nightfall || minsung

Chapter 19

this is the foretold messy chapter so... you've been warned. read with caution.

(finally some ot9 interaction, i've been   w a i t i n g   for this tho)

(also there's a not-at-all-hidden reference in this chapter that i couldn't resist shoehorning in because i'm dumb and i like to make that abundantly clear to everyone :D)

enjoy~

---------------------------------------

When Minho and I walked in the front door, no one was there to greet us. I could hear them whispering amongst themselves in the kitchen.

"He's here, he's here, everyone shut up, don't panic!"

"You're the only one panicking, Felix."

"Why isn't anyone going out there to meet them?"

"The 'parents' should probably do that, right?"

"Yeah, they should... oh shit, that's us!"

Haseong and Chan shot into the room, stood by the piano like grand statues. Chan was wearing his wolf hoodie. I honestly wasn't surprised.

It was a lot of introductions and hand shaking. Minho was speaking in a humble voice he'd never used with me before. Changbin and Felix came next, and that went about as well as it could have. Felix nearly tore his arm off, and Changbin eased the room until Minho was pitching into my side. Seungmin, Jeongin and Hyunjin topped it all off by hugging him and making a vampire joke. My ears were buzzing.

Jisung. Haseong caught my attention. Felix says there are nomads coming. Today, tomorrow, the next day, it depends. We have a plan to point them east. We need you there. Make sure Minho is safe.

I nodded. The only reason I didn't panic was Changbin's mental drugging. This hadn't happened in years, not since we'd arrived in Forks. We had succeeded in steering visitors off course before, but the times when we'd failed stayed with us. We loved the towns we lived in, remembered the people who were kind to us. We would attend their funerals, knowing the truth of why the caskets were always closed.

Minho was scanning the room while I thought. His eyes landed at the edge of the room, on the piano. Chan noticed and decided it would be a tiptop opportunity to ruin my life.

So I played for Minho. My brothers stood behind us, giggled and whispered too quietly for Minho to hear, did the running man even when I transitioned into a slow song. Haseong herded them out of the room.

"Can I hear one you wrote?" Minho asked. "By yourself?"

I had so many songs — about everything from flowers to self-loathing to music itself. But I also had a song about him, inspired by him, composed for him. He was sitting right next to me, eyes curious and open. I wanted to share it with him.

But it wasn't just a love song. It was brooding, preemptively grief-stricken. There were even lyrics to make that abundantly clear. This was exactly the kind of shit Minho didn't want to hear from me.

I closed my eyes and spoke, knowing it was going to go wrong and doing it anyway.

"Do you want to hear the one I wrote for you?"

"Yes! Please!"

I started playing again. I didn't dare sing the lyrics, didn't dare open my mouth at all. I couldn't hear the music — I was concentrating on his vitals, that solid beat in his chest, more beautiful than any melody I'd ever written.

His heart sped up as the song slowed down, and his breath grew shallow. His hands clutched the bench. He didn't seem to notice any of it — rather he stared at my hands, followed them, all of his attention focussed on the music.