

Even if the tremors are rougher, and he sounds like he’s dying, the pain begins to dissipate. The weight in his chest grows lighter with every coo, and the pins and needles pressure of a headache lessen at every back rub.

Eventually, and he doesn’t know how long he’s sat on the bathroom floor with and without Jisung, Minho’s wretched cries reduce into sniffles and intermittent hiccups. Still, Jisung remains at his side, having not moved at all. His legs must’ve gone numb by now, and Minho would feel bad if he wasn’t too busy coming down from his episode.

Wiping his swollen eyes, Minho finally sees his love clearly. Jisung gives him a sad smile, using one hand to swipe away the sweat-coated hair off Minho’s forehead.

“How are we feeling, hm, jagiya?” He asks softly. The hand on Minho’s back continues to rub small circles into his skin.

Minho sighs, shoulders weak and slumped. “Awful,” he says, voice raspy.

Jisung chuckles at this. “I can tell. It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?”

It has. Minho can’t recall the last time it’s gotten this bad. At least, back then, he didn’t have nearly enough strength and recognition to move, let alone pull himself to a completely different room. Sana tells him that the body’s natural fight or flight kicks in when it does get bad like this. It’s probably how he managed this far.

Minho nods to Jisung’s comment. It really has been a while.

“How do you feel about moving back to the bedroom? We can stay here if you’d like to.” Jisung offers, giving Minho a simple decision to make.

As much as he wants to get off the bathroom floor, he doesn’t think he can face the bedroom right now. Minho knows that his trigger came from there, and he doesn’t think he’s ready to go back yet.

Minho shakes his head. “Can we stay here, please? I- I don’t…”

His lover gets it immediately. “Of course. Here,” Jisung shifts them slightly so they’re in a better, more comfortable position.

Minho rests his head lightly against Jisung’s shoulder—the one without his nasty snot all over it.

“I’m really tired, ‘Sungie,” Minho says under his breath. His episode took a lot out of him.

Jisung hums. “I bet, baby. I wasn’t expecting to find you here this early.” He kisses the side of his head. “I’m glad I did, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Minho mutters sincerely. He knows he isn’t a pretty sight right now, at least not after their night together.

“Don’t be, jagiya. It happens,” Jisung responds evenly, “I don’t expect it to go away just like that.” He snaps his fingers to make a point.

Minho disagrees. “It’s been years. I… I should be over it by now.”

He can feel Jisung sigh before he hears it. “Remember what Sana said? Healing takes time, Minnie. Some things will take more time than others to get over.”

He knows what Sana has said. Minho and Jisung were both there for the first few appointments, then some between then and now, as Minho’s gotten more comfortable sharing what’s been done to him. It’s hard, every session, Sana tries to break more and more of the barriers Minho’s put up. Some days, they succeed, other days are like two or three-part episode series, and they’ll succeed another time.

Like when Minho finally let Jisung buy them glass cups and ceramic plates instead of those measly plastic ones! He was convinced they’d be used for their true purpose rather than being thrown at Minho in anger or punishment.

That was a battle Minho and Sana won.

“I know. I just want it all to go away already,” Minho says weakly. His eyes threaten to spill tears again, but he wipes at them with his hands. His voice gives him away, cracking. “I hate this feeling.”

Jisung frowns. He feels for Minho; he really does. He wishes he could take all the pain away—all the memories and the scars, mentally and physically, left behind by Hee-Chul. Jisung would take Minho’s place in a heartbeat if it meant that Minho could live peacefully for once.

He wishes that gray sheets and linens didn’t make Minho wince or that the smell of alcohol, even if it was from hand sanitizer, didn’t make his heart race. Jisung takes so many precautions around Minho out of love, and he doesn’t wish for it to go away because he’s annoyed, but because he doesn’t want Minho to hurt anymore.

Minho coughs to clear the mucus in his throat. “I just want to be able to love as any other person can. I- I want to give you a-all my trust and let you- you in, but I… I can’t.”

Jisung takes his hand, squeezing it in comfort. “Minho, your love for me is enough. I don’t care if it doesn’t take the same form as conventional love,” he keeps eye contact with the other, “as long as you and I know our love for each other, then it doesn’t matter.”

Jisung has told this to Minho before, but he’ll say it a thousand times over if it means that Minho would believe him.

“Don’t- don’t you want a lover that won’t cry after sex? One that doesn’t freak out the morn—ing after because he thought he could handle it b-but he can’t?” Minho’s close to sobbing again.

Sex is a heavy topic. Part of Minho’s trauma stems from sex, or, as Sana, Jisung, and Minho have come to terms with, sexual assault.

It took Minho two years after the fact to be able to kiss Jisung without seeing Hee-Chul. It took another year for Minho to allow Jisung to touch him sensually over the clothes. Not to mention being able to fool around beneath the belt a full four years after Minho was raped, beaten, and abused by the man who claimed he loved him.

It follows him like his own shadow.

Jisung and Sana would argue that Minho’s grown tremendously, though. While penetrative sex was still off the table—and probably won’t ever make it onto the table—Minho’s managed to enjoy certain aspects of romantic, sexual touch. He’s felt the true pleasure behind Jisung’s slender fingers and his velvet tongue against his own.

Minho can even recall last night. He enjoyed every second of it—there was nothing that either did that made him squirm or tap out this time. It was progress, even if it hit like a sack of bricks the next day.

Jisung expresses he doesn’t care for sex. He can live without it, but he can’t live without Minho. Sometimes Minho believes it; other times, he doesn’t. Regardless, to Jisung, it still reigns true now that they’ve moved in together and have been engaged for three months.

“Minho, honey, look at me,” Jisung says softly. He waits for Minho to tilt his head up. His eyes are still swollen and red from crying earlier. “I love you with or without sex. I’ll still love you to my dying day. I care about you, not your body—not in that way.”

Minho’s bottom lip quivers. Jisung’s words held the most weight in his life, even if they didn’t stick for as long as he wanted them to.

Jisung kisses his forehead. “My little petal, I adore you. You’re so strong and so brave… I’m so proud of you, Minho.”

Minho closes his eyes. He’s proud of himself too. Perhaps not so much now, but most of the time, he is. It took a while to feel like he was healing, but it’s evident more now than ever.

“Thank you, ‘Sungie,” Minho says into his chest.

Jisung hums. “Of course, my dear.”

They sit there for a few more minutes. Minho’s heart rate finally drops to an average rate, pitter-pattering to the beat of Jisung’s. It’s comforting in a way.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to; that’s an option you’ll always have,” Jisung starts, squeezing their connected hands. “But do you know what triggered you this time? Is there anything I can do to prevent it from happening again?”

Minho sighs. As much as he doesn’t want to think about it again, he knows that he won’t be able to leave the bathroom floor without doing so.

“The sheets,” he mumbles, “they… we didn’t change them before we went to bed last night.” The words slowly become softer and softer, ending in a faint whisper that Minho’s not even sure if he could hear what he was saying.

Jisung understands him perfectly. “Ah, I see. We did forget about them, didn’t we?” He hums. “I’ll go change and wash them; how does that sound?”

Minho sniffles and nods. “A-and the mirror.”

Jisung cocks his head at this, obviously confused at his answer. “The… mirror?”

Minho flinches in memory. His other hand subconsciously goes to touch his neck. “I saw the- the marks.” His voice remains small.

Jisung pulls away to look at him. His eyes immediately fall onto the blotches of purple scattered around his neck. They’re relatively small, but they’re there nonetheless.

Upon seeing Jisung’s frown and how his eyebrows crease Minho stutters. “I-I don’t regret them!” He assures him. “It’s just that,” he bites his lip, “I saw them a-at the wrong time. It was after the whole sheets thing.”

Still, Jisung remains concerned. His eyes flicker between the makes he can see, not accounting for the ones lurking underneath Minho’s sleep shirt. Perhaps he went too far last night.

“Do they hurt? We can cover them up if you’d like. I’m sorry, Minnie, I didn’t mean to leave so many,” Jisung apologizes.

Minho shakes his head. “They don’t hurt—they’re a little sore, but that’s only when I press into them. I think… I think I’m okay with them now. I was just upset earlier.” He concludes. It’s true, too, although the final test would be to stand up and face the mirror again between now and when they’d fade from his pale skin.

“Okay…” Jisung says warily, “promise to let me know otherwise, alright?”

Minho nods. “Of course.”

With that, Minho tells him that it’s okay to go to change the sheets now. He can handle a few minutes alone while he does so. Jisung agreed hesitantly but quickly went into their bedroom to get started on the task at hand.

Minho slowly pulls himself up from the floor. The grooves of the bathroom tile imprint into his skin, and his bottom feels uncomfortably numb. With shaky legs, he can press his hips to the counter, leaning slightly to catch his balance.

He keeps his head hung low, not quite ready to look up yet. Minho knows he doesn’t have to—he doesn’t have to face his reflection just yet, but he wants to. Minho thinks it to be another battle won. Besides, he wants to wash up properly as well.

Minho inhales sharply and then snaps his head up. He was expecting worse; and it could be worse, with genuine bruises and swelling from Hee-Chul’s fist and otherwise. Instead, his eyes are a little puffy, and his nose is still red. The markings on his neck aren’t nearly as vibrant as he made them out to be earlier.

They’re probably the size of a quarter each, and while there were more than he expected coming from Jisung, they’re more like prominent birthmarks than anything. It’s not as intimidating as it was prior.

Instead of the aggressive, pooling hickeys left by Hee-Chul, Jisung had left little love bites for his fiance. Each one made with praise for the boy–Minho now remembers more of the night’s events.

When it comes to the more physical and visual aspects of their relationship, Minho tends to be more conservative. For a while, he only wore things that covered him. Some pants trailed the floor and sleeves that went inches past his fingertips. Turtlenecks were only acceptable in the winter, and even then, Minho couldn’t choose the benefit of protecting his neck from the constant reminder of pressure surrounding it.

Now, though, Minho feels comfortable wearing looser articles. Summers are hot in Busan, and he’s less scared of needing the seconds it’d take to remove the heavier pieces to escape imaginary threats. He has Jisung to thank.

Eventually, Jisung returns to the bathroom to find Minho staring into the mirror. Coming up behind him, he looks with him.

“My lover,” is all Jisung says.

Minho leans back into him.

“My lover.”