The fire in Taemin's eyes is only half-cranked, lit up by artifice and kept burning by some sad streak of spite, and Minho can see the tail end of it flickering as if to fizzle out in an instant. Even up close as he is now, as he takes in the fine details of the boy's face that haven't yet lost the roundness of youth, he can spot each and every shred of stifled innocence that Taemin is trying so hard to banish, to swallow down in favor of dealing out the same destruction and chaos that has his heart in ashes.

"It's not working, is it?" Minho asks; but even the softness of his voice startles Taemin, seeing how the boy flinches and starts to recoil as if stung. The hand that rises to cup the boy's cheek, however, is gentle and searching, and Taemin visibly bites the inside of his cheek to surely keep himself from spilling out every ounce of hurt clinging to his nerves like sticky spider's webs. Minho almost wishes he would; at least the honesty would save this doe-eyed boy from being consumed by his demons in one quick gulp. At least he'd be here, with him, safe to cry and scream and mourn all he wants without shame – Minho could never judge him for that, not once.

Minho leans closer, the pad of his thumb just under Taemin's eye. Dark eyelashes flutter in a nervous blink and are felt deftly against Minho's fingertip. "Your eyes," he murmurs, watching how Taemin seems to shrink under his gaze and slowly begin to come undone. "They're sad. Angry, too, but…not in the way you think."

"I'm fine," Taemin says too quickly, the words puffing out fast but not earnest enough, not honest and true enough.

"I don't believe you," is Minho's simple, soft response. He gives a modest, baleful smile. "I want to, of course, since I always believe in you, but…" He shakes his head and drops his gaze down to Taemin's lips. They're trembling. He wants to touch them with his own. "But I think there's a very stark difference between believing in someone and buying the same lie they're trying to tell themselves. It's just not the same thing, no matter how much we wish it could be."

"I don't need you to believe in me!" And now Taemin's eyes are flashing and wild again, angry with him, furious with him – and yet there's something about this display that Minho finds forced, even a bit maudlin in how the boy jerks away from him and flattens his back against the wall, breathing heavily, clenching his fists by his sides. "Just…just stop. Stop looking at me."

"I don't want to stop looking at you."

"I don't care about what you want!" Taemin's voice is on the verge of cracking, and Minho thinks the boy might be about to cry what with how he suddenly bows his head and lets the messy fall of his bangs cover his eyes. "I don't care about anything…anything but that one wish that'll just…i-it'll make this all worth it, I swear – "

But the crack in his voice doesn't go unnoticed or the sudden seizing up of his body as he folds into himself, arms wrapped around his stomach and doubling over as if he's crumbling from the inside-out. Minho is quick to move in spite of Taemin's weak protest to stay away; it's little more than a hoarse whimper to leave him be, to not touch him, to not care for him, but all the while he's reaching out with a shaking white hand, reaching without even realizing it. Something heavy and hot twists in Minho's stomach when he catches onto that hand and tugs him close, and Taemin is reduced to a poor ragdoll of a thing when he falls against him with a choked-off cry that unravels into gasping, broken sobs. Each and every sound is muffled into Minho's chest as he weaves slender fingers through the boy's dark hair and holds him close, cradling him against the steady thrum of his heart. Taemin's small hands are grasping blindly for his shoulders, tethering himself to the only solid, steady thing he can grab hold of, and yet even Minho feels himself swaying, his knees shaking as he finally holds this boy like he's always wanted.

"You can't…honestly expect me not to care, right?" And now he's laughing, quiet and breathy to keep himself enchained to this moment, to this frail and shuddering body in his arms. His lips are a gentle press against Taemin's forehead; his skin is warm and flushed to the touch, the poor thing. "Not caring…that's the very last thing you could ever have me do."

Taemin's only response is to cry harder and sway on his feet like some skinny, wilted flower. Despite his own trembling, Minho remains rooted to the floor – he will be a trellis for this brown-eyed boy, a crux, something for him to lean on and grow tall with, should he ever give him the chance.

Minho can't recall a single time in his life where he's ever wanted something more.

Sorry for this mediocre crap, I just needed to get my mind off things and writing seems to do just the job.