Fourteen
The Lifetime KidsThere was something so vastly upsetting about the night. The moon was frail and tender, cascading through the slight slit in the drawn curtains, building silhouettes that seemed to breathe as Taemin blinked – weary, just as fragile as the silvery glow. His breaths broke free in short, whispered rasps, and, uncontrollably, his heart climbed just to plummet, perspiration beading down his forehead, limbs tangled in a thick gauze of blankets.
When he woke up, he was crying.
Fat, salty tears slid down his cheeks as he struggled to grasp his surroundings; the guest-room of Jinki’s house, so minimalistic, so empty, so cold and raw and frightening. His eyelids flashed in quick successions, processing all with a discouraged fear. He curled his fingers around the duvet. Though his eyes played with vision, Taemin only saw the strings of his thoughts as they knotted, created nooses, and left his aching body to hang from them.
They only had a few months left.
Taemin curled up, gripped his knees, and stifled the sharp, dissonant cry that threatened him by stuffing a hand across his mouth, wheezing with an unfamiliar gasp, one that jarred his entire body. His mind was a road, and each thought a rickety vehicle, searing tyre tracks and puffing out foul exhaust. He bit his bottom lip, tasted blood, screwed his eyelids shut, but couldn’t escape the terror.
They only had a few months left, and then SHINee would be over.
He shook his head, trying to come to, body jerking when he wrapped his own thin arms around his waist, clutching the fabric of the pyjamas Jinki had left. Jinki. He was leaving. He was leaving and Taemin couldn’t stop it, nobody could stop it – but that wouldn’t end them, it couldn’t end them – could it?
Taemin sat up, panting somewhat, body becoming stricken with grief, constricted like a strangled neck. Dull hazes contorted in his vision, the dark so dominant, so oppressive, using his emotion for fodder as it tugged him, clenched him, dug in crude nails and scratched at his organs. It couldn’t end them. They were brothers, they were family, Taemin was-
Taemin was in love.
The image of Jonghyun materialized before Taemin like a spectre, phantasmal and ghostly, but divinely perfect. His eyes smiled, his crooked grin playing with the soft tan of his features, and every inch of him, from head to toe, was-
Scarred.
Taemin whimpered as the image shifted to the real Jonghyun, the hurt Jonghyun, the thing, as Minho had so aptly suggested. Taemin couldn’t lose him. He couldn’t. He needed Jonghyun, much more than the composer evidently needed him. SHINee couldn’t split, because Taemin could never, ever leave Jonghyun.
But it wasn’t just about Jonghyun.
His thoughts flashed in apoplectic dysphoria to the three other men that formed their unbreakable truce: Kibum, Minho, Jinki. s, his friends, his brothers. He couldn’t lost them, either. He couldn’t lose-
"Taemin?"
Taemin let go of the guttural sob he'd somehow managed to suppress, body wracked in shudders that undulated through his entire being. He couldn’t stop himself from crying, couldn’t help but let his guilt, his doubt, his fear, all surface, encompassing him like a glove would a hand. He didn’t care who could see him, didn’t care of the consequences – Taemin just cared that he was hurting, emotions culminating in the crescendo of a din, and that he had to somehow let them out.
“It's okay,” soothed a voice crafted by its worry, “it's okay,” and so blinding was the night that Taemin couldn't see what was happening, could only feel hands on his shoulders, the weight of another body press down the bed’s mattress, struggling to subdue him. He hawked for breath like a hungry gull, snapping upwards in undue doubt. His fist uncontrollably flared and was caught, sustained, gripped tightly, and then the breath was expelling from his lungs and the fight within him died and Taemin slumped into the arms of the man that had battled to embrace him.
“Hyung…” Taemin sobbed into Jinki’s chest, voice grated finely in over-wrought grief. His fingers clung to the singer’s shoulders for support, body still sprawled across the bed, knees curled upwards, weightless, limpid. His ear was pressed so closely to Jinki’s chest that he thought he could hear the rampant beating of his heart.
“It's okay,” Jinki reiterated, voice so gentle Taemin didn’t know it possible, “shhh, Taemin. It's okay.”
Taemin continued to cry, the world settling around him, thoughts beginning to dissipate as the mist of memories. He felt wretched, every inch of him probed and prodded by emotion’s sewing needle, and his whole body felt cold, clammy and irreversibly exhausted. He exhaled, moving his hands to burrow his head into, ridged in misunderstanding, a lack of perception. He couldn’t tell what was going on, not really, and so merely requested with drying lips, “Jinki, don’t go, don't- don’t ever go.”
Jinki stiffened, fingers catching the edges of Taemin’s hair as he it, trying to calm the neurotic younger.
“I won't,” he whispered, and somehow, these two short, succinct words calmed Taemin to a still, his breathing becoming patterned once more, the tears now speaking their own, unheard soliloquies. Taemin nestled his head into Jinki’s chest, one of the elder’s soft hands falling to his shoulder. The collarbone was sharp, protruding, though disguised by the nightshirt.
Taemin shifted the positioning of his cheek so that his breaths were untampered. Jinki was so still the maknae could have forgotten he was there, but for the way the elder's fingertips trailed on the bare skin of his arm, warm, nervous, scared to do more than brush. Taemin hummed in a wry discontentment. He was held by his brother, calmed by his brother, cared for by his brother – but he wanted to be held by another. He wanted to be held by Jonghyun.
Not just held by Jonghyun, but loved by Jonghyun, explored by Jonghyun, cherished by Jonghyun. He wanted to feel the composer’s fingers brush his skin, not Jinki’s. He wanted to feel the warmth of his narrow body, not the tepid heat of the leader's. Another tear slipped down Taemin’s cheek. He wanted Jonghyun so, so badly – but he could never, ever have him.
Taemin felt a hand brush the damp strands of hair away from his forehead, and he shifted, senses muted, reality disfigured. Jinki held him so tenderly, as if cradling a child. He didn’t seem to mind how rigid his own back was against the headboard of the double-bed, didn’t seem to mind whenever Taemin’s body flinched at another damning thought. He was statuesque, still, performing a job that was meant to be his. He was caring with selfless dignity, and Taemin admired that so greatly the thought began to lull him into the deep, drawn sketches of dreams.
He fell asleep, Jinki holding him softly.
•••
Watching;
I watched you hurt
With bated breath.
I watched you fall
And then I left.
With bated breath.
I watched you fall
And then I left.
I let you cry
And did not help.
I'll watch you die,
And do no else.
And did not help.
I'll watch you die,
And do no else.
•••
Running an errand - make yourself at home :)
Taemin blinked rapidly at the note in his hand, perched on the edge of the guest-bed like a parrot on a post, feathers ruffled, colours vivid. He gazed at it solemnly, trying to remember what had happened the night previous. He'd woken on an empty bed, the duvets creased and crumpled, the small letter placed perfectly on the pillow beside him. Taemin swallowed thickly, standing on two weak, weary legs.
In the morning-light, the guest room held an ambient allure, like the call of a subtle aria. The walls were a soft cream, the few furnishings of similar, muted shades. A stack of cardboard boxes sat flaccidly in the corner, like pensioners with sagging skin. Taemin couldn't tell whether they were empty of not, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t his place to pry, certainly not at the possessions of a man so kind.
Awkwardly, Taemin let the note drift from his fingers to the duvet, falling in time with the faint dust particles in the air, that twisted and frolicked through the pale slants of light. In the corner of the room leant a full-sized mirror, yet to be pinned to the wall. Hesitantly, Taemin padded towards it, barefoot and tacit, scared to upset the unearthly balance.
Jinki’s old, greying clothes hung from his frame like rags from a skeleton. Taemin’s arms were spindly, and the damaged ligament still held the ring-marks of purple bruises, like coffee stains on parchment. The scars were a deepening red, hue creating a gradient amidst the wisped burns and bruises. Inspecting the flesh, Taemin grimaced. His blonde hair was wavy, untamed, framing sharp cheekbones that still clung to the remnants of the previous day’s make-up. Black bags created hampers beneath his darkened eyes and his lips were sallow, cracked. He patted his fingers against them gently. Never before did he remember looking so sickly, so thin, so pallid – yet Taemin didn’t feel the cause of his condition. He wasn’t hungry, wasn’t tired, wasn’t bedridden with flu. Taemin just was.
Jinki’s old, greying clothes hung from his frame like rags from a skeleton. Taemin’s arms were spindly, and the damaged ligament still held the ring-marks of purple bruises, like coffee stains on parchment. The scars were a deepening red, hue creating a gradient amidst the wisped burns and bruises. Inspecting the flesh, Taemin grimaced. His blonde hair was wavy, untamed, framing sharp cheekbones that still clung to the remnants of the previous day’s make-up. Black bags created hampers beneath his darkened eyes and his lips were sallow, cracked. He patted his fingers against them gently. Never before did he remember looking so sickly, so thin, so pallid – yet Taemin didn’t feel the cause of his condition. He wasn’t hungry, wasn’t tired, wasn’t bedridden with flu. Taemin just was.
He lowered his head, ashamed at his image, and turned away before his doubts could fester further.
Padding out into the landing, Taemin dismissed it briskly beneath the call of morning. The pastel sunlight reflected everything differently than the sultry mood lighting of yesterday evening, of the house-warming those many weeks earlier. A clean, refreshing scent seduced the air. It was as if a new interior, a different realm. Taemin was unaccustomed to it, and the back of his neck prickled like barbed wire was piercing him.
Once he'd reached the kitchen, and taken a drink of water, and tried so hard to configure what had happened the night before, a tremulous knocking – no, not knocking, thumping - reverberated from the front door.
Taemin froze.
It couldn’t be Jinki, for the elder would simply enter, and he didn’t know whether it was his place to answer callers – it certainly couldn't be to answer callers so early in the morning, and in the state he was, yet would it be irresponsible of him to ignore it? Taemin cursed, massaging his temples as he set the glass by the sink, trying to remain calm. The root of a headache coursed through his mind. He didn’t need this, and had barely asserted his own perception of reality, never-mind having to contend with someone else’s. He wouldn’t answer, let the caller drift away, and if Jinki asked, Taemin would simply say he'd been sleeping and hadn’t heard the knock. The plan was fool-proof, simple, and almost encapsulated the stress that perforated into his very countenance until the visitor elicited a tremendous shout.
“Jinki, would you open the goddamn door!”
Taemin recognised the voice instantly.
Sighing with a resigned aggravation, he rubbed the final sleep from his eyes, vision somewhat blurry, and guided his frozen feet through to the hallway, determination focussed heavily on the door. The percussion of thudding raged like a dying fire as he rolled his shoulders, trying to think of what to say, how to act, what to ask – but coming up with nought.
Reluctantly, Taemin opened the door, the morning breeze sweeping him up like a fortress of leaves.
“Seriously, hyung, it's about ti-“
Kibum stopped as soon as he'd turned around, eyes flexing as he searched the vision of the man in front of him with an undeniable curiosity.
“Taemin?”
“Hi,” Taemin mumbled groggily, lips a taut line, body wavering slightly. Kibum blinked, the vision of revitalized handsomeness in a thick, winter coat, boasting expertly tousled hair, a juxtaposition to the maknae, who stood much like some withered plant, body crooked and skin dry. Kibum’s eyes narrowed as if trying to piece together a puzzle in which none of the segments matched, nose twitching in feverish intrigue.
“Where the hell is Jinki?” Kibum asked, straight to the point. He didn’t move to enter and Taemin didn't move to let him, both men equally confined to their own prism of thoughts, a cage they couldn’t leave, for the light refracted in too many directions, their will urging them to chart every colour.
“Running an errand,” Taemin relayed, shrugging a shoulder mildly and finally moving from the doorframe, dispelling the barrier that had so readily kept Kibum out. The rapper sighed, exasperated, and trudged through into the hallway, not bothering to remove his shoes or his coat. Taemin clicked the door shut as if the master of the house, already tense at the thought of the man who watched him keenly.
“Do you know when he'll get back?” Kibum pondered, peering around the hallway with vague recollection. The ceiling was high and his neck craned to view it as he removed his leather gloves.
“I don’t know,” Taemin mumbled, as Kibum battled with removing his right glove, fingers becoming hooked as he did so. Taemin frowned at Kibum’s distraction. Finally, when the rapper had removed the glove, it fell to the floor. He stared at it, and bent down to lift it with the opposite hand. “Hyung, did you hurt yourself?”
Kibum glanced up quickly, eyes piercing, and dismissed Taemin timidly.
“What? No, no, I- My hand is just numb from the cold.” He stuffed the gloves in his pocket, eyebrows creasing. “You don't know when he'll be back?”
“Well, he wasn’t exactly specific.” Taemin pursed his lips, unknowing what to do. There was an odd tension in the air, as if a distrust had formed between the two men present, both unsure at each other's presence. “Why are you visiting so early?” Taemin queried, rocking mildly on his heels.
“Why are you?" Kibum retaliated. “And why the hell are you in his old pyjamas?”
“I-“
Everything changed in a flicker of light and sound. Kibum blinked, eyes widening, and wobbled dangerously on his legs, which suddenly bowed, bent, and before Taemin could utter his name, the rapper had landed on the floor, eyes so glazed over they practically seethed with a briny foam. The spectacle had happened so slowly Taemin almost thought it was purposeful, until Kibum hissed, and his head clattered with a thwack from the ground, and his fingers coiled and his leg started to twitch, and his neck snaped rapidly from side to side, like his head was that of an alligator’s. The gloves fell from his pockets and he didn't seem to breathe, then breathed all at once and all too quickly, the respiration swelling his movements once he jerked, unnaturally, twitching and flinching, a cold, ashen body on the ground. He was like an undead corpse learning to feel again, and then, suddenly, a convulsion, and a sharp yelp, and his eyes burst open dramatically and he struggled to gain control of himself and couldn’t, and Taemin stood, and Taemin stared, and when he realised what the hell was going on, he was too late to help, for Kibum had stopped moving.
Nausea swarmed Taemin’s vision and he staggered backwards, then forwards, then dropped to his knees by Kibum’s side, riddled in a fear, a confusion, that held jagged limbs and great teeth. He touched his hyung’s arm tenderly, shaking it, tears threatening his vision. Kibum’s name left his throat in a reedy discourse. The sickness overlapped any rational thinking in Taemin’s gut. This didn’t make sense, this hadn’t made sense, nothing was making sense. He was on his knees, he was by Kibum’s collapsed body, and Kibum wasn't ing moving.
Taemin shook his arm gingerly, then firmly, then strongly, and desperation coursed through him, and reality became blurred, misshapen, crooked. Kibum had suffered a seizure, and now he wasn’t moving. Only sick people had seizures. Only very, very sick people.
“Kibum,” Taemin begged, feeling as useless as he was shocked, as he was terrified, “Kibum!"
The rapper stirred. Relief dawned the apocalypse within Taemin as he leant over, eyes searching, the blood in his veins halted. Kibum’s eyes fluttered open, and for the longest of moments, he just lay, trying to re-join the fragments of the world that had just shattered before him. Kibum tentatively pushed himself upwards, eyes darting in clandestine terror, lulled by Taemin’s supporting grip.
“I'm calling the ambulance,” Taemin managed, because that’s what he would do, he would call the ambulance, and the doctors and nurses would sort it, because that was their job – to fix people, to heal people, to take away their goddamn seizures. It wasn’t Taemin’s job. It was Taemin’s job to be scared, to be perplexed, and, right now, he was excelling at it. “I'm calling the goddamn ambulance,” Taemin reasserted, stumbling to his feet as Kibum’s head swayed from side-to-side. Though his eyes were open, Taemin couldn’t tell whether the rapper was truly conscious, couldn’t tell whether what was happening was even real. It didn’t seem to be. It had been so quick, so sudden, so fast-
“No-“
Taemin barely heard Kibum’s croaked protestation as he whipped his head around, looking for a telephone. There was bound to be one somewhere, there had to be a phone somewhere. Taemin tried to calm his rampaging mind as he tilted, and turned, frantically moving on the spot, for his attention was cast in too many directions. There were too many rooms, too many places, he didn’t know where to even begin and Jinki wasn't home – dammit, why wasn't Jinki back yet? – and all around was-
“Taemin, I said no.”
The maknae almost jumped from his skin when he found Kibum was standing, barely. He looked on the verge of collapse, his body slanted to one side, the strength suctioned from every organ, every muscle. Within mere seconds, everything had simply fractured.
“I-Im going to go,” Kibum stuttered, shaking his head briskly and bustling past Taemin, towards the doorway, towards the only way he could escape inspection, could escape Taemin. The maknae was prepared to die before letting that happen.
“No!” he exclaimed suddenly, blocking Kibum’s path. He held out his hands, something like a frail schoolboy preventing the wrath of a bully, and glared up at the elder with a look of intense authority. He couldn’t let Kibum go. Not like this, not after what had just occurred, and what would never leave his mind, had imprinted another scar there, a scared, intangible one.
“Move,” Kibum instructed lowly, so incredibly lethargic in stance.
“No.”
"I said move, goddammit!"
Using the last ounce of strength he had, Kibum pushed Taemin out of the way and dashed towards the door, opening it before Taemin even had time to register the manner in which he stumbled backwards, almost falling, but planting his hands on the wall for support. He exhaled in a stunned terror, never before having been treated in such a way by his hyung, never before knowing Kibum had the capability. He looked up just in time to catch Kibum twist his neck, and mutter, “Don’t you dare tell Jinki about this. Don't you dare."
And then he was gone.
By the time reality had caught up with Taemin and he'd sprinted out into the driveway, Kibum’s black car was pulling away, the rapper himself wide-eyed and determined.
Taemin stood and watched him leave, not caring about the stones that cut into the soles of his feet, not caring about the breeze that bit at him, only caring about one simple, simple thing:
Kibum had just had a seizure, and he hadn’t been able to help him.
i got a sudden burst of inspiration for this story... i really hope it lasts long enough that i can update Dx
Comments