Twelve
The Lifetime KidsIt was still dark when Taemin opened his eyes. At first, he was unsure whether his eyes were lidded or not; the dark was vacuous, in stasis, and one could easily have been fooled that they were still sleeping. However, when Taemin began to blink rapidly, the shadows somewhat morphed. Moonlight found the slightest of purchases through the drawn curtains, creating nameless forms in the cavernous impasse of black. Taemin shifted with an absent grunt, moving beneath the stifling sheets and propping himself upwards. Beside him, a body rested, breathing so subtly it was practically an illusion. Tentatively, Taemin slid his hand from beneath Jinki’s. The elder didn’t stir.
I'm sorry.
Rubbing an eye, Taemin his dry lips and glanced around, trying to accustom himself to the night. He wished he could be nocturnal, have vision that let him see, let him map out his kin and prey with sufficient ease. As things stood, he felt much more the mouse than the owl. Expelling a shuddered breath, Taemin gingerly began to remove the covers from his body. For once in his life, rules, regulations and monitors did not faze him, because he had something to do, and Taemin supposed he really would be damned if he didn’t do it. Not damned by any such God or deity, perhaps, and nor even by his closest friends and family. No, Taemin would be damned by himself.
There were odd things tacked to his skin that he couldn’t see in the night. With a hiss, Taemin wrenched them off. The cold seeped in like a blood-stain, drenching his bare arms and legs. He couldn’t see, though knew he wore one of the pastel-blue hospital garments, the large, clinical type that exposed more than they hid and left him feeling somewhat like an experiment, a cadaver meant for science and discovery. Taemin shivered, smooth skin festered with icy prickles. Gritting his teeth, he rolled his shoulders, trying to urge motion into his body. It felt like he hadn't stood in days.
As Jinki mumbled something indecipherable in his sleep, Taemin inched his legs – for he had neither the strength nor conviction to do much more – over the bed, so that they dangled from the edge like two broken branches. He sat, stunned and merely half-awake, pulse only beginning to beat with a quicker purpose, a quicker rhythm. It was so late, so quiet, so still, that he felt a sinner to shatter it. Inwardly cursing at his own inability to move, Taemin slid himself off of the bed onto feet that weren’t equipped for his weight. Regret bolstered his body instantly.
He fell like an empty, cardboard box.
The night remained docile as Taemin whimpered, entire body jarred by the impact. The pain-killers still worked through him, taking the brunt of the fall, but unable to completely console the burn in the two hands that had snapped to protect his landing, nor the side that he lay on, curled in a foetal stoop. A silent tear slid down Taemin’s cheek, the floor a hard oppressor against his soft skin. Jinki coughed, but didn’t wake.
Come on, Taemin. Get up.
With a pained exhalation, Taemin rolled onto the flat of his back, hair folding across his eyes as he did so. Part of him expected a rush of nurses, a curt scold from Jinki – but neither occurred. It was as if reality had neglected him, left him to his foolish mission, for it was destined to fail anyway.
Taemin shook his head. It wouldn't fail – so long as he could stand.
Trying again, the maknae warily straightened himself into a sitting position, legs outstretched idly and arms ringing with a distant pain. The darkness was beginning to trick him, send his mind into apoplectic spirals and leave his throat like parchment. He had to stand. He had to move. Gritting his teeth, Taemin forced what felt like his last dregs of strength into his arms, and pushed himself up.
When he stood, he wavered dangerously, mind succumbing to a raging dizziness. He squinted heavily as it slowly dissipated, leaving him as a tree rocking in a strong wind, drifting uncontrollably. A bell rang dolorously at the back of his mind. Taemin bit his lips, eyes reopening.
He was standing.
Casting Jinki a brief glance, Taemin felt something cut at his heart. He could just about depict the soft curvature of the elder’s face, the sallow line of his unkissed lips. There was something so angelic about him, so peaceful, a al innocence that not even demons could repress. Taemin blinked at him fondly, before slowly taking his first step.
It was like learning to walk for the time, his movements so clumsy and numb, feet ferociously frozen across the tiled ground. Everything he did, he did with a tepid nervousness, that spread from the roots of his hair to the nails of his toes. He barely breathed, barely made a sound, as his legs jerked awkwardly around the bedside, past Jinki, towards what Taemin remembered as the direction of the door. He bit his lip. He wouldn’t make it two steps without being caught, but he had to try. Of course, he had to try.
Fumbling blindly until he reached the door handle, Taemin glimpsed behind himself one final time at Jinki, who was as statuesque as ever. The maknae gripped the handle firmly, pressed it down, and pushed open the door with exhausted strength. Opening it a slit, he slid out into an empty corridor.
Taemin blinked and shut the door with a quiet click. Twisting his head left, and then right, his mind blurred and his body swayed and he lumbered against the wall awkwardly, using it to keep himself upright, to keep himself standing, as an odd nausea contorted in his gut, unfolding arachnid-limbs and spiralling a convoluted web. When he'd blinked away the fuzzy, black spots in his vision, Taemin could have sworn to blindness at just how white the corridor truly was. Doors were dotted along the lengthy expanse, other likewise corridors causing intersections that buzzed with their own white lights, and were rancid with their own foul-smelling bleach. Taemin shivered, lungs rising and falling with rapid succession, skin clammy, pallor ashen. He stayed against the wall, the private corridor empty, malevolent. Not a sound was heard. Taemin swallowed.
Gently, he pushed himself from the wall, and couldn’t help but groan pitifully at the sight of his mangled arm. The great bruises were even darker than earlier, a variety of muted shades that contrasted darkly with the whiteness of his skin. The lacerations down his arm were deep enough to draw blood, to require stitching, and potentially to scar. Taemin looked away, entire body stiffening at the sight. If his arm looked that bad, he didn’t even want to consider how woefully marred, how bloodied and bruised, Jonghyun had become in the crash.
Jonghyun.
Taemin cursed his weakness and took another step, body jerking unnaturally. He wondered if it was the painkillers or the fact he hadn't risen in days that was causing the robotic movements, the mechanical stiffness. He couldn’t seem to place his feet, and his entire body felt every element of life turn against it. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, cold, empty. His heart clattered against his chest as he continued onwards, fingers curled, bony form determined. He would find Jonghyun’s room, no matter how long it took. He would find it, and he would stay there for however long-
“Taemin?”
Taemin fell just in time for the man that darted forwards to catch him in those strong, muscular arms of his, elapsing like a fickle leaf into his warm embrace, legs buckled, arms limpid.
“Taemin, oh my God,” breathed the man, supporting Taemin’s weak form with a hug that the maknae succumbed to with ease. Burying his head into the man’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around him to reciprocate the hug, Taemin began to cry.
“It's okay,” soothed the man, “it's okay,” and as he Taemin’s hair, for once, the maknae wasn’t embarrassed at being held, at being treated like an insolent, over-ambitious child – for he supposed, really, that’s what he was. Lifting his head so as not to stain Minho’s jacket further, Taemin stared helplessly at the ground behind him, where a take-away cup of coffee lay, dejected, contents an oasis across the floor. Minho had dropped it.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Minho exclaimed, parting them slightly, but making sure to keep a strong hold on Taemin’s shoulders, lest the dancer fall once again. Taemin diverted his gaze to Minho’s solemn face, eyes wet and worried, before warbling a reply impossible to configure and slumping against the elder’s chest again. He was done, and his fight was most certainly over.
Jonghyun would have to wait.
“What the hell are you doing here..?" Minho repeated rhetorically, sighing heavily and hanging his head low. “You need to rest, Taemin.”
“No…” Taemin managed, voice muffled by sleep and by Minho’s large sweater. “No, I need to see Jonghyun.”
The maknae felt Minho stiffen.
“Later,” the elder spoke into his hair, with a resigned tone, a backwards one. “Not now, Taemin. Not now.”
“Why not?” Taemin managed, his rebuttal reflective of his pallid face as he pushed himself away from Minho, inspirited by a slight anger. The rapper looked tired, as if hypnotised and caught in some kind of fatalistic vision. He eyed Taemin carefully, forehead ridged with lines of worry and lips downturned, uncertain.
“Because, Taemin- because it's late, and you're- Well, look at you! You can barely stand, I-“ Minho cut himself off as Taemin uncontrollably took a step backwards, steadying himself with Minho’s outstretched arm. The corridor was so damn white – everything was so damn white.
“But it you're visiting me,” Taemin argued, “why can't I see him? Why can't I-“
“Because you don't want to!" Minho raged. “Trust me, Taemin, you don’t want to.”
Taemin flinched, his throat constricted, and then-
Still.
•••
Clock Hands;
I'm indifferent to the time
That passes when I forget to touch it.
Seconds fleet, minutes
Dash, come on, come on, come on
That passes when I forget to touch it.
Seconds fleet, minutes
Dash, come on, come on, come on
To the light,
Where all we see are the remnants
Of those dusty, broken
Clock hands.
Where all we see are the remnants
Of those dusty, broken
Clock hands.
•••
It had taken considerable persuasion to get Taemin inside the car. As Jinki drove, he did so slowly, and would intermittently peek at the passenger beside him. Taemin was always motionless, always pale, always rigid. He hadn’t spoken a word, and nor had he moved his eyes from the hazy miasma in front of him – a miasma that blurred by, drifting through his fingers before he could snag it.
“Do you want the radio on?”
Taemin shook his head once, but it was enough. Jinki nodded and reverted his eyes to the busy road, careful not to upset the hive of traffic. Taemin was paralysed, right down to the very strands of his hair.
“You know,” Jinki began, shifting the gears, “when you were in hospital, Minho was acting so moody. No matter what I did to try cheer him up, he'd just get all… agitated, and he kept visiting you at the oddest of times – y’know, because of his schedule – and it just made me think that- well- You really are a little brother to him, Taemin. You really are to all of us.”
Taemin swiped his hair away from his eyes and glanced down at his shaking hands. The light was dim in the car, and did little to map out anything of worth to stare at. The only thing interesting enough to warrant attention was the driver, however Jinki’s inspirited tone fell shorter on his countenance, and that revelation unnerved Taemin – how a man could sound so happy, but look so morose. It unnerved him almost as much as each passing car.
“What I’m wondering,” Jinki continued absently, taking a right at the next junction and causing Taemin to curl inwards slightly, retracting from the sight of the other vehicles on the road, “is what was the food like? The hospital food, I mean. Remember that time I hurt my ankle last year? At the concert? When I was in for the night, the food was… Bad.” Jinki grimaced at the memory, refocussing his divided attention between Taemin and the road almost instantly, as if a dysfunctional drill determined to work.
“It was okay,” Taemin answered vaguely. Truthfully, the maknae didn't know if it was okay, or if it was the most amazing food to ever have been served, for he hadn't tasted a bite of it. Each dry morsel had turned to lead on his tongue.
“Ah, you've always been less fussy than me anyway,” Jinki mused. Taemin smiled politely, though emptily, and kept his gaze down. He couldn’t look out of the window, not now. This route was too familiar to him, for all the wrong reasons.
“Taemin, do you- do you remember what happened? During the crash, I mean.” Jinki’s voice was gentle now, a cascading serenade, an orchestra in-turn with the atmosphere it served to protect. Each lilt in his dulcet voice was another plucked string, and Taemin could have listened to it forever, just talking, just speaking, just taking his mind from reality.
“No,” Taemin replied sullenly, “no.”
Jinki tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
It took them a further twenty minutes to arrive. All-the-while, Jinki had posed conversations Taemin did little to inspirit; questions on the week-ahead and comments about how foolish Minho had been during Taemin’s hospitalisation were picked from the flowerbed of Jinki’s profound friendliness, but Taemin had neglected them for the soil beneath. Jinki was only trying to distract the maknae from what was to come, though nothing, not even his subtle conversation, could sooth the undulating fear in Taemin’s gut.
The familiar sound of tyre on gravel pricked Taemin’s ears as the car swiftly rolled up to the driveway of the idyllic, suburban house. It was picturesque, pristine, a family haven with trimmed, green grasses and an air of the sought-after ‘good-life.’ Flowers rose out-of-season in the quaint garden and the modernist touches of the exterior were intersected by a vintage portfolio of red brickwork and distressed benches. Taemin blinked at it with fluttering eyelashes, nervousness pinning his back to the leather seat of the car, reminding him that the house was mainly a guise for something he dreaded seeing.
“Just remember,” Jinki mumbled, switching off the ignition and quieting the area to an eerie stupor, “he's still Jonghyun.”
Jinki exited the car, and a moment later, Taemin followed.
Outside, the breeze was brisk, autumnal, and billowed at the corners of the brown, denim jacket he wore. It wasn’t his own – rather, it was Jinki’s – and so was marginally too big for his narrow frame. His hair also drifted gently. It was platinum now, wavy, cut stark against his high cheekbones, almost as pallid as his blemish-free skin. They passed Minho’s car as they made their way to the front door, Taemin’s movements slow, concise. There was something unnatural about the gardens, something that worked in lieu of his own anticipations. A juxtaposition of light and dark, perhaps, the outside world a mere attempt to try dampen the harrowing feelings ripping through his stomach. Taemin clenched his fists. He was overreacting – of course he was. As Jinki had so blatantly put, he was still Jonghyun.
Jinki ascended the doorstep and knocked the door in three rapid-successions, before taking a step back and waiting. He looked ethereally handsome today. His hair was swept lazily, albeit fashionably, intersected by new hazel highlights, and he was dressed comfortably in a dark jacket and green sweater. Even his scent was appealing – coconut, so soft and comfortable. Taemin wondered how a man could seem so warm by appearance alone.
The door opened and Minho blinked down at them from the doorstep.
“Ah!” he exclaimed happily, stepping aside so they could enter. “You made it!”
“Fool,” Jinki joked, rolling his eyes before wandering through the open doorway just as Taemin caught the reason for his slander. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the maknae cracked a small grin.
Minho stood, eyes glinting almost manically, shirt covered in a myriad of mixing stains, hands matching the apparel. His hair was untamed and wild, and his forehead had a dusting of white powder across it, as if a child who didn’t yet know how to wash his own face. He smiled widely at Taemin, before ushering the dancer inside with a sweeping gesture.
“I know, I know,” he confessed, as soon as Taemin had entered the homely hallway. “I'm a mess.”
“What in God’s name have you been doing?” Jinki asked, cocking his head and slipping off his jacket as Minho shut the door with his back. Jinki hung the jacket over the banister of the mahogany staircase, immediately treating the familial abode as if it was his own home. Taemin understood why, for not only had Jinki visited here for years, the home itself exuded a healthy, happy, harmonious atmosphere, and gave everyone who stepped through the front door a feeling of contentment and worth. He mimicked Jinki’s actions, revealing the large, beige jumper he wore, that draped from his body as if he was all-but skeletal. Minho cast him a glance, but said nothing, preferring instead to answer Jinki’s sceptical question.
“Well…” Minho began, ruffling his own hair and pursing his lips thoughtfully, “I decided as a gesture of good-will and health and everything that I'd make some of my speciality ramen, and hyung said that was cool so I headed into the kitchen, but, well, things went a little- wrong…”
Minho trailed off just as a another voice entered the fray, a shout from the next room.
“A little bit wrong is an understatement!”
Jinki’s eyebrows raised as Minho retorted with a loud, “Shut up!” Beneath his breath, he jokingly murmured, “That bastard.”
“Kibum’s here?” Jinki asked, the surprise evident in his voice. “I didn't see his car.”
“I gave him a lift,” Minho sighed, leading them both into the living room as if the master of the compact, yet tasteful, house. “He's too lazy and too tight to spend the money on fuel to drive himself here.”
“Aish,” Kibum muttered, “watch it, frog-face.”
Taemin chortled slightly, and for a moment, he was fooled into believing the illusion was real, more than false and phantasmagorical. It shattered as soon as his eyes made contact with the man Kibum sat by.
The world seemed to spin then, in a slight maelstrom of its own. Tides passed and swept away the dainty decorations of the lavish living room, the aroma of the decadent scented candles and the sights of every little art-piece and ornament that would have conjured the idea that such a room belonged to an art-collector, not an idol and his loving family. As Jinki rushed forward in greeting, Taemin remained standing, clutching the sleeves of his over-sized sweater, eyes wide and wet, lips turned and worried.
Jonghyun.
The composer shook Jinki’s hand warmly in greeting, and accepted the awkward hug that came his way. They exchanged kind words and the smallest of smiles, their first time seeing one-another outside of the hospital perimeter, and their hands remained clasped for the briefest of moments, as if Jinki was transferring a transcendent strength to Jonghyun. Then they let go, and Jonghyun’s eyes drifted to Taemin, and the maknae wanted to speak, but couldn’t find the words. None existed that he could make sense of, for this wasn't Jonghyun.
The man was frail, tender – still strong and toned, however more slender than Taemin remembered. He sat on the turquoise sofa, trying his best not to wince every time he shifted, every time he moved. One of his hands was badly crippled, wrapped in a gauze that could do little to stop the coalescing pain, and his stance was meek, arachnoid. The broken bones didn’t matter – the broken bones were temporal. It was everything else that wasn’t.
With his sleeves rolled up, Taemin could just about make out the end of the horrible disfigurement across Jonghyun’s right arm. The wool of the jumper hid the worst of the burn, but Jinki had already warned Taemin of just how wretched the mark was; it travelled from the base of his elbow to his shoulder, a series of pink and brown ridges in the tanned skin, like a mottled collection of bottle-tops. It wasn't the only burn, either, according to the leader. The rest were just hidden. Hidden, but permanent.
It was the composer’s face that caught Taemin’s heart the most. The other burns he could hide, and the other injuries would fade, but there were two the composer could not escape naturally, and they were the two cases of scarring across his once-handsome face – one a long, thin line that cut from his forehead through his left eyebrow, inches from the eye, and the other a dark, malevolent burn across his cheek, marring his skin horribly and causing the skin there to clump in horrendous, little shelves. Taemin wanted to look away, but found that he couldn’t. He knew now, that in the eyes of most, Jonghyun was no longer beautiful. He was burnt, he was scarred, he was ugly. Taemin lowered his head, blinked back the remnants of tears, and lifted his head with his best attempt at a smile. It came out forced, like the face of a painted marionette.
“Hello, hyung.”
“Hello, Taemin.”
Jonghyun smiled as he stood, and Taemin couldn’t help it. Not caring about the others, not caring about his protesting mind, he threw himself at Jonghyun and wrapped the elder in a hug that sent a hiss through his teeth, and then Taemin caught himself on, almost cursed himself as he pulled away, for the impact had hurt Jonghyun, had damaged the multitude of scars and the little, sprained bones all across his body – but then, it seemed, Jonghyun didn’t care, and he reeled the maknae back in to reassert the hug. Taemin’s entire body stiffened as he buried his head into Jonghyun’s shoulder. He hadn't seen the elder since the crash.
“I'm sorry,” Jonghyun whispered, so quietly, so silently, that Taemin knew the others wouldn’t pick up on it. His heart thudded in his chest, and he felt Jonghyun’s only strong hand on his back, rubbing it slightly, as if he was the one with the injured body, as if he was the one who needed comfort, as if he was the one who, until mere days ago, had been in a state of comatose.
Suddenly, Taemin felt himself droop slightly, felt the fight leave his body and the will to move evaporate. Despite everything, hugging Jonghyun felt right, felt complete. His heart thundered and his cheeks flushed and his head began to swarm with the bridges of alternate futures, and though the composer had hugged him before, there was nothing of more worth to Taemin than this hug. Jonghyun was safe. Jonghyun was alive.
And he still really, really did love Jonghyun.
“Guys, if you want to be all loved up,” Kibum muttered sarcastically, “then get a room, seriously.” Catching on, Jonghyun parted them with a shrug, and Taemin rubbed his own eyes, snatched back from his dream-scape. He almost recoiled at the sight of Jonghyun’s mauled face – not because it was horrifying, but because he still didn’t expect to see it. He expected the handsome, tanned pallor, the large, feline eyes – the features that made Jonghyun so entrancing. Instead, there was an ashen complexion, and two eyes that struggled to open in the midst of such life-changing injuries. Taemin blushed, realised he was staring, and looked away.
“Anyhow, yeah, so, the ramen isn’t going great,” Minho interrupted, and Jonghyun chuckled fondly. He sat back down, Taemin watching him with caring intent, noticing how stiff he seemed to be, like a door that wouldn’t quite close. It created a timid embroil in the maknae’s gut, a swathe of worries that couldn’t be assuaged. Jonghyun’s injuries cut further than skin-deep. That much was obvious.
“I say we order pizza,” Kibum sighed, mouth widening into a yawn. The rapper flaunted wavy, brunette hair and radiant skin, and Taemin watched him with narrowed suspicion, for he almost seemed too normal, too confined to a happy delirium. An act, a stage, a show for the masses – Kibum was so damn good at deception that Taemin often couldn’t tell truth from a lie.
“I say we make Minho eat his ramen, and the rest of us have pizza,” Jonghyun agreed, his throat croaked. “He wasted my mum’s ingredients, after all.”
“True,” Kibum nodded, “okay, so- we get pizza, and Minho… You just… Go eat your ramen.” Kibum waved him away flippantly with a manicured hand, and Minho swatted it, not succumbing to Kibum’s pestering.
“Not a chance. Also, you're helping me tidy.”
“What?!” Kibum exclaimed, eyebrows raising comically. “Why me?”
“Because,” Minho muttered pointedly, “you're a dickhead.”
As Kibum murmured something indecipherable, Jinki and Jonghyun chuckled merrily. Taemin was the only one silent. Jinki had warned him, and Taemin had paid heed, but nothing had prepared him, not really. In hospital, due to all his tests, all his routines, he hadn't been allowed to see Jonghyun. Now, reunited, Taemin couldn't take his eyes away – they were stuck, hung in a bandage of thick, irreversible terror. Jonghyun would never be the same again, never look the same, and in a career like theirs, the outward appearance meant even more than the inward. Jonghyun caught him looking, and offered a smile baring scant reassurance.
“Pizza, then,” Jinki nodded, taking control – as was his way. “Pizza, Taemin?”
Startled, Taemin diverted his eyes to Jinki, who now perched warily on the arm of a chair that matched the luxurious sofa, and stuttered, “I- uh- yeah.”
“Okay, we'll go order,” Jinki decided, “and tidy the kitchen. Minho, Kibum – kitchen.”
“What?” Kibum reiterated, tone lathered in protestation. “Hell no!”
“Kitchen,” Jinki repeated heavily, “now." Kibum caught on in an instant – but so did Taemin. Jinki was trying to give him and Jonghyun some time to reacquaint, alone.
“Come on, dickhead,” Minho pushed, grabbing Kibum by the arm and tugging him to his feet. Kibum mumbled something indiscreetly about Minho being the world's greatest bastard, to try keep up Jinki’s obvious ploy, and soon all three men had vanished, shutting the door behind them – but not before Jinki had given Taemin a slight nod of encouragement. When they had disappeared, silence distilled any calm left within the tepid room. Taemin bit his lip, feeling every drop of blood that ran through his veins, and stiffly sat on the chair opposite Jonghyun. His palms were already slick with sweat, lungs expelling exhalations just to seize up, grasp his sanity, and squeeze any sense of normality until it could barely respire.
“I like your hair,” Jonghyun commented kindly, voice so thick, so saccharine. “Very Danger, it suits you. I always liked your hair that style.”
“Yunkyung said I should change it,” Taemin muttered absently, picking with a thread in the armchair, “to show I wasn’t, y’know- to show that I'm okay. He probably told the others to do the same.”
“What's the statement right now?” Jonghyun asked. “The company, what are they saying?”
“'Jonghyun has awoken healthily from his coma and is receiving further treatment for his injuries',” Taemin rhymed off, eyes heavy. “So many fans are sending letters and cards.”
“I know, it's… Haha, it's crazy.”
“I know.”
“What about you?” Jonghyun asked curiously. “Are you… Are you holding up okay?”
“Of course, hyung.”
“Good.”
A loud clatter resounded from the kitchen, a symphony of dropped pots and pans, and Jonghyun chortled, like an amused parent.
“They're still like kids,” he joked, shifting slightly on the seat. Uncontrollably, he winced.
“Always,” Taemin replied. “Kids for a lifetime.”
“The lifetime kids,” Jonghyun rearranged. “Makes sense.”
“Yeah.”
“I don't really feel like a kid anymore,” Jonghyun continued. He spoke profoundly, as if a detective collating evidence on the simplest of murders. “I feel- I just… I feel old, now.”
“You're hardly old, Jonghyun.”
“Yeah, but I feel it, and, besides, my movements are so stiff I may as well be.” He offered a snipped laugh at his own joke, but Taemin didn’t. The maknae remained silent, nervous, stunned. Every moment he glanced at Jonghyun, the seams of reality unravelled further. Jonghyun had always been so captivating, so beautiful. Taemin clenched his fists.
Jonghyun was still beautiful.
“Taemin,” Jonghyun began slowly, eyes distracted by the flat-screen television at a diagonal to where he sat, “Yunkyung wants me to get surgery, to get rid of the scarring – or, at least, most of it. But I don't want to.”
“What?” Taemin retorted, snapping his complete attention back to Jonghyun. “What do you mean you don't want to? Isn't getting rid of the scars a- a good thing?”
Jonghyun shrugged a shoulder dismissively, before moving to stand – a struggle, given the way his right hand was uselessly curled and the fact that each burn across his body seem to rage with unwavering mania whenever he provoked them. A deep frown riveted across his gaunt features as he balanced upon two feet, Taemin watching, clasping a heart fetid with emotion. His eyes wanted to prick with tears but he found the occasion too dismal to think for it. In the kitchen, a cacophonic laughter was heard, abundant as a cornucopia. Jonghyun smiled briefly as he stood, small, narrow, wavering on his two feet.
“Come here,” he instructed, and so, blindly, Taemin did.
The maknae pushed himself upwards hesitantly, a low whistle escaping through his teeth as his bruised arm panged with a spike of pain, like a jouster’s lance tearing through his skin. It was temporal, however, and flitted from grasp as soon as he shook it out, taking a meagre step towards Jonghyun, who watched with well-meaning anticipation. The composer didn’t hold his usual scent, his soft signature of strawberry or coconut, and instead held an aura somewhat clinical, of hospitals and bleach and medication, like he'd never truly left his ward. A coldness seeped through Taemin as Jonghyun beckoned him closer, and closer, until they were but a few feet apart, intently gazing at each other with the faintest of interests. Taemin didn’t know what Jonghyun wanted – however, he knew his heart and mind and body were beginning to spiral, flex in maddened pirouettes that laced together every raw emotion: Regret, worry, wonder, fear, guilt.
“Everyone seems so scared of my scars,” Jonghyun spoke, almost a whisper, as his eyes tore over every inch of Taemin’s porcelain face, so searching. The maknae stiffened, cast his eyes downwards, and began to play with the sleeves of his jumper. “It's like I'm a new person just because my face is- just because I-“
He stopped himself, and Taemin felt his own lungs seize, as melancholy as a broken violin.
“I'm still me, Taemin, and these scars are me. I'm not changing them.”
“But why?” Taemin pressed, gaining the courage to look back up. An odd nausea swelled in his gut at the sight of the flaking skin across Jonghyun’s cheek, the deeply ridged scars piercing across his eyebrow, his nose. “If you can get rid of them, why wouldn't you?”
“Because,” Jonghyun began tersely, gritting his teeth, “because I deserve them.”
“Bull-“
“I almost got us killed-“
“Jonghyun-“
“And if this is the only repercussion, then I will take it. We are so, so lucky, Taemin. Or, at least, I am. I could have killed you!”
“But you didn’t, and this- this isn’t your fault.”
“I parked my car in the middle of a junction!” Jonghyun exclaimed, gesturing wildly as Taemin flinched backwards, pulse surging, mind struggling to grip the elapsing walls around him. “How is it not my fault?”
“The other driver didn't stop to check if there were any other cars,” Taemin reasoned, “if they had, we wouldn’t be in this mess! This isn't- it's not your fault, so stop blaming yourself.”
“Stop denying it,” Jonghyun bit back, and then his eyes slackened incredibly, and his lips tugged downwards, and he took a step towards Taemin, suddenly, wrought with emotion. Placing one hand on Taemin’s shoulder, he lifted the other, broken one to the maknae’s face, but did not touch it, as if a flower he was scared to upset the petals of. “I could have killed you,” Jonghyun breathed. His voice was so incredibly weak, weaker than a dying patient.
“But you didn’t,” Taemin returned steadily, finally managing to hold Jonghyun’s gaze in his own. No matter how tampered, how scarred, how mauled the elder’s skin, nothing could ever retract the beauty in his two large eyes, that still sparked with all Taemin loved – and, subsequently, all that he hated.
“How can you forgive me so easily?” Jonghyun pressed, and Taemin could have sworn the elder moved closer then, shortening the distance between them. Time stilled, sound stopped, and the world lilted to an ajar state of quiescence. Once again, the only two people to exist were the maknae and the composer. “I got you in hospital, got myself in a coma, I-“
“Because,” Taemin murmured, “this isn't your fault, and I-I care about you too much to let this ever change that.” Taemin blinked, surprised at his own words, surprised at his own conviction.
“What happened,” Jonghyun continued, neglecting Taemin’s emotive hand and instead dwelling on his curiosity, “after the crash, what happened? Who found us? How?”
Behind them, the door burst open and they parted in a flash, two nervous students caught smoking on school grounds. Taemin began to wring his wrists in his shaking hands and Jonghyun scratched the back of his head, tense, awkward, annoyed at the blatant interruption.
“Good news!” Minho chimed. “Clean kitchen.”
“Yeah, sparkling,” Kibum muttered sarcastically, slipping in behind Minho. Jinki trailed behind them, skin slightly flushed, eyes emboldened with a tired glint. “However,” Kibum prolonged, “now we've another problem.”
“What?” Jonghyun asked kindly, eyebrows raising.
“Who the hell is going to open the door for the pizza delivery guy?” Kibum folded his arms as he perched on the arm of the sofa, head tilted, skin radiant.
“I think,” Minho offered, “this calls for a disguise, and I know the perfect guy to wear it.”
Slyly, his eyes drifted to Taemin, and a coy smirk played on his lips. It was Taemin’s turn to dress-up. The maknae rolled his eyes, reluctant, as a chorus of childish laughter entered the stage.
It was funny how things could change so quickly, and funny how he was often the centric player.
i got a sudden burst of inspiration for this story... i really hope it lasts long enough that i can update Dx
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