Twenty-One
Cherry Blossom // Alt Title: What Comes AroundA/N Hello :3 so, like, I'm just using this brief window of opportunity to talk to you all to be shameless and advertise. I've mentioned my collection of one-shots before, but since then I've entered one into a competition (I actually genuinely have no real idea why, I just thought it'd be a good opportunity for feedback... omg why am I like this haha TvT) and so I'd appreciate any reads on the collection, particularly the most recent one (Pale Synthesizer) because it's a little bit of a mess and it'd be nice to hear what others think of it in a how-to-remedy-the-mess way e.e so yeah... Anyway, to this now, we've actually still got probably over ten chapters left to go... Woah it's convoluted haha. But are you guys up for it? We're getting closer to the end, we are... Ah, it's been a long journey >.< but anyhow! Thank you, as ever, and don't feel obligated to read my oneshots because your reads here are more than enough and... Thank you :3 also, TRIGGER WARNING for the following chapters, there will be heavy references to depression, anorexia, and suicide. Thank you for reading :3
•••
“And this one is Mr. Spida’man,” Yoogeun exclaimed, picking up the doll (that had been consumed in a riptide of crayon scrawls) and waving it in Jonghyun’s face excitedly, hands frantic as he did so. Jonghyun smiled playfully, lifting the toy from Yoogeun and inspecting it with a wry grin.
“Ah…” he trailed, nodding at the doll in greeting. “Hello Mr. Spiderman.”
Jonghyun handed the doll back to Yoogeun, posture mimicking that of the toddler as he sat beside the young boy, playing with the unabridged army of dolls he'd amassed over his few years. They both had their legs straightened out and their backs rigid, leaning over each other to pick toys from the heaped pile. It was almost Christmas, and soon a new wealth of toys would emerge and join the fray, some of which were safely wrapped beneath the lopsided Christmas tree in the living room’s corner. Jonghyun didn’t even want to contemplate the mess he and Jinki would be subjected to on Christmas day, the very thought eliciting a smile across his lips.
“So, how long is it until Santa comes now?” Jonghyun asked, trying to distract his mind from earlier’s events by chatting to the toddler, who was busy furnishing a small house with the clothes of various action figures.
“It is… Tomorrow night!” Yoogeun squealed, tilting his head at Jonghyun and throwing a smile so wide not even the slight rain that pattered on the windowpanes could dampen it. The musician supposed Jinki’s son resembled Minho quite heavily, with the large eyes and tousled hair, the pale skin and soft nose.
“Really?” Jonghyun exclaimed back, opening his mouth in shock. It was rare he got to spend time alone with Jinki’s son – he assumed the artist would find it strange, or uncomfortable, given Jonghyun was of no real relation to the toddler – and so was cherishing his time with the child, hoping to develop a bond between them both that would in-turn strengthen his relationship with Jinki. “What is he bringing this year, eh?”
Yoogeun turned his head back to the toy house, sniffing slightly from the lingering embraces of a slight cold. Though the house was warm, the younger was still bundled in his duffel coat, for Jonghyun had felt too awkward to force him to remove it, and nor did the child feel content to. He puffed out his cheeks as he picked up an action figure with a broken arm and stuffed it into one of the doll-house’s poky rooms.
“Lots of toys,” Yoogeun decided vaguely, grubby fingers fixing the position of the figure. They'd been baking Christmas cookies in nursery that day, and the slight remnants of flour still dusted Yoogeun’s pink cheeks like the sleet dusted the car-bonnets outside.
“What about a new one of those?” Jonghyun questioned, pointing to the doll with the battered limb. “He's broken.”
“Nope,” Yoogeun declined, shaking his head hastily. “I don't like Cap’ain ‘merica.”
Jonghyun smiled.
As they played together, the clock in the corner continued to tick, and the afternoon grew darker and darker as the Winter evening played with the outside conditions. Alone, Jonghyun loved the Christmas months, for with the darkness came a solitude no light could replicate; he could lose track of time and of his senses, succumb to the closest thing to nothingness the world could offer. When there was light, there was too much to do, to see, to discover, and his ubiquitous thoughts would never rest. Jonghyun began to wonder what was taking Jinki so long, if the waiting room in the hospital had been fraught or if his treatment had been heavy, but he knew Jinki would have called if it was worse than either man expected. Jonghyun certainly hoped not.
His mind was cast back to Kibum’s visit as he traded childish humour with Yoogeun. Though speaking as though his mind were tranquil, beneath the surface thoughts cracked his very conscience, about Jinki’s undoubted shame at being with him, even in front of a close friend. Kibum was one of the most supportive people Jonghyun knew. If anyone were to accept their relationship, it would be the dazzling secretary. If Jinki acted so oddly around him, there really was no hope for their relationship in front of others.
Jonghyun shook his head subconsciously. No, these were just doubts, playing out their mantra before the speaker could silence them; Jinki had only been awkward because it was their first display of public affection, and not solely because it was such. Jonghyun knew how much the artist loved him. He did.
Yoogeun began to hum the theme tune to one of his favourite programmes amicably, lost in his own maudlin world with the same childish innocence that afflicted most his age. Jonghyun tipped his head sideways as he looked onwards. He wondered for Yoogeun, wondered for his future, wondered if he knew more about his father's past than Jonghyun did – for Jonghyun supposed he knew little. Jinki was a secretive man, and hadn’t even allowed Jonghyun full admittance to his painter’s haven, never-mind his thick cornucopia of memories. Was it too presumptious to believe Yoogeun knew just as little? Watching the toddler display his happiness, Jonghyun mused over what exactly he felt, and understood. His attitude seemed too wholesome to be tainted with such sadness. As curiosity piqued in the musician’s gut, he couldn’t help but ask the question he knew he should avoid.
“Yoogeun, where is your mother?”
As soon as Jonghyun spoke it, he was swaddled in regret. Yoogeun was nothing but a toddler. Such mention of the past could be a traumatic trigger to a life Jinki was trying to forget, or could provoke the younger into a dangerous swing of moods. It wasn’t moral for Jonghyun to pry into a life that wasn’t his, but the more time he spent with the toddler, the more the musician wished to understand him. If he couldn't find out from Jinki, then he would from the person closest to him.
Yoogeun blinked merrily, smoothing the hair of another doll and not even casting Jonghyun a glance. He seemed unaffected by the question, and such an attitude almost scared Jonghyun before the younger replied with an answer that was as unnerving as it was succinct.
“She wen’ far away.”
Jonghyun gulped fearfully then, realising he was unearthing something deeper than Yoogeun’s understanding. The toddler continued to hum mindlessly, vocals a sweet serenade.
“Where to?” Jonghyun pressed, voice uncharacteristically shaky.
Yoogeun shrugged.
“Some're far. Appa said she won't be back for a long, long time, Jongh’un. It's a long trip home.”
Yoogeun held out the doll he'd been perfecting the appearance of to Jonghyun, but all Jonghyun could do was stare at it with two large, oval eyes. His manner was brittle as Yoogeun shook the doll.
It's a long trip home.
Jinki hadn’t told his son that his mother was dead.
Jonghyun swallowed thickly and accepted the toy with another kind nod. His hands shook. Jonghyun already knew Jinki’s wife had died. He didn’t know how, or why, or when, but Kibum had told him on that very first night at the club about his friend – this artist-type with a penchant for awkward social confrontation – who hadn’t been our for years, not since the death of his wife. It hadn’t taken Jonghyun long to construct the mystery that the artist was Jinki, yet he still felt in the dark, for Jinki hadn’t opened up to him about her, not yet, and Jonghyun hadn’t pushed, for he understood how difficult the passing of someone so dear could be. But now, babysitting the widowed man’s son, new queries spiraled through Jonghyun, mainly over how much of the truth Yoogeun actually understood, and how much was still hidden from him.
“Yeah,” Jonghyun murmured soothingly, “yeah.” After Christmas, he would ask Jinki. He couldn’t cope without knowing much longer, for the curiosity was burying him.
“Hello!” called a vibrant voice from the front door, as it was clicked shut.
Jonghyun turned and smiled, willing to forget the blues that had infected him, for it was Christmas, and he was with Jinki, and he didn’t want anything to ruin that.
•••
Kibum wasn’t sure why he'd bought Yoogeun the present. He supposed it would have caused him less concern if he hadn’t gone out of his way to get it – if he'd stumbled across a cut-price toy in the supermarket, or found one of his own belongings stashed away that would be better cherished by the toddler – but the fact of the matter was that he'd gone shopping with every intention of getting Yoogeun a gift. He'd even deliberated down to the very make of toy, and had opted for the more expensive one at that, and although he'd used the cliché that it was the season to give, Kibum knew this wasn’t what had invigorated him.
He was angered, and annoyed, and jealous in spite of himself, because everyone around him had companionship at Christmas; Jonghyun and Jinki were cuddled beneath the tree, and after indulging in a luxurious feast with his well-meaning family, Minho would no-doubt scamper after Taemin, for it was clear to Kibum that it was the dancer who had the greatest impact in Minho’s life. It wasn’t the secretary. It was never the secretary. Therefore, his day would be a lonesome one, where he drank away his sorrows (for he wouldn’t know what else to do) and would reminisce the good times, times where Minho actually gave a damn, times where they would cuddle beneath the tree together – but only in friendship. It was always just friendship.
So on Christmas Eve, when a visitor had come knocking his way, Kibum had been surprised, for the evening was already dark and most were curled away in the sanctuary of their own homes, chortling at the pointless drabble on the television – mostly repeats from the years gone by – or preparing for the festivities to come. Even though the visitor hadn’t been so inclined, and never would be, Kibum was still surprised to see him, for their last encounter was one that still polluted his thoughts with regret.
“Merry Christmas,” Taemin mumbled, victim to the very coat he wore.
Kibum clutched the door-frame, and Kibum stared, mouth hung open like the entrance to a cavern housing nothing but shadow and fear. His warm body turned cold in an instant, and every worry he'd managed to quell resurfaced until all he could see was the dancer, standing, hands in his pockets and head tilted downwards.
He was a walking corpse.
“M-Minho isn’t in,” Kibum stuttered, finding his words catching in the back of his throat – his dry throat, dry like parchment. He dug his nails into his palms until he winced at the pain there, unknowing how to act in front of the man he'd unduly wronged.
“I know,” Taemin answered, and when he snagged his eyes on Kibum’s, the secretary felt a sour, metallic taste creep up his throat, sliding in hooks to clamber. This wasn’t Taemin. This was a barely recognisable carcass. “Can I come in?”
Though wanting the opposite, Kibum stood aside, allowing the dancer to enter the dimly-lit apartment. The room seemed fragmented, as if one home split in two; half of the living space was cluttered in partially-complete Sudoku puzzle books, and untouched fashion magazines built tiny stacks on the coffee table. The other half, the cleaner half, held nothing but miscellaneous novels and manuals. The wretched stench of alcohol was muffled as if a sock in a boot, but it still forced Taemin to wrinkle his nose, and clench his fists in the pockets of his large, grey coat.
As Kibum clicked the door shut behind him, he watched Taemin his head, like he was a mannequin being automatically controlled, a marionette on taut string. His lips were a thin line and his hair, the blonde dye now fading, an untamed wave that spread to his chin, framing the hollow features perfectly. The eyeliner that dusted his eyes did little to mask the even darker rings beneath them, the purchase of insomnia on the body he held, and his clothes were oversized, curled and baggy, attempting to hide the emaciation beneath.
“Why are you here?” Kibum asked, trying to be authoritative as he pushed himself from the door. Though he didn’t intend it, his hostility was tangible. Turning to face him, Taemin blinked heavily, body stiff. He seemed off on this day – though he reeked of self-pity and misunderstanding, there was a newfound confidence one only had if on the verge of discovery or achievement. His quivering lower lip betrayed such wholesome behavior, however, and the sparkle in his eye lent hand to a precarious doubt.
“Do you remember what kissing me felt like?” Taemin asked steadily. His words wouldn’t betray his demeanor as he looked at Kibum between two troubled eyes.
“Taemin-“ Kibum tried instantly, knowing this was a conversation he never wanted to have, never wanted to acknowledge. He knew he had been wrong, he knew he had been filthy, but he didn’t want to address it, not on such a day.
“No, please,” Taemin continued, words oddly gentle, “tell me, because I-I most certainly don’t remember kissing you, hyung. I don’t remember it one bit.”
Hyung.
“If you came here for an apology, I'm so, so sorry,” Kibum attempted, the guilt already beginning to knot in his stomach as he was given true sight to the state Taemin was in – and it hadn’t been one Minho was exaggerating. “I am, Taemin, and I'd take it back in a heartbeat, but-“
“That doesn't matter,” the dancer dismissed, removing a hand from his pocket and waving it. As he did so, the sleeve of his coat drooped down slightly, exposing the slightest hint of a wrist no more than blue-vein and bone. When he dropped his hand, it went hidden again. “Just answer me, Kibum. Do you remember?”
Slowly, Kibum shook his head.
“No,” he answered truthfully, “I don’t.”
Taemin nodded, sniffing slightly, and rubbed an eye with the back of his hand.
“After,” he mumbled, words tremoring, quiet, “do you remember ing me against that door?” He pointed to the bedroom, and Kibum could see the way his body flinched at the words, the association a burden still.
“Why are you asking me this?” Kibum pleaded, desperation coating an often casual voice. “I told you, Taemin, I'm sorry. I really, really am.”
“Because I want to know how you felt,” Taemin answered, tone wavering dangerously now, “when you me, Kibum.”
The stone dropped in Kibum’s heart and the word almost made him feel nauseous, scratching goose-bumps into his neck before he dealt warmth to soothe them. . The word was so vulgar, so villainous, so wrong.
“I didn’t you,” Kibum defended steadily. “We had , Taemin, but I did not you.”
“I told you to stop,” Taemin argued, and suddenly the mood heightened into one of fear on the dancer’s behalf, as he recalled all he felt during that drunken mistake. “I told you to stop, Kibum, but you kept going.”
“Oh, don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” Kibum spat back, cynicism beginning to coax his form. He didn’t care how weak Taemin was, didn’t care how frail, for the dancer was wrong. He'd wanted Kibum’s body just as much as Kibum had wanted his.
“No,” Taemin dismissed quickly, frantically shaking his head now as his pitch heightened. “No, Kibum, my body wanted more, but I didn’t.”
“Synonymous bull,” Kibum hissed, gripping the sleeves of his jumper. “Don't play the victim on me this time, Taemin. Everything that happened to you, you let. You wanted. You were just as shameless as I was.”
“You hurt me, Kibum,” Taemin accused, “and not just physically. You treated me like-like all I am is some-some device for , for you to get your kicks and then discard.”
“I was drunk,” Kibum excused, “I was out of my mind.”
“You're always drunk,” Taemin threw back, “you're always out of your mind.”
Kibum was silenced then, for he knew the dancer made a strong argument.
“Look,” Taemin began, gathering his breathing under control. Kibum thought he noticed the younger waver slightly, as if dizzy, but he supposed his eyes were playing tricks. “I'm not here to-to accuse you, or make you feel like .”
“Then why are you here?” Kibum retorted, eyes ablaze. He wasn’t a . He couldn’t be.
“Because I don’t want you making the same mistakes again,” Taemin patronised, expression so sullen he may well have been watching a funeral procession. “I don’t want you to hurt someone else, Kibum. I don't want you to get in trouble. You have to stop this. You have to.”
Kibum practically smirked as his face contorted into a snarl of disbelief.
“You don’t know me, Taemin,” he retaliated, “I would never, ever, hurt anybody, not if I could help it. Don’t you dare speak to me like that. Don't you dare.”
“You hurt me,” Taemin replied quietly, unfazed by Kibum’s rush of temper. “You hurt me, because you-“
Taemin stopped and frowned, sniffing again. Kibum opened his mouth, about to speak, before Taemin pressed his fingertips beneath his nose and retracted them slowly. They glistened red, wet with blood.
“Oh,” was all the dancer could say.
Kibum watched on, horrified, as a trail of crimson began to leak from the younger’s nose, falling across those thin lips as he attempted to wipe it away.
“What the hell, Taemin?” Kibum fretted instantly. Forgetting everything – the argument, the tension, the pent-up rage and distant lack of understanding – Kibum ran to Taemin’s side and guided him to one of the kitchen chairs, before offering a hawked, “Wait there,” and disappearing to find tissues. By the time he returned, Taemin’s slender hand was slathered in the foul liquid, and he took the tissues hastily, pressing them to his nose before any more blood could drip upon his cheap clothes. Taemin’s eyelids fluttered momentarily, and he wobbled on the seat again, barely managing to remain upright. He removed the first tissue from his nose, but still the blood streamed.
“I'm calling the ambulance,” Kibum muttered, digging into his pocket for his mobile. Taemin's health was more important than their fractured relationship, and Kibum already figured he understood the cause of the tumultuous nosebleed.
“No,” Taemin dismissed, batting Kibum’s hand with his free one as the secretary unveiled his chic mobile. “Don’t.”
“You can't stop me,” Kibum decided, heart enthralled with a tremendous pressure as he attempted to boot the phone into action. Taemin was sick, incredibly so – and not just in the physical sense.
“Please, Kibum,” Taemin begged, reaching for another tissue. Kibum wondered how it was even possible for the dancer’s nose to bleed just so violently, at nothing but a thought. It unnerved him, saddened him, scared him. He doubted Minho knew of such afflictions.
“Taemin,” Kibum lectured, eyes widened as he stared at the younger, “you're sick. Sick people go to hospitals.”
“I'm not sick,” Taemin denied, shaking his head. Another tissue.
“Yes, you are!” Kibum exclaimed. “Look at you, Taemin! You can barely stand.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” Taemin offered as a primitive explanation. His eyes were wet as he searched Kibum.
“I bet you didn’t,” Kibum nodded, beginning to dial the number for the emergency services. Before he could press the final key, however, a force of limited strength was wrenching the phone from his hands, and before Kibum could protest, it was thrown across the room, sliding beneath the sofa – broken or not, Kibum was unaware. At the movement, however, Taemin had over-reached, and had in-turn fallen, and now lay in crawling position at Kibum’s feet, spluttering violently. The tissues had fallen and blood dripped from the Taemin’s nose to the carpet, as his body shuddered, coughs the wheezes of a dying animal.
“Jesus Christ, Taemin,” Kibum managed, ignoring the state of his mobile as he bent down to help Taemin to his feet. He did so gingerly, the younger using his arm to prop himself up. Kibum felt as if he was lifting matchsticks. When Taemin stood again to face him, the bleeding had stopped, and now all that stained his upper lip was a smear of crimson. He rubbed it away, and Kibum could merely watch, entire body wanting to contract. Taemin’s nails were yellowed, like those of a smoker.
“Taemin,” Kibum spoke sheepishly, well-aware he was the worst person for this situation. Taemin didn’t need him, Taemin needed Jinki, or Minho – a friend he could trust.
“I-I have to go,” Taemin spoke abruptly, his recent fire all-but flickering out. The embers charred frantically on the surface as he brushed past Kibum.
The secretary wanted to cry out, wanted to protest, wanted to apologise and grovel and make the dancer see the truth, but he had no say. By the time he called the ambulance, Taemin would be gone. Kibum didn't even know where the dancer's parents lived to find him again.
“Taemin, you're killing yourself,” Kibum breathed, the corners of his eyes pricking.
Taemin left in silence.
•••
“So tomorrow,” Jinki mumbled, leaning against the door-frame as Jonghyun assumed the doorstep, ready to venture home in the cold, Winter night. Jinki had already offered a lift – as usual – but the walk wasn’t that long, provided Jonghyun put an added spring in his step, and Yoogeun was already asleep, and on a night as exciting as Christmas Eve, Jonghyun didn’t want to wake him. “What time do you want to come at? You and- you and Roo, I mean.”
Jonghyun laughed slightly, cocking his head in contemplation. Beneath the glow of the white door-light, he seemed an alien beamed down from space – a vulnerable alien, with a woolly hat and a heavy coat. His comfort was so constant he barely even felt the chilling breeze.
“Whenever suits,” Jonghyun shrugged, not wanting to be intrusive. He'd already managed to place the qualms of yesterday at the back of his mind, to be addressed at the end of the Christmas season, for he believed they all deserved to have a peaceful holiday, a content one, and he wasn’t about to let the discrepancies he'd unraveled ruin that. After Christmas, they would talk. Not now. Not on Christmas Eve.
“Is nine too early?” Jinki pondered. “I know how much you require your beauty sleep, after all.” A playful smirk tugged on his lips, and if Jonghyun hadn't known him so well, he would have blushed, for it made the artist seem so confidently handsome.
“Aish,” the musician replied, swatting at Jinki’s arm. “So long as Roo is awake, nine is fine, but- why so early, you aren’t trying to rope me into making the Christmas dinner, are you?” Jonghyun raised an eyebrow skeptically and Jinki shrugged a shoulder, pursing his lips.
“No,” he decided, “I'm roping you in to tidy the incredible mess Yoogeun’s going to make.”
“Charming,” Jonghyun sighed, “that’s just… Charming.”
“Hey,” Jinki murmured quietly, glancing into the house behind him – Jonghyun as unsure why, for Yoogeun was already safely tucked in bed – and then back at Jonghyun. “I had a thought, but… Maybe it's too late, now.”
“What is it?”
“Who do you think Taemin is spending Christmas with?” Jinki’s question was subtly poignant as he rested further against the door-frame, lips parted in contemplation.
“I-I don’t know,” Jonghyun answered helplessly. “Why?”
“It's just- I've let him be, mostly, Jjong’, because his parents are out and so if… If anything was happening, at least for now it would be over. But the thought of him spending Christmas alone… It just doesn’t sit right. Should we, I don’t know, ask him around for dinner, or something?”
Jonghyun frowned, and buried his hands into his pockets.
“Wouldn’t that make it all a bit odder, though?” Jonghyun asked, always the devil’s advocate. “I mean, for a start, does Taemin even know about, well, us? And wouldn’t it make him feel worse about himself because… because, even if it isn’t, it would look like a pity gesture, Jinki. You know that. Plus, Yoogeun barely knows him, and strangers don’t sit well with kids at Christmas.”
Jinki nodded solemnly, accepting everything Jonghyun was saying. The musician made points too strong to ignore.
“Yeah, yeah, you're right,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “It was just a thought.”
“A nice thought, though,” Jonghyun assured, “just not a conventional one.” He smiled sadly at Jinki. “Well, I better go,” Jonghyun continued, “Roo’s probably hungry.”
“Yeah, goodnight, Jjong’,” Jinki wished sincerely, leaning in and planting a soft kiss on his lover’s lips. When they parted, Jonghyun was smiling.
“Goodnight, Santa,” he teased, and Jinki laughed, watching his boyfriend step away from the stairs. He gave Jinki one final wave before the artist closed the door, ready to sculpt the beginnings of the perfect Christmas Day.
•••
Taemin walked through the empty corridors. Dim lights were on, representing the fact that the dance company was merely half-open, for janitors to give one final polish before settling in to their lonely Christmas. Taemin had been allowed in, for it seemed everyone recognised the fragile dancer.
He moved slowly, carefully, as if one misplaced foot could set-off an alarm. It was quiet, eerily so, the only noise being the muted echo of his own footsteps.
He moved slowly, carefully, as if one misplaced foot could set-off an alarm. It was quiet, eerily so, the only noise being the muted echo of his own footsteps.
Taemin wasn’t scared, wasn’t sad, wasn't confused – he was empty. Questions lingered on his mind about where he was going, the inevitable end-point of his destination, but these were all second-place to the overwhelming sense that when it was over, when it was finished, he could have peace. An utter bliss, reserved only for himself. Taemin wondered what had taken him so long to think of such a plan.
The dancer had things to do first, however, which was his sole reason for being at the dance company.
As shadows veered in the corners of each corridor-intersection, Taemin crinkled his nose at the scent of bleach, of cleanliness. Stringent protocols were undertaken in the building every day, the same cleaning session, almost as if the next day’s visitors would be royalty. It was cold also, harsh, as if the weather one faced on a still Autumn day. Shivering beneath his large grey coat, Taemin continued walking, determined, until he heard a voice from behind him.
“Taemin? Taemin, is that you?”
Pausing and turning, Taemin knew the voice belonged to one he recognised, and one he didn’t want to see; he figured there was no need to show the same respect he had often done-so towards the man anymore, and so the dancer didn’t bow his head as he faced the instructor a few metres away from him – an instructor that seemed to have the penchant for appearing like a spectre from his office every time Taemin passed.
Sangil blinked at Taemin and Taemin blinked at Sangil, and as both men wondered the same question, other thoughts dug deeply into their conscience. That evening, Sangil was handsome, not dressed in his dance-clothes, rather in faded denim jeans and a large, maroon jumper – his style somewhat similar to Minho’s. It was the first time Taemin had seen him in such a way. The only surprise Sangil emanated had flickered across his eyes, for his face remained still and his posture remained relaxed, curiosity pecking at the order of his personality. He hadn’t expected to see the young dancer, and certainly hadn’t expected to see him like this. Sangil gave the younger a once-over that lacked the subtlety it was derived from, clocking how large the younger’s coat was against his narrow frame, how gaunt and tired the features of his pale face were. Taemin nodded, awaiting the inevitable question.
“What are you doing here?”
The young dancer shrugged a shoulder, hands stuffed into the pocket of his coat. It was late, he supposed – past nine – and everyone else seemed to be at home, with families, creating memories to be forgotten. It wasn’t expected to see a dancer so late at the birthplace of their daily torment – but nor was it expected to see an instructor.
“What are you?” Taemin asked back, and if Sangil was shocked by Taemin’s confident tone, he didn’t show it. He simply blinked at the dancer, then dragged a hand through his own hair casually, growing increasingly out-of-place.
“I've work,” Sangil explained in that deep voice of his, “stuff I have to clear up. Shouldn’t you be at home right now, don’t you have a family or a girlfriend to entertain?” Sangil was oddly playful, a complete juxtaposition to the man's normally-strict attitude. Taemin supposed it was the out-of-hours coincidence that had ploughed laughter into his actions.
“No family,” Taemin murmured blankly, “no girlfriend,” and this bleak outlook seemed to darken the spectrum of Sangil’s mood. His lips curled downwards slightly as his eyelids flickered, trying to fully comprehend the skinny, skinny man before him. It'd been several weeks since he'd seen Taemin, but the stark change in appearance made it seem like several months.
“You never explained to me why you're here,” Sangil pondered, taking a step closer to Taemin, “trainees shouldn’t really be here past practice time, after all.”
“I left something in my locker,” Taemin admitted coolly, talking to Sangil as if a man of his own age, of his own status. The instructor didn’t seem to mind, however, his affinity towards Taemin growing ever-the-more obvious as he nodded.
“Of course,” he accepted, “of course.” For a moment, there was silence between the two men as they stood opposite each other – Taemin exploring the skirting board and Sangil the young dancer before him. The windows lent their hand to the last breath of moonlight outside, and the corridor was so, so still, as if not even a thunderstorm could break it.
“Taemin,” Sangil started cautiously, expression nervous as he inhaled, “this-this might be a bit forward, and it's wrong of me to say given our-our current relationship, but you're a… You're a very beautiful man.”
Taemin blinked, instantly feeling his cheeks redden. Sangil was a dance instructor and Taemin was a student, and there could be nothing more between them than that, and Sangil didn't feel anything more than that – did he?
“I-I'm sorry, Sir?” Taemin prompted, removing his hands from his pockets and gripping his own elbows, suddenly feeling quite threatened, quite worried. If Sangil wanted anything, he was far too late to try stake claim.
“Hah, I'm sorry,” Sangil choked, flustered, “that was wrong of me. I'm sorry. Look, just-I'll see you after Christmas.” He smiled, and sensing he was about to depart in an air of regret, Taemin shook his head.
“No,” he replied, “no, Sir. It wasn’t wrong.”
Sangil paused, browsing the implications of Taemin’s statement. The hush was incredible as he contemplated.
“Look,” he finally managed, rubbing an eye with the back of his palm, “I-I'm lonely, Taemin. I'm here on Christmas Eve busting my off at pointless work because I've nothing else to do. And I don’t mean to accuse or to assume, but you're here because… because you're lonely too.”
Taemin frowned at the speech, stomach twisting as he caught each word.
“What I'm trying to say is… Taemin, you're young, and you're beautiful, and I'm old, and I'm past-it. I'm a dance instructor and you're a student and everything about it would be wrong, but…” He tilted his head, and closed his eyes, prepared to unashamedly state the truth. “But, Taemin, if you want company tonight, you can find it in me.”
“You aren’t old,” Taemin responded simply. Sangil opened his eyes widely and peered nervously at the younger, his desperation almost translucent. He wouldn’t have asked anyone, however. Taemin knew that. “You aren’t old, Sangil. But I can't sleep with you, not tonight.”
Taemin’s delivery was blemish-free, blatant, a lot more jagged than how the instructor had dressed it. The idea of ing Sangil was an odd one. On one hand, Taemin figured it would be good respite from the emotions that clogged his very arteries, and the feeling he supposed would be unmatchable. However, memories still hissed at Taemin of a pain borne of mindless , and he knew the complications such a hook-up would bring, and they'd drown out any pleasure found in the constellation of bodies.
Sangil nodded in anticipated defeat, slipping his hands into his pockets. Forever, the relationship between him and the dancer would be embittered, but for some reason, he didn’t mind. Taemin understood, and Sangil knew he had to try, for the idea of spending Christmas Eve cradling the young dancer was a lot merrier than the idea of spending it cold and alone.
“I'll see you after Christmas, Taemin,” Sangil spoke, knowing when to stop his attempts. When Taemin didn’t respond, he nodded and left the dancer in the corridor, to bask over their conversation.
When he was gone, Taemin continued to walk. As he moved, his mind danced, as he used to. Memories proliferated the screen of his vision - of his childhood, of Minho, of his love that would never be reciprocated - and, for the first time in days, he genuinely smiled. He'd leave what he needed to in the locker, and he'd leave the keys. It wouldn't matter who found them, he supposed, just that they did. And when he was finished, when he was done, Taemin could be content, because, at last, it would all be over, and the hells of his life would be nothing but a distant memory.
hey guys... Just wanted you to know that hopefully I'll be able to update tomorrow
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