Song: Lift the fog up by Shing02

 

Minho sat on the steps to the entrance of his factory apartment building. He had his ears plugged with headphones, mp3 player held in his hand as he stared off into nothing. He glanced at the time occasionally, adjusting his glasses, foot tapping to the beat of a rap song that he could never quite get all the words right when he sang along. He closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair . There he saw a pair of size six tennis shoes and long scrawny legs clad in tearing jeans. He looked up and noticed the oversized hoodie, the long light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail framing a petite but boyish face. Minho blinked a few times before murmuring, “So what did they say?”

Taemin  broke out in a grin before he made a peace sign, “They liked me!"

-

The phone rung in the living room of his apartment just as Minho had rubbed his clay dirtied hands on his jeans. He paused when it rung for the second time, than heard the shuffling of feet. He went back to work.

Here on the second floor of his apartment was his studio. It had high ceiling windows revealing just the surprisingly calm city street below. The sun rays always seemed to light this part of his apartment with determination. Taemin thinks it’s makes his pieces glow. Pieces including his paintings, clay animal statues, and pottery.

Minho was staring at a unfinished clay piece in particular. He didn’t know what to call it yet, but Taemin had said it reminded him of screaming fish that used it’s fins as a self-defense mechanism.

“If that’s so, than what would the species be called?”

Warm slender arms wrapped around his waist, before a head popped over his shoulder, “The Min Fish.”

Minho chuckled, “Absolutely not.”

Taemin pouted before releasing Minho and standing beside him. He held up his hands using his matching index and thumb to form a frame, “Why not? It’s definitely has Minho spelled all over it. Why not incorporate you’re name into it as well?”

Minho sighed shaking  his head, “It has nothing to do with me.” Taemin gave him a look as if to protest and Minho smiled adding, “But hey, you said it looked like it was screaming. Why not name it the Screaming Fish?”

Taemin frowned, “I think all that studying for Law School has turned your creative side to mush. You need to get yourself fixed.”

Minho turned back to his unfinished piece, “Law doesn’t need creativity when someone else as already created it.”

“Exactly.”

Minho paused feeling the uneasiness floating into the room. “Who was it that called?”

Taemin snorted, “Who do you think?”

Minho turnd to Taemin than who was now walking away from him. Taemin stopped just at the top of the metal spiral staircase that led to the first floor below, “I’m so use to him cussing me out, that I can’t help but start laughing when I think about it.”

Minho took a step forward, face showing guilt, “He doesn’t mean it. It’s me that he’s upset with.”

Taemin’s eyes were cold, the grip on the metal banister now pale, “Of course it’s you. He’s your father, isn’t he?”

-

“Minho you’ve been the only son that I can count on. You’ve followed in my footsteps just like I wanted you to. You share my beliefs. My goals. My everything, and I want you to know that I support you with whatever decision you make when the time is right. You’re the son I can say I’m proud of.”

Minho smiled, remembering the feel of his Father’s heavy hand patting the top of his head. Feeling good, Minho rushed to his room carrying a pottery of two figures linked together by their hands. He smiled, at his father as he presented his piece, “Dad look! I made this in art class! My teacher said I had a talent! That I should become an artist one day!”

He heard the blow before he felt the blow. He saw the way his masterpiece flew into the air and closed his eyes, only to hear the unmistakable sound of it shattering onto the polished redwood floor.

When he had opened them, his father was standing before him, “Don’t let me see any more of those things that you create in my house again. Do you understand me?”

He was speechless. Something wet seemed to drain from his nose, and his lip and eye stung.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

An artist of all kind

His mouth opened and close, his body numb all over save for his face which burned now.

“Minho, I can’t hear you.”

Somewhere in those wide brown eyes, the doors of possibility that were open to him closed one by one until there were none.

“I…I want to be a lawyer.”

His father was smiling, “And why is that, Minho?”

Minho swallowed, eyes unblinking, the wetness falling past his lips and dribbling down to his chin, “Because Dad is… because I want to be like Dad.”

Another pat on his head and the retreating figure of his father’s back. He didn’t see it though, the image of his father. He just saw, playing like an old record player, the sound and vision of his clay piece breaking apart.

-

When Minho opened his eyes his arm was draped over a waist, and his vision was obscured by light brown locks. He moved his head glancing at the clock on the nightstand. It was six in the morning. His half-lidded eyes wandered to the blinds to the windows which were open a few inches. Minho could see that a fog had settled over the city.

Minho nuzzled his nose into the neck of Taemin who slept soundly beside him. They were spooned together and Minho held him closer. Taemin would have to wake up soon. He worked little odd jobs here and there to pay rent for his own apartment. A long time ago, Minho had proposed that Taemin give up the lease and just move in with him.

“No I will not. Not until you get yourself together and find out what you want to do.”

Minho was exasperated, “I already know what I’m going to do. I’m going to become a-“

Taemin pressed his hands against Minho’s mouth, his eyes dead serious, “Don’t say something that you don’t really mean.”

This wasn’t Minho’s apartment. He didn’t work hard to get it. The rent was in four digits and Minho worked at a bakery for an old couple (it was practically volunteer work because he could never muster the courage to ask for payment). His father had given this to him a few months ago when he had just finished all four years of his prerequisites for law school as a gift of dedication.

Things were going so well during that time. When he listened to what is father had to say, and gave into his beliefs and ideals, life seemed to run smoothly. Minho got expensive things as gifts, dressed up in tailored suits to attend a party for politicians, and celebrities. “Potential clients,” his father whispered as that fake smile festered on his face.

Eventually, his father went away for a few days on a business trip, leaving Minho to himself and the different colors of the city. He wandered for hours and came across what he assumed the artsy part of town. Painters, merchants, chefs, drifters all seemed to congregate into this area. The air never seemed so alive.

It was different than the places his father had taken him. It was like the people here created their own flag made out of their creative minds, worked through that rite of passage and came out as a hero, a leader for themselves.

A place of absolute freedom.

And in that freedom that was where he met Taemin. Taemin was a social butterfly, known well by the people here. He danced around with musicians, and laughed with poets. He smoked with the aged while listening to oldies and not once preached of his own ideals. Taemin came to Minho first, glowing in the afternoon sun, and they connected just like that.

Taemin was an acquaintance at first. He was in Minho’s life only when Minho wore casual clothing and met up at that part of town dubbed Freedom Avenue. They danced and partied and laughed and sang until Minho confessed everything about himself. He cried when he did and Taemin patted his back murmuring, “It’s okay.” Over and over until everything just clicked.

That same night, before he could go any further, Minho told his father that he would like to push school back for a whole year. That he didn’t want to go into law school just yet. Minho didn’t think that his father would be so understanding.

“Oh Minho, I understand. You’re young and the people and places that I’ve introduced to you have probably overwhelmed you. And I apologize. But I do have to wonder. It must be fascinating doing the things that I do when I was your age. You’re going to be just like me. And I won’t have it any other way.”

But it seemed as if his Father had misunderstood.

The first month Minho packed away all of his textbooks and notebooks and shoved them into an empty room where he would never see them again. He bought clay and made a kiln for himself to harden his finished clay pieces. He bought canvases and paint brushes and colors. Oh so many colors and he gave Taemin the key to his apartment and made love there.

He met the old couple who owned the bakery and needed an errand boy. He made friends on Freedom Avenue and become well known. Minho never stopped laughing.

It wasn’t until the fifth month when Minho’s lifestyle was all too free and flamboyant that his father came to check up on him.

His father wore that commercial smile when he first entered into the apartment. But the smile dwindled as he noticed little things, changes in Minho and the atmosphere of the apartment, entirely. When his father climbed to the second floor, Minho had never seen his face become so red as he stared down at all of Minho’s various art strewn about the room.

His father yelled and cursed and screamed at the outrage, the betrayal. His son was creating things. Things that weren’t from his own mind, but from Minho’s.

Taemin had walked in at that time. Hearing everything, Taemin did the unthinkable. He shielded Minho and claimed that all of the pieces that he found were his own. That Minho had given Taemin permission to momentarily house his pieces here in the second floor.

Despite the silence in the air, the tension was like soup. His father eyed Taemin only to threaten him, “If you dare influence, my son, with that garbage you call creativity. Then I’ll make sure everything that you worked so hard for will be taken from you.”

His father had left than. It’s been a month since that incident, but it haunted Minho to no end every day.

-

Minho stared out of the living room window looking out into the fog that had seemed to take permanent residence in the city. He couldn’t see the sun or the street below. It almost felt as if he was in a thick suspension of depressing thoughts and memories.

Taemin appeared from the bathroom, towel in hand, stretching in his black and white striped shirt that was two sizes too big, and black capris. His hair was wet from the shower and he sat next to Minho.

“What did the weather guy say about the fog?”

Minho ran his hand through his hair before looking at Taemin who was busy drying his hair. “The fog is out of season. They don’t really know when it’ll lift up.”

Taemin sighed and placed his towel on his neck. He tugged at his bangs in annoyance but his voice was even, “You need to talk to your dad.”

Minho eyes widen, he chuckled trying to brush it off, “Wow, that came out of nowhere.”

Taemin looked at him than, “I’ve been thinking about it for the longest time. You need to settle everything this week.”

“I know that.”

Taemin looked at Minho before chuckling, “It’ll probably be your first real battle of your life, wouldn’t it?”

Minho smiled and murmured, “He’ll probably disown me. Throw things at me. Threaten me.”

Taemin shrugged, “Your dad reminds me of society sometimes, you know. I’m sure there are other people that have your situation, Minho.”

Minho stared at Taemin. Taemin noticed and smiled at him before landing a kiss on his lips.

“You’re stronger than him, Minho.”

His hands cradled his face, “And I’ll always stand by you. No matter what.”

-

Minho stood just on the steps of his apartment door, his ears plugged with his headphones. The fog was thick and he could only see a few feet in front him. The sidewalk before him, stretched out like pathway to those doors that closed on him all those years ago. He was determined. His intentions were clear.

He was born to create things. Create ideas in his mind and live for himself. Noone, not even his father, could tell him otherwise. He was going to step on his own path. Make his own decisions.

When he’ll reach his pinnacle, overcome the giant obstacle, he’ll throw aside the flag of his father’s and all of his ideals that he preached, and make a flag for himself.

Minho stepped onto the sidewalk, the rap song playing in his ears. His lips moved, the words flowing out of him as if he created the song himself.

He walked with the intention of lifting the fog up. That was his path.

 

A/N: Finally able to do a submission! Yay! And omg Minho's dad OTL Anyway, all readers kindly comment below!

P.S. All by subbies for Le Prince de la Glace, I'm working on it. Really I am. Just had to get this off my chest ^^;;