Minho wanted shout, scream, lash out, the more he heard anyone ask those things. Stop asking, stop making him answer that yes he’s okay, he’s fine, he’s just a little under the weather, just tired.

 

He wanted to throw up words instead of what was or wasn’t in his stomach, he wanted people to understand what happened to him when he still didn’t understand himself.

 

He wanted to stop pretending, because it was exhausting, it was infuriating. He was never a really good liar, and this wasn’t the kind of practice he wanted to become a better one.

 

He wanted to stop seeing those concerned or confused looks when he smiled and insisted it was fine, really it was fine. Okay.

 

Most of all, he just wanted to stop being asked if he was okay.

 

Jinki would then show up. Jinki wouldn’t keep asking. Jinki would just let him be, mostly. Minho was grateful for that much.

 

So Minho wondered, he cracked a little, tired of what vile thing festered inside him– what would happen if a day came he said no he’s not okay.

 

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

 

 

Minho now made it an unconscious habit to check his underwear for blood before he dropped it in the dirty clothes.

 

If he ever found any blood, from days when he had scrubbed too hard again, he threw them away immediately.

 

Some days though, he blinked and the blood was gone. It was never even there, reminding and showing everyone what had happened to him in the first place.

 

Those days, Minho struggled with throwing them out anyway.

 

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

Minho curled up under his covers, blankly staring in his dark room. He listened to his parents argue somewhere outside his door. It was happening again. It happened so much now, something uncharacteristic of the family.

 

It was possibly something about work. How father had been promoted several years ago, what prompted the family to move into a more spacious two-story house instead of an apartment; gave a middle class family luxury. Things such as a new car while the old car became something an older brother nearly owned and friends always taking the bus or taxi were envious of. Father was so much more busy, though Minho couldn’t recall a time he felt his father wasn’t often absent with work; why he grew up more in a mother’s care, but he heard stories from a brother who remembered a father being around a lot. Minho didn’t remember, at the time still too young. What presence he did recall was a father near when it came to sports and competitions, almost always around for the boys’ important soccer matches, especially his brother’s, with a wide smile and proud pats to shoulders. So Minho strived in what father loved best because father would then be around, and he wanted father’s attention and time too.

 

He kept hearing his name though. It wasn’t simply about work, was it?

 

It’s all because of him. Because his behavior had been changing the more time past. He tried to hide it, be who he should be, but it was getting so hard. He’s home more than usual, shut up in his room more than usual, alone more than usual. Nothing was usual anymore.

 

It was exhausting trying to grip what little he could of himself as it fell further from him.

 

Who was he anymore?

 

Where was he?

 

Minho rolled over in bed. That confusion as a child, being the one that often didn’t quite fit in until he forced himself to fit in, questioning himself from a young age because a vocal mother had wished he were born a girl, actions confused, that had all been so much easier than this.

 

No part of him feels himself anymore.

 

Minho had excused himself from dinner early again, hardly eating anything. He just poked at his food staring through his plate. Things were even quieter with Minseok not home for dinner. Mom was the only buffer between Minho and dad now.

 

Dad did more of his heavy sighing while Minho slowly and quietly answered any questions about school. He lied about his grades again – grades that were continuously slipping. He just couldn’t concentrate on anything anymore. Minho was obviously tense when dad asked about soccer, something an overworked businessman with a history of playing the sport unabashedly prided himself on about his two sons. It felt like half the small town knew who they were by now because of that.

 

Minho had smiled through his lie – everything was fine, great. He hoped it sounded better than he felt about it.

 

It was painfully obvious how irritated his father was growing with him these days. Even starting to avoid Minho, probably not wanting confrontation, though Minho hardly fought back; head low, nodding. All he had ever wanted to do was make his father happy and proud- hit expectations at the same level his older brother always achieved. If he could feel much of anything, he would be disappointed in himself for disappointing his father. Instead, he just couldn’t really care anymore.

 

 

As the voices rose outside his door, Minho reached for his cellphone. He flicked it open and hesitated before he called his brother.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hyung?”

 

“What? What’s wrong?” Minseok could already tell by Minho’s tone. Minho chewed his lip, feeling a burden.

 

“Dad..” Minho cringed, hearing his dad shouting about something.

 

“Are they fighting again?”

 

Minho nodded his head, but that wasn’t answer his brother could hear. “Yes..”

 

Minseok breathed tired and heavy. “I’ll come home right now.”

 

“I’m so sorry, hyung,” Minho’s voice broke, “This is my-”

 

“Stop it. This has nothing to do with you.” Minseok spoke sternly, and lied, but it still made Minho feel slightly better.

 

“I’m coming home, Minho.” and with that, Minseok hung up.

 

Minho curled up under his blankets, blinking wet eyes he was unaware of, as the fighting continued. Numbing settled in again, everything becoming more distant despite rising voices right outside his bedroom. He thought of just sinking through the bed, disappearing forever. If he fell asleep, maybe he wouldn’t ever awake up again. That would be okay with him.

 

“I’m sorry,” Minho whispered, apologizing to everyone he’s hurt, feeling sicker than ever.

 

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

Minho pulled a mask from his backpack, a small, white, common one. It wasn’t odd seeing people on the streets wearing them, especially during the colder seasons; not wanting to spread germs to one another.

 

Minho wasn’t so worried about a little cold spreading. He suffered from much worse a disease. So Minho wore a mask like he hadn’t in a long time. He masked half his face, hiding from himself more than anything.

 

Backpack tugged back on over his jacket, Minho walked through crowded streets, making his way home, wearing a small, white mask over part of his face, doing everyone a favor by containing an illness and foul stench within.

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

When his soccer teammates called, or coach even, Minho would either not answer or awkwardly laugh his way through an excuse – a lie. He was busy.

 

If he saw them on school grounds he would act injured, hoping it looked conniving enough. That was a new excuse. He was hurt, couldn’t play. Sorry. It wasn’t the first time he would have hurt himself doing something dumb, or even while on the field twisting his ankle, or such. It was conceiving enough.

 

Eventually Minho told them his father needed his help elsewhere and couldn’t play for a period of time.

 

He was bothered less after that. It could buy him time until it got around to father that he had been skipping out on soccer. It was only a matter of time.

 

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

 

Mother asked Minho again, and like the weekend he got back, he said the same thing.

 

No, he didn’t feel well, he wanted to sleep in. He’s a growing boy after all, weekends were all he had.

 

Mom and dad went to a Sunday meeting by themselves. It wasn’t unusual. Neither son went as often as they did as children. School was so much more demanding, social lives were so much fuller. Parents didn’t even go every week. They weren’t highly religious, but it was a routine to daily life, like a lot of his hometown, and it didn’t hurt anyone either. It felt like the right thing to do.

 

Even if Minho could manage to get himself to leave his room outside of school, he didn’t want to go.

 

Minho couldn’t face any sort of religion right now.

 

Maybe never again.

 

How could something he was taught was good and kind, something he believed in, leave him so alone and damaged.

 

After mother left, Minho got up and grabbed the small crucifix he had been given as a kid, something that would bring him a source of calm in difficult times, one that nearly matching a larger cross hanging on the wall somewhere in the house. He took it and shoved it away with everything else he’s tried to hide in is room. He couldn’t stand seeing it anymore.

 

How could he ever have unmoving faith again after it had crumbled right from under him.

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

When Minho sat alone in his room trying to study, sometimes the room grew so quiet Minho would unconsciously squeeze his legs together, hearing the loud noises of skin moving roughly against skin.

 

Minho would cover his ears with his hands, hoping it would stop, but that only seemed to make it grow even louder with a roaring buzz following and mixing painfully with it.

 

Soon the radio would be playing loudly in his room and he would sit staring through unfinished schoolwork, unable to concentrate anymore.

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

It hurt. His stomach hurt and his body ached, but using the toilet was uncomfortable now. As much as anything going in as anything coming out. Raw scrubbing between his cheeks made using the toilet hurt more than ever.

 

He hated it. He hated his body now, everything it did and cried out for him to do.

 

Minho rubbed his stomach, avoiding the toilet as long as physically possible. He wished he could just throw it up, empty himself completely that way. It would surely taste better than the taste still lingering in his mouth of men he didn’t even know. No matter what little food he could down, that taste never left, like it was permanently embedded on his tongue, between his teeth, everywhere.

 

Minho hated it.

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

Some sleepless nights Minho laid awake in bed, lidded eyes drifting as his mind played over scenarios in his head, so many, on how he could have done that night differently, not happen – not have let it happen.

 

Just one little change, maybe he wouldn’t be like this now. If he hadn’t drank. If he hadn’t tried to find a bathroom. If he had just gone to bed early. If he hadn’t gone on the trip at all.

 

The self-blame festered until Minho blinked wet eyes, refusing to cry, days droning on in a near numbing motion. He had nothing to cry over. He had nothing.

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

Minho was invited to a gathering, one while in school the drinking part of it was hushed in some sort of code. Friends were going to be there, soccer teammates were going to be there, it would be fun like usual, loud and exciting, what Minho used to thrive in, even while not intoxicated.

 

Minho choked on air. He never wanted to see an alcoholic drink again.

 

With a small tilt of his head and a smile, still trying to be what he deemed ‘normal’, Minho declined. He was busy. He was always busy lately when friends asked about anything. School, home, tutor with Jinki - repeat.

 

Soon they just wouldn’t ask anymore.

 

 

Soon Minho would no longer have friends, and he couldn’t muster the energy to care- it was better off that way.

 

So then why was Jinki still around?

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

He wondered…

 

Minho wasn’t really listen to Jinki talking anymore, as the two sat together in is room where they’re supposed to be studying. He was just staring at his lips. Wondering.. Wondering what it would be like to kiss a boy. Would it be different than kissing a girlfriend?

 

He had got to try once or twice, kiss a girl, as much as pressing dry lips to other lips was a kiss. And he thought enjoyed it at the time with a pretty girl, seemed like he did, at least made him smile and get quiet with sudden shyness. A sweet girl that made Minho flustered, until she broke up with him because he spent too much time with soccer, or something, and not enough time with her. Minho barely recalled because rejection was never kind, even in a short relationship – a first and only relationship, one that came late, because he shied away from the fact he didn’t have much interest in a relationship while all the boys his age were curious. While guys like Jinki were interested in girls and Minho just interested in sports or being with friends. Did that make him weird?

 

Kissing a boy…

 

Would he even like that, though? Would it be like with that girl?

 

They weren’t right about him, were they?

 

He blinked slowly, mind heavy, not enough sleep, and even now his skin tinkled with aches from nails he barely cut sinking into skin.

 

Minho didn’t think. He stopped forcing himself to act interested in Jinki’s story, pressing forward until his mouth smashed against Jinki’s moving lips, curious more than anything. Maybe that fact that it was hard to feel much made the action that much easier. He couldn’t process the possible repercussions of it – ruining a friendship.

 

He wanted to feel like something even matter again.

 

Jinki’s sudden shocked reaction startled Minho back to some coherency, suddenly very ashamed of himself. “I think they were right.” Minho whispered, and buried his face in his knees, voice slurring pronunciation, as if a child again. “I’m shick- I’m.. there’s somethings wrong with me. I’m sick.”

 

“Minho,” Jinki laughed. “It’s okay.. You’re not sick.”

 

No, he was, he was because he would never do something like that, he just wouldn’t. “I am. I’m shorry I did that to you, hyung. I didn’t means- mean it.”

 

“Minho-ya.”

 

Jinki’s touch was gentle, and in seconds warm lips on Minho’s cheek were somehow comforting – reassuring in a way. He dared to turn his head and meet Jinki’s mouth, still so confused but needing something, anything at this point.

 

It was kind of pleasant, especially when Jinki carefully touched him, and he mostly let Jinki lead.. whatever they were actually in fact doing. Minho still wasn’t sure. It felt different than what he could remember a girl’s kiss to be, but still somehow the same, but he wasn’t flustered, he was something else he couldn’t explain. Something that might reach back further in time, something that had always felt pleasant but never expressed in any form such as this. Minho pressed into the kiss as lips barely parted against his chapped ones in a kiss deeper than he had ever experienced, really wondering what it was, that near giddy churn in the pit of his stomach, but soon there was a bright flash behind his closed eyes.

 

Those men were there. smiling.

 

He loves it.

 

Suddenly those men were moving fast and roughly inside of him again.

 

Stop stop stop!

 

Minho shoved one of the men off him. He didn’t want to hurt that badly again.

 

“Don’t.. don’t touch me.”

 

Minho ran out of his room and into the bathroom, quickly gagging and coughing into the running sink. He realized now he had actually been with Jinki the whole time and he wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. That really did just happen, didn’t it? His mind was fuzzy enough he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t at his point.

 

Minho threw up what little dinner he had earlier into the sink now. He hacked and choked against the counter, eyes red and wet from the force of it. Sickening.

 

He left the bathroom sometime later. Minho stood outside his bedroom, but he couldn’t bring himself to push the door open – he couldn’t go back in there and face Jinki, not after what he did.

 

Minho went and quietly sat a distance away from his brother on the couch. Minho could tell Minseok wanted to say something but held back. Minho was thankful he didn’t.

 

He didn’t want to think right now – not ever. Minho zoned out, staring mindlessly at the tv.

 

Just when he would think he was maybe getting better, he would take way too many steps backwards at once.

 

Slowly Minho was giving up even trying to hold on anymore.

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

Ultimately, Minho was looking for a fight when he walked past Minseok in the hall only to bump his shoulder into his brother. Minseok shoved Minho back, voice full of irritation, “Excuse you.”

 

Minho’s eyes narrowed and he shoved back at Minseok harder, knowing full well his brother was stressed because of their strained family atmosphere lately, and Minho blamed himself for it, which only made him itch for some sort of fight even more.

 

“Minho-ya.”

 

His name was said in a familiar, warning manner, but Minho wasn’t fazed. He stepped closer to Minseok and shoved him hard. Minho was quickly shoved again, Minseok finally giving Minho what he wanted.

 

Fight.

 

Once they really started fighting, Minho wasn’t really fighting his brother – that’s not where his aggression lied. His brother was just a perfect outlet for his building agitation and need to show he could fight back. He wasn’t helpless.

 

When Minho’s swinging fist actually hit Minseok’s face, taking a possible scuffle they had grown up doing on occasion to a real full-blown fight, there was a pause before Minseok spun Minho around and picked him up, arms tightly around his stomach, keeping Minho’s arms locking to his sides. Minho struggled but couldn’t quite break his slightly thinner figure loose. He was dragged to his room on toes that tried to dig into the wood floors while he grunted and shouted to be let go. No one was home to hear the two fight or step in and stop it.

 

Minho was dropped on his bed but Minseok fell with him during the struggle, pinning Minho to the bed with his heavy body. Flashes of that night shot through Minho and suddenly it wasn’t his brother forcing his erratic actions the bed anymore. It was one of those men. Minho give one last burst of a struggle before falling limp under the body in labored breathes.

 

Minho realized he couldn’t save himself. Again. So he begged, voice breaking, “Please don’t hurt me again.. I don’t want to…”

 

He suddenly recognized the voice near his head, “What are you talking about?”

 

It wasn’t them. It was his brother, and he sounded worried.

 

“Hyung?” Minho whispered into the bed.

 

“Who else would it be?” When there was only silence, Minseok asked another question. “Why did you hit me?”

 

Minho had to take a moment to remember that he had. He didn’t mean to hit is brother. He wasn’t trying to hit his brother, he didn’t deserve that. “I.. I don’t know,” Minho answered honestly, “I’m sorry.”

 

Minseok sighed as he eased up. He pulled off of Minho.

 

“Minho-ya,” Minseok called, walking out the room. His tone showed just how set and determined he was when he said, “I’m going to find out what you’re hiding from me.”

 

Minho’s door shut with a slam. He crawled up the rest of his bed to lay down, suddenly so exhausted. His brother couldn’t find out. No.

 

Not ever.

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

Minho made a puckered face in the mirror, unnoticing how long his unkept hair had been growing, or big baggy eyes, or a new reddening acne bump beside small, scattered freckles against a skin complexion that used to be much clearer. Cheeks with still lingering baby fat inflated more, nose a slight crinkled. No, his whole focus was on his puffy chapped, circular lips – his mouth. The dirty, filthy mouth that he had been touching Jinki with.

 

Minho picked up the bottle of mouthwash taking a mouth full of it. He swished until he couldn’t hold it in any longer, then spit out it into the sink. His tongue moved around his burning mouth, but it still felt dirty.

 

He could still taste those men.

 

It was dirty and he was forcing the filth on Jinki now too.

 

Minho almost used up a nearly full bottle of mouthwash before he left the bathroom.

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

 

Minho sat in his room, legs crossed on his bed while his fingers traced his parted lips.

 

He had told Jinki.

 

Minho had almost pretended he never said anything to his friend so he wouldn’t have to write it and hand over his dirty secret - be judged, or worse, pitied.

 

Not a victim of such acts, those only happen to girls in hushed whispers, right.

 

Teeth bit down into lips that had been kissed nights ago, tingle almost still lingering.

 

Who was he?

 

Minho bit so hard he drew blood from his mouth.

 

Mom wanted a girl, maybe he– that could explain–

 

He lowered his head, pulling on his hair, body pulsing in unexplainable jitters. He felt some relief having let someone in on his secret; no he felt a lot of relief, like maybe he wasn’t so alone. Yet he felt oddly exposed in an unfamiliar way. If he thought it wasn’t possible for it to feel anymore real, he had been wrong. There was no going back now, no pretend it into nothingness, that no one but himself knew. It was almost like things were getting better; he was getting along with his brother again after that fight brought on by Minho, it was back to normal, because it didn’t happen–

 

Yet his lips had touched someone else’s more than once.

 

That was…

 

Minho leaned over, voice slipping in a whine as his eyes squeezed closed tightly, body tense.

 

Confusion.

 

 

Several nights ago, it had taken a lot to get himself to settle and actually try to do what Jinki had suggested.

 

Write it down.

 

Sitting at his desk, trying to write what he had experienced so he could try and tell someone – needed to tell someone, living it again, even if scribbled out vaguely, was almost more than he could handle. His hand moved, writing, but he had felt like he was watching himself rather than doing the actual actions. He had only half read over it, then decided it was good enough to give to Jinki. No need for explicit details, how weak he was he couldn’t put up a fight, how much it hurt, how disgusting he felt from the inside out now, somewhere in the back of his mind convinced by voices that he had liked it – he had wanted it to happen. He’s rotting with stench not of his own. No need for that.

 

Jinki now knew though, he knew enough, it wasn’t hard to imagine the rest.

 

He was trying to find himself and now Jinki knew just how lost he was.

 

 

“I don’t want pity..” Minho mumbled, then traced his lips with his tongue, tasting blood. “Where am I?”

 

Minho’s fist slammed into his mattress until he grew too tired to continue mindlessly beating it and hurried to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection while washing his mouth out again.

 

Why did Choi Minho have to leave when he needed him the most?

 

 

 

______________

 

 

 

 

“You believe me, right?” Minho didn’t know why he still asked. The way Jinki looked at him now, it was different, unsettling because now he knew. He had that thought in the back of his mind before he ever let it slip to Jinki that he wanted to tell him something – the thought he would be looked at differently. He wasn’t the same anyway, it probably didn’t matter how he was looked at.

 

Maybe if Minho asked enough times Jinki would eventually say no he didn’t believe Minho and everything could be forgotten like it never happened.

 

“Yeah,” Jinki still looked so nervous, uneasy. Not himself, and Minho felt something over it. Maybe frustration. “I believe you, I said I did already.”

 

Minho nodded, head falling to stare back at his book he could barely focus on in the first place.

 

Later, when Jinki leaned in a little, like he expected something more than just pointing at a problem in the book, Minho turned in to press his mouth to Jinki’s, and just for a moment he felt a spark of something comforting instead of a waste of a human being.

 

Someone believed him, someone didn’t leave his side. Maybe that made a difference.