minho/onew

(n.) that which has been washed away

lj (if you prefer that)

He isn’t really, sad or anything. It’s more like, he’s just content. Just

content.

Which again, isn’t particularly bad really, but isn’t exactly great. It’s just

good.

He guesses.

He’s thinking too much about this. That much he is entirely aware of. Now don’t get him wrong, self-awareness is a sign of great maturity, but being self-aware isn’t enough if you don’t put that self-awareness to use. Of which he, does not. 

Why? Because he likes to think. A lot.

He thinks so much he does’t even know what he’s even thinking about sometimes, or a lot of the times. So many times. 

Does this whole thought process even make sense?

“Onew-hyung.”

“Huh? What?” Onew snaps back to reality. “Yeah, what’s going on?”

“We’re going on-stage.” Minho gets up and offers a hand. 

Onew takes it. It’s strong and callous and comfortably familiar. He thinks of quiet touches and careful arms, of soft whispers and warm laughs.

“Ready?” Minho asks, whispering in his ear.

Onew smiles, “Ready.”

Suddenly, his thoughts no longer hold the substance they had seconds before.

What was he even worrying about?