The Last Day

Word Count: ~4200

Taemin awakes to a stranger in his bed—a stranger he is apparently married to.

Taemin wakes up, a content groan escaping his lips as he stretches his limbs. His eyes flutter open and he squints against the sunlight streaming through the blinds. For a moment, he basks in the gentle warmth of the early morning. The mattress dips at his side and it is only then he registers the arm across his torso and the nose buried in his shoulder. Taemin stops breathing.

He turns his head slowly, eyes widening as he comes face-to-face with another man. Attractive, with dark, disheveled hair, long lashes, and plump lips. Sheets pool around their waists. The man is not wearing a shirt, and neither is Taemin. He rubs his legs together and finds that he is not wearing briefs either.

His eyes fall to the arm on his stomach. Through the fogginess of sleep, Taemin notices the golden band around the man’s ring finger. Oh , he’s married, he groans, dragging his a hand down his face.

God, what the happened last night? How could he have been so wasted as to bring home a married man of all people? Since when does he even do one night stands? Yet his head doesn’t pound with the telltale sign of a hangover and though his mind runs blank when he tries to recall yesterday’s events, he feels well-rested.

Taemin looks around an unfamiliar room: endearingly mismatched cushions against armchairs, photo frames hung up on white walls. His eyes land on an open walk-in closet filled with clothes and shoes. Great. Not only did he a married man while sober, he apparently did it in said man’s home.

He carefully lifts the arm off his torso, deciding to slip away before the other wakes. At that moment, the man stirs, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes with balled fists.

“Good morning,” the man says, voice still rough from disuse. He props himself up on his elbows and turns to Taemin with a lazy smile.

Taemin raises a brow at how casual the man sounds. Doesn’t he feel the slightest bit of remorse at the fact that he slept with someone he wasn’t married to?

“Uh, hi,” Taemin manages. He’s not well-versed in one night stand etiquette, but he imagines it won’t be rude if he leaves. “I’m just gonna go.” Before I get attacked by an angry spouse, Taemin adds to himself. He begins to fold back the blanket, only to freeze at the man's next words.

“Actually, this is your house. And we’re married," the man says.

Taemin blinks. “You’re ting me,” he says with a laugh, but his laughter dies when the man doesn’t even crack a smile.

“Take a look at your left hand.”

Taemin glances down and finds a golden band—identical to the man’s—around his ring finger. He reaches out gingerly with his hand to touch the ring, not quite understanding its significance, or maybe not wanting to understand. How could he be married to a man he’s never seen before? He’s heard stories of people who wake up in Vegas and find themselves married to their one night stand, but they were just that—stories. Stuff like that didn’t happen in real life.

“I’m your husband, Taemin,” the man says when he remains silent for a beat too long.

Taemin raises his fingers to his temples, shielding the man from his view. “Okay, let me stop you right there,” he says. “I don’t know what happened last night, but I do know that it was a huge mistake, and we are not married.”

The man chuckles and Taemin wants to scream at him and hit him over the head because this is the furthest thing from a joke.

“We are married and we have been for the past eight years,” the man says, planting a hand at Taemin’s side. Taemin flinches violently when he leans close, but the man reaches past him for a photo resting on the nightstand. A frame is pushed into Taemin’s hands.

It’s a picture of him dressed in a tailored black suit and purple tie. On his lapel is a white rose, its petals unfurling outwards. He’s never seen himself so happy. He’s pressed against a man—a handsome one with dark hair and wide eyes, whose smile is even more brilliant than his own. And then he realises the other man in the photo is the same man he woke up next to this morning. Taemin lowers his eyes and finds elegant script engraved into the frame:

Taemin & Minho

You are the light of my life

Taemin wasn’t hungover before, but he certainly feels like he is now. The room tilts and spins around him and the urge to throw up rises in his throat. If he weren’t in bed, his legs would have given out beneath him.

“What the is going on?” Taemin croaks, turning to the stranger whose name is apparently Minho. He looks at the photo again. Judging by the three-tiered cake and miniature versions of themselves on top, it’s a photo of their wedding day. Yet he recalls nothing of what is supposed to be the best day of his life. It’s as though he was looking at a photo of two strangers. He’s not even sure if that’s him in the picture anymore. Photoshop, he tells himself. It has to be photoshop.

“You have amnesia, Taemin. You were in accident and hit your head hard. You wake up every morning not remembering the past decade or so of your life.” Minho’s explanation lacks any sort of annoyance.

“I don’t—I can’t believe that,” Taemin says. He tries to conjure up the faces of friends or family, but they come to him only as blurs.

Minho throws the covers away from him and swings into a seated position to rummage through the nightstand drawer. Under any other circumstance, Taemin would have taken the opportunity to admire the way the muscles of Minho’s back flexed beneath sunlight. But today, he tears his eyes away, trying to get his breath back under control.

“Here.” Minho hands him a photo album. “A few pictures we took together. It might help you.”

This isn’t real, Taemin repeats to himself, but the thought wavers when he flips through photo after photo of him and his husband. No one would go through this kind of effort to prank him, right?

He comes across a picture of him and Minho taken near the peak of a rollercoaster, just a few seconds into the fall. He is curled into himself, clutching onto the safety bar for dear life while Minho beams, one arm around his hunched form, his other arm waving in the air.

Another photo shows him and Minho at the beach at sunset, jeans rolled up and ankle deep in the ocean. They have their arms around each other’s waists, their free arms joining over their heads to form a heart.

More photos. Him and Minho sharing a kiss on a veranda. The two of them lying spread eagle in the snow. Their shadowed faces beneath bursts of fireworks. They look every bit a couple in love.

Taemin closes the album, unable to continue. The pictures mean nothing to him, not without a story behind them. There’s no affection nor nostalgia—just remorse. Who is he without his memories? No one.

He doesn’t realise he’s shaking until Minho tentatively slides an arm around his shoulders. There’s comfort in the embrace and he melts against Minho. Taemin buries his face into his husband’s chest, reaching out blindly for Minho’s hand.

“You’ll be okay,” Minho cooes, kneading the muscle of his shoulder and drawing him even closer into his chest. He gives Taemin’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve got you.”

Taemin shakes his head, growing more and more frantic with each passing moment. I'm a ing amnesiac. “No—this can't be right. You’re lying to me,” he gasps, breath stuttering. “Please don’t do this to me.”

“Hey, hey, take it easy,” Minho murmurs, nuzzling his nose into Taemin’s hair. “I’ll explain everything to you, alright? We’ll go slow.”

Taemin loses track of how long he spends in Minho’s arms. His husband comforts him by peppering kisses on his head and rubbing his back. Soothing words he can't quite make out are whispered into his ear. He tries to synchronise his breathing to the rise and fall of Minho’s chest, and eventually his whimpers quieten.

Shame sets in as soon as he calms down and he pulls away, looking at Minho shyly. He feels like he’s had a mental breakdown in front of a complete stranger, not his husband.

“Sorry,” Taemin mumbles. “I don’t know what came over me, I just…” he struggles to find the words. He was scared, disbelieving, vulnerable. He still is.

“You don’t have to apologise,” Minho says softly, brushing away the strands of hair that stick to the wetness of his cheeks. “Let’s go wash up, okay? Then we’ll have breakfast.”

Taemin nods, feeling a smidgen of relief now that he’s given concrete instructions.

* * *

Taemin watches Minho dance about the kitchen. His husband opens and closes cupboards, running his fingers over jars of dried herbs in their spice rack before settling on paprika. “You seem happy,” Taemin comments.

Minho glances at him over his shoulder to throw a smile before turning back to the skillet, sprinkling spice over sweet potato hash. He raises a piece of potato to his lips, giving it a blow before popping it into his mouth and nodding in approval. “I am.”

A pang of remorse flickers through Taemin’s chest. As a husband, he should know why Minho’s happy—a promotion at work? an event to look forward to? the weather is nice?—but he doesn’t.

Minho sets down two plates on the countertop and scoops their breakfast into them. He places the hash before Taemin and then settles into a chair.

“Today is one of your better days,” Minho says, dipping towards him to place a kiss on his cheek. His husband pulls away slowly, giving him a sheepish smile that reveals the top row of pearly white teeth.

Though he woke up next to Minho—a sign that something more intimate than a kiss happened last night—he flushes at the unexpectedly tender action. Taemin clears his throat, not even attempting to fight the way his lips twitch upwards of their own accord. “Oh? What do you mean by that?”

Minho's smile falters. The light mood flickers and Taemin's sorry he asked the question at all. Minho shifts in his seat, gives his lips a and fumbles with his fork.

“Just, you know. Some days…” Minho trails off, and Taemin waits with a creeping sense of dread for him to continue. “Some days you don’t even let me kiss you.”

Taemin wilts at his husband’s quiet admittance and despite Minho’s stature, he’s never seen anyone look so small. Minho nibbles at a forkful of hash, shoulders curled inwards and eyes downcast beneath twin fans of lashes. If Taemin could travel back in time, he’d hit himself for refusing to give Minho something as simple as a kiss.

He must have been making one hell of a face because Minho perks up and rushes to comfort him, a false enthusiasm staining his voice.

“It’s gotten a lot better, you know?” Minho says quickly. “When all this started, it was… bad—”

“Bad how?” Taemin cuts in. If having an anxiety attack is considered 'one of his better days', he wonders how he must act on his worst. He’s not really sure if he wants to know the answer to this. Minho obviously feels uncomfortable discussing this. Part of him wants to push away all his problems and just focus on the present: he’s married to a hunk of a man who loves him enough to stick with him through his recurring amnesia. But there’s a bigger part of him that won’t rest until he knows.

“Just bad, but—”

“Minho, tell me,” Taemin presses. “Please.”

“Well, sometimes you wake up screaming and crying and it takes a while for you to settle down,” Minho says, looking terribly apologetic when Taemin feels he should be the one wearing that expression, not Minho. “Sometimes you wake up with the mind of a child…”

Taemin can’t bear to look at Minho and he turns away. He breaks the egg yolk over the hash and takes a bite. Taemin’s mouth is parched dry and he tastes nothing; it takes a great effort to swallow his first bite.

Minho reaches out for his hand that rests on the table. Minho intertwines their fingers and gives him a squeeze. The warmth that emanates from their joined hands soothes the constricting in Taemin’s chest.

“It’s not that bad,” Minho says quietly. “Usually we’re okay by the end of the day. We cuddle and stuff.”

Is that supposed to make him feel better? Because it doesn’t and Taemin’s throat grows tight again as he imagines how it must feel to wake up next to the man you married—a man who recalls nothing of the past decade, or even more, of his life.

“Sometimes you even remember that I’m your husband. Like yesterday. Yesterday was nice,” Minho says. Taemin doesn’t miss the coy look Minho gives him and he snorts in amusement at the turn in conversation.

“I’m guessing I slept with you?” Taemin teases and a grin spreads across Minho’s features. “Let’s see about making it happen again tonight, hm?” he suggests in a low voice. He’s not sure where the confidence to say that came from. As far as he remembers, Minho is only husband by title—he knows nothing about the man. But Minho is so easy to talk to, and the way he looks at him with such affection is overwhelming. Taemin can’t help the words from slipping out.

Minho groans and closes his eyes as if trying to collect his bearings. “You minx. Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t mean it,” he breathes.

“Who says I don’t mean it?” Taemin says, lips curled into a tiny smirk. Thinking back on the photos he has seen, he can’t deny the intensity of their gazes as they looked upon each other. As a lover, he wants to make up for all those times he’s undoubtedly hurt Minho.

“God, Taemin,” Minho murmurs, clutching his fork so tightly that Taemin can see the whiteness of his knuckles. Minho opens his eyes and fixes him with a dark, lust-filled gaze. “The things I would do to you…”

Taemin bites his lips and averts his eyes. Minho’s voice is too sinful for words and it’s going right to his .

“Hey, can I kiss you? On the lips?” Minho asks.

Taemin swallows a laugh. y one moment, sweet the next. Somehow he finds it fitting. But it’s a bit ridiculous to ask your husband if you can kiss him and Taemin smiles sadly. Rather than answering, Taemin stands up, chair sliding back over hardwood. He leans over the table and presses his lips against Minho’s, slow and soft. If nothing at all sparks recognition in him today, then this kiss with its hint of familiarity will be enough for him. He can feel Minho grin into the kiss and Taemin finds himself reciprocating, smiling so widely that their teeth meet.

Taemin sits back down. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this—”

“I’m not the one with amnesia. You have it worse than I do,” Minho says.

Taemin waves him off. “I don’t remember anything, so it doesn’t count. But thank you for staying with me. You could have found someone else.” This is where he’s supposed to encourage Minho to look for someone that will remember the days they shared together and doesn’t flinch upon contact. He wants to tell Minho that it’s okay if he wants to find someone who can love him the way he deserves to be loved, but the words die on his tongue. Though he doesn’t know everyone in his life at the moment, Taemin can’t imagine waking up to anyone else.

Minho gives him a look that says ‘you can’t possibly be serious’. “I love you, Taemin. I vowed to stay by your side no matter what on our wedding day and I intend to keep that promise.”

Taemin’s tummy flops at the conviction in Minho’s voice. How long has Minho been saying those words to him for?

“I’m not going to leave you, Taemin,” Minho says again. “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

Taemin ducks his head, cheeks embarrassingly hot and choked up on the rush of emotion brought upon by Minho’s devotion. “Holy ,” Taemin manages after several seconds of sputtering. “How the hell did I get someone like you to fall for me?”

Minho throws his head back and laughs, eyes crinkled in delight. Minho raises his hand to his lips and presses a kiss on his knuckles and Taemin feels like he’s fallen in love all over again in the span of an hour

“I could ask you the same thing. I still don’t know what you see in me,” Minho says.

Taemin doesn’t even know where to begin. Though he hasn’t known Minho for long, he already has a long list of positive qualities. Before he can share any of them, his husband speaks:

“Anyways, eat up,” Minho prompts, nudging his plate towards him. “We’re going to the art gallery today. A good friend of ours is putting on a showcase and he’ll kill us if we’re late.”

Taemin laughs, returning to his hash. He spoons a bit into his mouth and flavour explodes in his mouth. “Oh my god, this is so good,” Taemin gasps, taking another big bite.

“Thanks. It’s your favourite,” Minho mumbles through a mouthful of food. He swallows and then says, “We could go for lunch after. Maybe catch a movie too, or something.” Minho’s voice drops a pitch: “Or maybe we could come back home… have a bit of fun on our own.”

“Mmm,” Taemin hums. He peers at Minho from beneath his lashes, heart rate picking up in his chest. “I like the sound of that.” Does it make him easy for wanting to sleep with a man he's known only for a short while? He reminds himself that Minho is no stranger, but his husband.

They exchange sly looks and a thrill of anticipation shivers down Taemin’s spine at what the day has in store for him.

They resume their breakfast in a comfortable silence. Minho initiates a game of footsie and Taemin giggles at how childish his husband is, but he nudges Minho’s legs back all the same. Their game becomes a lot less innocent when Minho trails his toes over his shin, up his thigh and dangerously close to his crotch. Taemin squirms in his seat as heat pools in his stomach. Before he can decide whether or not to buck his hips into Minho’s touch, his husband pulls away.

“That’s cruel,” Taemin huffs, giving Minho a half-hearted glare.

“Sorry, babe.” Minho grins, taking a sip of his water. “I’ll make it up to you later, okay?”

Taemin nods, wishing they hadn’t agreed to attend his friend’s showcase. After he finishes his last bite, Minho shooes him off and tells him to get ready. He tries to help Minho clean up, but Minho only kisses him atop his head, telling him that he might want a bit of time with his wardrobe. Taemin pouts, but eventually relents.

He takes the stairs two steps at a time, bursting with energy. As soon as he opens their bedroom door, a phone goes off.

Taemin turns his head, trying to pinpoint the source of the ringing. He follows the sound to a bag hung up on the door. Though he knows that this is his house and his bedroom, he still feels guilty as he roots through the bag and pulls out a phone.

The caller ID tells him that K.Y. is calling. The name doesn’t ring a bell. His and Minho’s artist friend, perhaps? Taemin answers and raises the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he says.

“Oh, thank God, Taemin,” the woman on the other line breathes, relief apparent in her voice. “I’ve been trying to contact you for days.”

“Who is this?” He racks his brain, worming through his memory for a woman who goes by the initials K.Y. Of course, he remembers nothing.

“Dr. Kwon. I’m a neurologist. I’ve been helping you with your recovery,” she says. “Is Minho there?”

A doctor? He didn’t know he had a doctor, but he supposes it makes sense. He can’t imagine Minho and himself trying to lead the rest of their lives like this.

“No. Shall I call him for you?”

“No, do not get Minho.”

Dr. Kwon enunciates the word ‘not’ with such sharpness that Taemin flinches, wide-eyed by the transition from soft lilt to snarl. He edges towards the door, deciding that calling Minho would be his safest bet. He stops mid-step when his doctor speaks:

“Taemin, I need you to go to your study for me,” she says. Her voice is level again, but there is no mistaking the undertones of urgency. The beginnings of unease toil in his gut.  

“What’s going on?” Taemin asks, brows furrowing. Who is this woman to be commanding him without any explanation? If it weren’t for the fact that she claimed to be his doctor, he would have hung up already, attributing the call to a prank. Still, he can’t shake off the feeling of how strange it is for a doctor to request a patient to go into a study of all places.

“Your books are alphabetised starting from the left side of the room—”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Dr. Kwon,” he interrupts, starting to doubt her credibility.

Dr. Kwon continues as though Taemin had never spoken. “I need you to look for The Art of War by Sun Tzu. It will answer all your questions.”

Taemin hesitates for a moment, saying nothing.

“This is important. Please trust me, Taemin. I can answer any questions you have after, but I need you to trust me and do this.”

Asking to trust a complete stranger seems a bit much, but Taemin concedes, giving the woman the benefit of doubt. He attempts to find his way to the study, smiling to himself when he hears Minho singing downstairs.

After a few wrong doors, he steps into the room. The smell of butterscotch lingers in the air and he spots a candle sitting upon a side table by an armchair. Taemin takes a moment to gape at all the books he has accumulated over the years. He recalls that he’s always been a reader, but it feels surreal to see such a large room filled from floor to ceiling with numerous titles.

Dr. Kwon calls his name and Taemin shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He walks up to the shelves, searching for The Art of War, but with so many books lining the walls and his unfamiliarity, it could take a while.

As though reading his mind, Dr. Kwon says, “It should be in the top right hand corner of the right wall.”

Taemin doesn’t ask how Dr. Kwon could possibly know this. He spots a step ladder and places it beneath the shelf, climbing onto the topmost step. Straining his reach, Taemin pulls the book from its place and hops down.

He opens the book, and to his surprise, in place of typed letters is messy blue scrawl. His own handwriting. Taemin flips to the front page. My name is Lee Taemin. I am 33 years old and an amnesiac.

“This is your diary,” Dr. Kwon says quietly.

Taemin swallows, tracing his fingers over his words—words he doesn’t remember writing. He must have pressed hard because he feels the bump of each letter in paper.

I am married to Choi Minho. Married! And to such a loving and handsome man, at that. He still can’t quite believe it. The thought of it alone makes him giddy. Maybe his diary would provide a glimpse into his life with Minho—how they first met and fell in love.

“Turn to the back. Lift the back flap,” comes his doctor’s voice and Taemin obliges.

It is then that Taemin finds a sentence—a demand—that brings his world to a shuddering halt on its axis. The unease that has prickled his skin the entire time slams into him. Just when he had achieved the smallest sense of normalcy, the facade shatters. A sick feeling rises in his chest. This couldn’t possibly be his writing. But he recognises the straight, thin letters as his. He wills the words to change shape, but still, they remain:

DO NOT TRUST CHOI MINHO

I don’t know how to write a story like this, so a continuation is unlikely. I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. I've been feeling uninspired lately and I lack the motivation to write anything more than a few thousand words, so I just wanted to get a quick oneshot out. This was originally going to be written as something fluffy and angsty, but then I saw a snippet of Before I Go to Sleep, and I thought 'why the hell not?' Thank you for your continued support, my wonderful readers ( ˘ ³˘)♥