~~~MINSUNG Oneshotssss~~~

Moonlit Chords

Not Requested

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Fluff

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Word Count: 1283

Song: Sunshine
by Stray Kids

The dorm should have been asleep.
After a long day of filming and practice, everyone had collapsed early, worn out and heavy-limbed. The living room lights were off, the hallway quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator.

But from the end of the hall, a thread of sound floated into the silence—thin, careful, uncertain.

Minho stopped mid-step, fingers tightening around the glass of water he'd just filled. It was a guitar. And not just any playing—the hesitant, stop-and-start kind that only happened when Han was frustrated with himself.

Minho sighed. What is he doing at this hour?

Part of him wanted to ignore it, crawl back into bed, and bury himself under blankets. But the sound tugged at him in that familiar way, anything involving Han always did.

He found himself walking toward it before he consciously decided to.

The practice room door was cracked open. A soft light spilt across the hallway floor. Minho pushed it open just enough to peek in.

Han sat on the floor in the centre of the room, hunched over his guitar like it was a secret he wasn't sure he should be telling. Sheets of paper were scattered around him—lyrics, scribbles, notes crossed out so hard the paper was nearly ripped.

His hoodie was sliding off one shoulder, his hair falling into his eyes. Every few seconds, he muttered something under his breath and started the chord progression again.

"This sounds awful," he whispered to himself. "Why can't I get it right...?"

Minho cleared his throat softly. "You're holding the F chord as it owes you money."

Han jolted so hard the guitar almost slipped from his lap. "HYUNG?! Wh—why are you awake?!"

Minho stepped inside, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. "Getting water. Why are you awake? ...Actually, let me guess." He nodded at the guitar. "Self-inflicted suffering?"

Han scrunched his face. "It's not suffering. It's... creative exploration."

Minho snorted. "You're exploring the neck of that guitar like it insulted your entire family."

Han made a wounded noise and tried to hide his lyric sheets behind his leg. Minho watched, unimpressed.

"Han."

"Don't look at them!"

"Then why are they on the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs leading to your meltdown?"

Han groaned and covered his face with both hands. "It's just a draft. Like... a bad draft. Like a draft that drafts would bully."

"Good," Minho said simply. "Play it."

Han's hands fell from his face. His eyes widened. "I can't! It's personal."

"You write everything personally."

"No, but this one is—"
He cut himself off, swallowing.

Minho raised a brow. "That bad?"

Han shook his head. "No, more like honest."