Seventeen
The Lifetime KidsA/N not to be all... Emotional, but my friends inspired me to continue, to fight through with this. Thank you <3
•••
The moonlight was a phantom.
Taemin watched its spectral body, tracing out the flickering limbs and the pithy way in which it emboldened just to dissipate, as a slight draught came from somewhere, somehow, chilling the room to a quiet pulse. He wasn’t cold, however. Taemin was numb.
Slowly, he tilted his head, breathing as subtly as he dared. He didn’t want to move, to upset the still, and so sat with one knee up, hugging it against his chest, on the rigid kitchen seat that seemed to creak whenever he shifted. Coating the room, the darkness left him a solivagant, a lone wanderer trapped in cosmological discourse. Yet again, Taemin didn’t care. Though he felt it, that night, he most certainly was not alone.
In front of him, Jonghyun slept, curled against the leather sofa with an expression of such unwavering calm that Taemin almost never wanted him to wake. He was illuminated by the ghostly fingers of moonlight, the sharp contours of his cheek blessed by defining shadow, the long lashes of his eyes spidery italics. His scent seemed exaggerated, the soft coconut of his shampoo and the comforting familiarity of his cologne, and he occasionally murmured something indecipherable, barely a breath between his soft lips. Taemin observed him gently, eyes never breaking wave. It was rare he could see the elder this way – so peaceful, so content. He felt he hadn’t seen it in months.
Rubbing an eye with his sleeve, Taemin recalled their earlier encounter yet again, adding to the plethora of times he already had. He still felt Jonghyun, their bodies pressed together, his fingers crossing through the composer’s hair like twine to bind them closer. Each memory sent another shiver through his body, palpitating his heart, insouciant as it explored him. It had been so little, yet so much – and Jonghyun had trusted him, trusted him with harrowing thoughts. Taemin wished he could return the favour.
Gingerly, Taemin’s weary sight drifted to Jonghyun’s small hand, that was coiled limply, just by the edge of the sofa. In the moonlight, the small, ridged burns appeared but speckled little flecks, harmless and decorative, mocking his skin. He wondered if the composer could still do what he could before – could he play piano as seamlessly, pluck guitar strings with ease, pen ideas as soon as they tipped on his mind? Taemin chewed his bottom lip, tentative. He couldn’t disturb Jonghyun, but the composer had always been a heavy sleeper.
The maknae reached across silently and pressed a finger against Jonghyun’s hand, testing his boundaries. The composer didn’t stir. The hand was cold, rough, calloused, and made Taemin flinch, as he placed against it another finger, and then another, until it seemed his very hand was clasped in Jonghyun’s. A surge of blood scrabbled through him as he stared at the two hands – touching, though not together. Jonghyun shifted slightly, murmuring, and Taemin whipped his hand away instantly, fear extrapolating across him.
The singer didn’t wake.
Expelling a trembling exhalation, Taemin clasped his hand in his own, still cold from Jonghyun’s touch. They had been a corpse’s hands, not a man’s, but Jonghyun wasn’t dead. Jonghyun was just sleeping.
Gaining confidence as the sleeper’s lowly breathing continued to wrap around the room, Taemin lowered his own leg from his chest and leant forward, curiosity enveloping him, holding on like a cargo-net. The further the distance decreased, the quicker his heart stammered, lending hand to a light-headedness that served to confuse his thoughts. The curvature of Jonghyun’s face, the tangled ruffles of his hazel hair, the crooked nose and lidded eyes – even with the scars, Jonghyun was a paragon of beauty. Something thudded in Taemin’s chest beside his heart, a nervous love, a hesitant affection. It began to thump against his ribcage like a prisoner wanting unleashed.
Knowing he shouldn't but feeling he should, Taemin fondly reached out a quivering hand, and began to play with the feathery strands of Jonghyun’s hair. They were so silky, so soft, and as Jonghyun remained unknowing, Taemin lightly dropped a finger to Jonghyun’s face, and traced across his skin, careful to avoid the scars lest he hurt the tired singer. Jonghyun refused to stir. Before Taemin could touch his lips, he dragged his hand away. He wished he could explore Jonghyun completely, as a lover with his permission, as a man he too wanted to explore. But Jonghyun didn’t love Taemin – at least, not as anything more than a brother.
Depression beset Taemin’s countenance as he slumped back in the chair, dejected, heart slowing, cheeks reverting to their sallow normalcy. It was painful, so painful, verging on torturous. He would give anything to be with Jonghyun, would have died in that crash if it had meant his spectre could be loved by the composer. Anything just wasn’t enough, and all Taemin had was too little. He couldn’t shape Jonghyun’s interests just as he couldn’t protect the singer from the wrath of their manager.
Taemin was useless.
Loudly, he sighed, the bridge of his neck exposed as he stared at the ceiling. When his phone buzzed, it took all he had to answer the caller.
“Taemin?”
“Yeah – Jinki, is that you?”
“Yeah, why are you whispering?”
“Sorry, two seconds, I-“
“Are you still there? Taemin?”
“Yeah, just moving rooms. Someone was sleeping, hyung.”
“’Someone?’”
“Why are you calling? What time is it?”
“Late, I know, but- Taemin, listen, something bad has happened.”
“Have you locked yourself out again?”
“What? No, Taemin, look- I'm serious, okay?"
“Okay, okay, sorry, I’m just… I'm tired. What's happened, hyung?”
“Minho’s mother called.”
“His mum? What? Why?”
“He didn’t come home.”
“So? He's a grown man. He has his own place, anyway.”
“Except, Taemin, he was meant to stay with her tonight – it's her birthday or something, the family were getting together, I don’t know the details. Either way, she already checked his home. He isn’t there. I was about to go check the dorms, see if-“
“He's not at the dorms.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m at the dorms.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Dammit. I tried calling Jonghyun and Kibum, but they're both probably asleep by this stage, neither picked up.”
“It's late, hyung.”
“Which is why I’m worried. Where could he be? It's not like him to- to miss family occasions, you know how much his family mean to him. And he's not at his home, he's not at the dorms, he's not at the company building, and his schedule says he's free- I don’t get it, Taemin.”
“I'm guessing you’ve tried calling him.”
“I've lost count of the amount of messages I've sent. I don’t want to seem like- like I’m over-reacting, or parenting, but this is-“
“Odd?”
“Yeah. I'm worried, Taemin.”
“Calm down, Jinki. There's probably a simple explanation for this. Maybe he just- maybe he forgot, and maybe he's staying with a friend. Don't jump to whatever conclusions you might be jumping to, not yet.”
“Yeah, you're right. That bastard better not have done something stupid.”
“It's Minho, what would he do?”
“I don’t know, Taemin, and that's what worries me.”
“Okay, look- it's late, Jinki. It's so, so late. We won't have a chance of finding him now. Why don’t we- why don’t we give it until the morning, and if he still hasn't appeared, we’ll… We'll figure something out.”
“You sound exhausted. I hope you're taking care of yourself.”
“I'm fine. Besides, you don’t sound too vibrant either, hyung.”
“Yeah.”
“I'll visit you tomorrow morning if you've still heard nothing. We can- we can see what to do, then.”
“Kibum and Jonghyun, they should know, too. We can meet up, I guess, see if anyone has heard anything. The most important thing is-“
“Not to worry?”
“-is that Minho is okay.”
“I've got to go, hyung.”
“Call me in the morning, or text me if you hear anything.”
“Of course.”
“Goodnight, Taemin.”
“Goodnight.”
As soon as he hung up, an apoplectic fear began to rewire Taemin’s gut. Light slipped in from the living area, showering the shadowed bedroom in an eerie dimness. Taemin tilted his head to glance at the figure wavering in the doorway, clutching the frame, a wiry silhouette.
“Who was that?” Jonghyun asked fearfully, voice a muted tremble.
“Jinki,” Taemin confessed, sliding from the bed. “Minho’s missing.”
•••
The Missing;
Can't you see me,
Find me,
Hear me,
I-
Find me,
Hear me,
I-
Screamed
Down a glass alley.
Don’t call me
The missing.
Down a glass alley.
Don’t call me
The missing.
•••
“And nobody’s seen him since yesterday’s practice?”
The shaking of heads was unanimous.
As they sat around the table in Jinki’s homely kitchen, occasionally Taemin’s eyes would flicker with a heavy tiredness. Kibum’s eyes often caught on the maknae’s to swiftly be torn away, his expression paler than the morning light that left its convoluted incantations across the tiled floor.
“There's probably a reasonable, simple explanation,” Jonghyun sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. His voice was drenched in a languidness so poignant that Taemin believed he could sleep a thousand years and still not be fully awake.
“Probably found some girl or something,” Kibum muttered, “I mean, he is allowed some fun sometimes, guys.”
“Yeah, but it isn't like Minho to stand up his mother like that,” Jonghyun countered, exasperated. “And it's – what, almost one? And he still isn’t back home. He isn’t home, hasn’t answered our texts, hasn’t-“
“Okay, Jonghyun,” Jinki quietened, noticing the way Kibum’s jaw locked at the contradiction to his point. “We get it.”
Jonghyun lowered his head, fascinated by the coffee pot at the centre of the round table, a bright, red mockery to the ashen faces of those around it, almost as if an observer to a séance. Every time Kibum glanced at the composer, something brunt seethed in his eyes. It made Taemin uncomfortable, defensive, protective. He curled his hand into a fist, shooting Kibum an unseen glare. As Jinki fidgeted with the duck-egg blue table-cloth, he kept his brows furrowed.
“Let's get this straight,” Jinki mumbled, in an attempt to take control. “The last person to see Minho was – who, Jonghyun?”
Jonghyun nodded. They'd already established this fact, as Jonghyun had been the one to wave him away from the practice, accompanying him to his very car.
“Okay,” Jinki nodded determinedly, “and what was the last thing he said to you?”
“We've been through this already…” Kibum grumbled. He was ignored.
“Just to tell him if I heard from Kibum,” Jonghyun answered, throwing the rapper a pointed stare. “And to have a nice evening. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“He didn’t say where he was going?”
“Well, I assumed he was going home.”
“Damned bastard probably went running and broke his ankle,” Kibum hissed begrudgingly.
“That’s not helpful, Kibum,” Jonghyun half-scolded. Kibum slumped back in his chair, wrapping his arms around himself like an insolent child. Unlike the others, who were perfectly warm in the clean kitchen, Kibum hadn’t removed his thick winter coat.
“Can you two stop bickering for three goddamn seconds?” Jinki asked, exasperated. “If this is how you show your concern, then…” He trailed off and briefly held his head in his hands. On his left side, Taemin could just see the lips of the elder move as he counted to himself, struggling to rework the pattern of his breathing. Silence embraced the room like a gaudy mother.
“Sorry,” Jonghyun mumbled, as remorseful as he was uncertain. Taemin blinked at him with heavy eyes. He looked so much harsher than he had the night before, unrefined and untamed, wearing the same clothes and the same bed-headed mop of hair, only this time it was crusted in sadness. Beside him, Kibum was a vision of fragility, hair perfectly tamed in sleek waves and face gaunt with an angelic paleness.
Jinki’s phone rang and everyone’s breath became suspended, the jingling ringtone one of their oldest songs, one Taemin barely remembered. Jinki’s eyes flashed to the screen and became salient at the sight of the contact. He answered with bated breath.
Yunkyung.
The three others sat and waited as they heard Jinki talk. He was affirmative, yet not assertive, definite, though lacking authority. They could all taste the fear like it was a spore in the air. As Taemin locked eyes with Jonghyun, he saw how stark they were, how vivid; they recounted tales no other had seen, brisk in his memory though too fast to catch. Taemin wanted to reach across the table and grip Jonghyun’s hand, but, inevitably, he remained still. Only Kibum seemed unfazed, eyes skirting over the untouched cups of coffee on the table as if they held countless secrets. When Jinki hung up, they simply waited.
“He wants to meet with us,” Jinki swallowed. “All five of us.”
“Does he know where-“
Jinki cut Jonghyun off by shaking his head.
“Then we tell him the truth,” Kibum muttered. And then, looking directly at Taemin, “No more secrets.”
Taemin nodded and clenched his fist. As soon as Kibum spoke it, he knew it was a lie.
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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