Drive

With the window rolled down and the cold wind of the early morning on his face, he can see the stars ahead. It smells of dew and rain and humidity crawling below his veins, curling his dark hair around his ears and nape. It feels nice, the road, the sky, his hand casually resting over his leg, the taste of smoke on his lips, and soft clouds on his head. Nice, pleasant, he has to admit. The silence is comfortable between them, they have nothing else to say so Minho the radio and settled for some calm jazz, and Jinwoo smiled, relaxed under his sight, fingers bent around the wheel, his eyes focused. And nothing else but a soft morning breaking out, slowly dissolving navy blue with baby pink and purple and slashing red murder.

Minho is riding shotgun, watching the world changing, from night to daybreak, glancing at Jinwoo, at his profile, the side of his nose, and then the mole below his lashes, a secret he only knows. Beautiful, captivating, even more than sunrise, better than any painting he can draw. Jinwoo has taken him by surprise - who has always been by his side.

The lamps street at both sides of the road flashes light over Minho, like a shooting star, whitening his already white, smuggling smile. It has been like that since Jinwoo's default since he had given up on reasons and allowed Minho to win the fight.

It wasn't a real fight, of course not, only Minho complaining. And Jinwoo can give it to him, it's nothing much, he hasn't asked for the moon - and, still, he would bring it back for him if demanded, there is nothing he wouldn't do for Minho. But he was tired, trying to settle down, back to a life he had on standby for nearly two years - a life of music and singing, of endless shifts and continuously moving and thriving. He has done his best to adjust, and he was looking forward to the first few days alone at home, with Minho. And, then, it all began. He should have seen it coming, should have seen the signs, the little pouting, and the soft snarls. But Minho was just as exhausted as he was so he didn't pay attention.

And, then, he asked for it. For a camping trip.

And Jinwoo had truckled because he had run out of excuses because Minho was so adamant and persistent and stubborn, unyielding to any explanation, to any other proposition. No, it has to be camping and it has to be now.

"Because you went camping with your sister but never with me. And it hurts," he said, much to Jinwoo's surprise. As if he did it in porpoise, just to annoy Minho - he didn't consider it at all, he had gone only for her sister and the sake of the show. But he had given up even before it could start and Minho grinned bigger than his mouth, all happiness, all soft edges, and a pleased chest.

The sun leaks its colors to Jinwoo, leaning red and orange to his cheeks, a patina of a golden rain that falls over his dark hair, like an old picture, crumbled, sepia-toned, the smell of withered paper and spices, and the taste of morning stirring under his eyes that capture every change in the light, in how Jinwoo's shines, his hands firmly laced, lips a breath parted, enough for his teeth to bite, white against marshmallow pink in tethered concentration, his sight focused on the road shaded with impossible embers that are igniting under the touch of the sunlight, that is slowl