#sa-chan | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

keepswingin · 7 months

Note

Lee Know + Get Lit

The building is loud, and his head throbs louder as he stumbles down the hall and into the first room he can open, vision blurring. One outstretched hand grazes something soft, and he collapses on top of the bed sideways before his brain can fathom catching up, the ceiling fan above him spinning madly.

Colors weave in and out from the far window, and the bass of a new song shakes the floor, again and again and again, but he is the one lost in rhythm, disjointed.

Someone must've spiked the punch, and he must've been the unlucky lottery winner. If only he could win the actual lottery, then maybe college wouldn't feel so pointless, or endless or...who was he kidding? It would always feel pointless when he was so lost already -

Something buzzes, obnioxus and iccessant against his side.

He spends an awful amount of time searching around him before realizing that it's coming from nowhere else but his jeans pocket. His phone, the only thing sober within a mile. He nearly drops it twice before bringing the screen close enough to see, a few messages glaring back at him.

chris: i didn't mean it chris: i'm sorry chris: come back

bin: i'm outside waiting bin: unless you've already apologized for something that wasn't your fault

hannie: where are you?

"Obviously not with you," Minho mutters as he tosses the phone and throws his head back against the blanket.

It was all his fault, wasn't it?

He thought he did a good job setting boundaries this time, not crossing wires, staying in tact. But now it was all messed up, because he couldn't keep his mouth shut, or learn his lesson from last time. He was dumb to think this time would be different anyway, with someone like him, with a group like them. People like them would discover who he was before he had a chance to hide behind a cigarette or alcohol.

"Fuck," he grumbles, hands reaching up to press against his eyes.

He keeps them there until he sees spots, pretending that maybe it'll take this horrible feeling of messing everything up once again away, but all it does it make him more dizzy when he stares up at the ceiling again.

The fan attached hangs off-center to the rest of the room, and the popcorn ceiling flashes with the different colors that leak from the window.

It's too dark to see what color the walls are, or whose room this could possibly be, when all he needed was a moment to breathe, away from the party, away from the crowd, away from Chan's pitiful looks and the tug of Han's mouth every time he laughed at something Minho said when anyone else would've found it stupid.

Everything was fine, until Minho had gotten too comfortable, alcohol settling deep in his belly, the couch soft against his back, Han's knee pressing against his thigh.

He slipped, and Chan hadn't helped, and he was calling Changbin for a ride before things could get worse, and then Changbin had said he was on his way and had reminded him that he should've just gone to the bowling alley with him but Minho didn't want to fucking bowl with the guy he's known since he was a child when Han would be here and -

He was so hopeless. His phone buzzes again, and again. He decides to focus on the multicolored lights instead, watching as they swap every few seconds.

Red. Blue. Yellow.

Red. Blue. Green.

Red. Blue -

Would it kill them to use more than one different color?

He groans, stomach twisting.

Maybe watching the colors wasn't such a good idea when his stomach felt like a barrel full of rocks rolling around. He drank too much, allowed his words to grow too loose, and now he was holed up in somebody's bedroom.

It would probably only take Changbin another two text messages before he stormed into the party and found Minho himself, and a part of him can't help but chuckle aloud at the look he was sure would be on the shorter's face, cheeks pinched and lips twisted. Or maybe Chan would stumble his way in here, apologizes crisp on the tip of his tongue. Or Han, clueless and hopeful about somebody who was...him.

His stomach tosses again, and he exhales, struggling to quell the feeling. Getting sick in somebody's bedroom at a college party was not on his bucket list in life.

He's so focused on the prospect of not doing so that he doesn't hear the sound of the door opening, or the drunken laughter that grows louder and closer to him as the door shuts again.

He groans as he feels someone get close to him, and hears the crumble of a can as it's tossed to the ground. "Room's occupied," he grumbles, loud enough so that he's sure he's heard.

"Looks like it," a voice he doesn't recongize replies with a haughty laugh.

Minho grimaces at the deep tone. He'd roll his eyes if it wouldn't make him dizzier. Instead he lifts himself the best he can and perches on his elbows, debating if punching a random guy would be seen as too aggressive or not.

He decides words would be better than physical violence after a good minute or so of considering his chances.

"Get out," he deadpans, attempting to steady the closest guy with a meancing glare. There's three of them, ranging in different heights, but all sporting the same glazed eyes and drunken grins.

Minho hates himself all over again for drinking far too much. He could probably take them if he really wanted to, but between the way the room spins periodically and the chruning of his stomach, he's not fit to do much else but stare at them impatiently.

"I said get out," he repeats, slower this time, louder.

The one closest to him reaches a hand down, fingers sliding around his wrist. Minho immediately recoils, attempting to pull his arm away, but the other man doesn't let go.

"Get off of me," he spits, the lights outside filling the room with an ugly shade of red once more. "I'm not interested, get out." The grip on his wrist doesn't falter, and a different one snickers, growing closer.

"We didn't ask," the farthest man voices, Minho's head snapping to the left just in time to see the way he looks at him, shivers shooting down his spine at the empty expression that stares back at him.

Turning too fast makes him sick, but the horrible thought that enters his head shortly after is worse, someone else's fingers pinching at the skin of his hip in his daze.

Another hand is on his other wrist, and the room is bathed in a deep blue as he tries to move, kicking one leg out and catching someone in the stomach. They grunt, stunned, but before he can do any other damage, someone is grabbing at his legs, and someone else is climbing on top of him.

"Looks like we got a fighter," they say, pushing him down against the mattress. He can't move, he can't breathe, he feels sick, he's scared, he's terrified - "The best kind, hm?"

Minho tries to scream, but it's smothered under a stranger's palm. He thinks of Chan, Han. Changbin telling him to stay away from them all, because he knows him best. He thinks of himself, constantly self-destructing because it's easier than dealing with anything serious.

He tries to scream again. He sees a new flash of light from the window before the world around him finally fades away.

...

"Minho?" Chan calls, pushing his way through troves of drunken people still lingering on the first floor of the house, even with things finally starting to die down.

There was no sign of him outside, and Han had taken the front, nervous and wringing his hands as he had headed that way, tucking his phone away in his pocket, void of any new messages from Minho. Chan tried calling him, but the call was quickly sent to voicemail, which meant the other was still mad. Chan was fine with that if it was true, but he would feel better knowing where he went. He had drank more than he usually did, and there was already a steady line of people finding their way home.

"Chan!"

Han's shout is easily heard, and he follows the sound to the bottom of the stairs, where he stands awkwardly next to someone he's never seen before. His eyebrows knit in confusion as he turns to Han, questions brimming on the tip of his tongue.

"Are you Chris?" the short man immediately asks, though the pull of his mouth is far from anything friendly. Chan steals a glance at Han, who looks even more worried than he did before he had disappeared into the crowd.

"Yeah. Call me Chan," he offers, eyeing the man in distrust. "Who are - "

"Changbin," he interrupts curtly, eyes scanning the room behind him, before he glances up the stairs. "Minho's friend. He called me a half hour ago to pick him up, and then he never walked out." He looks back to Han. "Your friend here said you guys already checked the house?"

"Upstairs is the only thing left," Chan replies, and before anything else can be said, Changbin is pushing his way past and shouting Minho's name loud enough that it bounces off the walls.

Chan and Han share a quick look before hurrying to follow.

When Changbin doesn't receive any answer he starts pushing his way into rooms, slamming his fist hard on locked doors.

Han ducks into a room on their right as Chan checks the bathroom with a flick of the light, before going into the room beside it, Changbin busy down the hall. The door pushes open when he presses his palm against it, about to say Minho's name as he enters, squinting against the bright lights still flashing in from the window.

Another step in, and he sees him, crumpled against the side of the bed, curled around his knees.

"Minho?" he asks quietly, gut churning as he approaches.

Something isn't right.

Minho flinches at the sound of his name, and doesn't dare turn his head. Chan gets close enough to touch him, fingers ghosting over the curve of his shoulder, and he reacts like he's been burned, shoving himself backwards, spine slamming against the nightstand that sits in wait behind him, lamp rattling at the force.

Chan quickly scans over him, panic rising in the back of his throat when he sees blood on the corner of his lip, and a bruise on the side of his neck. His hands are shaking from where they rest curled around his knees, and he won't look at Chan, tears smeared beneath his eyes.

"Minho," he whispers, trying to get closer, to make sure he's okay. "What happened?"

He shakes his head and sinks further into himself, and the shift reveals bruised wrists, Chan's breath catching in his throat.

"Minho," Chan tries, inching closer. "Something happened."

"I'm fine," Minho says, though his voice shakes, and his tone wavers. "Nothing happened."

It's silent for a long moment, and then Changbin is in the doorway, and rushing his way into the room, Han at his heels. Chan catches Minho's eye for a moment, and then he watches as Minho glances at Han, standing a step behind Chan, mouth curved in growing shock as Changbin drops to the ground beside him. Minho watches Han for a long moment, and Chan's chest squeezes painfully as Minho turns his gaze to the carpet in front of him.

"I'm fine," he repeats quietly, to Changbin, to all of them, to the room around them. To himself. "I'm fine."

Chan tries to reach for him again.

Minho doesn't look up.

#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #skz #lee minho #lee know #bang chan #skz angst #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #skz fanfiction #keepswingin writes #mine #asks #tw: sa #honestly i've fought with this ending for a week screw it i give up xD

10 notes · View notes