III. Reunion

Bring back your love.

He was aware that what he should’ve been lying on was the cold, tile floor of his office when he woke up—but what met him after the first few sparks of consciousness hit him, was the softness of a cloud underneath his body; a bed that was made for the gods.

Minho opened his eyes cautiously; afraid of what may be the reality waiting for him on the other side of his eyelids.

Was Taemin really alive?

Or was he finally going insane?

The soft, yellowish light met his eyes as he opened them slowly. Minho squinted them for a while, but they soon widened at the second his hazy mind perceived that he was not in his office, and nor was he in his bedroom.

Not in his bedroom above the workshop—but his old childhood bedroom at his parents’ house that was left untouched for more than adecade.

Minho sat up abruptly in the small bed, realizing only then that his feet went a little over the edge. It was his bed, he finally realized—the bed that was put away in the attic after he grew too large for it.

Then, the familiarity hit him like a brick to the face, and Minho had to remember to breathe as the recognition shook the entirety of his being.

It was the small, blue room that contained all his happy memories as a little boy and was now back in its old form; toys, books, action figures, paint sets and sewing kits strewn across the floor and shelves. It was the same room he'd slept in for the first eleven years of his life, the same room he'd held sleepovers in with Jonghyun and made forts out of blankets and chairs. It was the same room twenty years ago, but seemingly back in the state where a four-year-old him would've left it in.

“What’s going on?” he asked out loud to no one in particular. There was no sign of life in sight, as far as his eyes and ears perceived; not even the sound of wind or chirping of birds outside the window.

It was like the scene was frozen still; a sepia photograph from the distant past.

The confused Minho looked around the small space, wide eyes scanning every inch of the room he had been placed in. His breath was growing shallower by the second, a mixture of fear and bewilderment coursing through his consciousness as he fully grasped what was going on and where he was.

Minho remembered moving out of that room when he was twelve, and into the larger room down the hall. This room was cleaned up and all his childhood things were stuffed in the attic. How can it be like this again? Has someone been living in here after he moved out?

Minho used all his strength to heave himself up on his legs, and stood at the corner of the small room. He didn’t know what was going on, but he guessed that it was just another dream. It didn’t feel like one—it felt too real to be a dream—but it couldn’t be reality either, could it?

Minho felt a strange feeling of welcoming from the room, the warmth enveloping his chest and hugging him as if it were an old friend. It was as if his childhood was welcoming him back, letting him see images of the past that were long forgotten by him. He didn’t even remember the color of his floor anymore, but now his mind was showing it to him again, showing him everything again.

The sudden warmth in his chest urged him to take a few steps further from his corner. His bare feet touched the warm carpet of his floor, his eyes trained for stray Legos and pointy things that his feet may step on.

“Umma! I’m going upstairs!”

Minho almost fell over at the sudden sound. He scrambled back to the corner of the room, just in time to see himself barge into the room.

It was his little four-year-old self, carrying ‘Taemin’ as if the doll was the most precious thing in the world.

Minho watched, in awe and confusion, as four-year-old him jumped on the bed with the doll. The young version of him didn’t seem to see the fully-grown Minho, as if Minho was just a spectator in an old playback of his own childhood.

“I love you, Taemin!” four-year-old Minho cried whilst rolling around in his Batman sheets, “I’ll make sure we’ll be together forever. Even when I grow up, I’ll still be here for you. I’ll never give Taemin up! Never ever," he promised the inanimate doll.

Minho watched as his young self hugged the thing to his chest, before closing his eyes and falling into a peaceful afternoon nap that Minho remembered himself to be fond of when he was younger. He couldn’t breathe as he watched that scene unfold.

It wasn't just a dream; it was reality. A playback of the past.

It felt magical, as much as it felt terrifying.

The suddenly, “Minho?” a voice called, and it didn’t sound like his mother.

Minho searched for the source of the voice, yet everything in the room seemed to be still.

“Minho?” it called again. This time, louder.

“What do you want from me?” he croaked out.

“Minho!”

“What—“

“Minho!”

“Minho!”

The voice grew louder and louder with each utter of his name. Minho shrank to the ground and shut his eyes, clasping his palms on his ears to deafen himself from the voice calling his name. He didn’t know if he should be scared or not. He didn’t even know what was going on. Was he still in a dream? Why wasn’t he waking up yet?

I just want to wake up. Please let me wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up!

But he didn't wake up.

Minho stayed in that position for the longest time, to the point that his legs started cramping from staying still for too long. He gathered up the courage and started opening his eyes, feeling a rush of relief when he found himself not in the room of his young self anymore.

Instead, he was in a field. A vast, green field of tall grass and beautiful poppies that looked like they’d just bloomed. It felt like spring, and from the breeze that hit his skin, Minho realized that he was still in his pyjamas.

“Minho.”

The owner of the name felt his skin freeze, even with the warm breeze fluttering through his thin clothes.

It was that voice again.

It was Taemin’s voice.

“Minho, turn around. I’m not going to hurt you,” it said, “Please, don’t be afraid of me.”

There was a bit of hurt in Taemin’s voice at that moment, and no matter how scared Minho was, he felt a tad guilty. It wasn’t his fault that he was scared; who in the right mind wouldn’t be after going through what he had to?

Minho felt his voice stuck in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around and see his doll alive. For his sanity’s sake, he just couldn’t!

But Taemin called for him again, in the same begging voice that made his creator’s heart clench inside his chest, “Please, Minho. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Please look at me. Please, Minho.”

It was like he was in a trance, put into a binding spell by Taemin’s words, for the next thing he knew, he was slowly turning around to face his own creation. Minho felt weak. He was too intrigued to say ‘no’, and too afraid to say ‘yes’.

He needed to find out if it was all real. 

And indeed, it was.

Minho had turned around to find the most breathtaking beauty in all the world; his own Taemin. The work of his own hands.

Minho didn’t know why, but he smiled—actually smiled when he saw Taemin.

He was simply; too beautiful—and Minho felt all his fears, all his paranoia, vanish with a single glance to his perfect creation. 

“Minho. Do you remember me now?” Taemin smiled. His smile was just as blinding; a perfect curve of beautiful pink lips and shiny white teeth that lit up his entire face. Smiles were said to brighten up a person's face, but with Taemin's, it just put his beauty on a whole new level--as if Minho could stare at Taemin's smile for eternity and never get tired.

Minho didn’t know where he found his voice, but there it was again. “Y-yes,” he stuttered out.

Taemin's whole face lit up when Minho affirmed it. He suddenly couldn't be any happier, much, much happier for a person who had just been given 'feelings', and not born with it, “I’ve missed you, Minho,” Taemin suddenly said, “I’ve been waiting for you all these years, and I knew there was no way you would forget me.”

Minho said nothing, still in awe of his living perfection.

Of course he wouldn’t forget; Taemin might’ve slipped from his mind, but his memory resided in Minho’s heart—sealed tight and just waited to opened again.

Taemin’s eyes, Taemin’s very beautiful brown orbs, filled with tears as he gazed longingly at his long lost friend. His small hand cupped Minho’s cheek in the same manner that he did before, but this time, Minho was mesmerized at the touch rather than mortified. Taemin's hand was warm, and it felt strangely familiar for him.

“All these years, I’ve been waiting for you to give me a body,” Taemin continued, a single drop of crystalline water travelling down his rosy cheek, “I’ve received a soul from the gods, from the moment you told me you loved me when you were a child, and I’ve been waiting for you to give me a new entity since we've been parted by fate,” he said, “I knew you wouldn’t fail me, Minho. I knew you wouldn’t!"

Minho opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Yes, that time when he lost Taemin the station. He just knew the urge to make dolls weren't just his random whim; it was fate telling him to make Taemin  a new body that would be with him. So they would be together.

“Thank you so much,” Taemin cried, “If it weren’t for you, my soul would still be wandering in the abyss right now. If it weren’t for you love, I wouldn’t even have a soul!” Taemin lunged himself at his creator’s chest, hugging the taller male’s body to his own—and Minho just marvelled at the warmth of Taemin’s body. His very, very alive body that used to be plastic material, now given flesh and blood by the gods of heaven. Minho gathered enough sense to wrap his arms around Taemin, his own tears falling down on the boy’s head.

He didn’t even know why he was crying.

“Thank you, Minho,” Taemin smiled through his tears, “I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you. I don’t want to be apart from you ever again, now that I have a human body,” he said, “Will you stay with me, Minho? Will you love me as much as you did when you were younger?”

All these questions, all these confessions—Minho didn’t know how he was even keeping up.

But one thing’s for sure; he would never lose Taemin again. Definitely not for the second time.

“Yes, Taemin. I will,” he managed to say through his bewilderment.

Taemin seemed delighted with that, for the boy tightened his hold on Minho’s waist.

Then, he said, “Then I’ll be there when you wake up.”

“O-of course.”

Please don’t be a dream. Don’t let his be a dream, Minho prayed.

Minho felt something being tied around his wrist, and he looked down to see that Taemin had tied a red ribbon from his hanbok on it.

He was about to ask what it was for, but a sudden trembling of the ground kept him from doing so. He looked down just in time to see the earth breaking, and blinding light shining through the cracks, before he was swept back into his world. He reached blindly for Taemin's hand but he felt nothing but air, and Minho yelled Taemin's name before he was taken back to reality.

“Taemin!”

Minho sat up, realizing that he’d just yelled out Taemin’s name in his sleep.

After a few blinks, and a few seconds of collecting himself, Minho found himself on a heap on his office floor. The early sunlight rays were shining through the window blinds. Birds were singing outside of the windows. Just a few more minutes and Jonghyun would come down for breakfast--there would be questions if he found Minho lying on the floor. He forced himself up reluctantly, trying to remember what just happened.

“Ugh, was that all a dream?” he asked himself.

He was still fairly disoriented—couldn’t tell right from left—but he clearly remembered the ‘dream’ or whatever it was.

He would’ve been disappointed if it were just a dream.

Remembering the last thing that Taemin did in his dream, Minho glanced down at his wrist and found no red ribbon tied there. His heart dropped in his stomach. Of course, it would be just a dream. Taemin wasn’t real!

Minho pulled himself up from the floor, quite frustrated with the disheartening truth of reality.

I knew I should have fooled myself! Taemin is too good to be human, too beautiful to exist.

And then, just when he was about to beat himself up for even thinking that it was real, he heard that voice again; the voice that resembled the ringing of heaven’s bells themselves.

It called out his name, and Minho was awake enough to know that it wasn’t his imagination.

THE END.