OFF-ROAD. － b.c + l.mh

↺ 1: blizzard

It tugged and shoved, mercilessly chilled and nipped at his exposed flesh, a wind through which so passionately danced snowflakes, embedding themselves into his knotted tufts of hair that were no more orderly than he was.

Minho burrowed his frostbitten hands against his chest and beneath his crossed over arms, which he desperately coiled around himself in a hug.

The time wasn't much past afternoon, and yet the neighbourhood was a white cemetery, not a mobile car in sight and not the hum of a voice in the distance.

Seventeen years of age and just barely able to withstand the sudden blizzard which arrived, Minho pushed on to get to that one gas station whose tired-of-life workers didn't make any fuss about selling him the cigarettes he would ask for, in place of his father.

It had become common practice for the man to send his son out to purchase him those bottles of liquor he loved so dearly and those packets of cigarettes he so treasured, and Minho put up no fight at the request.

Even that cold, December evening, the boy left for the station with nothing other than a, "Yes, father," a black parka over his thin sweatshirt, and boots that reached his ankles which he hadn't bothered tying up all the way.

His eyelashes fluttered as he strained to keep his eyes open against the wind which pushed at him, dotted with flakes that only diminished his vision.

Perhaps it was partially his fault that he felt so terribly frozen, bones shivering at the temperature, for he hadn't dressed thickly enough, and yet he recalled the last time he had not left the moment he was told to, and his shivers were caused by something far worse than the chill.

Snow was beginning to coat the sidewalk and tarmac, painting the world with its luminous presence, but Minho couldn't appreciate it.

His knees felt like those of a freshly born calf, wobbly and unstable, his stomach deprived of food for too long, and he knew well enough that if he didn't find shelter soon, he would collapse to the ground in a heap and be buried by the snow, to be discovered maybe the following day.

Tucking his musings of a possible death to the corner of his worries, he swivelled his head left to right in search of a shop, an alley － anything in which he could be protected from the raging weather.

And then the flickering of a sign caught his eye, one he recognised to belong to the stationery he yearly bought his school supplies from.

No second of hesitancy washed over him prior to his feet trudging to salvation, no matter the knowledge that his trip would be delayed and his father would be displeased crossed his mind.

Sliding one hand out from its warmth to fumble with the door handle until grasping and turning it, Minho hurried into the shop and instantly slammed the entrance shut, not wanting to let the cold in.

"Hi, how can I help you?"

It was as if a part of him hadn't taken into consideration the fact that somebody would be present in the stationery, for the moment he heard the accented words directed at him, he spun around so quickly he nearly lost his balance, and came face to face with a brunet behind the counter.

Practically the same height and skin pale, a baffled smile on plush lips adorned by dimples, a boy clad in a baby blue shirt and a navy sweater vest watched him, hands set upon the register.

Minho couldn't find it in him to reply, no structured sentence willing to form itself, and instead he gazed upon the other opposite him with a racing heart, until his eyes noted the red nametag pinned to the top-left of the vest, on which, along with a smiley face, was written the name Chan.

❅❂❅

please vote, comment and share!
thanks for reading