OFF-ROAD. － b.c + l.mh

↳ 10: cracking

It was quaint and warm, soft tingles travelling across their skin, which had been chilled by the harsh wind outside, at the much appreciated change of temperature.

Framed photographs lined the peach-painted walls, capturing panoramas and forests, bridges and cityscapes － none showing the presence of a human.

Chan glanced around from over the tips of his fingers, palms cupped at his mouth as he breathed into them and rubbed the two together.

"This place is cute," he airily commented, feeling at ease in the homely environment.

Minho nodded at his side, only partially attentive as he was busy with choosing where they would sit. Once settling at a table by a large window, the shorter began unwrapping the chequered scarf from around his neck, and his boyfriend silently watched him, pondering.

The air was sweet, with the aroma of hot chocolate and biscuits filling their lungs as it wafted to them from the kitchen.

It was nostalgic, being in such a café and smelling such a scent after all those years.

A night during which they had secretly met up at that one coffee place, some fair distance away from their homes, back when they had only just become friends, fogged up Minho's mind and his eyes traced Chan's features, noting what had changed about them as he pictured a seventeen-year-old version of him abreast the latter.

His face had gotten sharper, but maybe that was heightened due to weight-loss, and his puppy eyes had dimmed their glow, but that was definitely due to the pain Minho had caused them.

He sighed, letting his gaze do as Chan's did and stare outside at the occassional snowflake which pranced along the wind that carried it.

There they were in such a soothing establishment, mostly alone, save for that man working on his tablet in the corner and that teen sipping coffee whilst scrolling through her phone. It was the perfect opportunity to talk about what was going to happen to them now; for how long they would be apart, for how long Chan would be away － if he were coming back at all.

After a night of screams and tears, the withering man had rasped that he would go visit his friend in Australia and that said male would be paying for his trip.

He confessed he needed time away from everything. A chance to breathe, to laugh, to live, to have a break.

Minho knew he was suffocating his partner, but wasn't that what he wanted? He wanted Chan to leave him, be free of the struggles and burdens that came with their love.

And yet he couldn't deny that it hurt, that he didn't want to watch as Chan would wave him goodbye and get onto that plane.

Was this their last meal together? Was this the last time they would sit opposite one another as lovers?

The questions felt like an impending death, for surely his shattered self and sliver of will to keep fighting through life were connected to Chan. Should that connection be severed, wouldn't it mean death?

They ordered and when their drinks arrived, Minho hesitantly took a sip from the hot cup without cooling it first, enjoying the burn which ran down his throat, as masochistic as it was.

The coffee tasted like the one they used to have at their old get-away café, not all that strong, perhaps even far too watered down.

Then he reached for one of the offered tea biscuits on the saucer and noticed their darker bottoms, and the sight reminded him of the time Chan and him had first tried baking and ended up burning their tester batch of cookies.

It wasn't a stab in the chest nor a sudden pain. No, it was a growing twinge of regret that throbbed and morphed into a monster of different emotions, until it became so large it pushed against his ribs, fighting to break out.

A streak of water made its way down his face, following the dip below his cheekbone until it halted at his jaw.

"Minho, why are you crying?"

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