Kibum buried his head into Minho’s chest and let out a desperate whimper, gripping the lapels of the younger’s black coat, face pressed firmly against the coarse fabric, so that he couldn’t see and only inhaled Minho’s delicate scent. The younger’s heartbeat accelerated as his posture stiffened, the arm that was wrapped protectively around Kibum’s shoulder tightening its grip, pulling the elder closer towards him. Kibum could feel the quickened pulse from Minho as his breathing caught in the back of his throat and his fingernails dug into Kibum’s shoulder.
Kibum tried to drown out the sounds, but he couldn’t.
He heard a low, gravelly protest that would have been a long cry of pain were it not for the duct tape, and a high pitched squeal, that would have been a scream were it not for the same reason. He couldn't move. He couldn’t think. Kibum didn't want to know who'd faced the machete’s blade.
Behind him, the man who'd been conducting the broadcast was speaking details now, where to exchange hostages and money, but Kibum wasn’t listening. All he could hear were the distressed noises made by the captives of the perpetrators, and Minho’s heavy breathing. He was well aware that Kibum was making a growing damp patch on his coat, but didn’t seem to care.   The broadcast ended and the television cut off.
Around Kibum, the silence was deafening. Nobody knew quite what to say, and nobody wanted to be the first to speak; with Minho and Kibum there, the mood was almost as if a heavy funeral, and nobody was keen to break open the coffin.   "Is he okay?” the detective from earlier asked. Kibum couldn’t see, but he knew the question was directed at him.
“Y-yeah,” Minho answered, voice shaking. His hand began to Kibum’s hair, the elder still confined in shock. His knuckles burned white and his stance was weak, legs about to collapse beneath him. He most certainly was not okay, and, deep down, even Minho knew that.   "Take him out,” the detective instructed, “get some air.”
Minho nodded.   Gingerly, he dropped his arm and used his strong hands to peel Kibum off of him, the elder sniffing loudly and glancing around the bustled police office with bleary eyes and a look of abstract confusion. His face was laced in glistening tear tracks, eyes rimmed red, raw from crying.
“C-C’mon, Kibum,” Minho soothed, taking Kibum’s hand in his, much to the prying eyes of the various dazed staff, and leading him out to the corridor.   The journey outside was short – a small ride in an elevator and a hastened walk past a confused receptionist – and Kibum had remained as if sedated the whole time, mind a soft mess. Once they reached outside, the near-empty carpark beckoned them both, the cold air a welco