One
The Lifetime KidsTaemin was a quiet soul. He didn’t fret over what he couldn’t see and would never reimburse the climes of conversation if it meant adding his own hoarse voice to the fray. Observe, listen, reflect and discover – a routine that required little in the way of speech, required little in the way of sound. A transience of youth, he supposed, more akin to the young caught-out than the adult of the social-scene, but that was Taemin, and he was Taemin, and therefore it only made sense to him to be as he was – like Taemin.
However, it seemed life didn’t allow him the opportunity to be as himself as he wished.
To his right, a childish laughter emanated, and Taemin smiled – a broad smile, a convincing smile, one that piqued his expression and left him bewildered at his own audacity to deceive. He'd never been a good actor, not prone to impress with the theatricality of drama, but here one would almost be certain he was as candidly happy as his façade leant hand to. His eyes shone that signature radiance and his feathery hair curved around that pallid skin of his, and he supposed the world would view him as they always did, as ethereal, as aesthetically-pleasing, even if he tended to disagree. The only slight give-away that his demeanour wasn’t as wholesome as he portrayed was the way his body curled inwards on itself – reclusive, unsure – and how his eyelids would occasionally flicker, heavy and restless, after a night of sleepless ponderings.
"Yah, Taemin-ah is the worst cook,” reasoned the beholder of the laugh, “by far.”
The voice was as distant as Taemin’s will to comprehend it as he allowed his earlier caffeine-boost (coffee, black) to inspirit his lilted reply, a mumble of the arduous whilst he beggared to play towards his audience. He wondered just how many times he'd been cited as the worst cook by now, wondered on how many occasions would the marvel of his culinary skills become of lacklustre interest.
"Taemin-ah could burn water he's that impossible,” chuckled another of the conversation’s participants, drawing an uncapped laughter from the scintillated audience. This voice was velvet; dulcet, soothing and incredibly mellifluous, Taemin didn’t mind hearing it, for it was close to a massaging hand on his shoulder, a comfort to rid the stiffness from his weary bones. It was just words, however. Simple words.
"Well, that’s if he actually figures out how to boil the water in the first place,” was the sarcastic remark offered from the conversation’s third participant, his voice as sly as his feline eyes as he explored the depths of his own blatant humour.
"Ah,” Taemin sighed, breaking himself from the constraints of his own reality to delve into others’, “that's unfair! My cooking isn't that bad.” It was true, his kitchen-expertise wasn’t as dire as one would expect, however the audience weren’t aware of that; to slip-up once was to spark interest in an image that would serve to endear others towards him. A lopsided chef was more endearing than an efficient one, if the guise was worn by the right man. Taemin was, seemingly, the right man.
"That's true, Taemin-ah did make nice ramen once, I remember.” That voice again, befitting of the softest of skins, the most serendipitous of skies. It calmed Taemin like Winter subdued Autumn. He breathed in slowly, allowing it to wash over him, to soak his veins and douse the amethyst that trembled there in bliss.
"It was delicious!” Taemin exclaimed excitedly, injecting his words with an ardent enthusiasm. He flicked a strand of dark hair behind his ear, grazing his eyes across the four men beside him. One was tall, with a charmer’s smile, and one was mysterious, clothed in perfume and sophistication. One was homely and familiar, and the last – the furthest from Taemin – was small and amiable, with a grin that beckoned reciprocation as soon as he donned it.
"It was okay,” argued the man with the charmer’s smile, features ever-handsome as he scanned the crowd with that look of adoration he seemed to flaunt so well; Taemin had come to learn that, although the man was an accomplished actor, such looks of joy were never scripted. They were real, they were transparent, and they seemed to render even what he was saying as obsolete. It was a simple pleasure for the attention, the love, and the fact that, even in just a few broken sentences, he could exchange such feelings with strangers.
"No, not okay,” disagreed the homely one, the familiar one, “I'd say more passable.”
"Aish, it was nice,” reinforced the serenading voice, “it was nice.”
Taemin smiled. He would take that.
To his right, the vibrant as-she-was short presenter rallied another question from the cobbles of her understanding. Though humorous, entertaining and cataclysmically insightful, the woman’s attitude was one that served for that purpose only – to entertain. Offstage and in-private, she was irreversibly obnoxious, her over-played tangents and ludicrously high-pitched voice becoming at one with the stifling heat that often accompanied dressing rooms or stage set-ups. Taemin could appreciate her suitability for screen, but couldn’t gauge her suitability for reality quite as highly.
As she chimed an over-exuded shrill of bashful compliments towards the members, Taemin peeked up, for just a second, to match eye-line with the entrancing crowd before him. From his elevated position on the stage, and due to the dimmed lights shrouding the spectators, most of the glinting faces were lost in a morphed culmination of form and shape. He couldn’t pick out any one person, couldn’t take snapshot of a face to remember. It was as if staring at a caged animal he knew was staring back, but was so confined to its darkness that it could do no more. Taemin smiled brightly. Even if he couldn't see them, they most certainly observed him, hawk-eyed, searching, analysing his every slight movement with the care given to school-studies.
"And how about you, Taemin-ssi?” Taemin whipped his head to stare at the gaudily-clothed presenter, almost wrapped in the aura of obliviousness. It was only the quick-thought of the coy voice from afar that saved him, as someone answered in Taemin’s place.
"He's not really good with fashion, he's more…”
"He'll wear whatever he wants,” interrupted another. “To Taemin, airport fashion is a time to dress like he would at home.”
"Or a time to wear hideous shoes,” continued the conversation-saver. As the audience capsized into a sea of yawing laughter, Taemin felt the blush seep into his cheeks, unable to stop it despite the many years of experience that would believe he could do otherwise.
"That’s not fair,” he interjected, in partial glow of cheer and wonder. “That’s not fair at all.”
"No,” murmured the charming one, “it is. Recently, Taemin decided to treat himself to a pair of designer shoes… Unfortunately for Taemin, designer doesn’t always mean nice."
“Or fashionable,” elaborated the most mysterious of the five men, the most visually captivating, in Taemin’s mind. Taemin supposed if he hadn't known aught on the man who spoke, the snide tone would have almost insulted him; however, such misgivings were just Kibum’s way, around friends and strangers likewise. He meant no ill-meaning, and so Taemin couldn't find it within himself to fall sick at the words.
"Taemin-ssi, defend yourself!” the presenter prompted, knowing silence could not equate to viewership from the quiet maknae. Her approach was amicable as she offered an enthusiastic nod – a nod that said Go on! as if a lecture to the young.
"I just wear what I want,” Taemin shrugged, an awkward grin forming on his flushed cheeks. The man beside him rested a strong hand on his shoulder – friendly, protective – and leant in to help shield his dongsaeng’s image from ruthless incarceration. Choi Minho was gentle that way, empathetic, unlike so many of his hyungs. At the contact, the uproarious mantra from the crowd heightened, to dampen as soon as Minho removed his hand, and Taemin stiffened. Like that, it was difficult to be close. Like that, it was difficult to be human.
“What you want to wear isn’t what we want to see, Taemin-ah,” jabbed the one with the serene voice. His tone was riveted with the offspring of humour, and when Taemin glanced over, he couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of the man he observed. Blonde hair exposed gaunt features with an ardent blessing of beauty; full lips, high cheekbones and clear, tanned skin, giving way to the widest of hazel eyes and the most crooked of rampant grins. Before he looked too long, Taemin quickly twisted his neck, to once again watch the presenter, to once again endorse an act he'd spent too long endorsing. She wittered witlessly and offered occasional respite by way of a mild-humoured game, but all-the-while, the only thing Taemin truly heard, the only thing Taemin truly saw, was the saccharine voice and the beauty-kissed features of the blonde.
•••
Ardour;
At first I thought beauty
Was made for the quick,
And would fragment with time as
Skin did with sun.
Was made for the quick,
And would fragment with time as
Skin did with sun.
But then, as I thought,
I cast eyes to your ardour;
It lasted further than
The sun did on earth.
I cast eyes to your ardour;
It lasted further than
The sun did on earth.
•••
“Jinki-hyung.”
No answer.
"Jinki-hyung."
Lee Jinki cast his eyes from the vapid wall he was staring at to simply latch them on to Taemin. His expression bore breath of exhaustion as his body slumped against the threadbare chair, like the hook of a cane, or the lace of a shoe. Dry lips taut and eyes suffragist to tiredness, he was the exact opposite of the man he'd been on stage only moments before. Taemin was used to this, however, and instead of pursuing the embalming of the halcyon, he offered Jinki a clear bottle of water with an outstretched arm. He'd found them, somewhere, purposely hitched in place by the staff.
Jinki reached out and grabbed it with hands almost tender; though over four years Taemin’s senior, his skin was so soft, so subtle, that one could point to him being just as young as the twenty-three year old dancer. Nodding silently in thanks, Jinki unscrewed the cap and took a swig of the tepid liquid, hoping to expound the sandpaper texture that coated his throat.
"Where are the others?” Taemin asked, glancing around the dressing room with an odd discontentment. It was only Jinki and Taemin in here, no members or managers to add sustenance to the crowd, however their belongings were strewn across the room like unkempt weeds in a spring garden. Taemin saw Kibum’s leather satchel in the corner, and by it Minho’s own black bag. He didn’t know what was in it, however didn’t feel mischievous enough to investigate; it was only when under haze of alcohol or adrenaline that he'd revert to his previous immaturity, though now at an age not to warrant it.
"No clue,” Jinki answered blankly, clearing his throat as he did so. “Kibum disappeared a few seconds ago, said he had to speak to someone about something, I don’t know.” Jinki waved a hand, eyes trained once again on the beige walls.
"You alright?” Taemin mumbled, although the request for answer was so hushed it seemed more-so to himself than the elder. He gripped the bottle with tight, slender fingers as he awaited Jinki’s response.
"Yeah.”
"Good.”
Taemin left Jinki to his own menagerie of thoughts, and made his way slowly towards the line of dressing tables, normally lit by a corsage of luminescent white, but tonight as dim as the rest of the faded room – a room uplifted solely by the overhead lamplight. He rolled his bottle atop the desk of the first table, and stood to watch his reflection forlornly, like a man searching for a stranger in the mirror. He seemed ghostly, the stage make-up designed to accentuate his pallor for the insensitive cameras, and his hair was styled conservatively into a black fringe. Taemin pressed a finger to his lips, burning cold at the touch, and used the sleeve of his white top to rub an eye.
"Did you sleep last night, hyung?” The question embarked the journey from Taemin’s pinkish lips in a heightened drawl, one he'd forcibly dissipated beneath the expectations of the audience. Limpidness tugged on this voice, as did lethargy, a regalia of the mundane most were affiliated with at some point in their time, but one Taemin seemed affiliated with at all points of his time.
"Yeah,” Jinki answered, Taemin able to regard the elder’s reflection in the mirror. “Jonghyun didn’t.”
"He never does.”
"He does sometimes.”
"Sometimes.”
Taemin broke his gaze from the vision of Jinki, and reached his fragile fingers to the items that created bed-set on the dresser. There were accessories, cheap and designer, and various brands of expensive make-up, a coexistence of two worlds – the rich and the poor. Prodding at what appeared to be a watch, Taemin noted that the time was miscalculated on the thin device, but knew that it wasn’t intended for its purpose anyway. It was simply intended to look good, not to serve any wish or function. At times, he understood such qualms.
"I don’t think that MC was your biggest fan,” Jinki commented, shifting slightly on the sofa. Taemin turned to face the singer, body narrow and shadowed beneath the lurking of the light. Jinki leant forward now, trying to accustom himself to the waking world as he gripped the sleeves of his green jumper (an about-town-fashion sense that their stylists had been intent on donning him in recently). He blinked rapidly, long eyelashes creating a ring that opposed the tiredness beneath his eyes as he spoke.
"Yeah,” Taemin agreed, moving closer to his hyung with a casual, dazed saunter. “I think I lost count of how many times she tried to insult me.”
"Taemin-ssi, you can't cook, you have bad fashion! Taemin-ssi!"
“Don’t be mean,” Taemin jabbed, reaching Jinki and tapping the back of his head lightly, though unable to stifle the smirk that lit his features.
"Sorry,” Jinki apologised, “just tired.”
As Taemin dropped on the sofa beside him, so light the frame barely jittered, he asked, “But I thought you slept last night?”
"Doesn’t mean I'm not tired.”
Taemin nodded to himself, distantly. Jinki made a fair point, and it went in endowment with his countenance, which suggested tiredness as quaint as the brunette shade of his own hair.
"You looking forward to tomorrow?” Taemin asked, raising an eyebrow at Jinki as he turned to face him. Jinki glanced back, eyes rounded, before looking away again and shrugging a shoulder.
"Yeah, but no, you know how it is.”
Taemin nodded distractedly. He definitely knew how it was. Things experienced in the constraints of sleeplessness were things only half-experienced; they were images shared quarterly, idioms of no worth to language. They were sensed, but not felt, seen, but not explored.
"At least Minho’s excited,” Taemin recalled, offering himself a slight laugh as he remembered the bountiful enthusiasm of his elder at the idea of travelling again as a group, to somewhere further than their bordering countries.
"Minho's always excited,” Jinki agreed, smiling himself at the memory. “But I don’t think Jonghyun is.”
"Why not?”
"I don't know, something to do with Roo,” he offered, mood heightened slightly by the idea of Jonghyun’s fatalistic attachment to his pet. At times, Jonghyun spoke of the dog like family; were Taemin bound by blood to Jonghyun, he wouldn’t have liked to peruse which sibling was of greater worth – himself or the dog. He often-times suspected the latter.
"He is way too obsessed with that dog,” Taemin mumbled in subtle agreement, dragging his knee up and resting his chin on it thoughtfully. Time seemed to pass peacefully between the pair; there was no push-and-pull, merely sentinel equilibrium. Together, neither man held pretence or forced exchanges. They both understood each other with archaic experience, despite not knowing the wealth of secrets beneath each other's skin. In this way, they were like parallels on discourse, as cosmological as the moon and stars, albeit dimmer, somewhat.
"I'm worried about him,” Jinki suddenly stated, and it seemed he was shocked at his own words as he did-so, a bottle uncapped that was always meant to be lidded.
"What do you mean?” Taemin asked, words instantly muffled by the way he placed his chin on his bony knee. He readjusted his position as he awaited an answer, curiosity – and something else, something darker – stirring in his stomach.
"He just… I don’t know,” Jinki began, words stunted as he browsed them. By the way his brow creased, Taemin could tell this was a matter that was an upset to the singer. “Have you seen his schedule, Taemin? It's crazy. I doubt he'll have time to so much as sleep.”
"But, you know Jonghyun,” Taemin countered, quelling the germination of the seed in his mind – one that sprouted guilt, dysphoria, “he doesn’t need much sleep anyway.”
"Everyone needs sleep, Taemin.”
Taemin lowered his head, before moving so that he could cross his legs, careful not to nudge Jinki with his knee as he did so. Resting his palms in his lap, the dancer (for Taemin supposed, in essence, that’s what he was) chewed on his bottom lip, deeply entranced by a flicker of a thought.
"Aish, Taemin-ah!” the elder suddenly exclaimed, and the dancer was almost startled as he felt his hand being gingerly, yet quickly, snatched from his lap. Inspecting it with a stooped neck, Jinki cradled Taemin’s hand in his own, and Taemin supposed he liked having his hand held like this, liked being cared for like this, by his hyung. Jinki’s eyes were unreserved as they scampered over Taemin’s index finger. There was a wound there, fine as lace, but long enough to have drawn considerable pain upon its initial birth. It had sealed now, but was still very much visible by Taemin’s white skin. “What happened?”
"I don’t remember,” Taemin grinned, the earlier nerves dispelling as he removed his hand gently from Jinki’s own warm ones, “it happened a while ago. See how it’s sealed over? It's fine, just cut it on something.”
"Fool,” Jinki cracked, and Taemin rounded his mouth in fake-shock, eyebrows raising.
"Old man,” he jabbed back, and Jinki couldn’t diffuse the grin that seeped across his mouth, ridding any unsettling thoughts.
"You'll be old someday, too, Taemin,” he lectured. Taemin shrugged, before kicking his foot up on the coffee table, and leaning back on the sofa, so that his head nestled against the plush cushion and the bridge of his long neck was exposed. His eyes were trained on the high-ceiling as he mused, the stretch of his muscles consoling the tautness of his body. Though his mood was somewhat sanguine, he supposed his mind was not.
"I won't be old,” Taemin mumbled, “I'll build a time machine.”
"With what?”
"My imagination.”
Jinki chortled, and Taemin sat up again, to find the singer’s eyes were watching upon him attentively, fondly. He did this often, the leader, and would watch the members as something akin to a proud father – but Taemin more-so than the rest. The dancer supposed it to be their age-gap, and the fact that, even before their placement in the group that would forever change their lives, they'd had a friendship not even breakable by the harshest of hands. The foundations were too firm, too grounded.
"You really are an idiot sometimes, Lee Taemin,” Jinki jibed, and just before Taemin could offer a rebuttal, the door clicked open and a head poked around. Both craning their necks to view the visitor simultaneously, Kibum almost rolled his eyes when he saw them.
"Come on,” he urged, pointedly raising an eyebrow, “didn’t you guys hear? We're getting an earlier flight.”
With that, he closed the door again, leaving Jinki and Taemin to do the only thing they could: Follow.
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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