Thirty-Nine

                                    

                                          

CRASH!
Minho stumbled away from the shattered glass, frozen as he stared at broken beer bottle. He'd missed the trash can.
He waited there for a moment, like if he actually had awoken someone, they wouldn't see him if he stopped. 
However, the lights remained off, and the house quiet as he knelt down to pick up the mess. He could already feel the resistance in his arms as he moved the glass, undoubtedly full of lactic acid from his beach trip. Every inch of him was exhausted, every fiber of his being wanted sleep—
but it was freeing.
To have a quiet mind in a quiet room, to be unaware of how he looked and unworried of being perceived. He didn't mind spending the extra time in the kitchen because it didn't feel like his life for a moment. In the dark, in his quiet, he could imagine that he was a regular guy. He could imagine feeling peaceful, enjoying many nights like these.
He lingered in the kitchen, deciding against any other drinks. He knew he'd regret it in the morning, and the beer was only an exception to ease his mind to sleep. He wasn't drunk by any means; he'd missed the trash purely from tiredness.
He made his way to his room, pausing regretfully. He was sweaty and gross, but the bathroom was placed so that he'd undoubtedly wake the light sleepers if he showered. Part of him wished he'd gotten back earlier to shower, wished that he could've gone to bed with Chan.
He quickly reminded himself of Chan's insistence upon talking though, which soothed his regret greatly. He lifted his hand to the doorknob, turning it as slowly and quietly as he could.
His tiptoeing was all for naught, however, because his eyes were immediately greeted with the warm lamp light.
"You're up?" Minho didn't try to hide his frustration, though he'd be lying if he said he was disappointed.
Chan looked up, not at all fazed by Minho's antics,  "I was waiting for you to go to sleep; I didn't want to break mine up."
"Oh, sorry. Just went on a run," Minho admitted, stepping closer to Chan as he approached his bag, "I'll probably take the couch tonight."
"No need. Just run a ba—is that blood?"
Minho immediately grabbed his chest as he looked down in worry, scanning himself like he'd been stabbed and hadn't noticed.
"Tell me you were hanging out with our makeup artists," Chan dared Minho to disagree, realization slowly overtaking his features at the placement of his wounds, "Lee Know..."
"Huh? Oh, it's not as bad as it looks," Minho assured, though he was taken aback at how battered and bloodied his hands looked. It had barely hurt when he'd done it.
He supposed an undershirt could only do so much in place of boxing gloves, especially once he'd grown sick of using only one hand. He didn't have time to come up with an excuse before Chan was in front of him, taking his wrists in his hands.
"Just wait—," Minho tried to resist Chan's grip, but failed as Chan's face hardened at the sight of his hands.
"You got in a fight?"
"What? No," Minho finally met Chan's eyes, only for his stomach to drop once he realized Chan hadn't moved. 
"Did anyone see?"