A/N It's been forever, and I am so, so, so, so, so sorry. Firstly, hello to all my beautiful new subscribers I haven't been able to thank personally - thank you SO much <3 i appreciate it no end xxx Secondly... God, where do I even begin? Guys... Things have been hectic, hence the lack of updates. I'm not able to say why, I just have to ask you to trust my apology, because I really am sorry this is so late, more sorry than you can imagine. Thank you for sticking around <3 please, forgive me... Aish, I can't. I'm just sorry, and thank you, for everything <3

•••

Taemin stared at his trembling hand as he clenched and unclenched his fist, splaying the fingers like the spikes of an azalea, morose in waiting. His hands were ashen, blue; they became cold whenever stress beckoned him, as if his circulation had become asphyxiated by apprehension. He knew it was a common trait amongst the members, to grow icy, cold, stressed. He furrowed his brows, eyes latched on his skin.

“Business,” murmured a subtle voice from beside him, and Taemin stirred, glancing upwards instinctively. A few metres away, Kibum and Jinki leant against the walls of the foyer. Kibum’s eyes were shadowed, and, affectionately, Jinki nudged him, trying to broker a faint smile. It was neither who had spoken.

“Hm?” Taemin responded, glancing to his side to catch Jonghyun, who had appeared as if from nowhere. Something forced Taemin to straighten his posture, like a scolding mother, and he did-so, focussing intently on the men a few metres away rather than the one by his side.

“When we first started this,” Jonghyun continued, “I always said that all of our relationships should remain strictly business.”

Frowning, Taemin tore his eyes from Jinki and Kibum, and turned to face Jonghyun. In the foyer – a marvellous creation of architectural modernism, boasting sleek grey walls and tiled flooring, a plethora of leather sofas and sheepskin rugs, and an apparel befitting of any luxurious office – Jonghyun seemed so small, so flaccid. The room was large, wide, surrounded either by the gaping slats of wide windows or posters of various other SM artists. Taemin knew, if he looked hard enough, the silvery walls would hold an airbrushed image of him, beset in a coil of make-up and illusion.

“What do you mean, hyung?” Taemin queried, keeping his voice low, just as Jonghyun had. It was clear this conversation was meant for the maknae’s ears only.

Nervously, Jonghyun gripped the edges of his beige sweatshirt’s sleeves, hair ruffled and messy – yet still inherently attractive. His scars seemed faded beneath the daylight that transcended through the room, and his often soft scent was drowned out by the cleanliness of the foyer.

“I'm not saying we shouldn’t have become involved in each other’s lives,” Jonghyun elaborated, glancing back at Kibum and Jinki, who discussed with a tone even lower than their own, “but I think we've become- we've become almost too involved.”

Processing Jonghyun’s words with slow recognition, Taemin cast his eyes to the corridors that bisected from the large foyer, offices upon offices, each as important as the last, and each as intimidating.

“Where is this coming from?” Taemin pressed gently, as Jonghyun rubbed his elbows, head hung in something akin to guilt. Nerves prickled his body like he was a desert plant, and his lips were dry as sand.

“I just-“ intermittently, Jonghyun’s eyes flashed to Jinki and Kibum, hesitant in his words. “I think the best relationships work if they know their boundaries, Taemin. Our boundary, all of our boundaries, were to do with business. Friends on-set, of course, and good friends at that, but we- we're all more than just friends on-set, Taemin. Look at us – we've become brothers, haven’t we?”

Taemin bit his lip.

“But hyung,” he mumbled, a shiver piercing the nape of his neck, “is that really a bad thing? To care for each other? Maybe that's what makes us… Us.”

Jonghyun shook his head, pacing backwards slightly as he latched his sight to Taemin, firmly and tightly, unwilling to let go.

“No, Taem’, it's a bad thing. It means we worry for each other, we feel a sense of responsibility for each other. Minho disappearing – we shouldn't be in this situation, feeling the need to cover for him, feeling the need to defend him. We shouldn’t even be a part of it. His life should be his own – yet somehow it belongs to us all, now.”

“His life doesn’t belong to us just because we care,” Taemin reasoned, tilting his head as Jonghyun rubbed an eye, careful not to tease the sloped scarring.

“No, I know, but I-“ Jonghyun swallowed thickly. “I just wish I didn’t have to care.” And then, to score his feelings, “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Taemin’s lips parted, speechless, but before he could formulate a response, a gruff voice snapped him from his rapture. It held depth where it wasn’t required and a tepid anger curled the words. It resonated like a gaseous nebula in the space of a vapid darkness. The maknae stiffened, instantly.

“Why don’t you come into my office?”

Stony-eyed, Taemin stared, stoic, at Yunkyung.

•••

More body;

The mainstay of metal,
I am, I am, I am
More body than man,
No wood,

No thoughts,
Just substance.
I am
More body than man.

•••

To his left, Jinki drummed his fingers on his knee. They were elegant fingers, though the nails had become somewhat swollen by the cold, and chipped now that they weren't maintained as religiously for the television screens. Taemin caught eyes with the singer and said no words. Their faces were enough to communicate years of dysphoria, hewed from their memories within seconds of stepping inside the cold office. Now they sat, still, all four of them confined to a faux leather sofa, as Yunkyung leant against his desk, peering down at them like a pretentious choirmaster.

Yunkyung was a tall man – not quite as tall as Minho, but certainly towering over Taemin and Jonghyun – with a broad-shouldered frame and eyebrows that seemed to sag even when his skin did not. His attire was tailored, expensive, hid the fattened stomach and bloated arms with a swathe of navy material. His tie alone had probably cost more than the average worker’s monthly wage, and it was this pompous arrogance that Taemin detested, even more than Yunkyung’s slick of black hair and bulbous, flaring nose.

As ever, Jinki was the first to speak.

“We haven’t seen him.”

When the words left his lips in that beautifully thick voice of his, Jinki’s fingers had become as motionless as the rest of his body. He made no effort to play towards Yunkyung’s narcissism; all addresses were clipped, lacking a respect that the singer so often gave. Taemin hated hearing him talk that way, for rarely was Jinki so cold.

“That so?” Yunkyung pointed, raising an eyebrow. His sight became directed upon Kibum – who sat on the arm of the sofa, almost leisurely, reflective of the child that caused mischief in the class.

“That's so,” Kibum spoke curtly. His words promoted a façade of strength, despite how feeble his body seemed. Taemin didn’t know if his introspection was too deep to be of warrant, but worry was sprouting in his veins. Kibum was a frailty light, ready to flicker at any time – and Taemin didn’t know what to do about it.

“None of you have heard anything?” Yunkyung emphasized, arms folded across his chest. To avoid making eye contact, Taemin gazed past Yunkyung, at the organised, suave and sophisticated desk he leant against. The wood shone, as pristine as the rest of the sophisticated room, as if a showcase bureau. There wasn’t an element of personality in sight.

“I already said,” Jinki repeated, defensive, “none of us have seen him, or heard a thing.”

“Huh,” Yunkyung nodded, “odd.” With that, he pushed himself from the desk and walked behind jt, to his computer. Nervously, Taemin caught Jinki’s eye. Yunkyung’s silence only ever meant one thing: There was something they didn’t know. In an attempt to encourage the spirits of the younger, Jinki provided Taemin the weakest of smiles, but a smile that said enough. Whatever would happen, they had each other's backs in this, for they always, always did.

“And I assume none of you know what the internet is?” Yunkyung expressed, concentrations devouring the monitor before him. He clicked at his mouse, expression dumb with knowledge. Taemin swallowed thickly, forehead warm, damp.

“What do you mean?” Jinki asked. The maknae found it near-admirable how he could remain so polite to such a ruthless man, to a man with such a blackened temperament. The singer was so patient, so calm.

Yunkyung twisted the monitor and straightened himself, awaiting a response as the four pairs of eyes became latched on the screen.

“Jesus Christ,” Kibum breathed, the scorn evident in his words as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Jinki leant forward at first, and then stood and approached the screen, lisps of, “No, no, no,” falling in a repetitive tundra from his lips. Only Taemin and Jonghyun remained still, retrospective, two senators on council for a crime they couldn’t quite believe. The article headline blared with incredulous scandal and Taemin swallowed thickly, knowing that this was something they couldn’t escape quickly, and something Minho would face punishment for.

In bold letters, the article tagline read CHOI MINHO – DRUNK AND BUSTED. The rest of the text was too small and obscured for Taemin to read, but the images were clear as he squinted his eyes, cold. There were pictures of Minho’s car, grainy pictures of the police surrounding its stationary body, and Minho seemingly cuffed in drunken ecstasy. Drink-driving.

Taemin’s eyes fluttered shut and he expelled a solemn breath. They didn’t need this – not now, not ever.

“How many articles are there?” Jinki asked, voice methodical, determined. “Can we control them? Take them down before they get out of hand?”

“It's too late,” Yunkyung dismissed, as Taemin opened his eyes again. A weakness tessellated through him as he attempted to understand. “There are at least a dozen articles like this already, the pictures have been spread. For a group who claim to be scandal-free, you really aren’t giving a good impression.”

“What about Minho?” Jonghyun asked suddenly, leaning forward, confidence only gained when the wellbeing of his brother came into account. “Is-Is he okay? Where is he? At a station?”

“I'm not sure,” Yunkyung answered honestly, “the articles all say different things.”

“He'll be at the station,” Kibum affirmed. "If those pictures are in any way legitimate, that's where he'll be.”

“How long will they detain him for?” Jonghyun asked openly, whipping his head from person to person.

“That depends on what he's done,” Jinki explained, turning to Jonghyun with regretful eyes. “If he's only been speeding, and he's drunk, then it'll-it'll just be overnight.”

“Then shouldn’t he be out by now?” Taemin was surprised to hear his own hoarse voice as all eyes switched to him, gauging him lightly, as if even their stares could fracture his soft demeanour. “Shouldn’t he be?”

Jinki lowered his head, defeated, and allowed his eyes to flicker shut.

“Honestly,” he answered, “I don’t know.”

“When you find him,” Yunkyung interrupted, “tell him to visit me. I think a little chat is in order, don’t you?”

A fatal silence understood the foreboding. Taemin pierced his nails into his palm. A little chat. His stomach churned wildly at the connotations as he remembered the true definition of what it could be to chat.

Despite this, they were submissive.

“O-Of course,” Jinki agreed. Blankly, he tilted his head and gazed at Taemin. The maknae could no longer think to display emotion back.

“That'll be all,” Yunkyung concluded, prompting those seated to stand. Taemin did, on shuddering legs. “You can go.”

They moved towards the door.

“Except for you, Jonghyun.”

Everyone froze, and twisted towards Yunkyung, including Jonghyun, whose face was ridged in terror. Something stabbed in Taemin’s gut – again, again, again. He knew what this was about; they all knew what this was about.

“Wh-Why?” Jonghyun queried, knowing the truth regardless.

“Because,” Yunkyung answered, “I think it's time we did something about those scars. Don’t you?”