Just Words

Mauerbauertraurigkeit: The inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like.

There are 151 unread notifications on his phone; it’s been three days since he replied to anyone on any social media forum.

It’s not like he’s been busy – well, they’re always busy, but this comeback has been extraordinarily relaxed; so much so that he sometimes wonders whether they’re starting to slack off – or otherwise unable to answer their calls and messages.

He could do it right now, if he wanted to. He’s not doing much, sitting here on a dusty stone bench by the side of the local convenience store like some jobless, directionless quarter-lifer. Comme des and Garcons are playing with a squeaky toy down by his feet; they’re well-behaved and he can afford to take his eyes off them long enough to answer a couple of messages.

But he doesn’t want to.

Woohyun, Miya, Younghyun, Nicole, Hyosup, Hyolyn, Hakyeon… the list is seemingly endless.

Fun people. Nice people. Caring people and not-so-caring people. There was a time when he didn’t have enough hours in a day to get together with all of the people he had wanted to meet. He would go to Miya’s restaurant at midnight, after she had closed, and chat with her as he stood over her cooker while she performed her magic just for him. He used to check out new cafés with Younghyun in the morning before getting started with the day’s schedule.

Now?

He’s free enough to be drinking a long since warm beer outside his new flat – the 2013 him would have leapt at the freedom and had someone over every day of the week, rumours be damned – with two animals he loves as deeply as he would children of his own blood, with 151 notifications on his phone.

The phone buzzes as notification No. 152 comes in.

Kibum turns the phone face down. He takes another sip of his beer and ruffles Comme des’  fur when the dog starts playfully gnawing on his sock. 

Chrysalism: The amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.

“Oh, .”

Kibum swearing is nothing new. Taemin ignores him and keeps his head pressed to the window, watching the rain hammer relentlessly against the glass.

“Godingdamnit.”

Kibum only swears like that when he wants someone to ask him what he’s upset about. Are the others not around?

A loud sigh.

If Jonghyun or Jinki were here, they would have dealt with this before Kibum got to the sighing stage. Taemin reluctantly unsticks his face from the window and looks at his hyung.

Kibum is dressed for a night out; subtle make-up, a dark, sharply-cut suit lit up with a flashy, feather-studded (what even? it’s too colourful but it’s still pretty and taemin wants it but if he wears it everyone will tell him he’s pretty like a girl life is so unfair) brooch thing and those ankle boots he so lovingly polishes every time he uses them.

“What’s wrong?”

The look Kibum gives him is scathing – as if he’s saying ‘I can’t believe you are so stupid you can’t figure out something so simple’ – but Taemin doesn’t give a . He’s all Kibum has now and Kibum can either explain his problem or go away.

“It’s pissing out there.” Kibum waves a hand at himself. “It doesn’t matter if I have the biggest umbrella in the world, I’m still going to get soaked just trying to get to my car.”

Taemin shrugs. It’s true and there’s nothing either of them can do about it.

Kibum sighs again, shoulder drooping. (NOT GOOD)

“Don’t go out today.” Taemin doesn’t get why Kibum looks so disappointed; staying in is a lot more fun than most people like to admit, especially when it’s raining so hard that the later afternoon sky becomes darker than the darkest night.

“And do what exactly?”

“Nothing.” Taemin pats the space on the floor next to himself in invitation and resumes leaning against the window. “That’s the point.”

Kibum being Kibum is unable to keep his derisory snort to himself, but he sits down where he’s told to. He stretches his legs out and takes his boots off, and his sock-clad feet bump against Taemin’s bare ones.

The rain drums against the window and thunder booms in the distance. He can feel the vibrations through the glass.

“This is so boring,” Kibum complains, but Taemin knows it’s not a real complaint because of the way the lines of his face soften and the rigidity seeps out of his shoulders and the downturn of his mouth curls upwards ever so slightly.

Taemin doesn’t know how many minutes or hours pass between then and the time Kibum unfastens his brooch and pins it against Taemin’s sweater, nor does he know how much time passes between the gift and when he leaves his spot to sit between Kibum’s legs and lean into him.

All he knows is that by the time the power goes off and allows them to see lightning flashing purple-blue through the darkened sky, Kibum is happy enough to hum absent-mindedly as he threads his fingers through Taemin’s hair.

Storms are the best.

Occhiolism: The awareness of the smallness of your perspective.

All day long, his mind kept replaying the video of Jongin stumbling onstage, unable to keep his balance for the few seconds he had to freeze in place, as if his brain is a .gif player stuck on loop.

He’s waiting with Moonkyu, who had found and linked him to the accursed video, and the two of them are waiting at their usual rendezvous spot for Jongin. The word intervention hangs in the air, unspoken, but still heavy.

It’s past midnight when Jongin finally turns up.

He looks worn-out, more so than usual. His legs are skinner than his own, Taemin notes with concern. Jongin had looked tired the few times they were at music shows together, choosing to nap in the waiting room instead of hanging out with him, but Taemin hadn’t noticed just how exhausted he was.

Moonkyu speaks first – he’s the eldest, the leader – despite being the last one to debut.

“Jongin-ah,” he says, tone full of kindness. That’s how they all know it’s serious; if it weren’t, Moonkyu would be calling Jongin a er and Jongin would flip him the bird in reply. “You really need to take better care of yourself.”

Jongin rolls his eyes. “How? Eat more? I can’t, I’ll lose my abs and I don’t have the time to work out. Sleep more? When? I sleep whenever I don’t have a schedule. There aren’t enough hours in a day.”

“That’s not true,” Taemin says. “You practice a lot, too much. If your body doesn’t have rest, it’ll break down.”

“I practice however much is necessary to be able to dance to the standard I need to.” There is something dangerous in Jongin’s eyes – anger, Taemin realises – warning him not to pursue the topic.

“That’s the thing, you’re expecting too much of yourself. This isn’t a ballet at the West End, it’s just a stupid concert. Your fans aren’t going to notice the difference if you get one or two moves less than perfect-”

“Like they won’t,” Jongin snaps. “If I don’t dance properly, who will?”  

“You can’t be like this,” Taemin tries again. “You have to learn to depend on your members. You’ll burn out otherwise.”

He doesn’t expect Jongin to laugh.

He doesn’t expect Moonkyu to stop him when he tries to talk to Jongin again.

“Your members are a little different from ours,” Moonkyu explains with the same kind tone he used on Jongin earlier; Taemin cannot understand why he’s suddenly feels like the outsider here.

“Who the am I supposed to depend on?” Jongin asks. “Joonmyun? Chen? Minseok? Chanyeol? They can’t dance to save their lives. Kyungsoo can’t give a anymore now that he’s acting, Baekhyun is decent, I’ll admit that-”

“Yixing? Are you telling me he can’t dance?”

“It’s…” Jongin sighs. “It’s not just dancing, you naïve, intolerable child. There isn’t a single person in that band, expect Baekhyun and me, with one fifth of the stage presence that Jonghyun and Kibum have. You have no idea what it feels like.”

It’s a complaint Taemin has never heard before, and he wonders when Jongin started hating s; wonders whether it’s healthy for him to carry on working like this.

He turns to Moonkyu, only to find the other nodding in agreement with Jongin. “It’s just… you got lucky, Taemin-ah. There aren’t any deadweights in your group-”

“Minho isn’t deadweight?”

“People will put up with a mediocre singer if he gives the impression that he words hard,” Moonkyu says. “And Minho has that desperate-for-approval look that makes people feel sorry for him.”

“Unlike Sehun,” Jongin adds. 

Taenin doesn't understand, doesn't get why Moonkyu is nodding along with Jongin when they're supposed to be convincing him to go easy on himself. "What does that have to do with Jongin?" 

Jongin rolls his eyes. "If they watch me, if I can keep their attention, then less people will notice Sehun being lazy or Chanyeol's lumbering dancing half a beat slower. If I can be perfect, maybe in the future when I mention that I was in EXO, people won't look at me and think 'oh, another one of those lipsyncing, overhyped losers' and maybe my life wouldn't have been a failure."

The weight of Jongin's words are too much for Taemin. He sits down slowly, uncaring that the wet grass is leaving stains on his jeans. 

He's never thought about these things before, never wondered about what he'll think about his life when he's forty and looking back. He's never had to. 

"Taemin-ah." Jongin's voice is apologetic, and he lowers himself into a crouch in front of Taemin. Taemin looks into his face and sees a thousand worries etched into the lines around his eyes. Jongin is six months younger than him, but he looks six years older.

Jongin is right; he is a child. He's been sheltered, shielded and coddled by s, his managers, his stylists and even his closest friends. When EXO disbands, whether it's tomorrow or ten years down the line, Jongin will be okay. When Hotshot disbands, Moonkyu will be okay. 

If SHINee disbands, Taemin has no idea what he's going to do. 

XXXXX

well, uhm, read and review, i guess. please let me know what you thought, i like reading your comments no matter how random they are. 

that last bit, i don't really mean any of the things jongin says about exo. i don't think jongin means most of it either, but that's up to you to interpret as a reader.