It all started- or rather, ended- the day they parted at the airport.
It’s been their routine for a while now- one of them always chasing another one, another one running away and avoiding the first. The second one being sick of the constant affection he was receiving, the first one unable to hold back his emotions and tenderness. Them both often quarreling, misunderstanding, wanting something utterly different. The second one mentally growling in frustration when the other one would forgive him just anything, without giving it a second thought.
The second one wanting to be free, to be independent and successful- the first one desiring nothing more than sincere, stable relationship overflowing with love and concern.
That’s why the second one would often travel, meet new people, only those “meaningful” though- those that could help him in fulfilling his dreams. He was impossibly pragmatic, always focused on things that could help him reach the top.
And since the first one wanted nothing more than to be with the one he loved, he’d always see him off at the airport (which always made the second one furious inside).
Neither of them knew why they still kept this, why they couldn’t just part and walk in opposite directions.
While the first one was the one who loved and hurt, the other one was the escaper and the reason for the latter’s pain.
What was the point in this bitter-sweet pointless relationship?
Minho couldn’t find any- excluding the growing frustration and motivation to become someone worthy the big world, someone who could excuse himself and say “sorry, I have no time for you”, someone who could spread his wings and bring his team splendor and pride.
The point of keeping it all was probably the look in Jinki’s eyes, always so vulnerable, forgiving, understanding, so loving, and, most of all- full of hope. Minho knew he was killing this hope with each of his travels, but taking it whole away in one moment would probably break the older boy.
That’s why then, as Minho was getting ready for the check-in, he avoided Jinki’s pleading eyes and didn’t dare to tell him that this time he was leaving for good.
He knew that Jinki would wait for him, would hope for him to come back, would always believe in his return. And that was the best good-bye gift that Minho could give him: silence. Hiding the truth.
He drew his passport from his bag and decided it was the best moment to stand in the queue.
And get rid of this unbearable ballast.
“See you, Jinki” he said simply, finally locking his gaze with the older boy’s.
What he saw was not good.
Jinki’s eyes were glittering because of the tears they gathered but feared to let out; his lips trembled so slightly it was almost unnoticeable. His cheeks were flushed, hair ruffled.
He’d never looked so vulnerable, so longing as at that moment. As if he knew what was about to happen.
But maybe he was just having a bad day.
“I’ll miss you” he whispered, trying with all his might not to kiss the tall boy helplessly and desperately, not to embrace him with all his force and prevent him from leaving.
No. He just hugged him for a brief moment, as any normal best friend would do- for which Minho was always so grateful.
Though the physical contact lasted no longer than five seconds, Jinki could whisper right into his ear, barely audibly, those words that Minho hated to hear:
“I love you…”
He just nodded, as the older pulled back hesitantly. He forced a smile and picked up his bag.
“I’ll miss you too, Jinki-hyung.”
He didn’t turn back even once, while the other’s longing stare was digging into the back of his jacket.
Minho was free. Finally free.




After a few long, exhausting, but so self-fulfilling months full of training, Minho was finally able to achieve his dream- to become a professional football player.
He was free, free and independent, as he’d always dreamt.
He didn’t have to find time for dates, didn’t need to think of what to say, what to wear, how to impress the other one- now he could be just himself, with his new phone number and new email address.
He was so proud of himself. He wasn’t weak, he wasn’t bounded to the other one anymore, he wasn’t a masochist.
He often congratulated himself for being so smart and beginning a new, way more meaningful life.
Because, really, what did he have in Seoul with Jinki?
He had to care about someone, sometimes to show his affection, sometimes to think of some gift to give.
(though it seemed that Jinki did it all for them both)
Sometimes, he’d have go out for a walk at three in the morning, fingers intertwined, mouths shut but with no awkwardness in it, only peace and relishing in the other’s presence.
Sometimes, he’d have to eat a recently-found new chicken dish.
(Jinki was a really good cook actually)
Sometimes he’d have to sit on a sofa, the older boy’s head resting on his lap, as they watched the TV in silence.
(they would always watch what Minho wanted)
Such kind of life wasn’t something that the younger boy wanted. He craved attention- but not just some Jinki’s affection- he wanted to be known, to be famous, to be recognized by people all over the world.
What would Jinki’s concern give him?
It surely wouldn’t give him splendor or popularity.
Minho was really satisfied with his “not-thinking-about-Jinki”.
Thought each time he congratulated himself for “not-thinking” he would automatically find himself actually “thinking”.




His career ended sooner than it even started- at one of his teams trainings he broke his ankle.
The doctor’s words were harsh and concrete: “you can’t strain you leg or the fracture might come back, with even worse effects”.
How can one possibly not strain his leg and be a great football player?
When he got the information about his dismissal, his world broke down.




He was no one with his injured leg, no one. Suddenly, the people who admired him, the ones who pushed him higher and higher on his stairs to fame, all of them seemed not to give a damn. They were all like “things like this happen, players come and go, it’s the same with dancers. We can’t help you, sorry”. They’d just shrug and think of it as of no big deal.
For Minho it was a big deal though.
What was life if he couldn’t achieve his biggest dreams? He was like a director who’d lose his sight, a vocalist losing his voice. He was hopeless and with no future ahead.
For that one, mere moment, he felt the sudden and unbearable urge to run into the arms of some certain person and bawl his eyes out.
But then he recovered and stood up proudly.
No, he was not going to give in. Never.




Weeks spent in his American flat seemed to last ages. He was sick and tired, so sick of all those hypocrites.
How could they all just turn back on him and leave him all alone? Weren’t they his so-called friends?
Was the definition of “friendship” differently understood here? Or maybe something like friendship didn’t exist at all?
He knew there was someone who matched all the possible requirements that needed to be fulfilled to consider something a friendship- but he didn’t want to think about that person.
Somewhere deep inside he knew he screwed up.
He went for all the marbles, believing that he’d succeed. He was so conceited and so, so naïve that it hurt.
Now, he’d lost it all- his dreams, his career, his friends, his job, his lo—
He lost himself into the desire of being the best.






The first days back in Seoul weren’t easy. His leg was already healed, he could walk just fine, but the city seemed oddly unfamiliar.
Maybe that was because he spent some good part of his life walking down these streets with someone by his si—
Minho tried to start a new life, find some decent job, renew his contact with some old friends.
But the more he tried, the less he wanted to keep it all going.
Was it because earlier someone was taking care of all these things for him? Was it because earlier he didn’t have to worry that there wouldn’t be anyone to care about him even if all the rest would turn back from him? Was it because his only reassurance, the only proof for him that he was indeed worthy affection, was God-knows-where?
No, not at all, he was just tired.




Two weeks and nobody had come to his house to check whether he came back




Three weeks and still no message from his lo— old friends.




A month and Jinki still hadn’t come to see him.




A month and a day and Minho is sick of himself.





A month and two days and Minho’s standing at Jinki’s front door, gripping the handle so tightly that his knuckles turn white, as he unlocks the door with his own key.
He steps into the house he knows as well as his own, breaths in the scent that would always mix with his (his own smell alone always seemed a bit odd to him; only when his masculine scent would combine with the subtle cologne, only then it would feel right).
He walks towards the saloon, the one with the sofa on which he and Jinki would spend most of their evenings.
When he’s finally there, when he notices a figure sleeping soundly on the sofa, only then he exhales. He lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized until then he’d been holding all along.
Jinki is there, sleeping, peaceful, so innocent.
Minho feels something in his heart sting.
He inches closer and closer, and when he’s kneeling in front of the sleeping boy, the first tear begins to shyly leak out. By the time the older opens his eyes and immediately widens them in pure surprise, Minho is sobbing loudly into Jinki’s shirt, gripping his hands tightly.
Jinki’s still looking at him questionably, disbelieving. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t cry; he just stares and lets Minho bawl like a hopeless child.
And that causes Minho’s heart to clench painfully.
Why isn’t Jinki reaching out for him? Why isn’t he embracing him with all his might, telling him that everything will be alright, soothing him with his sweet words of love? Why isn’t he saying anything?
Why isn’t he… happy… that Minho came back… as he had always done… why… isn’t he grateful… that he decided to return…
Is he… fed up… doesn’t he… love him… anymore…
Minho stands up abruptly, then pins Jinki down to the sofa and lets out all his frustration, his longing, his mistakes, his realization, his love.
Jinki stays motionless until the end of their act.
Only when Minho’s “I love you” seem to become the only words he’s able to utter, only then Jinki finally extends his hands and runs his fingers through those chocolate locks.
“I don’t believe you” are the first words he says, the words that make Minho tremble in agonizing pain, way bigger than the pain of realization that he won’t ever be able to become a professional player.
A pain stronger that those fake faces turning away, more insufferable than the frustration building inside of him through all these years.
Now he knows the cause of this frustration: it’s the fact that love had pinned him down, made him dependent on it only. He hated how much he needed and loved it. How empty he felt without it.
And that’s what he tries to convey to Jinki with his touches, with his kisses, with his desperate, hushed, broken words.
Now he realizes that if there’s something that needs to be fixed, it’s Jinki’s broken heart. And it’s his task.
He wants to be the best for Him, no matter what it takes. And he’ll never give up.
Now it’s him yearning, him overflowing with affection, him hurting when the other doesn’t respond.
But he knows that now, as he’s sure of what-who- is most important to him, he won’t commit the same mistake of escaping ever again.
He’ll make this precious boy underneath him the happiest person on Earth.
And as he knows that happiness is ephemeral he’ll do everything to make it constant and eternal for Jinki.
His only dream worth fulfilling.

___________

My very first OnHo fic, inspired by this:

Hope you enjoyed! Man, I kinda feel like writing some OnHo, haven't done that in a while... any suggestions?;)