you're pretty ━━ l.mh + h.js

you're pretty

skz dorms

1:47am

Jisung POV

Minho's birthday fell on a Friday this year, and given his legality and the day off only he was granted, he went out clubbing with a couple of old friends. After a long, and I mean long, day of recording for the new comeback, coming back to the dorm without Minho there was unexpectedly difficult. My throat hurt from overuse and I was exhausted from the mental exertion that comes with perfecting a hard vocal or constantly working to improve the speed of a rap.

The members were out to get food and catch a late movie, but I wanted to be home when Minho came home to make sure he got to bed safely. Though there was always a manager assigned to go with members for publicity reasons whenever then went out, it was hard to predict how drunk they would let Minho get and I wanted to be home so I could make sure he ate and drank enough water.

I set about tidying up Minho's washroom, which was usually kept decently organized but I knew Minho was in a rush to get out tonight, so the vanity and countertops are scattered with hair and makeup products. I make sure to organize his makeup bag meticulously, smiling quietly at his scattered and specific obsessive-compulsive qualities. Disorganization bothers Minho, but only his own, a characteristic of his that I never expected to be so endearing.

As I'm wiping down the countertops and sink, I hear keys jangling awkwardly in the door and feel a small gust of wind as the door of the dorms open.

"Hellooooo?" Minho calls, dissolving into a fit of giggles. I feel a smile spread across my face as I pull out my headphones and walk towards the common room. Minho is standing with disheveled hair and sweaty makeup in the middle of the room, looking around while turning in slow circles until he sees me emerge from the bathroom.

"SQUIRREL" he exclaims and giggles, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his eyes to make sure his cheeks are, in fact, still filled with air.

"Hey Muppet. Was tonight fun?" I ask simply, knowing that the drunker Minho gets, the more you have to talk to him like a child. It's a fun game, actually, gauging how young you can treat him without getting mad.

He starts on a semi-cohesive summary of the night, complete with at least two different bars and a few more rounds of shots than I would have expected the manager to allow. He's reached giggly drunk, one stage past sleepy drunk and quickly on the way to flirty drunk. Sleepy drunk was where we wanted him, susceptible to being tricked into drinking water and easy to tuck into bed, and distracting him with food was the most effective way to wait until the alcohol content in his body dropped just enough for him to drink some water and pass out. The microwave dinged to signal the leftover pizza from the night before was sufficiently heated, and Minho's eyes lit up when I pushed it across the counter towards him. Reheated pizza was doughy and held too much grease for my taste, but it was Minho's favorite.

As he sets about eating the pizza, I turned to the sink and began to wash the few dishes I had dirtied from making dinner for myself, setting them on the dish rack and running my slightly wet hand through my hair, effectively gelling it away from my forehead. Minho had finished his pizza and was staring at me intently.

"Hmm?" I ask half-heartedly, wondering fleetingly if a stray piece of food or a soap streak had been caught in my hair. It was late, and I had washed off my makeup long before he had gotten home. My hair was in a state of chaos long before I ran my hair through it, the blond had mostly faded and my roots were more prominent than they had ever been.

"You're pretty," he giggles, and then his face becomes suddenly serious, "you're really pretty," he whispers again, his voice and demeanor unexpectedly intense, as if he was suddenly completely sober.

I attempt to start a sentence a couple of times, too tired and caught off guard to form a cohesive thought.

He sighs deeply, his mind quiet and sleepy. My heart fills with a pleasantly warm popping feeling that spreads throughout my body.

"Let's get you to bed."

He sighs again, and the feeling rushes through my body again, light and flickering and so calming it almost scares me.

He gets up to walk into the bedroom, and I follow with a glass of water and a couple of Advil. I hand him the glass and the pills, and start and old episode of a show we've watched hundreds of times before, turn my laptop volume on low and set it on the nightstand by Minho's bunk. Minho instinctively takes the Advil, drinks the water and strips down to his undershirt and boxers. He sits on the edge of his bunk his breathing slowing rhythmically and his eyes drooping.

Watching him makes my chest fill with a syrupy warm feeling, flowing through my body and leaving me drowsy, drunk with this presence. He smiles distantly, as he watches me fold down the blankets, creating a cocoon for him to lay in, one side of his mouth slightly drooping from the alcohol and from how late it is. The quiet sound of commentary and laugh track fade into the background as he falls asleep instantly, burrowing into my arms as I turn the lights and my computer off, wrapping my arms around his sleeping body, suddenly protective of his untouched innocence that so rarely visible. He sighs quietly, and my heart swells in my chest I drift off to sleep with him in my arms.

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