Sometimes his mind stumbled against strange thoughts. They bumped and ground against each other, friction and quick meetings, just enough to pull a little bit of each into full consciousness. They played about in his head as he danced, guiding the extension of his arms, the bend of his bones, and the weightiness of his feet. Each fluid motion electrified by some thought, some heat, some passion from a memory burning up in the pit of his stomach. The stereo was off, no music ghosting into the small practice room or managing his movement, only the white noise of air conditioning, his own melodies, and the squeak of his sneakers against the vinyl floor.

He concentrated and repeated the steps he felt he hadn't gotten quite down. Point, pump, raise, bend, brush. Point, pump, raise, bend, brush. Again until the movement was natural like he'd been doing them all his life. Each step to him was like maintaining a habit.

Like a habit, repetition was key.

So engulfed by his routine, Jongin didn't notice the sweat that drenched his grey cotton t-shirt and ran its way down his back. He didn't notice Taemin enter the vicinity either. Nor did he notice the boy lean against the entrance's door frame, eyes intently watching him. They stayed in their own worlds for what seemed like hours, Taemin studying Jongin dance, Jongin moving, oblivious to his surroundings. It had been too long since Taemin had seen him, and the sight of Jongin caused a fond expression to alter his face. It happened every time his friend was around; it felt like everything was right. Like everything was in place. He didn't know truly why he had left him, only known the torture of it. And he was here to make it right.

"Jongin," he finally spoke up, his voice a little hoarse and unused from the initial quiet.

Jongin froze amid a particularly intense part of his dance, the momentum in his body ebbing out at the recognition of the older man's voice. A low grunt and then an even lower tone, "...Taemin."

Their eyes connected through the mirror, a noticeable spark where they met.

Jongin's stare still sent a shudder through Taemin every bit as strong as it had five years ago. He remembered.

Hip to hip, hands tangled in each other's hair, the heat and their own fluids glueing them onto each other.

"It's been a long time," Taemin sighed out as he moved closer to the figure now still and unmoving in the middle of the room.

As Taemin drew closer, Jongin took a step toward the mirror, and another, until finally his nose was almost touching the cold, reflective surface. He turned and rested his head back onto it, eyes hooded, watching the other figure advance anxiously. Lowering himself onto the floor, he straightened one leg into a stretch, his right thigh touching his chest. The lids of his eyes lowered as he clenched his fingers closed around his shin, crinkling the fabric of his jeans and bruising the skin underneath.

"What are you doing here, sunbaenim?" He muttered as coldly as he could.

Taemin cleared his throat and gave him a light half-hearted laugh, "Yah, Jonginnie, since when did you call me sunbaenim?"

The other boy didn't bother to open his eyes when he answered, "Since you stopped being anything more than that."

An ache made itself apparent in Taemin's chest, digging itself a nest in his ribcage.

"I'm...I'm sorry, J-Jongin" Taemin stuttered, "I should have contacted you. We should have talked. I left you because I was confused. I'm—"

"Don't apologize anymore. It's sickening." There was a pointed pause before the younger man continued speaking. Taemin wished he would open his eyes, but they remained closed and impenetrable, "You didn't. And we didn't. And you left. Which is all that matters now, doesn't it?"

The words that rolled out of Jongin's tongue felt like a slap in the face, the force of impact reddening Taemin's cheeks. He had no reply because it was true. Everything Jongin was saying, the feelings he was conveying with the language of his body. It all made sense. Taemin couldn't blame him for being angry, but he also couldn't accept it.

"Jongin—" His words were frozen to his lips when Jongin finally opened his eyes. They were blank. Blank and unseeing. Blank and unfeeling. Colder than Taemin had ever seen them. The fire that was usually there when he performed was all but burnt out, leaving the dark, charred charcoal of his irises.

Jongin stood up, dusting off his backside and walking to the other end of the practice room. He picked up his duffel bag, placing the strap on one shoulder before turning to face Taemin again. His intonation suggested no close relation between the two men, "If we're done here, sunbaenim, I'm leaving. I've found another dance studio to practice in. I was just waiting for you to come back. Lock the doors when you're done."

With that, Jongin threw the keys of the practice room onto the floor, the metal pieces clinking as they slid toward Taemin's shoes.

Taemin studied the shiny silver and gold pieces when they thudded against his loafers and noticed a keychain hanging off it. A picture of them, young, arms draped over each other's shoulders, smiles plastered onto their faces. There was a crack in the plastic frame it was encased in.

Glancing up, their eyes met one last time before Jongin opened the door and exited into the pallid night.

The room seemed to drown with Jongin's absence, flooding the area with tears. Water dripped down to Taemin's chin as his knees buckled beneath him. His hands were clasped around his head, fingers pulling at the roots of his hair.

Coming here was supposed to fix things.

It wasn't supposed to be too late.

He wasn't supposed to be too late.

Taemin didn't think it was possible to feel his own heart break again, but there it was; cracked, cold, and resting by his feet.