Taemin is going to debut. Taemin, fourteen year old little “Kim Heechul Angel Version” is going to debut, and Heechul can’t seem to wrap his mind around it.

Taemin can’t wrap his mind around it, either. He remembers the day he was told with his four group members the date of their debut, he remembers going home and eagerly telling his mother and his grandparents, but it just doesn’t feel like a reality until he’s learning new choreography for a song that’s never been released, for a song that they’re going to release. His group, releasing a song, learning new choreography, because this is their song, this is their debut. He’s going to debut, and he’s anxious and excited and he doesn’t really know what to feel.

He’s not sure if he’ll be good enough, he’s not sure if he can really do this.

Except he has to do this. He has to prove himself. He has to show his father that he’s worthy of the attention he craves.

Neither of them wants to mention their blood relation to the other, because they’re both unsure of just how much the other knows.

So Taemin rehearses for his debut, and pours his sweat, blood, and tears into his dancing, because everyone’s telling him he can’t sing, and that he’s only there to be a dancer and a pretty face.

All he’ll ever be is a dancer; that’s all anyone tells him.

It makes him angry, so he practices his singing every chance he gets. Only, his voice is still cracking, and it still sounds so bad to his ears, and it makes him cringe and bite his lip as he listens to himself.

Heechul watches the boy work himself to exhaustion. He watches him spend countless hours in practice rooms, dancing and singing and nearly collapsing at ungodly hours of the night. Heechul watches from behind the glass of the door, his phone held tightly in his hand as he focuses on the boy moving swiftly and gracefully around the room. He sees the boy flinch and make those desperate faces while he sings, and Heechul wants to go in a help him, but he can’t.

He won’t, because this child isn’t his responsibility.

This boy could be his clone, but Heechul still wouldn’t have to help him sing. It’s not his problem. So he leaves, but he always glances back to see the boy continuing his practice, continuing to sing despite the lack of hope anyone has in him, and it pisses Heechul off, because he’s not supposed to care if this kid can sing or not.

What should he care if some rookie can barely hold a note? Less competition for him, right?

Except this kid is so stubborn; so much like Heechul it hurts, because he keeps singing, keeps trying, and when they debut, Heechul can’t help but be a little disappointed when the boy doesn’t have any lines. He watches Taemin dance in front, watches his solo dance, watches the adrenaline on his face while he performs on stage for the first time in front of cameras and an audience at a real music show. He watches the sweat bead down his forehead, watches as the boy’s hair sticks to his face and the back of his neck, as he’s breathing heavily after they record, only to come off stage and be rushed to various rooms to fulfill various tasks.

His mother is going to be there, his grandparents are going to be there, so Heechul avoids the rookies at all costs. He’s not going to run into the woman who might recognize him, who might say something in front of the boy who looks so much like him. He doesn’t care if he isn’t completely sure that this kid is really his, because he’s not risking everything to say “Congratulations,” to a few rookies who could definitely use some improvement.

But his curiosity gets the best of him, and he watches from afar, like he has been since he first met Taemin.

He watches the boy being embraced by the same woman he got drunk with fifteen years ago. Heechul watches her hold onto the boy tightly, like her life depends on it, and he figures it probably does; that child is probably her entire world, and now he’s being ripped from her to be thrown into the cruel world that is idol life.

He watches the new maknae hug his grandmother, and then smile brightly at the man behind her. Taemin hugs him tightly, his smile the widest Heechul has ever seen it, in the three or so years he’s known the kid. Heechul sees the kid being swung around by the man, the two rocking together side to side, and then the child starts laughing. He feels his chest lurch, because he can hear it, and it’s so much like his own laugh.

That’s when he leaves. He leaves because he can’t watch the boy, can’t watch his boy, can’t watch him with his family after he’s debuted, because he feels like he’s intruding. This is a moment he’s supposed to share with his family, a happy moment, and Heechul shouldn’t be witnessing it.

He’s not Heechul’s problem. He’s not Heechul’s responsibility. Heechul isn’t supposed to be there, because this kid is not part of his world.