Thirteen
The Lifetime Kids“Taemin-ah, catch!”
Taemin twisted around just in time to catch the chequered tea-towel Minho had rather carelessly thrown his way, pinching it between two long, thin fingers like they were clothes-pegs. Though Taemin’s hands were smooth and unblemished, too soft and pale to allow the emergence of a worker’s callouses, he was well used to washing – and, occasionally drying – his hyung’s dirty dishes, such were the unfortunate consequences whenever he lost at rock, paper, scissors. He was never the only one, however, and it seemed his hapless partner was Minho more-often than probability would prophesize. As Taemin waited, a heavy onslaught of rain shattered against the windowpane, strengthening like a poltergeist.
“Y’know,” Minho began, distractedly fumbling in the basin, strong hands slathered in slippery soap-suds, as he scrubbed the stains off of another small glass, “for someone who likes pizza, you sure didn't eat much of it.” He removed the glass from the sink, setting it, dripping wet, in the drainer. Taemin blinked at it, watching the water slide off in heavy droplets, before picking it up and drying it with the soft cloth. He shrugged complacently, reaching behind himself to leave the glass in the open cream cupboard, before mumbling, “I just wasn't hungry.”
“Yeah,” Minho nodded, squinting his eyes at another cup to ensure he'd ridden it of all dirt, “Kibum has that effect.” Taemin laughed slightly, lifting the glass as soon as Minho set it down. Their fingers brushed, but neither man minded. “I just don't understand,” Minho continued conversationally, now finished washing as he tipped the remnants of water from the basin into the sparkling sink, “how we're stuck here – us, as two famous, wealthy idols – doing dishes like-like some uni’ drop-outs.” Smirking, Taemin passed Minho the damp dish-cloth for him to dry his hands, well-used to the rhetoric by now. Minho was only joking, of course; he knew they were no different than any other, they just happened to get recognised more often. In Minho’s eyes, the rift between himself and every other man alive was merely a difference of occupation.
Moving to return to the living room, Taemin was jarred to an awkward stop by a large hand gripping his bicep, and a faint, “Wait.”
Taemin did. Turning when the hand dropped, he faced Minho with a countenance of vigorous curiosity. Beneath the bright, yellow light of the idyllic kitchen, Minho stood as an opposing breach of modernism; his hair was a deep brunette, eyes feverish in their ardour, and he seemed so different from his gentle surroundings, as if a breach of temporal evanescence ready to submerge himself in waters much calmer. He scanned his eyes over Taemin slowly, matching the younger’s intrigue as he stood, clutching his sleeves, an insect under scientist’s microscope. The kitchen was large and winsome, but, somehow, Minho made it feel much, much smaller, and much less quaint.
“We haven't had a chance to really- to, y’know, to talk, since…” Minho trailed off, lips somewhat parted, expecting to upset Taemin by simple recollection. The maknae stood firm, undeterred, and offered a defensive, “What's there to talk about?”
Minho hadn’t expected such brashness – yet, nor had Taemin. A slight blush crept upon his cheeks as he lowered his head, digging his nails into his palms sharply.
“Well, for a start,” Minho began, tone bolder now, finding a wrung of mild aggression, “how you actually are, how you feel, what's going on in your mind – because, really, I've not much of an idea, and that worries me.”
“I'm fine,” Taemin dismissed tiredly, as if a question he'd answered countless times and could recite like a mantra, “and I feel good, and there's not really much going on in my mind, so I-“
“Yeah, wonderful,” Minho interrupted, “only I know that's not true, Taemin, so, please, be honest with me. You used to tell me things all the time.” Minho folded his arms and leant the small of his back against the kitchen counter, eyes drifting to the door behind Taemin to ensure it was firmly shut.
“I didn't tell you things all the time," Taemin shot back, scowling ever-so-slightly, like a petulant child.
“If something was up,” Minho countered, “I was always the one you'd come to, but that doesn't happen anymore, and I just… Wonder what's going on with you, Taemin. I think – hey, why doesn't he tell me things anymore?”
“We're older now, hyung, and there isn't anything to say.” Taemin pursed his lips and cast his eyes to the tiled floor. He felt so meek, so meagre, so small, with Minho analysing him, the rapper akin to a strong, imposing vulture. He perched on his branch with a hooked beak and beady, black eyes.
“Come on, Taem’,” Minho sighed, “you were in a car crash – don't stand there and tell me that’s nothing.”
“Yeah, I was, but- but so was Jonghyun. He was the one in a coma, not me, so why not go ask him how he is. I got out with barely a scar.” A bitterness dripped from Taemin’s tongue like the darkest of cyanide, but Minho refused to let it distil his blood.
“I already have asked him,” Minho muttered, “and he was just as defensive as you.”
“What do you mean?”
"Go ask Taemin how he is," Minho mimicked, gesturing in fragile aggravation, "I was the one who caused the crash, I don't deserve your sympathy."
“He said that?”
“Of course he did, Taem’. This is Jonghyun we're talking about, that idiot takes personal guilt for the malnourishment of children in Africa.” Minho rolled his eyes, sarcasm evident, splitting open his skin only to sew it back again in a misshapen way.
“It wasn’t his fault.”
“I never said it was.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Taemin, I'm not saying he did."
“Why the hell won't he see that?” Taemin’s rhetorical question hung from the ceiling in a noose of anger as he leant forward over the island in the middle of the kitchen, burying his head in his hands and shaking his head forlornly. Silence settled a thick blanket over the room, stifling Taemin’s mind as he tried to conjure thought.
“Taemin, what actually happened?” Minho pressed, as soon as the dancer raised his weary head. “I mean, the crash, how did- how did it happen? How did you get hit by the other driver? Did Jonghyun not look at a crossroads, or-“
Taemin cleared his throat.
“He braked in the middle of one.”
“He what?"
Taemin shook his head, prepared to fight for Jonghyun’s dignity and innocence regardless of what it took. If he didn’t blame the composer, then he was going to make absolutely certain nobody else did, either.
“You wouldn’t understand, hyung – you weren’t there. He just- he had to stop, and we didn’t realise until it was too late.”
“What in God's name makes someone stop in the middle of a goddamn crossroads?" Minho pushed, eyebrows rising incredibly in disbelief. He was forward from the counter now, hands gripping the edges fiercely, so that his knuckles burnt white with the imprints of tiny, seizing lungs. It was all that reminded Taemin how to breathe as he straightened his stance, and took a calm inhalation.
“It was just a stupid mistake, hyung, it doesn't mean any-“
“A mistake?” Minho echoed, pitch tightening slightly as he struggled to keep his voice down. “He almost got you both killed, and, what- because of a mistake?"
“Minho, please don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Minho rallied, brows creasing.
“Don’t get all- all dramatic over this. We're both alive, we're both okay, so-“
“Alive,” Minho nodded, “but that was so, so close to not being the case. Do you have any idea what the rest of us were going through when we saw you two lying on your hospital beds – you a bloody mess and him on death’s doorstep? Hell, we didn't even know if you were going to wake up, Taemin, and why – because of a mistake?"
Taemin swallowed thickly, guilt beginning to salt his lungs and sour his throat. His stomach trudged through a sullen nausea as he tried to rationalise his thoughts, tried to empathise with Minho, but was left with one thing and one thing only: his will to stick by Jonghyun’s side.
“That's all just ifs and maybes," Taemin retaliated strongly. “Look! I'm here, I'm okay, and so is he – so just leave it. It's in the past, Minho. I'm sorry about what happened, but that doesn’t mean we should over-analyse it or-or look at it as anything more than-“
“Yeah, a mistake,” Minho uttered, “I get it. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, that man in there, that thing parading around as Jonghyun – he is not okay.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I mean the fact that he wants to keep those scars – does that seem normal to you, Taemin? Does that seem healthy?”
“They're a part of him now, hyung.”
“And if I broke my arm, it'd be a part of me, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want it fixed.”
“Hyung-“
Minho scowled loudly, and turned away, so that he faced the wall. Taemin heard him expel a deep sigh, his own heart pulsing riptides through his body. Within seconds, the entire mood had shifted from playful ambiguity to a tense, trembling anger, that silently convulsed over the two men like a seething deity. Taemin had seen Minho don rage before, but rarely was it so poignant, so personal. He bit his bottom lip.
“Those scars affect us, Taemin,” Minho attempted, voice quieter, wavering. He didn’t turn around, merely fastened his metallic gaze to the cupboards, tracing out every little mark on the wood.
“What do you mean?” Taemin asked, words lilted now, with an elven purity. It was almost as if the prior argument had never occurred, both partakers reset to their factory defaults.
“I mean,” Minho extended, slowly swivelling around again, expression calmer, “they change things. For him, for us, for our- for our image.”
Taemin tilted his head.
“We're idols, Taemin. What's the most important thing for any idol?”
“Image,” Taemin rhymed back, a student answering a teacher’s question. A dead weight dropped in his stomach.
“Precisely. Image. Beauty, looks, health, happiness – the façade, Taemin, the disguise. It's so important. So incredibly important. The moment the public catch sight of Jonghyun, our image will shatter. Like it or not, Taemin, you have to accept that… With those scars, he isn’t handsome, he isn’t beautiful."
“I really don’t get how-“
“People will ask why he doesn’t want to get rid of them, why he won't get surgery – I mean, it's not like he hasn’t before, right? There will be theories, scandals, and sooner than you can say SHINee, the joyous image we have worked so hard to build up will be thrown into speculation and drama, and we will have the spotlight for all the wrong reasons.”
“You're just making assumptions, hyung. People aren’t like that.”
“Aren't they? People think the worst, Taemin, even if they say the best.”
“We'll get through this, like we have everything else. And- and you're wrong, Minho. He is still beautiful.” The words had left Taemin’s lips before he could stop himself. Minho blinked at him with two wide eyes, brows creasing and lips turning downwards.
“We haven’t long left, Taemin. We need to make every second count. This isn’t making it count.” Minho spoke heavily, voice hoarse, as if dragged through barbed wire and torn to bloodied pieces. The scent of soap inebriated Taemin’s senses as he his lower lip. It was so clean, so clinical.
“Stop talking like that, hyung, we've plenty of time.”
“Jinki is twenty-eight in a few months, and you know as well as me what that means. Sure, after he serves his two years, he'll come back, and I'll serve mine and eventually you'll serve yours and at the end, who knows, maybe we'll reunite – but it won't be the same, it won't ever-“
“Minho, stop it.”
“What? Why? We have to talk about it at some point, what we're going to do when-“
“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
“We're getting closer every day and yet nobody has batted an eyelid. I get that this is just what happens, that we all have to do our time – but our careers are put into question here, our-“ Minho’s voice cracked, “-our family."
“We shouldn’t talk about this now, not without the others, not after-“
“After the mistake?"
“Jesus Christ, Minho, stop calling it that. Just- Just stop it."
Minho folded his arms again and hung his head low, eyes scarpering over the ground as if mapping a visual puzzle.
“I'm sorry, Taemin, I just- I really don’t know what I would’ve done if-“
“I get it,” Taemin mumbled sullenly, “but you can't blame him.”
“Who should I blame, then? You, the tree, God?”
“The driver that hit us,” Taemin answered firmly. His stare didn’t falter as Minho met his eyes.
“I really am thankful you're okay,” Minho mused thoughtfully, gentle and laced in fragility. “I am, Taemin. When you were in hospital, it just- it just made me realise that you are like a little brother to me. A distant one, but still a brother. Don’t forget that.”
“I won't.”
“Good.”
Quiet plucked a spectral viola then, ranging from dissonant to harmonic as Taemin traversed over every thought, every memory, every emotion. He felt he'd travelled a globe of words in under an hour, jumping from continent to continent with the intent of some dastardly explorer. Tiredness started to yaw across his body on a rickety, old ship, and even his determination began to fade under the dying of the lighthouse which had up until recently guided his verbose.
“Now tell me,” Minho murmured, tone decidedly lighter, “how has a handsome guy like you not got a girlfriend yet?”
Taemin laughed.
“Yah! Idiots! How long does it take to wash some dishes?”
Taemin practically leapt from the ground, startled by the familiarly playful voice that interrupted his exchange with Minho. Mildly relieved through the evident shock, Taemin whipped around to smile nervously at Jonghyun, who was peaking by the doorframe with a flawless determination.
Taemin’s grin faltered. Even though he'd just discussed it, he'd still managed to forget about the scars.
“Hey,” Minho objected, switching demeanour so quickly one would assume he'd spent the past few minutes praising Jonghyun instead of blaming him, “it's not our fault Kibum insisted on drinking water instead of beer.”
“So you've been washing five glasses for the past fifteen minutes?” Jonghyun asked dryly, raising an eyebrow. A nervous guilt fluttered broken wings in Taemin’s gut, but Minho merely shrugged.
“Something like that,” he said with a mild-mannered grin. “I better go back in, check Jinki hasn't drank all my water.” Minho rolled his eyes and Jonghyun pushed open the door fully to allow him through to the hallway. Minho thanked him as he would a stranger.
When the rapper was gone, Jonghyun slid inside the kitchen enough to push the door shut, again constricting the thoughts in Taemin’s mind, again jamming his heartbeat, again ensuring they were both alone.
“Is everything… okay?” Jonghyun asked carefully, expression falling into a look of meek concern. Taemin bit his lip. He'd forgotten how perceptive the intelligent composer could be, how in-touch with those around him. At times, it seemed as if he could see the invisible threads that bound everyone together, like a god overseeing some celestial constellation.
“Of course,” Taemin replied, almost too-wholesome. Though he wanted to tell Jonghyun everything, he knew the information would only hurt him more than he deserved. Jonghyun nodded awkwardly.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Are you- will you come back in and join us?”
Outside, the shatter of rain against the windowpane drilled into a sharp cacophony.
“Well, it's hardly like I'm going out there,” Taemin joked. Hesitantly, Jonghyun laughed.
“Well, come on then,” he beckoned, “we've a grumpy leader to annoy.”
Following Jonghyun out through the doorway, Taemin asked, “What have you all done now?”
“You'll see,” Jonghyun teased, a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes.
•••
The Best Things;
The best things in life
Are the hidden ones,
The items in nooks,
The pieces in crannies.
Are the hidden ones,
The items in nooks,
The pieces in crannies.
That’s why I keep it hidden,
A love to burden shadow.
In the nooks and crannies,
It never seizes light.
A love to burden shadow.
In the nooks and crannies,
It never seizes light.
•••
“I still don’t get why they think I'm the one who needs a girlfriend,” Jinki muttered, as soon as Taemin had slammed the car door shut to escape the whiplash of rain that had been stirring violently upon their dash from the front door of Jonghyun’s home. Taemin’s system still dwindled in mild shock at the raucous downpour, heartbeat beginning to patter in-time with the rain given their brief running burst. Jinki started the engine, grumbling like an upset adolescent as he did so, and Taemin smiled tiredly as the car growled to life. Jinki didn’t mean it, not really, and Taemin knew he often enjoyed being the taunted one – so long as it gave them a moment, however fleeting, to just be brothers.
“I mean, I'm the leader,” Jinki continued, pulling out of the driveway whilst Taemin clicked on his belt. “You should all respect me!” Outside, it was a heavy, pitch black, upset only be the panorama of the car’s headlights – a car camouflaged by its deep, black exterior. The lights illuminated the stampeding rain against the windows, stirring even a vehicle so sturdy, and the windscreen wipers played constantly in the background, their scratching cries refusing to relent.
“Yeah… I don’t think that’s been the case for a few years now, hyung.” Taemin’s joke prompted a small chuckle from Jinki as he squinted, focussing all his attentions on the perilous night. It was as if the great jaws of the earth were regurgitating the liquid that condensed to make every cloud, that bundled tightly to form every type of precipitate. Taemin didn’t even realise it was possible for rain to be so heavy, the constant thu-thu-thu-thump not only causing a tremulous racket, but obscuring Jinki’s vision also. Within the protesting car, he felt unsafe, as if the roof could collapse inwards and leave him for drenching at any time – however, beside Jinki, that worry was assuaged somewhat. The singer wouldn't see him exposed to such dangers, and that thought put Taemin at a blissful ease.
“You're right. Only the rookies listen to me now.” Jinki shook his head in mock-sadness, before succumbing to his sleepy imbues and resorting to a limpid silence. Taemin complied, coexisting with the silence and placing his forehead against the window. The glass was so cold.
Outside, the lights passed in muted streaks, a phantasmal conjuring of neon and fluorescence, a great grid from which colour was mindlessly strewn. When they reached the quieter roads and the streetlights disappeared, Taemin found his eyes flickering shut, his breathing slowing to a mere whisper, and his hands curling around the edges of the large, denim jacket he wore – the brown jacket of Jinki’s he'd borrowed. He barely even noticed when the singer switched on the radio, intent to keep himself awake. The presenter’s voice was low and subtle, suited to night-time journeying, and acted as a stimulant for sleep within Taemin.
He was woken up around fifteen minutes later, neck stiff and head throbbing with a distant lust for rest. Taemin blinked, stifled a yawn, and glanced around at Jinki with squinted eyes. The car was halted in a line of impatient traffic, Jinki’s statuesque silhouette grafted out solely by the headlights of the other cars. They were on a motorway.
“Taem’, everywhere’s flooded,” Jinki explained quietly, voice a soothing supplement to calm Taemin’s wonderment. “I can't get you home.” Taemin blinked, mechanics of his mind whirring with jamming cogs. He struggled to grasp what Jinki was telling him, his reserves of energy so decrepit he could barely keep his head from drooping. His stomach rumbled with an empty pang, but Taemin wasn't hungry. Taemin was tired.
“I've a guest room,” Jinki offered, sighing heavily as he gripped the steering wheel, willing the midnight traffic congestion to somehow move, no matter what the direction. Sitting still, sitting motionless, would only serve to lilt him to sleep. “You can stay there – if you don't mind. Too many roads are blocked.”
“Yeah…” Taemin mumbled, head lulling back against the leather seats. “Thanks, hyung.”
“No problem.”
Taemin fell asleep as soon as he caught the reply.
Cars, swerving- and then a figure, so beautiful, so perfect, so wonderful, so divine- destroyed- the face splits, cracks and scars proliferate like microbes, and the beauty fades, and fades, and fades, until- and crashing and pains and the exhaust fumes, a guttural hawk for air that would not come-
“Taemin, wake up.”
Taemin’s eyes shot open as his breathing hitched, on the verge of a nightmare’s crux. Jinki had hauled him from the vision just in time, but to a reality Taemin couldn't quite grasp. His sight was akin to the blurred precedent of a penumbra as he blinked back the sleep, slowly immersing himself in all that was around him – the leather of the seats, the sound of the rain against the window, the scent of his caring hyung. He was in a car, with Jinki, outside of Jinki’s house, because the roads were flooded to . Taemin shook his head rapidly and straightened himself, head bequeathed a distant pang by the remnants of his dream-state.
“You ready to run to the door?” Jinki asked, wearing a playful smile. The car’s own lighting depicted the singer’s handsome features so candidly. “I'll race you.”
Taemin smiled, muscles diminished in energy and body languid right to the marrow in his bones.
“Sure,” he answered, bracing himself for what was about to ensue – the cold bite of the rampant rain. The very thought prickled his spine as he positioned himself, ready to set for a short jog as soon as he pushed the door open. He didn’t indulge in the idea of damp hair and clothes any more than Jinki did.
“Three,” the singer began, hand on the door handle, “two,” he glanced around at Taemin with a warning nod.
“One.”
Jinki bolted from the car, no longer the 'old man' as he slammed the door behind himself, sprinting to the doorway as he fished for the keys in his pocket. Taemin was mere seconds behind, lagged by a tired stupor though still absorbed by the turbulent throttle of the rain as he slipped from the car. It was so heavy, so cold, so consuming, that it almost hurt. The curse he uttered lost in the storm, Taemin wildly ran in the direction he perceived to be the front door, blinder than those caught outside the small halo of the house’s nightlight.
“Open!” Jinki commanded, rattling at the door frame as he slipped the key into the lock. Such was his aggression, the door burst open within mere seconds, and Taemin found himself sprawling into the hallway with a careless abandon. Jinki clattered the door shut against the frame, and then there was an awfully quiet calm. Taemin stood, breathing heavy, in the dark hallway. His hair was damp, legs angry at the wry exertion. There was a shuffling sound, and then a warm light flooded the hallway.
“Well, that was…”
“Bracing?” Taemin offered, as Jinki slid off his jacket and threw it over the back of a modern chair he'd displayed almost as if an ornament by a distressed, wooden table, the paint peeling off like little hooked hands. Taemin mimicked the action, rolling his shoulders, set free when he removed the oppressive material, and slid off his shoes, kicking them in the corner by Jinki’s.
“That's one way to put it,” Jinki answered, wandering by Taemin to peer in the mirror that hung by the same table as the chair. The lighting was low and orange, unsuited for appearance inspection, but Jinki didn’t seem to mind as he glanced in, grimacing at the sight of his work features. “The rain always ages me,” he commented. Taemin couldn't tell whether the remark was light-hearted or not.
“Any girl would be mad not to take advantage,” he joked, cocking his head at Jinki as he turned from the mirror. His hyung was handsome – anyone with the gift of sight could see that – and many girls had indeed tried to win him over, but few, if any, had succeeded, and it made Taemin wonder what was stopping Jinki from accepting their advances; was it work, or was it something else entirely? Taemin bit his bottom lip, thoughtful. Though he'd known Jinki for years, the man was still inevitably, a mystery.
“I don't want any girl to take advantage,” Jinki sighed, leaning his back against the wall. The house was warm, comforting, and held a scent so mellifluous it seemed to lull both inhabitants into a state of untouchable comfort. Neither wanted to move from where they stood, and Taemin figured he could fall asleep on the very spot. “I don't get why the others keep bringing it up.”
“They just want what's best for you,” Taemin shrugged, “and companionship is- it can be nice, y’know?”
“I've all the companionship I need,” Jinki explained.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Jinki nodded, and then he grinned mildly. “I've got you four, remember?”
“Yeah, but- but hyung, that's different. That’s another sort of love.”
“Yeah, not always,” Jinki muttered lowly, so beneath his breath that Taemin almost didn't catch it. However, he was apt and understanding, and picked up on it with instantaneous curiosity.
“What?”
“Ah, nothing,” Jinki dismissed, waving his hand as if noticing his mistake. “Forget I said it.”
“No,” Taemin shook his head, “no, hyung. What do you mean?” Doubts quivered like emaciated corpses in his mind as Taemin tried to rationalise what he'd heard. Had Jinki been talking about himself, or about the other members? Did he know what Taemin felt for Jonghyun? Was it so blatant, so blaring, so obvious? Taemin’s throat dried slightly as he considered, awaiting an answer with stoic intrigue.
“I'm just tired,” Jinki excused, straightening from the wall. “Like I said, Taemin, forget it.” There was a terseness in Jinki’s voice that hadn’t existed before, and Taemin frowned, left on the cusp of curiosity and worry.
“I'll go sort out the guest room,” Jinki offered tiredly, “there's still some boxes that need sorted. Make yourself at home.”
“I can help,” Taemin offered politely, “if you want.”
“It's okay, I’ve got it.”
Jinki began to ascend the grand staircase, movements stiff, like an artist’s doll.
“Are you sure? I mean-“
“I said I've got it," Jinki cut off, a curtness tightening his words. He continued to walk in silence, the stairs thudding with ambient protest. Taemin nodded, and lowered his head, silent. He didn’t know what he'd done to upset the elder, but somehow he had – and given he was the guest of Jinki’s kindness, this massaged guilt across his skin with strong, swift hands.
Unknowing what else to do, Taemin steered himself towards the kitchen, in search of a glass of water. Although Jinki had told him to make himself at home, he still felt increasingly uncomfortable, like a thieving imposter. Upstairs, a menagerie of odd noises emanated from the guest room as Jinki began to reorganise, a haunting echo to accompany Taemin’s quiet footsteps. He ventured to the darkened kitchen. Sullenly, he slipped through the doorway, vision bridged over by black. He patted the wall a few times until he found the switch, the kitchen blossoming like an efflorescent flower with light. Taemin swallowed and glanced around. It was different from how he remembered.
The design was modern and sophisticated, wide and bedecked with just about every piece of equipment one could have to aid their culinary exploration. The sleek counters shone and the walls were minimalistic, bare, but stylishly so. The only breach in the kitchen’s fashionable modernism was the large, costly fridge, that was smothered in thick tidings of pictures, as if a broken photo album. Forgetting his thirst, Taemin carefully tip-toed towards the fridge, careful not to upset the room’s quiet equilibrium. As soon as he reached the plethora of photos, his eyes began to search.
There were pictures of Jinki’s family, those Taemin had met and those he could never place, and pictures of friends the maknae had sought more to avoid than relate to. Taemin eyed them all curiously, introspective, trying to place names to faces, before coming across the pictures that, to him, really mattered. He grinned despite everything, and began to toy his fingers along the edges of the pictures to get a closer look.
The first picture was from the night of their eighth anniversary. Taemin remembered it well, for they'd spent the entire night together, as a group, drinking and discussing the past like elderly war veterans, confined to a claustrophobia-sparking hotel room with untampered minds and restless thoughts. The second was from Kibum’s twenty-first birthday party, where they'd hidden out in the dorms to scare him, resulting in a convoluted hysteria, of youth and of expectation. The apartment had become a mess, and Taemin remembered how Jinki had taken the opportunity to snap a vast cornucopia of pictures, of Kibum covered in silly string and the walls painted in confetti and banners. Kibum had hated the entire affair – but, as ever, had secretly loved it, too.
It was the third picture that caught Taemin’s heart and clenched it completely. In this picture, there were only two men – one already an adult, the other still a hapless, hopeless kid. The older man had his arm slung around the younger’s narrow shoulder protectively, and their faces were sewn brightly with two wide grins. Taemin breathed sharply, memories flooding him with the persistence of a tidal wave. It was of him and Jinki, mere months after their debut. Something stirred in Taemin’s gut, and his heart stammered solemnly.
“It doesn't really match the rest of the room's décor,” spoke a nervous voice, “I know.” Taemin jumped, guilty as he pivoted around from the fridge. Jinki stood in the doorway, angelic even beneath such electric lighting, skin ashen and lips a pale blue. Taemin frowned. The singer almost looked sickly, such was his decorum.
“No, it's- it's nice,” Taemin replied cautiously. “It's good to hold memories like this.”
“Yeah,” Jinki answered. He leant his shoulder against the doorframe, and quietly, profoundly, watched Taemin. The maknae smiled kindly, rubbing the back of his neck with a tender hand. Jinki’s eyes were dark, sealed over, and on his lips it seemed words threatened to fall, but couldn’t gain traction.
“Did you-Did you get the room sorted?” Taemin stuttered, long eyelashes fluttering. A disconnect formed between the two men as Jinki shook his head, evidently attempting to break the haze he'd fallen victim to.
“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded, “of course.”
“I might- go to bed,” Taemin stated, firm despite the hoarseness of his voice.
“I left some pyjamas for you,” Jinki stated, “they're on the bed. They're probably far too big, but at least you'll be comfortable.”
“Thanks,” Taemin nodded, grateful.
“One more thing,” Jinki began slowly, eyes still deeply entranced by the dancer, so much so that a scant nervousness was beginning to expend its energy in Taemin’s stomach. “What happened your phone? After the crash, your old mobile, do you still have it?”
“No, sorry, hyung, it broke- don’t you have my new number?”
“I do, I just- nevermind.”
Taemin blinked.
“How is it you still look so pretty after a storm?” Jinki mused absently. Taemin gripped his own elbows nervously; he knew this Jinki, it was the over-tired, over-expressional Jinki, the one he hadn’t seen since America all those months ago, the one that only emerged in the deep throes of night. It was the Jinki he cherished, yet the Jinki that unnerved him, unpredictable as the erratic pattern of rain.
“Genes?” Taemin offered, joke wry and understated. Jinki chuckled, and flexed his hands, almost as if he was agitated. Taemin frowned, noticing the subtle quirks in his hyung’s behaviour. If something was wrong, he'd hidden it so well that only now was it beginning to burst through the seams.
“Yeah, maybe,” Jinki laughed, and in his eyes was the glint of a drunkard, though he was as sober as the wisest of men. “I'm sorry, I-I'm keeping you from sleeping, aren't I?”
“It's okay, but you really should sleep yourself, hyung. You seem…” Taemin pursed his lips. “You seem tired.”
“I am.” Jinki yawned as if to affirm his point.
“I'll see you in the morning,” Taemin offered, hastening to slip out of the room before Jinki could provide any odder comments.
“Yeah.”
Taemin closed the door behind him, leaving Jinki to his thoughts.
i got a sudden burst of inspiration for this story... i really hope it lasts long enough that i can update Dx
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