✄ ───

   Minho pries open bleary eyes to a black sky above him; a searing pain permeating every inch of his body. Feels as if his upper half is shattered. Broken to pieces underneath the skin that wraps them all up; keeps them concealed. He lies there coughing up blood— blood, oh, what a beautiful thing his blood is (unlike the rest of him). It bubbles and leaks from his open mouth, and paints his broken body a haunting, gorgeous shade of red.

   Pain washes over him, and the intensity kicks up a hundred percent with each breath he takes— stronger, sharper. Filling his lungs as deeply as he possibly can through a set of gritted teeth results in a sensation of a hundred tiny blades threatening to break skin and poke through his chest. It's enough to make him nauseous, to make his vision go white and blurry, to make him weep and howl like an animal. It's the pain he's wanted. Craved. For years and years. Throbbing, setting him on fire, pulsing throughout him with undeniable intensity. There's no disregarding this. This is real, and it's nightmarish and... well... the only thing that keeps it from being perfect is that it's his own fault. But not entirely.

   A big fucking oaf's arm lies under his neck— probably the only reason why his skull remains in tact. But he hasn't got it in him to turn his head— too heavy. Because his eyes betray him, beginning to close, leaving him to darkness, he sends out searching fingers to ask: why and how am I alive?

   His answer doesn't come. Not until a day and a half later, when he wakes to an incessant beeping, and light so bright he can barely manage to open his insanely heavy eyelids.

   And, of course, to more pain. (This pain is duller; less sharp and stabbing, more achy. He can ignore it if he tries— so it's not enough.) And, he realizes, when he works up the energy to turn his head— to Chan, at his side.

(But those two things are more or less synonymous.)

   He meets a pair of deeply searching eyes, that stare, fixed on him, as if they have waited a long, long time for this. These deep brown eyes look as desirous as always, but it seems there's something different about them this time. They aren't so dark and dangerous. Maybe that's because they aren't shadowed by lust this time. Or maybe it's just because of the intrusively bright hospital lighting, which, unlike the low-lit clubs Minho is used to, has the irritating habit of making everything far too clear and visible.

   Chan looks at Minho differently today... but that, of course, doesn't inspire Minho to, in turn, change his demeanor— not one bit. As always, he meets Chan's eyes with sass. As much as he can muster right now, anyway. He summons all the attitude he has left— uses all the energy that the pain hasn't sapped him of.

   "Why did you do that?" Minho croaks, growing increasingly pissed-off due to the lack of power he's currently able to pack into his voice.

    "Save your life?" Chan shrugs with one shoulder— with the other currently stuck in a sling— humming pensively, only to give a stupidly obvious answer. "'Cause if I didn't, you would've died."

   That's the funny thing about Chan— he's a bad actor. Not good at hiding when he's simply playing a part, though he does it full-time. That was the first thing Minho noted when he laid eyes on Chan— his expression, posture, and aura was absolutely steeped in dishonesty. Attempted deception.

   But two can play at that game.

   "So?" Minho bites.

   "What do you mean, 'So?'"

   Minho feels the fuel to start a fire rise on his tongue— it'd be so easy. All he'd have to do is fill in:      'So you just couldn't bear to let me die before you get a piece of me?'

   But he doesn't really have it in him to argue right now. He lets it go. That thread of conversation dies to a drawn-out, wearied sigh rising out of Minho's throat.  Instead, he asks: "And how much do you regret it?"

   Chan takes a moment, sighing. "I..." Then he tells Minho a secret: "...I don't."

   Minho looks him up and down in his arm sling, his bandages. Rolls his eyes. Doesn't buy it. Still, with nothing to do and an awkward silence pending, he decides to humor Chan and his smooth little lies. Certainly nothing he has to offer (in one night, no less) can make up for the mutilating of Chan's bones. Even if he gave up body, heart, and soul.

     "Look, Minho—" And then Chan hesitates. His mouth shuts for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low and small. "I... care about you."

   Minho just gives a slight, pain-inducing chuckle.

   But Chan's not done. "I fucking care about you, and I'm so pissed about it. I said I wasn't gonna do this caring shit ever again, but here I am anyway. Falling off a roof for this guy who keeps... acting like he wants me, then screaming in my face and  pushing me away. Sitting in his hospital room."

   Minho doesn't even consider opening his mouth, or even simply making a noise to acknowledge Chan's little rant. But that still doesn't stop Chan.

   His voice cuts a little sharper as he spits, "I  know you've been hurt, Minho— you can't fool me with that 'I did this  to myself' bullshit." The heat cools; leaves Chan's tone to sizzle out into something more gentle as he concludes, "And as much as I didn't want it to have to be me, I... didn't want you to die not knowing that there is... someone... who cares."

   Minho made the mistake of glancing into Chan's eyes again. Finding them only more unfamiliar, filled with... something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Round, soft, gentle. Tenderness, perhaps. Slipping down to the floor, his eyes and the barriers within them— the dark covering constantly shielding them— are melting down smooth like milk chocolate. Sweet. Too sweet. Nauseating.

   Actively ignoring any tugs on his heartstrings, Minho turns his head to the side. Away from Chan. In fact, he squints at bright florescent lights rather than keep looking into dangerously soft and sweet, unguarded chocolate brown eyes as he deadpans, "So... what now? Gonna tell me your sob story while I'm stuck here?"

   His voice is sharp and calloused as he prods at Chan. Uncaring. Unbothered. Ungrateful— just like he always is; always was. He doesn't care enough to hide it these days. He closes his eyes.

   Chan sighs. "No sob story to tell. Relationships are bullshit. Everyone's a gold digger, a narcissist, an emotional  manipulator, something like that. Everyone just wants to take, take, take."

   There's a breath; a pause. A moment where again, all Minho hears is that horrible beeping. And IV dripping. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. It's so bad that he begins to wish even for Chan's voice to occupy the empty space of the silence.

   "...But at least, when you do it, you don't hide it," Chan mutters, finally.

   Minho's eyes flick open at that.

   "Everyone else I've been with is just greedy. You're... desperate. There's something that you need, Minho. I can tell. Something you're missing. And... everyone else is too busy taking to notice."

   Minho's gone rigid. He hopes Chan hasn't noticed.

   "Anyone who wanted to take for greed's sake would've milked me for all  I've got by now— they wouldn't have pushed me away over and over again  and literally jumped off a roof."

   Minho has run out of the self control to keep his head in place. Slowly, he lets it turn back to Chan once again.

   "Fuck, I tried to stop thinking about you." His voice sounds so raw; so real. "Over and over. But I can't. You're  stuck in my brain because I stayed too long. This is why I always leave after one. night. I stay, and then I care too fucking much, and I always end up worse off."

   By now, Chan's got his head in his hand, no longer chasing any sort of eye contact. He takes on a pleading tone as he utters, "Fucking shit, Minho, if you need something from me, just take it. Okay? Don't do all this bullshit. Don't go jumping off roofs anymore. Don't cut yourself. Don't starve yourself. Just tell me what you want from me."

   Again, there's no immediate answer. Minho makes no agreements. No promises. Not even any acknowledgements that he's heard Chan speak. Because, of course, he's trying to pretend he hasn't heard a damn word of that. He feels violated, as if he's been stripped naked in his hospital bed, while he had no power in his muscles to resist, and no voice in his throat to cry out.

   Again, the silence is unbearable. If Minho had the energy, he'd claw out his eardrums just to stop hearing it.

   He's just about assembled a whole string of curses (crafted especially for Chan) to rattle off when—

   "Oh... and, um," Chan adds, awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Here."

   Minho watches him reach for something on the bedside table, and next thing he knows, he's being handed... his sketchbook. And a charcoal pencil. ...How did Chan know to get them? Where to get them?

   "You'll be here a while."

   For quite some time, all Minho does is stare holes into the spiral-bound book. Then he draws in a sharp inhale. A faint impression of a shit-eating grin slowly grows on his face. "Alright, Chan. Let's make a deal."

   They finally make eye contact. Chan blinks slowly.

   Minho reaches to take the sketchbook and pencils with one nonchalant hand. "Sneak me in some booze, and you just might get me to tell you," he giggles, half-hearted. Tired. Very tired.

     "...You gotta be kidding me."

───

   In fact, Minho was not kidding.

  Chan got him a bottle of vodka. Just one. Smuggled it in under his coat. Of course, it's against his better judgment, but his entire relationship (or lack thereof) with Minho has been against his better judgment, anyway.

  From a flimsy paper cup the liquid slides down Minho's throat, hitting the spot just right, making his insides sting and burn just as much as the rest of him. As much as his chest every time he heaves a breath, as his eyes when he fights to keep them open, and most of all, as his mind when he remembers the words Chan had said.

   Even after he shoves the cup to the side and demands Chan fill it once, twice, three times more, he says not a word. And he wonders how long it'll be before Chan gets impatient; starts demanding answers.

   But in fact, Chan delivers a pleasant surprise in that, even as Minho seems to have no intention of uttering a single sound, he simply sits and watches. Watches as Minho's pencil flows against the page, resuming what had occupied him before Chan returned with his booze.

   And by the time a detailed image has bloomed underneath Minho's steady hand, Chan is still there. Still watching, still waiting for something. He's so strange. So strange that Minho will give him just what he wants: an answer. But he's not going to like it.

  Minho lays the sketchbook down over his lap and lets his head loll to the side, where Chan has been patiently waiting all this time. He extends an empty hand.

  Hesitatingly, Chan fills it with his own. It's big, warm, and gentler than it had been every other time.

   Suddenly, Minho grips one of Chan's fingers and drags it across the edge of a single page from his sketchbook.

   Unsurprisingly, Chan recoils as he's gifted a smarting papercut. "Ow— what the fuck, Minho?"

   A sparing, half-chuckle erupts from Minho as he watches Chan cradle his afflicted finger with his eyebrows furrowed. "Crybaby," he drawls. "'S not even bleeding."

   Chan doesn't find the humor in it.

   "Here," He sighs, offering the sketchbook to Chan, this time without the intention to do violence.

   It's entertainment for him when he watches Chan's face contort with worry, horror, or something of the sort. It's because what he's looking at is an uncannily accurate drawing of a human heart... littered with tiny, oozing scratches.

   "What... is this?"

   "It's my heart," Minho cackles, as if it's a hilarious joke, and Chan has simply missed the punchline. Without sparing a thought to the incoming waves of pain, he spills over the railing of the bed, toward Chan's arms which begin to open frantically, to catch this fragile thing— Minho's broken body— coming to him. "That's what it feels like. Papercuts, y'know? A million of 'em."

   "The thing about papercuts is that, well... they're not enough. Not enough to cry over. Not enough for a hospital visit. Half the time, they're not even enough for a bandaid."

   He doesn't care if Chan cares at this point. Nothing will stop him from letting this out once he's already started. That's the thing about his mouth— he can shut it up tight for years and years, but once it falls open, there's no closing it till there are no secrets left to keep.

   "They're just too small. Tiny slits no wider than a hair. If they bleed, which they  usually don't, it's a minuscule amount of blood, hardly a drop. You'll survive, every time, 'cause they don't put your life in any danger. Not even close."

   He gives a bitter chuckle, gesturing to Chan's slit finger. "The thing about papercuts is that they're tiny, yet they throb uncontrollably. That even if everything else is good, great, fine— while it's just that insignificant, nowhere-near-lethal little 'wound-that-barely-counts-as-a-wound', it's damn near impossible to focus on anything else. Just the pain."

   Before Chan can fit in a word— before Minho's mind has the chance to change— he blurts, "Front cover. Read. If you like."

   No one has ever read the poem penned there before. But Chan is just so fuckin' weird, Minho can't bring himself to care. Uncaring, unbothered, ungrateful— that's what he is; what he's always been. He gives up.

    Pages flip. Chan exhales. His voice is soft. "My paper-cut heart is finally bleeding out now, having run out of spare  room for any more of these tiny, insignificant lacerations. So every new  cut now opens and connects old, scabbed-over wounds; each  paper-thin slash immediately becomes something more, and with every new  slit there's more blood bubbling up, gushing, pouring.

   I cover it all up with my paper-cut hands, because I don't think anyone  would understand where all the blood is coming from; why I'm bleeding so  much when it's only ever been tiny little wounds. Why there's a tremor  ever-wracking my body. Why every touch stings, so that I flinch away, recoiling with pain at even just the slighest brushing against my lacerated skin.

   At  some point I began to wish for a knife— just something big and sharp  and severe enough to merit the downpour; to justify the way I'm getting  tired and shaky and weak from blood loss. No one questions it when you've been stabbed through.

   At this point, anything would hurt less than another papercut. One more and I fucking swear, I'll fall apart."

   "Well, shit, you didn't have to read it aloud," Minho croaks, embarrassment creeping up in a dark red flush on neck, ears, cheeks.

   "Wait... so..." Breath caught up in his chest, Chan pauses for a tense second or two; the gears are turning. Gingerly, he closes the sketchbook, and lets it rest over his lap. "That's what you've wanted from me this whole time. ...You wanted me to be the knife."

   Minho's eyes widen slightly. He... didn't exactly expect Chan to get it so quick.

   "You wanted me to break your heart. Didn't you?"

  Guilty.

   Glancing down, Minho puffs one of his cheeks. "...Yeah," he mutters, barely audible.

   Minho's ears are assaulted by small, metallic screeching sound as Chan uses his good arm to scoot his chair closer to the bed. For a moment, all he does is sit, leaned awfully close to Minho, and stare, rather intensely, in a way that makes Minho shrink back into his cushy pillow. Then, it spills out of his lips: "Well, tough luck, baby."  

   Dumbstruck, Minho watches the hand approach him, passing his personal space, advancing slowly toward his head. He has the time to pull away or to protest if he wants to— if — but he simply lies there until Chan's sweeping a soft and... strangely soothing hand through his hair. Minho doesn't know how to feel about this.

   "'Cause now the only thing left to do... is to fix up that paper-cut heart of yours."

─── ♡

CAN YOU BELIEVE I'M BACK!!

it's been almost a month holy shit

sorry for starving everybody i hope you guys are still interested in this bullshit story. can i really even call it a story rather than seven chapters of rage bait...

maybe instead of wasting ur time with this you can go read the better version of this story (they are so similar it's not even funny anymore) by my good ol' PAL lialure

it's a skz/bts fic called "Crash and Burn" and it's so good!! catch me freaking out in those comments 😱😱