Lee Minho

Minho sat at their shared desk, his white-knuckled fingers clutched in his jacket pocket. He was completely dependent on Jisung. Jisung had trained him to be this way: every day, he indiscriminately squeezed him, hugged him from behind, groped him under the table during boring geometry, and warmed other people's hands in his own. Minho always pretended to be indifferent, but inside, he went crazy if Jisung didn't touch him for more than an hour. On Friday, Jisung walked into the room, black as a thundercloud. His face was a mask of anger. He silently threw his backpack at his feet and buried his face in his phone, sitting on the very edge of his chair. It was as if a concrete wall had risen between them. The coldness instantly made Minho's insides clench, and his skin itched with a wild tactile hunger. Unable to bear it, Minho timidly reached forward and tried to gently place his hand on Jisung's knee.
"Get your hands off, Minho. Seriously, don't piss me off," Jisung snapped. He swung the other man's hand off his leg, turned to the window, and pulled his hood up to his eyebrows. Minho stood frozen, his hand outstretched. His fingers tingled with hurt, and the abrupt refusal caused a real, suffocating panic to swirl in his chest. The obsession with affection was breaking him inside right now.