The music was fast-paced and vibrant. It twisted, s, coiled around Taemin's body, pulling him in with a rush of fabric and color and energy that had him reeling.

It was a high, this feeling. He knew he should have known better than to be this close to the music tonight, especially when he hadn't even had a chance to get back to his wagon to hide away his newest acquisitions. But he'd stopped to on his way there when he heard the new instruments being tuned. It wasn't intentional, really; he was genuinely curious as to whether they were any good since they'd been carefully chosen weeks before and had finally been successfully bargained for tonight.

Then they started playing, and somehow he found himself being shuffled forward through the gathered throngs of people, and then he was stepping into the circle of firelight by his own free will and he was dancing. He fed off the music and the music fed off him and together, in their symbiotic relationship, they spun a web of enticement and uality.

The wild, raucous cheers only spurred Taemin on, pushing him further and further out of safe territory and into the realm of originally unintentional licentiousness. He gave them a show and they adored it, ate it up with hungry eyes and bawdy shouts because Taemin was beautiful and unapproachable and icy, and he only was pushed into dancing like this when the air was so celebratory that he couldn't resist.

He was the people's reward for a day full of accomplishments and bargains and sly thievery.

The music only let Taemin go when the fine, fine cotton fabric of his going-out clothes was clinging to his thin frame with sweat, beads of it running down the bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones. The crowd was shouting for more, desperate, but Taemin couldn't; his chest was heaving with exhaustion and he was already regretting his rash display.

This was why, he thought bitterly as he elbowed his way through his people, most of them too slow and inebriated to do anything more than try to cop a quick feel as he brushed past them to get to his wagon, he didn't do this. Not only was he begged to entertain again for weeks afterward, he also had to fend off advances from suitors both female and male who wanted his attention until they inevitably forgot how his body moved.

He didn't want them, though. Not like that. He preferred to go to his company, not to have them come to him. It was much more enjoyable that way. People that begged for scraps of his attention simply because he had that talent of captivation through dance bothered him. Why should he accept someone who lowered themselves to ask for him? He was worth more than that, wanted more than that. It was so much more exciting for it to be chancy and unexpected.

So he chose his own, went to them of his own accord and on his own time. And without fail each time it was always pleasurable and always ended with Taemin sated and content and with pockets full of glittering treasures.

It was how he did things, and it was good.

//

The group of travelers was bound by family ties, a love of hard bargaining and pickpocketry, and entertainment. They lived together and traveled together, moving on when it felt right and stopping wherever they wished. The caravan itself was made up up fifteen to twenty wagons, each painted a different color to display the personal style of the family it belonged to.

Taemin's was in the middle of the group. It was sturdy and boxy with small, cottage-like windows covered by mismatched curtains he'd conned off of his mother a while back. The door was yellow, bright enough against the blue exterior and steps (the large wooden wheels made it too high to get into comfortably without a pair of light, portable steps) and the roof was white and enameled, purposely to reflect the sun in the summer.

In the front he had two horses, a powerful, pretty pair of sturdy black and white vanners that were quiet and not easily excited. These two he'd paid a good price for since it was traveler code to never steal an animal—however, he'd bargained and wheedled and kissed up to the man they'd been with, and somehow they ended up being dropped to half-price.

Tonight his wagon was quiet and dark, its gaudy coloring muted by the flickering firelight from the other side of the clearing.

Taemin was exhausted. He'd been out for five days, traveling on foot everywhere so as not to draw attention to himself with a flashy horse or a bulky wagon, and the combination of physical and mental stress was weighing on him. All he wanted to do was to settle down on his bed and empty out all of the pockets he'd sewn into the inside of his clothes and sort through his newest acquisitions.

He had a good haul. The marketplace they'd raided on the second day was also visited by a group of traveling silk-traders, and Taemin had spent the better part of the evening kissing up to various officials, only to slip away with their jewelry in his pockets. So now he had rings, baubles, bangles, and pins all stored away in various parts of his garment, all feeling heavier and heavier with each passing minute.

And then he'd gotten a knife.

Taemin didn't steal anything other than jewelry. He bought other things fair and square with money he earned himself, and everything was bought for a specific use or purpose. It was worked, how everyone around him who pickpocketed worked. There was no honor in stealing everything, only honor in knowing how to steal the best of the best, casually without raising suspicions.

This knife was his first exception.

It was a beautiful thing. Obviously it was silver instead of gold (gold was simply too soft, steel was far preferable as far as weaponry went), It was steel-bladed, and the handle was strong and plated in sleek, heavy black like the ring on his finger, the one he wore everywhere.

Taemin was not rich by any stretch of the imagination even though he specialized in stealing valuables. They all were traded or gifted or kept, none sold. What money he had he earned doing odd jobs or dancing, when he felt like dealing with it.

This knife was expensive. He'd spotted it sitting on display in a tent and had just intended to hold it because it was attractive and it did look good with his slim, black ring.

Taemin was going to put it back, truly. But it was warm and fit perfectly into his palm, and somehow it just found its way into his pocket, stiff leather case and all.

That was the end of his day. He would have been stupid to stick around after that, especially given the fact that the cost of the blade was probably equal to all of the jewelry he'd stolen that evening combined. He couldn't bring himself to regret it though, even though his day was cut short because of it. Just the thought of it made his stomach flutter. He'd step into his wagon, light a lamp, and pore over every minute detail of the beautiful eight-inch blade. It would be even more beautiful than before, and it was his now, his and he was going to keep it on his person forever because it was too beautiful not to, and—

He put his hand into his pocket and came out empty.

Taemin's heart dropped straight to his stomach, rolling unpleasantly. It had been there before he'd started dancing. He'd felt it, measured its weight in his palm for reassurance.

It hadn't fallen out. There was no way it could have since he'd designed the pockets to keep even small rings from bouncing out and this was so much larger. The knife would have never fallen, not without him noticing.

So, he thought, the rush of dread quickly being replaced by a rush of cold fury, someone had stolen it.

He turned away from his wagon and started walking back. Someone was going to pay.

//

There weren't many things Taemin wished he could change about himself, but his inability to think situations through when he was upset was one of them.

He was at the community fire, sorting through the crowd of people in hopes of being able to find a knife in one of their pockets, but it was difficult—not because he wasn't able to easily reach his hands into people's pockets, but because he couldn't move two steps without being propositioned. “Back again, Taeminnie?” The man was large and looming, his voice slurred and overly bright for the late hour. “Come dance!”

Taemin frowned, backing away from the reaching hands. “Go find someone else to smear your dirty paws all over. I'm not interested.”

“You're never interested.” This voice was female, and Taemin found his wrist being grabbed by a girl several years older than himself and obviously just as drunk as the man he'd just evaded. “Taemin, darling, come with me me. I'll take good care of you. You like to feel good, don't you?” She was purring, wheedling, but the whiskey on her breath was making him nauseous. All he wanted was his knife, and even if he did want to stay somewhere else tonight, it certainly wouldn't be with a girl who smelled like she did.

He slapped at her hand when he felt it reaching into his pocket. Who did she think she was, trying to pickpocket the pickpocket? “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” She pouted, retreating. “I was just looking for some gold. You always bring back good things.”

“My knife. Someone stole it.”

He watched her closely, studying her face for signs of recognition, but she only looked vaguely amused.

“Didn't keep two hands on it, did you?” She tossed her drooping, no doubt freshly-dyed curls. “I'll bet it was one of the guys. You were dancing earlier, they probably took their chance and nicked it when you were tired.”

Taemin ducked away when her hands started inching closer again, looking eager to both his body and his pockets.

That probably was what happened, now that he thought of it, and now he was going to have to go track it down and steal it back.

It wasn't that he couldn't. It just was entirely inconvenient, especially on a night that people were trying to whisk him back to bed with him left and right. The combination of music and dancing and drinks made any leftover inhibitions (not that there were many amongst the group) disappear, and even those that normally weren't so forward were joining the ranks of the pushy and demanding.

Sometimes he loathed the fact that he was as pretty as any of the girls and more than most. The same looks that got him whatever he wanted were also a curse—in a group of people that was very ually open his fine features and slim body made him twice as likely to be preyed upon.

“Your face is a blessing and a curse,” his mother had told him on his birthday when she'd taken out the scissors to cut his hair, shaping so the vague curls twisted just a bit more, dark against the smooth skin he'd inherited from her. That was something that had taken a while to understand. How was getting slipped stray gifts, getting to sleep with everyone, and being able to get the best bargains a curse?

Tonight, with the sheer amount of grimy, sweaty bodies and leering eyes, was just a reiteration of how wise his mother was.

It took only a few more minutes of interrupted pocket-searching for Taemin to realize that he was getting nowhere. His hair, dyed a rich, understated brown in a sea of faux-blondes and shining natural brunettes, was too much of a giveaway.

With a deft movement he pulled a scarf off of waist of an unsuspecting girl, looping it loosely over his head. It was clear he was Taemin despite his hair being covered—he still had bright, slanted eyes, faintly freckled cheeks, a biting tongue and biteable mouth—but it would deter the worst of the drunkards at least.

His disguise worked well for a while, allowing him to shove through the milling crowds with furtive, searching hands, until it was torn off by an over-exuberant young man that Taemin thought usually played the bagpipes.

“Ah, I knew it was you!” he crowed, tugging on a stray lock of Taemin's now-exposed hair. “Why're you wearing this? You look so much better without it.”

“I want my knife,” Taemin hissed, figuring he may as well be open about what he was looking for since he was no longer semi-anonymous. “And it's hard to find with people like you leeching all over me.”

“--what?” The boy stumbled back, long face contorted in pain as Taemin's casual caress ended with a slim knuckle digging into a pressure point on his neck. It wasn't necessary at all to hurt him, Taemin knew. The boy was harmless enough, and the chances of him actually haven taken his knife were slim. It made him feel better though, and that was reason enough for him.

“Where's the knife?” Taemin repeated, a faint notion of musicians often being loose with their tongues and bodies dancing around in his head. “I got it today. You would have seen it, wouldn't you have? You get around.” He let go of his neck and held out a hand, switching to a softer, more beseeching tone. “I want it back. It's really important to me.”

The boy's eyes, dark and rimmed with straight lashes, grew wider as Taemin stepped closer yet, close enough that their hips nearly touched. “It's—I heard someone talking about one.”

It was ridiculous how people responded to his advances without fail when they were drunk like this. They looked stupid, acted stupid, and the fear of that happening to him was the reason Taemin stayed away from alcohol altogether. “Who has it now?”

The boy was growing bolder with Taemin's close proximity was reaching around his waist to try to pull him away from the crowd, presumably toward his wagon. “I heard Minho had something new, but I don't know if it's yours...”

He found himself with an arm full of empty, though, because Taemin had the information he needed, and he wasn't interested in anything further than a quick manipulation to get what he wanted, especially not with a drunken boy that no doubt had little in the way of experience of wit or talent beyond basical music.

No, he was going to go find Minho.

Minho. Taemin knew Minho, though not personally. Although they were a community, they were a fluctuating one of around fifty to seventy people. And it wasn't like Taemin had been around for a long time, either. He'd arrived less than a year back when he'd been fifteen, and he hadn't gotten a chance to get to know many people since he was only around half the time, preferring to spend the rest of his time with the small groups that were always coming and going from nearby towns.

Taemin sat, halfway across the clearing next to the thicket of trees that interrupted the view of the wagons from the community fire, trying to recall everything he knew about the man. He was tall, dark-haired like Taemin (though with longer hair—Taemin's was only to his shoulders, while braided Minho's went down to his collarbones), with the clean-shaven face of an unmarried man. It was likely that he was young, though probably older than Taemin—he was one of the youngest in the group. Big eyes, a soft mouth and—did he ever talk? He couldn't recall what his voice sounded like.

He worked with horses. At least, that was what Taemin figured he did. What times he did see him he was usually hovering around the animals, running his hands over shining fur and sleek legs. His wagon was on the far east side of this camp, around the thicket from Taemin. And his wagon...

Well, Taemin thought, standing up and running a hand through his hair, that was the extent of his knowledge. And now he was going to go creeping into Minho's trailer to snoop through his belongings to find a knife that may or may not be in it.

As he set off, striding in the general direction of Minho's wagon, it was very apparent to Taemin that he didn't need alcohol to make stupid decisions.