Eighteen
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundTaemin had walked home in anger and grief. The city sky had been dismal, a shroud of black bitten through by stooped lampposts and drifting taillights. From the cityscape, one couldn’t see the stars, and it made Seoul seemed so hemmed in, so alone, as if detached from nature and from South Korea’s rural backdrops. The urban rush of the city was a scintillating one, but it didn’t come without its disappointments, the derelict shops and the burnt-out cars, the fraught crime rates and the tasteless side-alleys. Though early, it has been dark, and the paced wind had been bitter, whipping his platinum hair around him in unkempt tousles. He'd taken the most public route he could find, though it added a considerable length of time to his journey. The alley-ways scared him now, for he had trauma to prove the heavy stigma they honed. A reminder of Eunkyo’s body pressed against his own flashed through Taemin’s eyes, coiled in his stomach. He had to ignore it. He had to.
By the time he reached home, it was past nine. He was tired, and his mind was empty, and he felt lonely, as usual. The lights in his rundown flat casually flickered, and he had to reach up and tap the lightbulb a few times for it to work, and, when he was done, Taemin elapsed upon the sofa. His head hurt, and he wasn’t sure why, and his heart thumped so loudly his prior actions felt like those from a century ago, reworked back into life by ghostly hands. He breathed slowly, removing his new phone (the cheapest he could find) from his pocket. Thankfully he'd been able to salvage the SIM card from his previous phone, that had been broken in the alleyway encounter, and so therefore had no issues in changing numbers or contact details. Despite this, he still had no messages, as usual.
Taemin closed his eyes wearily. He was tired. So, so tired. It was an exhaustion not even sleep could condone, a cyclic thing that buried his spirit from the moment he woke up to the moment he slipped back into his nightmares. It added lethargy to his limbs and gave his every movement a flaccid quality, like the broken stalk of a flower. Taemin didn’t understand why he was so bloody weak. He did sleep, somewhat, and he consumed enough coffee to invigorate thousands.
He lay there for a second, eyes so languid that sleep was beginning to tread across his mind, and then there was a knock on the door.
Taemin opened an eye, stifling the groan he wished to emanate. At the hope he'd been hearing things, the dancer waited, listening for a follow-up he prayed wouldn’t come.
The knock resounded again.
Taemin frowned and sat up, knowing he'd have to answer. Whoever it was would most-likely have caught sight of him returning home, for he'd only entered the flat moments before. It couldn’t have been his father, for he'd already laid his wreckage that day. Maybe it was Jinki, returning to pry more into his life – only Jinki was a father with a son to care for and a job to do, so Taemin doubted that outcome sincerely. Either way, stranger or friend, they are calling at the wrong time, and Taemin could only hope they'd leave as soon as was polite to.
Padding to the door, Taemin brushed his hair from his eyes in a bid to make himself appear acceptable – not that such a notion was likely.
Taemin opened the door expectantly, ready to plaster a façade across his features, one most impenetrable. As soon as he saw his visitors, he dropped such a thought immediately.
"Hello, fag'," smiled the first of the two visitors, and Taemin instantly cursed. He tried to shut the door, already frantic, but was halted by an imposing foot, the frame unable to close for the sole of his shoe.
"Hey,” spoke the man, in a voice mocking innocence, “you shouldn't treat guests like that. Let us in.”
The visitors easily overpowered Taemin by pushing open the frame, and the younger stumbled backwards awkwardly, clutching the kitchenette as the two ungainly men entered. The first was filthy and the second was drunk, and Taemin wondered if this was a never-ending quirk to their villainous double-act. As the drunkard closed the door, he snorted slightly, eyes gleaning the flat for anything they could find. With Taemin watching fearfully, entire body cold and heart almost plastic in his chest, the filthiest of the visitors grinned.
"Hello again.”
Taemin whimpered.
It had been several months since he'd seen the two alleyway perpetrators, but their presence had never escaped his mind. They still frightened him, still haunted him, Hojeon’s lack of care and Eunkyo’s wanton lusts, cultivating in a cut-short assault that had left Taemin pining for comfort and searching for answers, answers as to why he'd been the one they'd hurt, even though he knew that, deep down, it was because he deserved it.
"I'm-I'm going to call the police,” Taemin tried, but his voice was barely a whisper, and his hands were shaking so much he couldn’t have lifted his mobile if he'd tried. He didn't know how they'd found where he lived, how they'd been so callous and calculated in discovering his whereabouts, but it unnerved him so deeply that his body felt like a length of wire with no resistance.
"Sure, sure,” mumbled Hojeon, walking around the room as if in his own home. He lifted Taemin’s pictures from their hooks and stared at them curiously, hanging them back on at angles that aggravated Taemin’s sense of order. Meanwhile, Eunkyo was lifting things from the coffee table, the empty mugs and borrowed magazines, with a look of bottled disinterest. Both were plumper than Taemin remembered, with longer hair, but they were still very much the same men who had attacked him all those months ago.
“G-Get out,” Taemin tried, still assigned to the kitchenette. He could only watch with abject terror as Hojeon smiled across at him, teeth intersected by the greasy food he'd eaten earlier. Taemin shuddered.
"Nah, see, Eunkyo here was interested,” Hojeon began, finished surveying the pictures and instead focussing the entirety of his attention on the vulnerable dancer, “on how a liked to live. Like, what would his home be like, y’know? It took us a while to find you, but coincidence is a dear and we did, we did.”
"I'm calling the police,” Taemin attempted again, reaching for his pocket. “And-and you'll be arrested, for-for ual assault and breaking and entering and-“
"But we di’nt break in,” Eunkyo slurred objectively, halting his movements. He stank so wretchedly of cigarette smoke that Taemin almost choked on it from where he stood. “You let us in.”
"No,” Taemin spat, shaking his head, things beginning to click in his mind. They were the ones who'd trashed his flat. It made perfect sense. “You broke in earlier, and-and ed everything, I saw-“
"No, we didn’t,” Hojeon laughed, “we didn’t touch your place. We've never even been here before.”
They were lying, they had to be, but the sincerity in Hojeon’s voice was almost so genuine that Taemin felt inclined to believe him.
The dancer was stricken with fear. He knew he should call the police, but the moment his call connected Eunkyo and Hojeon would become violent, abusive, and would no-doubt break his phone again. His entire body was wracked in terror, tightened to the very spot he stood at. He just wanted them to go.
"Don't you have a TV?” Hojeon pondered, crinkling his nose at the primitive accommodation. “Or a radio, or-or something?”
"Hey! Hojeon!” Eunkyo called, and Taemin grimaced when he noticed that Eunkyo was calling from the opened door of his box-bedroom.
"G-Get out!” Taemin demanded, stumbling forwards in a bid to stop the perpetrators. His head began to thump mildly, a basic tap-tap-tap that would no doubt spiral into a painful pulsing. Everything within him was clouding, and he knew that, although he deserved this, he didn’t want this. Taemin didn’t know why they were in his home, why they were in his life… He needed them gone, he needed help.
He just didn't know who to get it from.
He just didn't know who to get it from.
"Hah, calm down,” Hojeon chastised, wobbling in the direction of Eunkyo, who had sank back into the bedroom.
"There isn’t much in here!” Eunkyo exclaimed rather drunkenly. “Just a few pictures of him an’ that-that man.”
That man.
Taemin blinked.
Suddenly, he began to fish for his phone, knowing Hojeon could see his every movement.
"Ey!” Hojeon shouted, as Taemin frantically scrabbled to the corner, turning in on himself as he scrolled through his phone’s contact list. “Give me that!”
Taemin began to type as quickly as his fingers would allow him as a strong, incriminating hand grabbed his shoulders, and flung him around, pushing him up against the wall. He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut as he felt Hojeon’s rancid breath on his cheek, the scenario all-too familiar. Gripping the phone and holding Taemin by his bony shoulder, Hojeon wrenched it free and threw it so hard across the room that it clattered against the wall, shattering upon impact. Taemin couldn’t bare to look, however he knew the phone was more-than-likely a mere collection of black fragments now. Hojeon’s pincer grip slackened and Taemin slumped down the wall slightly, lower lip trembling.
All he could do was hope the message had sent. All he could do was pray.
“Don’t try anything else,” Hojeon threatened, taking a step away from the victim as Taemin cracked his eyes open. Wiping his nose, Hojeon spat on the ground, and Taemin flinched, knowing the threat behind the action wasn’t an empty one. His heart still begged for release from his ribcage as Eunkyo re-emerged from his bedroom, a picture frame in hand.
"Hey,” Eunkyo mumbled, almost tripping over his own feet as he mindlessly wiped a hand on his fading brown t-shirt. “See, look… Here's that ’,” he nodded at Taemin, “’n his boyfriend.”
Taemin’s eyelids wavered and his lip quivered as Hojeon stormed towards Eunkyo, ripping the frame from his hand in a controlling manner. Both men made Taemin want to die, to lie down and to never wake up.
"Ah, yeah,” Hojeon murmured, mouth built as if with two putrid insects, that parted every time he requested breath. “How is he?”
Realising the question was aimed at him, Taemin only offered a feeble, “ you,” surprised that he took the action of standing up against them, but knowing he'd tripped whilst doing so.
"Relationship problems,” Hojeon nodded knowingly, chucking the frame back to Eunkyo carelessly. “Tell me, because, really, I'm curious…” Hojeon began to approach Taemin, the younger retreating further into the corner as he did so. He couldn't believe he felt so alone, so pathetic, so scared, in his own home – the place he was meant to feel, if nothing else, comfortable.
Hojeon stopped within arm’s reach of Taemin, rotund form imposing as he poked the dancer's shoulder with a fattened finger almost gleefully. The strength behind it forced Taemin to rebound lightly from the wall, like a hand bouncing from a slapped cheek.
"You've gotten all…” Hojeon pursed his lips, glancing around at Eunkyo for help.
"Ugly?” Eunkyo offered, before both men smirked, and Taemin shivered at their blatant honesty. He'd gotten so, so ugly.
“No, I mean more…” Hojeon tilted his head and jutted out his chin, deep in thought. “Skinny? Thin? Only, it's more than that.”
"You're right,” Eunkyo uttered insightfully, using the sofa to keep himself upright as he blinked heavily. “And wha’ happened your lip?” His drawl was cut short as he touched his own lip, to drag attention to the looped cut across Taemin’s that appeared similar to a crimson ring-piercing.
"Yeah…” Hojeon sighed. With that in mind, he touched Taemin’s cheek, and the younger winced, trying to bite back all the doubts and worries and fears that seeded through him so prolifically they were hatching an orchard. “My question was,” Hojeon continued, nostrils flaring slightly, tone cruel and rippled in malice, “your boyfriend, he seems all… Big and muscular… So I just wondered, why don’t you break when he s into you?”
Taemin let out a low cry at the vulgarity and shamelessness of Hojeon, at the end of his strength as Eunkyo tittered. Hojeon whipped his head around, shouting, “Hey! You were wondering too! Look at him, he's a twig!”
Breathing heavily, Taemin clutched at the final reserves of fight he had left. He couldn’t let them go, he couldn’t.
"Does it hurt?” Hojeon asked, leaning closer to Taemin, to inspect those defined features and unblinking eyes. “Or does the pleasure drown out the pain?”
"Please…” Taemin whispered, eyes becoming blotted in tear-stains, “Please… Leave me alone… Leave me alone…”
Hojeon raised an eyebrow, Eunkyo spluttering behind him. Taemin’s plea had been so emotive, so transparent, so weak.
“Say,” Hojeon debated, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “would he know if you'd ed another? Could he tell? You fags’ are all untrustworthy s, after all. Could he tell, ‘ey?” Taemin trembled as Hojeon leaned in closer.
Beneath the surface, everything within Taemin was broiling, every misspent emotion, every unheard disappointment. From waking up in the early morning, sleepless and unable to contemplate the rest of the day, to hiding the clear from Jinki and being dismissed from his dance company… His day had been so horrendous. He'd had enough.
"Could he?”
As soon as Hojeon lightly touched his sleeve again, Taemin was screaming. He didn’t know what had snapped within him, a splintered wall to a dam, but his screech had been so guttural, so piercing, as he hollered, “Get the hell out!"
His breathing was tense as he gritted his teeth, and Hojeon was clearly very taken aback by the imperative. He felt demeaned, patronised, condescended, by nothing but a dirty, little .
“What did you say?” he growled lowly, suddenly so threatening that Taemin was instantly tamed once more, slinking so that his back was rigid against the wall. This time, the voice was raised, as Hojeon reiterated, “What the hell did you say?”
He smirked angrily, and the next thing Taemin sensed was a jarring fist across his face, something he was used to but would never stop feeling. As his head smacked from the wall at the punch, a burning wave rippled across Taemin’s jaw, the thwack thankfully not upsetting his earlier injuries. His head was pounding further now, clouding further, and he couldn’t understand the nausea that pirouetted through his stomach with unlaced shoes.
"Don’t you dare speak to me like that,” Hojeon hissed, and then Taemin was hyperventilating, for his vision was blurring, and this time it wasn’t from tears. Hojeon gripped his arm and hauled him forward, nails digging tightly into Taemin’s wrist, but the dancer didn’t feel it. All he could feel was his mind on the edge of collapsing into something he couldn't quite place.
"Have your way with him, Eunkyo,” Hojeon offered, ing Taemin at the drunkard carelessly.
Taemin fainted.
•••
Minho was running.
He didn’t know why, but all that kissed him was fear and all that blessed him was terror and he could only anticipate the worst. Help. It was one simple word that could mean something much more complex.
He rounded a corner, not bothering to apologise to an aggravated man he bashed shoulders with on his way. Minho didn’t have the time to care for his manners, for his accidents, for his mistakes. He only had time to care for Taemin.
The basketballer still remembered the way to the younger’s flat as if he'd been only the day prior. The winding streets and secluded alleyways, the broken streetlamps and the unsightly company; they were all statements of how repressive, how impoverished, Seoul’s bleak backbone was. Minho didn’t feel the cold as he ran, nor did he feel the slight mizzle of rain that fell. He felt fear, he felt guilt, he felt regret. What if something had happened? How could he forgive himself for what he'd done?
Minho moved onto a side-alley, ignoring the odd looks he was thrown by those embarking on night-ventures. Thoughts paved a walkway of despair behind his clouded eyes.
Help.
It could mean nothing.
He reached the flat blocks quickly, entering and taking the stairs two at a time. Taemin might not even be at his flat, but Minho didn’t know where else to look. The younger hadn’t exactly provided much of a direction in his message, and so the basketballer had only been able to base his frantic thoughts off of what he knew. He passed merely two drunken men as he climbed the stairs, the block of flats almost eerily quiet. The mould on the walls and the unclean flooring was all a reminder of Taemin’s sheltered life as Minho reached the floor of his flat.
His heart clawed at his chest. He'd left everything at the hotel, and hadn’t even locked the room given he'd been in such a rush. His breathing was heavy and sweat his forehead as he slowed slightly, pacing to Taemin’s flat determinedly. Though an awkward and wasted journey if nothing was wrong, Minho strongly hoped that to be the case. The idea of something having happened the dancer made him feel physically sick, especially as he hadn’t had time to repair the injuries he himself had inflicted on the younger. He inhaled heavily, clenching his fists, warm beneath his large, grey jumper. The closer he came to Taemin’s door, the darker the realisation dawned that there was clearly something wrong.
The door was open very, very slightly, as if someone had tried to close it in a hurry, but their attempts had failed. Light seeped through the slight slit, and Minho swallowed thickly, glancing down the dimly lit corridor behind and in front of himself. There was nobody there. He took a step forward, fingers braced and body so cold he thought no reassurance could quell the flaring upset. The flat was so silent, too silent. He walked closer, throat dry.
Pulse racing, Minho reached out an arm and gently pushed the door open, the slight creaking of the hinges only adding to the nervous embroilment in his gut. Taemin had to be okay. He had to be.
As the door drifted open gently, Minho entered hesitantly. If Taemin was asleep or hadn't heard him open the door, the encounter could become a very stunted one, with Minho struggling to explain what he couldn’t fathom. However, if something was truly wrong, if Taemin truly needed help, Minho could only feel relief at the fact he'd made the journey, and the decision, to enter. He stepped inside the flat, pushing the door shut behind himself.
The breath left him quickly.
For the most part, Taemin’s flat seemed untouched. Two items lay cracked and shattered by the wall on the left-side of the room, a picture frame and a cheap mobile, but Minho could barely register them. There was only one thing he could see, one person.
Taemin lay beside the chipped coffee table, motionless. His skin was so pale, so white, it almost lifted the dreary monotony of the flat. With his eyes closed, he was corpse-like, and his lips were held in place, slightly parted. A cut ridged his lower lip and Minho shuddered. The worst part, however, was what Minho could see revealed from the dancer’s pale pink jumper. The sleeves had rolled upwards with the awkward landing, exposing two arms so spindly they were merely bone. Minho clamped a hand across his mouth, near-disgusted by how unnatural, how horrific, the younger’s once toned body now was. It had been weeks since Minho had seen the dancer, and in that time, he'd changed more than the basketballer thought could be possible.
“T-Taemin?” he whispered, unable to move. The younger didn’t respond. Minho cursed, and in a flash of competence and worry, moved to kneel by the dancer. The basketballer held his ear to the younger’s lips, fear wracking him. He was still breathing. He must have passed out.
Knowing the floor was no place for him, Minho exhaled shakily and scooped Taemin into his arms, convulsing at how light, how bony, the younger was. It was as if he held a child, not a grown man. Minho bit his bottom lip, glancing around. Eventually, he decided to lay Taemin on the sofa, protecting the younger’s head as he placed him there. Taemin didn’t move.
Minho rubbed the bridge of his nose as he crouched by Taemin’s side. This was his fault. This was all his fault. He'd made Taemin feel like , hurt him, when the younger didn’t deserve it. Sure, he was gay, he was sinful, but he wasn’t bad. Taemin’s soul was one of the purest Minho had ever known, and he'd stabbed it, time and time again, with a dagger so sharp even a war-torn soldier couldn’t blunt it.
"Taemin,” Minho tried softly, placing a hand on the younger’s shoulder and shaking him slightly. Taemin’s head lulled to the side, so that if his eyes were opened he would have been gazing directly at Minho. His eyelashes were long as he lay there, still, hands curled atop his chest. “Taemin,” Minho repeated, to no response.
Minho looked away.
Knowing he didn’t have the power to wake Taemin safely, he dug his hand into his pocket for his cell phone. He could ring an ambulance, they could help Taemin, maybe suss out his unhealthy weight as they treated his fall into unconsciousness. Distracted from the motionless man, Minho began to start up his phone, refusing to look at the product of his own judgement.
Just before he could dial, however, a frail hand touched his forehead.
"Minho…” Taemin murmured, eyes flitting open. A sigh of relief emptied Minho’s thoughts as he gazed into Taemin’s bright eyes. The younger seemed drowsy, as if he'd been drugged, as he gripped Minho’s sleeve in his tiny hand.
"Thank God,” Minho mumbled, dropping his phone mindlessly. He wanted to show Taemin he cared, in contravention to the ideas he'd conjured with his last conversation, and so took Taemin’s hand in his own, and clasped it there. Neither man moved, and Taemin wouldn’t break eye contact, too enraptured in staring at Minho. It seemed as if the elder wasn’t there, a saviour too good to be true.
"It's okay,” Minho soothed, attempting a shaky smile to reassure the dancer. “I'm here now. It's okay.”
Gingerly, Taemin began to prop himself up, and Minho became concerned, for he wondered how the exertion wasn’t snapping Taemin’s arms, the younger undernourished as he was. Managing to position himself upright, Taemin blinked his bleary eyes, Minho still crouched. The dancer’s hair fell over his cheekbones, almost hiding the wonder in his gaze as he stared around the flat, a stranger in his home. Minho remained silent, giving the younger an opportunity to regain his senses. He lifted a hand and stared at it, then caught his eyes on the broken picture frame and mobile.
“What happened?” he asked Minho, frail and unable to understand what was going on around him.
Minho stood slowly, under the impression that any swift movements could only work in startling the younger. Gauging Taemin’s expression, Minho couldn’t help but wonder when the dancer had last eaten.
"I was hoping you could tell me,” he answered helplessly, awaiting Taemin’s memories to spark. The younger seemed clueless.
After a prolonged silence, with Minho deciding it was of importance to ensure the dancer’s health, he asked, “Taemin, when did you last eat something?”
Taemin raised his head, and then an eyebrow, and calmly answered, “Earlier.”
"Really?” Minho asked, careful with his tone. He couldn’t be too forceful, too over-bearing, lest he intimidate the dancer. “What did you have?”
"I-“ Taemin’s words became jammed in his throat, as if he couldn’t speak them.
"You have to eat,” Minho instructed, “it's not healthy if you-if you don’t.”
Taemin remained silent as Minho moved to the kitchenette, becoming Taemin’s carer for he couldn’t fight the urge to protect the younger that enveloped him. The dancer his lower lip, and murmured, “I'm not hungry,” but Minho ignored him, instead opting to search the near-empty cupboards.
Taemin was starving himself - that much felt clear to Minho. It was one thing to miss meals by accident, to skip a lunch because you hadn’t the time, but occurrences like that were only once every blue moon. Everybody had the time to eat, including Taemin, he just refused to. Minho had seen this before, had seen such an illness consume people, but he believed that, with gentle encouragement, he could save Taemin from it before he hurt himself in a way he couldn’t relent. Minho scanned the cupboards, pursing his lips. As expected, they didn't hold much, but amidst the tinned fruit and unused spices, a packet of cereal lay, torn open. Minho lifted it out, and moved to the fridge to find some milk. He was in luck.
As he poured Taemin a large bowl of cereal, the dancer struggled to remember what had happened. In his mind's eye, he saw flashes and heard accusations, felt the presence of two men with no right to be there, but he couldn't pin them down, not quite yet. Taemin gripped his sleeves and tried to relax himself. Minho was here now, and not in malevolence, in care. Minho still cared.
“Here,” the basketballer offered, moving so that he could sit beside Taemin. The sofa sank at his strong form and their shoulders touched. Minho was warm. Taemin stiffened.
"Take it, Taemin,” Minho commanded, holding the b bowl of cheap cereal in front of Taemin. His eyes were demanding but Taemin had the will to contradict them.
"I'm not hungry,” Taemin dismissed. The simple sight and smell of the food forced him to feel nauseous. He didn’t need it, he was already sizeable enough. He couldn’t understand why Minho was attempting to fatten him further.
"Taemin,” Minho repeated, words with a quality more terse. His teeth were gritted as he waited for the dancer to accept the food. “Take it. Now.”
Taemin stared at Minho, lip curling out slightly. Minho cared, but he was doing so in the wrong way.
“I told you,” Taemin reiterated, more stern than his confidence would normally allow, “I'm not hungry.”
Minho was beginning to become infuriated. Taemin could tell by the way his shoulders tensed and his neck drooped. He'd known the basketballer long enough to understand the traits of each emotion he boasted.
"Please,” Minho spoke, almost pleaded, as he refused to look at Taemin, “just take it.”
Taemin released a breath. Why did Minho care if he ate? It wasn’t as if it would affect him, wasn’t as if Taemin’s weight should even be his concern. However, the dancer hated disappointing the basketballer, hated the thought more than gaining weight or losing dignity, hated the thought like he hated himself. He wanted to keep Minho on his side, in his favour, and so, tenderly, Taemin accepted the bowl and stared at it.
Minho watched him. Taemin toyed with the spoon slightly, stirring the bowl's contents with little enthusiasm. His eyes seemed unfamiliar with food.
"Try it,” Minho prompted kindly. “It's not as bad as it looks.”
Taemin allowed the cat to catch his tongue before he annoyed Minho further, and instead lifted the spoon, hand quivering as he did so. The cereal held a stale scent, was as uninviting as it was malicious, and Taemin didn’t know if he could stomach it.
Minho nodded encouragingly as Taemin forced down the sour nausea in his throat. It was just one bite. Just one.
Minho nodded encouragingly as Taemin forced down the sour nausea in his throat. It was just one bite. Just one.
He placed the cold spoon between his lips and then began to chew on the cereal. It was cardboard that he swallowed thickly, and, as it began to rot in his stomach, he felt too ill to consume more. He'd succumbed to Minho’s demands so easily, he was so pathetic, the cereal would only add further weight to his already bulging form. Taemin’s face screwed up as his body reacted to having taken food for the first time in what felt like days.
“See,” Minho tried, eyes awash with worry, “not that bad, not that bad.” His hand moved to Taemin’s back, and he gently began to rub it, noticing the abject distress in Taemin’s features. One bite was progress. He couldn’t take things any quicker.
Taemin was strict beneath Minho’s touch, the bowl heavy in his hands. He set it on the coffee table and rubbed his palms on his tracksuit bottoms, Minho watching him with the analytical eye of a surgeon. The basketballer stopped his comforting, and tilted his head at Taemin.
Taemin was strict beneath Minho’s touch, the bowl heavy in his hands. He set it on the coffee table and rubbed his palms on his tracksuit bottoms, Minho watching him with the analytical eye of a surgeon. The basketballer stopped his comforting, and tilted his head at Taemin.
"Taemin, do you remember what happened? Was somebody-was somebody here?”
Taemin narrowed his eyebrows. Yes.
“No,” he lied, “no. I just- I just fainted.”
"Why did you text me, then? How did you know you were about to faint?”
Minho’s question was a sensible one, a smart one, but Taemin brushed it aside quickly, tiredly.
"I felt dizzy,” he croaked, voice drenched in vulnerability. All Minho could do was nod.
"Why didn’t you call an ambulance, then?” Minho pondered. He was so concerned that to Taemin it practically hurt.
"An ambulance for fainting? That’s too much,” Taemin retorted. Minho clenched his jaw, and for a moment Taemin silently regarded him. The basketballer was so handsome, with his curls of tousled brunette hair and his defined cheekbones, and he was selfless, incredibly so. But he was also ignorant, homophobic, misunderstanding… Taemin didn’t know why he still loved him, why he figured he always would.
"You should sleep,” Minho decided, “your mind will be clearer in the morning.”
"If I sleep,” Taemin interjected, “you'll leave me.”
Minho blinked.
"No,” the basketballer murmured, “I'll stay right here.”
Taemin’s heart tremored. If Minho stayed, he'd only be able to view the difficulty the dancer had sleeping, would only be able to confirm the younger's chronic insomnia and irreversible night terrors. Yet, Taemin knew there was one way he could be at peace, could rest without the disturbances that so often plagued him.
"Lean back,” Taemin whispered, cheeks flushing slightly. Minho furrowed his eyebrows, but sank back into the sofa, merely confused over why Taemin had requested what he had. This wasn’t the time to pry, he knew that. Taemin gave Minho one last stare, one that was etched in emotion. Many questions balanced on Minho’s mind, over Taemin’s cut lip, over his unhealthy diet, but he could save those for the morning, when Taemin was more able to put two and two together.
Taemin brought his legs up to the sofa then, curling them beneath himself, and cautiously rested his head atop Minho’s chest. He closed his eyes and exhaled, as if fractured between a dream and a nightmare, hands clutched tightly to his own body. Minho’s heart trembled, and Taemin thought he could hear it, as the basketballer observed the dancer awkwardly, unknowing what to do. Taemin was so frail against him, like the most precious of silks against a backdrop of stone. Minho could only observe him with widened eyes. Though he felt uncomfortable, he couldn’t move Taemin, for the contentment in the younger’s exhalations spoke more than he could if awake.
"Taemin…” Minho attempted, but the younger was silent - asleep or ignorant, Minho couldn’t tell. As Taemin listened to the patter of Minho’s heart, cheek pressed against his warm chest, he struggled to contain the tears behind his closed eyes.
Minho didn’t know where to place his hands as Taemin lay there, soothed by the basketballer’s presence. This was what Taemin had always wanted – this uninfected closeness, this bridged contact – yet it wasn't what he wanted at all. This was staged, this was false, this was confused.
Gaining the confidence to do so, Minho placed one hand on Taemin’s shoulder, and used the other to the younger’s hair softly. He felt Taemin twitch at the touch. Minho understood more than he let on, as he coaxed the dancer further to sleep. Taemin knew Minho didn’t love him, but in that split second, he could have been fooled.
"It isn’t safe here, Taemin,” Minho concluded, as one of Taemin’s hands gripped loosely to the fabric of the basketballer’s jumper.
“I know,” Taemin whispered, a tear falling before he could stop it.
All Minho could do was exhale.
•••
It was a knock on his door around midday that drew Jinki from his painter’s recluse. He had been finishing one of his largest pieces yet – a rather cubic depiction of a guitar with no strings – to submit to a gallery nearby, for commissions weren’t thick or fast enough to substantiate for his mortgage rate and monthly bills, and he was therefore simply inclined to paint oddities in the hope that similar oddities would purchase them. As he'd accidentally wiped a smear of acrylic paint across his flushed cheek, his ears had pricked at the subtle knock, and he could tell who the owner was instantly. The light impact, the quickened series and the patterned pause between each rattle pointed to one person only: Jonghyun.
Sighing, Jinki had removed his apron and abandoned his pallet on the floor. The paints would no doubt dry out, however he didn’t mind, for he had a keen eye for colour anyway, and a plethora of paints to make up for those wasted. Hanging his apron over the chair, Jinki exited the basement determinedly, flicking the light switch as he did so.
Apprehension nestled within him, prodding at each bone as he closed the door. He knew why Jonghyun was here, and it wasn't simply for-
"Lunch!” Jonghyun exclaimed, as soon as Jinki opened the front door. He couldn’t help but smile at the younger, who brandished a brown paper bag and a grin that could hew away any dissonance in the grey Winter weather. His hair was ruffled in the slight wind, cheeks flushed from his journey. The large coat he wore reminded Jinki somewhat of Yoogeun’s, as he allowed the musician to enter. Jonghyun did, wiping his boots on the newly purchased doormat once he'd done so.
“Is there pancakes in that bag?” Jinki joked, as Jonghyun removed his coat, revealing a baggy red sweatshirt that drowned out his slender frame. Jinki took the coat from him and placed it on the kitchen counter, having long since abandoned the need for a coat rack.
"Well, um, no,” Jonghyun faltered, clutching the bag as if a school-child with their lunch, “did you want pancakes?”
"I'm kidding,” Jinki reassured, providing a small laugh to certify the fact, and Jonghyun rolled his eyes, laying the bag atop the counter as Jinki washed his hands.
"It's actually warm in here,” Jonghyun commented, peering around as if someone was lurking in the shadows to provoke such a temperature.
"What can I say,” Jinki murmured, drying his hands with a tea-towel, “I listened to your advice.” Whilst this fact was true, he'd also listened to Yoogeun’s hearty cough earlier that morning, and had figured it best to have a warm house for his son to return to. The heating bill would just have to deal with the additional rampage in its own way.
"It's nice,” Jonghyun smiled, rubbing his own arms with a contented expression. Jinki watched him for a second, before jumping to the conversation they knew would inevitably take place. There was no point in ignoring it.
"So… Kibum knows,” Jinki spoke, leaning against the kitchen units and folding his arms across his chest, not angrily, rather thoughtfully. Jonghyun assumed his usual seat at the breakfast bar and nodded.
"What do we do now?” Jinki asked, glancing at Jonghyun. The musician was leaning on his elbows, hands clasped as he thought. When he figured what he would say, he rested his palms on the surface of the counter.
"We don’t do anything,” he decided, watching Jinki with those wonderfully large eyes of his. “We just continue like we do, Jinki. So they know, so that maybe changes them, but we shouldn't let it change us."
“But it does change us, Jjong’. Kibum is acting oddly, Minho won't even speak to me, and it just makes our entire relationship seem…”
"Wrong?”
Jinki nodded, burying his head in his hands. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, everything surrounding them was making him doubt his bond with the musician. He knew he loved Jonghyun, he knew he wanted to be with Jonghyun, but Jinki didn’t know if he should.
“Jinki,” Jonghyun began, “I'm not going to give up on you because a few others can't handle the truth, can't handle our relationship.”
"I won't give up on you either,” Jinki assured, dropping his hands and composing himself. “But this makes things more complicated for us, and you-you can't deny that.”
Jonghyun chewed on his bottom lip, having long since forgotten their lunch.
"Also,” Jinki croaked, “when I visited Taemin yesterday, something-something strange happened.” By Jinki’s serious tone and over-cast eyes, Jonghyun could tell this was a matter that required his heartbeat to slow and his mind to fray.
"What, Jinki?”
Jinki pursed his lips, as if struggling with an inner turmoil. He didn’t want to raise fear, provoke scandal or gossip, but the matter of what he'd seen had been irritating him the entire night before, and he trusted the musician, trusted him completely.
"Well, when I was there, his… His flat had been trashed, Jonghyun, completely wrecked. I told him to call the police but he refused, and we tidied it together and I left.”
Jonghyun nodded, waiting for Jinki to finish before speaking. Already his spine prickled.
"Because I'm, well, me, I forgot my keys, and went back up to get them. When I went in, his dad was there, and Taemin was lying on the floor with a bust lip and bloodied nose.”
Jonghyun’s eyes widened incredibly.
"His father said he'd fallen,” Jinki continued, “and Taemin, he-he agreed with the story, but… Tell me that doesn't sound like what I think it was.”
"Jinki…” Jonghyun breathed, “you don’t think that-“
"His eyes were terrified, Jjong’. When he looked at me I felt like he was trying to ask me something, for help, maybe, but his words didn’t match, and- what if-“
Jinki brought a hand to his head, worries already beginning to peck away at his remaining sanity.
"You think he's abusing Taemin,” Jonghyun concluded, words scarcely permeating the chilling atmosphere of the room.
"I feel like I know it,” Jinki asserted, peering over at Jonghyun as the younger played with his sleeves. He didn’t know Taemin well, but the concern across his features was more than evident.
"He's a grown man,” Jonghyun mumbled, trying to debate with himself, trying to conjure a list of reasons that spoke against Jinki’s assumptions.
"He's a grown man, and-and his father shouldn’t have control over him anymore, and you know yourself, Jinki, Taemin’s clumsy. I mean, the broken ankle, black eye-“
"Yeah, but, Jonghyun,” Jinki interrupted, skin so cold he felt it was freezing, “if what I saw was really abuse, who’s to say the broken ankle and black eye weren’t also? This could have happened more than-more than once.”
"Jesus Christ,” Jonghyun muttered, the very thought clogging his veins with a worry so candid he couldn’t gouge it out. “Jinki, if this is true, if this is actually happening, Taemin could… He could really get hurt.”
"I know,” Jinki responded, words a whisper.
"Should we call the police?” Jonghyun wondered, lacing his fingers together. “Is this-is this even a police matter?”
"It's domestic violence,” Jinki stated pointedly, “of course it's a police matter, but I might be-I might just be jumping to conclusions. His father, he… He seemed genuine enough, maybe I'm just over-playing things. We can't interfere, Jonghyun, we could make things even worse.”
"Jesus Christ, Jinki,” Jonghyun breathed, still struggling to bring his mind to accept what he'd been told. “Jesus ing Christ.” Jonghyun rarely swore, and so Jinki could only stiffen at the sound.
"It's just an-an assumption,” Jinki spoke, stomach twisting as he relived what he'd seen the day previous. “It could be nothing, but he's-he's become so skinny, Jonghyun, there's not a bit of meat on his bones. I could barely look at him when I visited. Something isn't-something isn’t right there, I can feel it.”
"’Right?’” Jonghyun stole, prompting an elaboration.
"Mentally, Jonghyun. Something is wrong with him mentally.”
"Jinki,” Jonghyun murmured sternly, “just because he's thin and tired or-or whatever, that doesn't mean he's ill in that way. You can't just… Jump to conclusions on him. You barely see him.”
"Jonghyun, you weren’t there,” Jinki shot back, tone slightly tightened, “you didn’t see any of it. I'm not just-just jumping to conclusions based on nothing."
"I didn’t say you were,” Jonghyun tried, attempting to calm his frantic partner, “but we can't pretend to know his life, or take too many steps in when we aren’t invited. You know as well as me that-“
"Then what do you say we do?!” Jinki cast back, Jonghyun jumping at the rage in his lover’s tone. They never argued. Never. “If there is something wrong, we can't just leave him with it and expect time to heal it, that's not how it works.”
"I think we need to try find out more before we get too involved,” Jonghyun retorted, unable to hide the crack in his voice or the red that stained his cheeks. “This isn’t our life, this is Taemin’s, we can't-“
"Can't what? Can't help him? If not, then how useless does that make us?” Jinki spat, the tangent in his mind suddenly gaining flight. It seemed he was expounding every worry, every doubt, and Jonghyun had been caught in the riptide. “He's my friend, Jonghyun, my good friend, how the hell am I meant to leave it be?”
Jonghyun swallowed thickly and didn’t respond, to allow the room to fade to silence. Then, when he was sure Jinki had been given a second to explore his newfound dysphoria, the musician murmured, “Jinki, please, calm. Please. You're-“
"I'm what?!” Jinki interrupted, eyes fierce, the vein in his neck somewhat visible. Jonghyun breathed in and clenched his fists beneath the breakfast bar.
"You're scaring me.”
Jinki stopped, the red in his cheeks folding in. He didn’t think he was being overly aggressive, or argumentative, however the couple had never argued, had never been presented with an issue so serious, and the gravel in Jinki’s throat only added to that fact. Jonghyun didn’t look scared, not physically, but within, he knew every argument snipped another fine thread of their bond, he knew this discovery would weigh them down with lead and rock.
"Jinki, we've got to just… Just take a second, think this through.”
Jinki nodded, already regretful and embarrassed at the tone he'd used with his lover. He'd upset a balance, he knew he had.
"Come here,” Jonghyun beckoned, patting the stool beside himself gently. He was surprisingly still, surprisingly steady, though every part of him wished to crumple.
Jinki obliged, and moved slowly to the stool, movements so slight it was as if he feared shifting the air. As he took the seat beside Jonghyun, the musician stared at the black counter intensely, the scent of the pastries he'd bought too saccharine for the moment.
"Jinki,” he tried soothingly, as Jinki looked at his own lap. Jonghyun reached down and grabbed the artist’s hand, holding it tenderly in his own. His skin was rough, with small splatters of paint across the rugged flesh. Jonghyun began to massage Jinki’s palm, a newfound habit, and kept this motion steady for a moment, calming the artist extensively.
"Sorry,” Jinki mumbled, eyes suddenly heavy. “I'm just… Just worried. I know it might be nothing, but if it's not…”
Jinki trailed off, and stared up at Jonghyun. The younger moved a hand to Jinki’s cheek. The artist was often a strong man, and was always the one to look after Jonghyun, but now he was the one who required the caresses, the assurances. Jonghyun pulled the artist’s head to his chest, and held it there, his hair. It was an odd pose, an awkward one, but it relaxed Jinki, as he trained his breathing and gripped around the hand on Jonghyun’s lap.
“If it's something else, Jinki, then we have to be the strong ones. If. Taemin will need us to be there for him, so that’s what we'll do, we'll be there for him. As much as we can. And if there's something wrong, we'll see it before it hurts him too much, okay?”
"Okay,” Jinki murmured, voice muffled by the fabric of Jonghyun’s sweatshirt. As he sat up, Jonghyun wiped the stray tear from his Jinki’s eye, the artist’s stress so apparent it almost hurt him to see it.
"I have to work,” Jinki sighed, exhausted, and Jonghyun began to wonder how much he'd slept the night before. “I have to work.”
"No,” Jonghyun spoke, reaching out for the brown, paper bag. “No, Jinki, you don’t. Now, we have to eat.”
•••
It was past one, and Taemin still hadn’t woken up.
Minho’s back was numb, and he'd been staring at the same wall for the past three hours, too scared to move the sleeping dancer. He'd lay awake late into the night, terrified witless for the younger who'd breathed so slowly, so contently, in his arms.
Having been unable to fight his own exhaustion, Minho too had drifted asleep, and had risen with the Sun. Taemin hadn’t seemed to move all night, save for his right hand, which had snuck further across Minho’s waist, and now had him almost embraced. To see the younger like this was almost a blessing. Minho was finally protecting him – but it couldn’t last forever.
"Taemin,” Minho whispered, his hand wavering as he brushed a strand of Taemin’s hair behind his ear. The dancer flinched slightly, sunlight gracing across his gaunt features. “Taemin,” Minho repeated again, slightly louder this time, shuffling as he did so. He practically winced as he shifted, squinting as his back clicked. The morning air was refreshing, but there was an odd scent of rotting milk, emanating from the full bowl of cereal in front of them. Taemin mumbled something, half-awake, as Minho attempted to move him.
"Come on,” Minho murmured, coaxing Taemin fully from his sleep. Taemin drowsily backed away from Minho, sitting up on his knees as he rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, shock and confusion flitted across his features.
"Minho?”
His voice was lilted, hoarse, and it stirred Minho as he observed his friend. Taemin looked even smaller in the morning light.
His voice was lilted, hoarse, and it stirred Minho as he observed his friend. Taemin looked even smaller in the morning light.
"Good morning,” Minho nodded, and Taemin parted his lips to speak but nothing came out. Instead, he realised his hand was still resting on Minho’s waist, and both men’s gazes went there, until Taemin retracted, instantly flustered.
Suddenly, the dancer hissed, and clutched his head with his hand. His lip was curled and his eyes squinted, and he shook slightly, but, for the most part, he was unmoving.
"Stay still,” Minho instructed, unfazed for he knew to expect nothing more from the man who'd fainted the night prior. “I'll get you a drink.” Minho stood quickly as Taemin rocked slightly, trying to bite back the splaying light in his mind. As he avoided the coffee table, Minho swerved around the seat, but was halted unduly as he noticed that, at his feet, lay the broken mobile and the smashed picture frame. Minho didn’t know why he stopped and stared, but he did, and when he did, he saw the picture.
It was of him and Taemin.
Minho bit his lip, but ignored it. People had pictures of their friends. It wasn’t out of place.
He got Taemin a drink, and subsequently helped him down the water, hand on his back as he did so. It was like caring for an ill child. There was something about Taemin, his innocence, his vulnerability, that was somewhat childlike.
A while passed with both men simply contemplating their own state, their own silence.
"Where will you go?” Minho asked. Taemin knew what he meant. Though Taemin hadn’t told the basketballer the truth, it didn’t take a detective to solve the mystery, that Taemin hadn’t been alone last night. The traces were left in his flat, across the broken items and the faint scent of cigarette smoke from the walls of one who did not smoke.
"My parents,” Taemin answered quietly. “They're the only people I can go to.”
"You can stay with us-“
"No.” Taemin’s declination was sharp. “Not with-not with Kibum there.”
Minho accepted in silence.
"My parents will take me in,” Taemin shrugged. “They might be glad I'm back for Christmas anyway.” He didn’t look at Minho, and played with the hem of his jumper.
"Minho,” Taemin started, still fiddling with the coarse fabric, “talk to Jinki. He needs you.”
With a nod, Minho cleared his throat. Jinki had even been asking Taemin about his whereabouts.
"And thank you. For everything.”
That was Taemin’s excuse for a goodbye. It was time for Minho to leave. Though the basketballer wanted to stay, though he didn't know if he trusted the dancer to look after himself, he could impose himself no longer; to learn how to live their lives, people had to have some degree of independence. However, that stated, Minho knew he would now begin to frequently visit the dancer, to ensure he was okay. Part of Minho felt relieved that Taemin had opted to stay with his parents. It meant no more unwanted visitors, and that Taemin was undoubtedly surrounded by the care of his family. At least, from Minho’s perspective.
"Be safe, Taemin,” Minho declared. “And-and tell me when you move to live with your parents.”
"I will.”
Taemin didn’t even glance at the basketballer as he departed.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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