Seventeen
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundA/N SHINING DIAMONDS YEA- sorry, no e.e *prays you all get reference and why I'm making it* also, fair warning, the next chapter (not this one, as in chapter eighteen) is reeeeally long x.x idk why I'm warning now but~ its long xD
•••
Jonghyun smiled politely at the customer in front of him, swiping the items from her basket across the checkout as she fumbled in her bag for her purse. As it was Winter, it was already dark outside, and so the shop was a tiny haven of electric lights, buzzing consistently and providing an empty harmony to the sounds of the mostly-silent shoppers. Bagging the last of the young woman’s items, he waited until she'd managed to compose herself and retrieve her money before charging her. He found it rude to be abrupt with the customers, for there was rarely anyone else in line anyway. Asking for the payment, Jonghyun smiled endearingly at the woman; when once, the musician would have simply asked in a voice devoid of feeling, his encounters with Jinki had taught him that if he were to be friendly, something unexpected could happen, something extraordinary could happen, something beautiful could happen. He had been talkative to Jinki and Yoogeun, and that smallest of exchanges had sparked a relationship that now consumed him. He grinned sheepishly, the woman blushing slightly.
She was a regular, unperturbed by his fluffy, cherry-blossom hair, and well-used to the overly-happy aura he boasted, as if life put him on a constant high that he couldn’t be shook out of.
Handing over the cash, she lifted her bag of purchases – mostly fruit and sanitary items – and thanked Jonghyun as hastily as she could, eager to slip back into the dark night. She declined the receipt.
Jonghyun sighed upon her exit, the door giving a faint ring. It always did this whenever a customer exited or entered, to inform Jonghyun that, unfortunately, he wasn't alone. He disliked the sound, but he found it to be a jolt that knocked him out of exhaustion, like a bucket of water thrown over his head as he slept. Scanning the shop (for it was very, very small and from the till he could see down each of the three isles save for the farthest right in the room) Jonghyun noted that there seemed to be only one other customer present. He was observing the pints of milk in the refrigerator as if caught in a harness of prices. Jonghyun watched him and said nothing.
The shop was dainty and quaint, packed tightly into one of Seoul’s busiest streets. The shelves were stacked to bursting point and its size meant few staff were ever present, and often-times Jonghyun was working alone, as he was on this evening. He didn’t mind the lack of company, for he found sharing such close space with a work-colleague almost claustrophobic. He had to think of conversation topics and was held accountable if something went awry, and often he was reiterating the same answers to the same questions day-in, day-out, that Yes, he was fine and No, he had no plans to change his hair colour, not yet. Jonghyun rubbed the bridge of his nose, still cold despite the over-sized navy fleece he wore. He wondered if it were snowing outside, for inside it seemed freezing.
When the shop’s only other customer came up to pay, Jonghyun was mannerly once again, speaking kindly to the stranger. The stranger was terse, however, and seemed to be in a rush, so Jonghyun allowed him on his way quickly, slightly offended by the man’s abject rudeness. It wasn't often he encountered customers who couldn’t even spare him the time of day to answer a simple question, such as how they were or what their thoughts on the recent weather had been, but this man was one of those customers. Jonghyun watched him exit blankly, stifling a yawn as the man did so.
The shop was empty once again.
When abandoned by all but himself, the musician liked to ponder what scenarios he could come across in his mundane employment. Never once had he been threatened and he'd only stumbled over a few playful drunks, never any violent ones, and so his tales of his times as a cashier were uneventful and dull. He figured he wanted to pay a trick on the regulars sometime, swap every item in the shop around so that everything was misplaced and the customers' thoughts misconstrued, but the shop had a CCTV camera that buzzed on a constant and Jonghyun was too scared of upsetting his tight-lipped manager.
The oddest scenario he'd ever come across, he figured, was that of a woman who bought no less than twenty loaves of bread. Due to his lack of confidence, Jonghyun hadn’t asked and nor had she answered, and he was left to his many wonderings of what one woman could do with twenty hunks of bread. She couldn’t eat them all before they passed their best-before date, surely. Jonghyun wasn’t the most sociable of people either, his group of friends starting and ending with those closest to Kibum, and so it was rare that anybody he knew visited the shop. It had mostly been Kibum, buying something small to use as an excuse to catch up with his friend – not that he'd ever admit that. However, recently, even Kibum hadn’t been around.
Jonghyun shivered, reminiscing the recent conversation he'd had with Kibum. No, don't think about it yet. Wait for Jinki.
Jonghyun grinned uncontrollably at the thought of his lover. Jinki wasn't exactly his usual type, but then Jonghyun supposed that for the past few years he hadn't had a recent type.
Not after him
Jonghyun clenched his fists into tiny balls and bit his bottom lip. To say Jinki wasn't the man that started and finished his day would have been a lie. When he wasn’t with the artist, Jonghyun missed him, and when he was with him, he couldn’t bare to look away, not for a second. Jonghyun grew attached easily, he supposed, and to some maybe his confession of love had been too quick, but he didn’t care, for he loved Lee Jinki, and Jonghyun saw no need to fight that. He loved his cheesy grin and effortless eye-smile, his unending care for his son and his never-ending talent in art. Jonghyun loved Jinki’s sensitivity and loved how he understood him so plaintively. Jonghyun loved Lee Jinki. He really, really did.
"You look happy. Win the lottery in the last few hours?”
Jonghyun jumped, so startled by the familiar voice he instantly snapped from the zone he'd accidentally faded into. In front of him stood the man he'd only moments before been thinking of, his son clutching onto his hand with grubby fingers. Coincidence, Jonghyun figured, was an odd mistress.
"Hello!” Yoogeun called up, eyes wide and lips curled into a friendly grin. Jonghyun waved down at him, blowing his face up comically to garner a giggle from the toddler, before looking back at Jinki. The elder appeared worn-out, even more-so than he had been earlier.
"Hello,” Jonghyun nodded, “nice weather we're having, isn’t it?” He smiled jokingly as he took the carton of milk from Jinki and passed it through the scanner. Jinki rolled his eyes, skin slightly flushed beneath the columned lights.
"Jongh’un! Jongh’un! Jongh’un!” repeated the toddler present, prying for the musician’s attention shamelessly. Jonghyun glimpsed down and raised an eyebrow, asking, “Yes?”
"I-I-I drew you anot’er pictur’,” Yoogeun explained, suddenly shy. He was rocking on his heels, one hand behind his back as the other was touching his rounded cheeks, so that he could easily chew on his dark-blue duffel coat.
"Oh, really,” Jonghyun grinned, “I'll come over and see it as soon as I can!”
"Okie!” Yoogeun exclaimed excitedly, dropping his hands and grinning. He was always desperate for Jonghyun’s attention, at times akin to a pupil trying to impress their teacher. It endeared Jonghyun greatly.
"Did everything go okay with Kibum earlier?” asked Jinki, disrupting the light-hearted conversation between his lover and son. His words were edged in apprehension, and it caused a slight tremor in Jonghyun’s heart as he realised he had to tell Jinki the truth, that, no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t hide it.
Jonghyun blinked at Jinki and swallowed nervously.
"Jinki… Kibum knows.”
The artist froze. Jonghyun watched him with wide eyes, awaiting a reaction – anger, fear, nervousness, anything.
"I didn’t tell him,” Jonghyun tried, noticing how stunned Jinki was, lower lip hung open and eyebrows raised. “He-he must have seen…” Jonghyun glimpsed at Yoogeun before looking back at Jinki. “He must have seen something. He told me that much.”
Jinki reached out for his milk and handed Jonghyun the money to pay for it. His shoulders were strict, face holding that awful expression of defeat.
"You really didn’t tell him, Jjong’?”
"I swear it, Jinki. He knew himself, told me not long after you left.”
"If he knows,” Jinki murmured blankly, “then Minho knows.”
Jonghyun chewed on his lip, emotions heavier than the imposing lights above him. Another customer entered the shop, paying the meet-up at the till little attention.
"Do you think that's-that’s why-“
"Later,” Jonghyun interrupted Jinki. “We'll discuss this later. Are you-are you free tomorrow?”
Jinki peered down at his son, who was staring at the two perplexed adults in front of him with a frown more pensive than his age and innocence should have allowed for. The artist knew his son could sense when something wasn't right, and he too became affected.
"I have to work,” Jinki admitted, “I lost so much time today, Jjong’, I've deadlines to meet, and…”
Jonghyun nodded. Jinki was stressed, so clearly stressed, and in turn it was dampening Jonghyun’s spirits. He wanted to wrap Jinki in his arms, sing softly so that he fell asleep in comfort and serenity, not in worry and doubt. The stress would age him, embitter him, and Jonghyun wanted to do everything he could to divert that, even if it meant causing stress to himself.
"It's okay,” he consoled quietly, ensuring the other customer was still occupied. “Another day.”
"I'm sorry,” Jinki breathed, setting the milk carton down momentarily so he could rid his eyes of tiredness.
"Hey, don’t worry about it, paint your paintings and… Take it easy, Jinki. Things aren’t as bad as they seem, trust me.”
Jinki shook his head, before muttering, “They might be worse.” Shocked at this statement and confused as to what provoked it, Jonghyun could only watch as Jinki and Yoogeun spoke their goodbyes and departed in a darker mood than how they'd entered.
•••
Kibum clutched at his mobile, face the vision of a man more distraught than was worth. As the phone buzzed, the reiterated ring clawing away at his pricked ears, he cast his eyes around the gloomy apartment. The only light came from the television, which he'd muted for the constant chatter was beginning to shred each thought he carried, and therefore most of the apartment was cloaked in an insidious shadow, hiding the false behind its over-reaching arms.
It wasn’t late. Past seven, perhaps, and he was beginning to miss the Summer months, when seven would have brought sunshine and radiance, not the slight pitter-patter of sleet and the brooding pitch of night. Maybe in Summer he could have missed his housemate less, could have been peaceful over the idea of his whereabouts. Kibum bit his bottom lip, cold, apprehensive.
"Hello?"
Kibum cleared his throat. After his out-of-the-blue encounter with Jonghyun and Jinki earlier, he'd rehearsed this. Talk slowly, speak kindly, pretend there's nothing wrong and it will all be fine – the mantra of rules Kibum was hastily assigned to.
"Hello, is this Mrs Choi?”
On the other end of the line, there was a slight whirring, as if a radio played in the background, and it unnerved Kibum. It was an eerie sound, similar in depth to the act of watching a muted television, as he was now. Shapes morphed in distant colours on the screen. Kibum squinted.
"Yes,” answered the woman kindly, “it is. What can I do for you?”
"Ah, hello, Mrs Choi- this is Minho’s housemate, Kim Kibum, if you remember me?”
"Oh! Kibum!” exclaimed the woman, almost excitedly. Her voice was still soft even despite the crackling receiver. “How have you been? How's work going? Is everything alright?”
Taken aback by the onslaught of queries, Kibum offered a staged, brisk laugh, and murmured, “Yes, yes, I was just calling to ask if you’ve heard from Minho recently.”
There was a pause.
"Minho? My son? He's not missing, is he?” Her tone was begging to verge on the wayside of worry, and Kibum answered quickly in a bid to assuage such fears.
"No, no, nothing like that, he just had a match earlier this week and he went to stay in a hotel - it was out of town, and he forgot to tell me when he was meant to be returning. I couldn’t get through to him, and I thought maybe you would have heard. I don’t even know what hotel he went to.”
Kibum’s lie was cold, calculated, but infected by a falsely comfortable tone.
"Oh, thank God,” breathed Minho’s mother, and if he could see her Kibum would no-doubt expect her to be clutching onto her heart in a manner most melodramatic. “I thought maybe for a second something awful had happened.”
"Something awful has!” Kibum joked, his façade so convincing that even he was beginning to believe it. “I don’t know how much free time I have without him!”
Mrs Choi laughed at his wit, before clearing and letting out a thoughtful hum.
"Well, I'm sorry, Kibum,” she apologised, “but he didn't tell me anything about it. That’s strange, normally he would, but you know young folk, they're always fickle.”
"Just out of curiosity,” Kibum mumbled, hands trembling slightly, “when was the last time you heard from him?”
"I'd say… Just about a week ago? He normally drops by quite often, we don't go long without hearing something about his week. Why?”
"Oh, no reason,” Kibum murmured, “I'm just a curious soul.”
"Well, that’s a good quality,” Mrs Choi mused. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Kibum?”
"No, no, that’s all, Mrs Choi. I should probably go, I've some work to get done for the morning, but it was wonderful talking to you again.”
"You too, Kibum,” extended Minho’s mother, “and if you see that son of mine, tell him to come visit me soon. I'm expecting my weekly soap opera from him.” Her chuckle forced Kibum into raising one also.
"Well, bye now,” Kibum spoke, Mrs Choi offering a cheery, “Bye!” before he disconnected.
Kibum sat in silence for a moment.
One week ago. He hadn’t heard from Minho in two. It meant that it was unlikely his worst fears were a reality – Minho wasn’t lying as a macabre corpse in a dirty alleyway, nor had he been kidnapped and subjected to the rulebook of pointless torture. Minho was just avoiding him, avoiding everybody. Kibum swallowed thickly and began to dial the same number he'd dialled every single day for the past fortnight.
He let the ringtone run, already knowing he'd get no answer, but he was desperate. He was really, really desperate.
When the call ran to the option to leave a voice message, Kibum allowed his sophisticated demeanour to drop. There was little point in hiding himself behind a chic exterior to a man who could easily detect its lack of truth, and there was also little point in reiterating the same words he had spoken time and time again. Mrs Choi had been his last hope at finding Minho, and it'd only led to further loose ends.
Kibum began to record the voice message.
"Minho, please, come home. I don't know how many voice messages I've sent you and I don’t know how many you've heard, but I-I'm desperate. I didn’t know how weak I'd be without you until you left. Sure, maybe it has only been two weeks, but-but these are two weeks where I… I need you, Minho. I'm sick. I don’t know what's wrong with me. I miss you. Please, Minho, we're worried – me, Jinki… We both need you to come home. Don't spend Christmas alone, Minho, please. Come back home. I need you."
Kibum was sobbing as he sent the voice message.
Dropping his phone atop the sofa beside him, he reached out an arm and gripped a soft cushion, bringing it to his chest and hugging it. He lay down, and lay like this for a while, clutching the cushion for all it was worth and allowing himself to cry, to feel the emptiness that had overcome him as soon as Minho had walked out of the door. It was one thing arguing with each other and picking fights when they were ill-needed, but ignoring each other struck so much worse that Kibum couldn’t comprehend it. Maybe something terrible had happened Minho, for he had no reason to hide from Jinki also. Kibum sniffed loudly, the room’s darkness feeding his own anxiety as he battled the feelings of nausea rattling through him. His plea had been desperate and his will had been flaccid, but he'd meant what he said and didn’t regret speaking it.
He needed Minho back.
•••
"And you know what?” babbled the girl incessantly, as she held onto the strap of the bright bag slung over her narrow shoulder. “Even if I was a to him, he was still the one who dumped me, and honestly, I don’t have time to care about him, so I don’t see why he's trying to make me. I met a new guy, and he's a nice guy, and he seems like maybe he likes me too, and I'm thinking… I might as well ask him out instead of dating a brick wall. What do you think, Taemin?”
As Taemin had walked alongside his friend, he'd admittedly lost interest within several seconds. Even the cream walls and flooring of the dance academy he walked through were more interesting than the perpetual reminders of all the men she'd dated and shattered the hearts of. Taemin found it hard to care about her newest to-be-hook-up, for it always ended the same way, and he had other, more important things to think about, things that didn’t involve pathetic love dilemmas and a world where one was unaffected by the stigma of the outside.
"Go for it,” Taemin smiled, his own bag heavy on his shoulder. He'd managed to somewhat repair it, but it was still difficult to carry, especially when he didn’t have the strength to do so.
"You really think?” the girl squeaked excitedly, flicking a strand of her long, brunette hair from her eyes. She was a pretty girl, tall and with wide, wide eyes, that many a man could succumb to easily. Due to her effortless charm, she often got her way, and from a family with more wealth than all of Taemin’s relatives combined, it wouldn’t have been out-of-place to denote her as something of a princess. As she began to garble about how she planned to ask him to a nearby restaurant and how handsome he was, Taemin found himself running his eyes along the track of the wall beside him. Trophy cases housed prizes of past dancers in the company and ‘inspirational’ quotes were painted along the walls, about why success is measured in how hard you work and that if you want to become the best you simply must be the best. Taemin had pegged them to be more patronising than motivational, and often found himself clicking his tongue at the complexes the quotes provided.
"Someday, I'm going to be a star,” the girl nodded determinedly, “I know it.” Taemin grinned kindly at her so much so that one wouldn’t even suspect he'd abandoned her tangent and was now confused as to how she'd got there. He looked at the lights above him, mini sunlights exploding a vicious warmth across his glassy eyes as he did so. “I'll have to work hard,” she continued, “but I believe in myself, Taem’. Do you think I can do it?”
"Yeah, Jikyung,” Taemin answered kindly, his words drenched in honesty. “Yeah.” He hadn’t been lying, for everyone knew Jikyung was destined for success. Whilst not the most talented dancer in the company, and whilst her voice still needed fine-tuning, she was the prettiest girl of her class and had the bubbliest of personalities. Her confidence radiated success and her perfect visuals would accompany her. She was the teachers’ favourite, the class’s envy, the boys’ desire.
"Ah…” she sighed, gripping the bag strap tightly. “I hope you're right.” As they both turned a corner, silence overcame them and they strolled peacefully, taking in the familiar, musky scent of the studios they passed. It was late, and most other dancers had left hours ago, but Taemin had stayed to practice late and Jikyung, having missed a recent practice, had been on a mission to win over her instructors by showing for an additional session. Jikyung’s attempts had worked, apparently, and Taemin had been happy for her. Though at times self-obsessed and outwardly over-confident, Jikyung wasn't necessarily a bad person, just an easily dislikeable one if you could see past the perfect make-up and the love-me-or-hate-me attitude.
"Are you okay, Taem’?” she pondered, her friendship with the blonde-dancer sparking a habit of giving him nicknames. She was older than Taemin, and so found it easier to talk to him than many of the other guys in the company. “You seem a bit… I don’t know… distant?”
"I'm fine,” Taemin answered quickly, his lower lip as he ventured onwards.
"Really?” Jikyung asked sceptically. “Because, like, normally, you're more vibrant and-and you’ve gotten quite…”
Taemin tilted his head at her and raised an eyebrow.
“… skinny,” she finished, and Taemin rolled his eyes at her. Jikyung liked to joke, he knew. She liked to joke a lot.
“I'm on a diet,” Taemin sighed, mistaking her concern for sarcasm. “I'll drop the weight, so stop fretting.”
"No, Taemin,” she said sternly, “I'm serious. You hardly have any weight to drop, and what happened your lip, I mean-“
"Lee Taemin?"
Both Jikyung and Taemin stopped in unison, whipping their heads behind them at the strong voice, a voice they recognised instantly.
"Sir,” Taemin greeted, bowing his head slightly at the dance instructor who'd emerged from a door a few metres behind them. Jikyung bowed her head similarly, all of a sudden quiet, nervous.
The instructor was a handsome man with sharp features and a muscular build, and had been the attraction to many eyes when one first entered the company. Taemin too had been swept up in his manly exterior, the serious stare and the model-type image, until he realised that the soft-haired instructor had a will of steel and a severe lack of empathy. He'd always been somewhat lenient on Taemin, however, and Taemin guessed it was to do with the fact that, despite appearances, the instructor was an understanding man. He knew the sacrifices Taemin had made in pursuit of his dream, and didn’t dare to devalue them.
Taemin bit his cut lip nervously, throat suddenly very dry. The instructor was in his thirties, and held with him an authority that could change the tone of a room in an instant.
"Could you come in here for a second?” he beckoned. “I need to talk to you.” His voice lacked warmth, but, then again, it always did.
Taemin exchanged a glance with Jikyung, then looked back at the instructor politely, nodding his head. Jikyung said her goodbyes and Taemin replied with his own, and then she scampered away, glad to escape the rigid stares of the instructor, and Taemin was left with his own curiosity, pecking away at him as he stood, motionless, in the corridor.
"Well, come in,” directed the instructor – Jeon Sangil – as he entered his office and waited for Taemin to follow. Taemin did so nervously, fists clenched, unsure as to what this was about and as to why it only involved him.
When he entered the office, Sangil was there to close the door behind him, and Taemin glanced around nervously. It wasn’t often a trainee was allowed admittance to an instructor’s office – not that anyone wanted inside. The office was small, but organised well, with one window (curtains drawn) and one desk, picture-frames and files stacked neatly. Charts lined the walls and Taemin figured it was a room similar to those of sports coaches, only it held the sweetest scent of lavender and boasted a soft carpet to stand on. Sangil passed by Taemin and reached his seat behind the desk, assuming it hastily and glancing up at Taemin.
"Please,” he indicated, “sit.”
Taemin obliged, movements stiff, for he was ultimately somewhat scared of the instructor, and sat on the plastic chair at the opposite side of the desk. He allowed his bag to slip from his shoulder, still peering around the brightly lit room hesitantly.
"I suppose you're probably wondering why I called you in here,” Sangil started, and Taemin nodded, trying to fight the blush that seeped onto his cheeks as he made eye contact with the masculine instructor. He remembered his first ever thoughts on Sangil as he'd joined the company, thoughts that left little to innocence. Taemin felt as if Sangil could read those thoughts every time he looked into the dancer’s wet eyes.
"We have to talk, Taemin,” Sangil began, resting his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together.
"About what, sir?” Taemin wondered boldly, full lips slightly parted and eyes slightly widened. A year ago, he would have loved an opportunity to be so close, so alone, with Sangil. Now, it merely frightened him.
"About your progress here,” Sangil explained, brushing a strand of his dark hair behind his ear and resuming to lacing his fingers. “About how you're getting on.”
Taemin remained silent.
"Tell me, Taemin,” began Sangil, leaning back in his soft, leather seat, “when did you realise you wanted to be a dancer?”
Taemin raised his head, slightly shocked by the question. His fingers were shaking as he rested his hands on his lap, intimidated by his company.
“I-Well, since I was young,” Taemin confessed. “I loved dance, and knew it was what I wanted to do.”
"So dance has always been a part of your life?”
Taemin nodded.
"That makes sense,” Sangil murmured thoughtfully, “because, when I watch you dance, I see that, Taemin. I see the passion, the drive, the fire. It's what makes you our best student.”
The remark startled Taemin visibly.
"Yeah, you heard me right,” Sangil smiled, “and I don’t mind telling you, Taemin. You're very, very gifted.”
"T-Thank you, Sir,” Taemin stuttered, bowing his head in gratitude. Sangil grinned.
"I've worked here for seven years now, Taemin. I've seen dancers, many dancers, pass through these doors. Most are good, of course, and can pick up a routine quickly, and perform it well. But that’s all they are – good. Once every blue moon, somebody exceptional walks through, with the urge to succeed no matter what. That’s you, Taemin. You're exceptional at what you do.”
Taemin was blushing now, overcome at the warmth from his often tight-lipped instructor.
"You're the envy of other instructors and I'm lucky to have you in my class. You could make it big, Taemin. Really big.”
"Thank you,” Taemin repeated, not believing what he was hearing. ‘Making it big’ was the dream, but few ever did, and even fewer had the confidence of their instructor in doing so.
"But, Taemin…” Sangil’s tone instantly changed, and the young dancer stiffened, knowing there was a cloud to this silver lining. “It doesn't take a detective to see, quite clearly, that there's something wrong.”
"I don't know what you mean, Sir,” Taemin dismissed calmly, refusing to look Sangil in the eye.
"You do,” Sangil retorted, “and so do I. You've become tired, Taemin, your movements are unrefined, sluggish. I know you're better than that.”
Taemin bit his lip, akin to a child being scolded.
"Are you sleeping correctly?” Sangil questioned, analysing the younger with a sharp gaze. “Are you eating correctly?”
"Yes,” Taemin answered, “I'm fine, Sir. I just need to-need to work harder to perfe-“
"Taemin, you don’t need to work harder. You're the hardest worker student I've seen in years. In fact, maybe you're working too hard.”
Sangil tilted his head.
"Tell me, Taemin, what is happening in your life? How are you? And don’t give me the bull line that you're fine, because it's as transparent as glass.”
Glancing up at his instructor, Taemin’s lips were parted in shock. It was improper for him to use such vulgar language, but Sangil didn’t seem to give a damn. Instead, he awaited an answer, arms strong beneath his t-shirt and jawline straight as he clenched it.
“Sir, with all due respect,” Taemin muttered, “I am fine.”
"I don’t believe you,” Sangil shot back. “See, Taemin, you may just see me as the big, bad dance instructor, and, sure, that’s what I am, but I care about you, Taemin, about your talent. I won't let your talent go to waste, not if I can help it.”
"If I work harder, Sir-“
"No.” Sangil practically laughed at Taemin’s resilience. “Taemin, I don’t want to see you here for at least a week. You know every routine like the back of your hand. You're staying home, you're getting rest, and you're returning to me refreshed, not like you are now. You're over-working yourself, Taemin.”
Taemin shook his head.
"I'm not good enough yet,” Taemin argued, “I have to-“
"You're the best I've seen,” Sangil challenged, voice raised slightly. “And under my watch, you are not going to stress yourself further. You’ve got this, Taemin. Despite it all, you have this.”
Taemin slumped back in his chair, angered.
"Why do you even care?!” Taemin suddenly exclaimed, his rage cultivating a slight spite within him for his instructor. Sangil didn’t control his life, didn’t control him.
"I told you,” Sangil answered coolly, simply blinking at Taemin’s misconstrued anger, “I care. People do that, Taemin, even if you don’t see it.”
"I'm just your student,” Taemin spat back, unable to control himself. Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes, but he was unsure as to why. He wouldn't appear weak in front of his instructor, he couldn’t.
"You're not,” Sangil responded, “trust me, Taemin. You're more. But you need to go home, now. Don't come back until you're better.”
Taemin glared at Sangil, a mixture of angered and saddened and fearful and upset. He didn’t want to stop dancing. His days would become irreversibly empty without it. He didn’t need any more time alone.
"Go, Taemin,” Sangil instructed, and Taemin nodded, knowing when he'd lost. He stood shakily, bag strap trailing in his hands. Dancers knew not to disobey their instructors, knew their place.
"You will make it, Taemin,” Sangil reassured, but Taemin simply shook his head, defeated. He walked towards the door, swinging his bag over his shoulder as he did so.
"Take care,” Sangil attempted.
Taemin left without offering a response.
•••
The voice message rang emptily in the hotel room.
It made the imposing walls seem somewhat threatening, like the bars to a prison cell. It was a barely furnished room, cheap, yet tasteful, though in the darkness seemed irreversibly blank. The walls were cloaked in an insidious shadow, hiding the false behind its over-reaching arms. Minho didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one bit.
"Come back home. I need you."
Minho locked his phone again, and lay back on the stiff bed, still cold despite the fact he wore a large jumper.
The words ran circles in his mind until he could no longer bare to contemplate them, and so Minho sat up straight again, rubbing his tired eyes with balled fists. He'd received every text, every call, every voice message from his friends, but had ignored them all. He was angry, but not necessarily at them.
Minho closed his eyes. He knew there was only one person who could prompt him from his hiding, but that person hadn’t yet messaged, not once, and Minho was beginning to think that during their last encounter he'd gone too far. He had no right to talk down to someone in that way, yet he had. He was a hypocritical bastard, Minho knew he was, but he couldn’t help it.
Minho had money. This fact was seen no more clearly than in the fact he'd managed to sustain himself easily between a string of hotels for the past few weeks, content in spending any amount to avoid his friends. He had nowhere else to go – his parents would be too inquisitive and his strings with all others had been snipped – and so he'd hid away, flitting from hotel to hotel, and it'd been going well, although Minho knew he couldn’t live like this forever. Even given the inherited wealth from his now-dead grandfather and the prosperity of his career, he didn’t have enough to mindlessly waste money hotel-jumping, and he didn’t want to. He had to return home, but he wasn’t ready yet.
He cried.
Minho didn’t do that often, cry. Raised on the concepts of masculinity and a strong-will, it was improper for a man to cry, to show his weakness in such a way. In that way, it was just as improper of a man to use a friend, to cheat an acquaintance, or to love another man. It was wrong, it was sinful, it was unacceptable – Minho just couldn’t tell someone why if they asked. Deep down, he figured he knew that it had to be wrong, that it wasn’t natural, that he didn’t want it for himself or his friends. They should lead normal lives, happy lives, lives where they married pretty women and raised happy children and conformed to society because that’s what was asked of them. They shouldn’t stick their necks out, not if the guillotine stalkes them.
Minho wiped away a tear. He'd grown up with Kibum, with Taemin, with Jinki. They were like family to him, yet they were one extraordinarily ed family. Nobody knew their place, in Minho’s eyes or in his mind, and although he was bitter at their actions, he missed them like he would his brothers, missed them so greatly. But he couldn’t leave to find them again, not yet, not now.
His phone vibrated.
Minho blinked at the flash of light in the darkness, and reached down with a wary expression and a twisted feeling in his stomach. It was probably Kibum again, it had to be.
He stared at the ID of the messenger and his breath hitched.
One new message - Taemin
Minho’s eyes blurred. Taemin was looking for him, too. Though every part of him wanted to ignore the text, a small piece of Minho’s conscience forced him to accept the message.
He couldn’t breathe when he read it.
help
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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