Two
The Lifetime Kids“I'll give you a dollar for every word you pronounce correctly from that sign.”
As Taemin glanced up from his phone, he almost found himself succumbing to his companion’s useless attempt at entertainment; however, given Taemin knew sufficiently little on the English language, he doused the entire game as being pointless, despite its promise at additional funding to spend in America. He knew also that the man who'd proposed the break of humour, Choi Minho, wasn't an expert on it either, and so therefore thought it to be inadequate to contend. It was as if asking a cat to bequeath to him the language of birds.
Taemin went back to scrolling through his phone absent-mindedly, the bright screen a sanguine attempt in his bid to stay refreshed. He had various anonymous accounts on various repetitive sites and would often trawl through them if he was bored enough to care, saddled safely beneath a worthless disguise. Unfazed by the younger’s silence, Minho shifted slightly.
"It's cold in here,” he commented. He was right.
Taemin slipped his phone into the pocket of his ripped denim jeans, and nestled back into his seat, squinting to configure the area surrounding him. In lieu of its usual bustle and vicarious hiving of life, the airport was a spectre to its most-often form; their arrival having been a late one and their fellow passengers having already managed to locate their luggage, it left Taemin (and subsequently the other members and their managers) caught mid-fray between the airport’s passing customers. The conveyor-belt that spewed luggage was still, yet it seemed the night was stiller. Few announcements were spoken, and each one that was had been foreign to Taemin’s understanding. Any floundering people that passed-by were tacit, and Taemin was cold, unnervingly so. It was solely him and Minho in the foreseeable area, pressed into their seats like ironed clothing – even Jonghyun, Kibum and Jinki had vanished, in search of the few duty-frees that straggled so far from passport control, and opened so late in the night. It was empty; it was lonely; it was vapid, and, had he not been with Minho, Taemin would have almost found it scary.
“You think they’ll find our luggage?” Minho pondered, leaning forward slightly as if to inspect a sign, but slumping backwards just as he did-so. Refreshed from his sleep on the flight, Minho was as candid as they came; his pulse was vibrant, skin lathered in a subtle radiance, hair perfectly tamed and smile perfectly set. There wasn’t the same need to conceal their appearance in America – though fans had been waiting, it had been a group of significantly less than their homeland welcoming, and this somewhat relieved Taemin. He could act with a penchant for freedom, as if he didn’t have to put on a stage.
"Yeah, they’ll find it,” Taemin answered tiredly, holding accountability to his words. Though he knew there was a first time for all things, their management was so rigid the first-time never came. Their luggage would be located, for it always was, and they'd arrive at the hotel, just later than planned. It was routine, it was schedule, it was life, and both men understood that.
“I hope we're staying somewhere comfortable this time,” Minho mused, tilting his head so that the few bright lights shone across his features elegantly, “and not somewhere too… elaborate. Just somewhere normal, somewhere comfortable.”
"Yeah, I want that too,” Taemin agreed, rubbing an eye with the back of his hand. He was tired, the deprivation of sleep coaxing the blood through his veins with each mandatory pulse.
“And I'm not staying in a room with Jonghyun, I'm sorry, I'm just… No way, not after last time.” Minho nodded determinedly, folding his arms across his chest. Taemin raised an eyebrow at him.
“I will, then,” he offered, almost feeling blessed that the opportunity had arisen, “but… ‘Last time?’”
"He didn’t sleep,” Minho provided, rolling his eyes, “and spent, like, the whole night… Writing something or-other.” Taemin couldn’t help but sway with the unconditional grin that swept across his features, a partner to his dance, whilst his imagination probed depths he'd rather it wouldn’t.
"I'm a heavy-sleeper,” Taemin lied, stifling a yawn, “it won't bother me.”
"Yeah.”
They sat together for a moment, as silent as the steadily intimidating area surrounding them. Wide walls and scuffed flooring couldn’t mingle with the morphing shadows that exploited each small corner, and as the darkness kept expanding, Taemin’s strength to keep his head in-place diminished. His shoulders became suspended by a feverish sloom as he exhaled, slumping and dragging his entire body in-tow.
"Taemin-ah,” Minho soothed gently, observant and kind, “rest your head on my shoulder.”
Taemin did.
•••
Sleeper;
I am pale-faced, asleep, and
Nothing separates us but
The fabric of our clothes,
And the stillness of your breath.
Though here I lie silent,
A sleeper caught in dream,
It is in this night
I wish to lie with another.
A sleeper caught in dream,
It is in this night
I wish to lie with another.
•••
The room was tepid. As Taemin considered this, he wrapped the duvet further around himself, toes peeking from beneath the cover like those of an unsure child. He was perched on the edge of the bed, unconventionally, a habit he'd inherited from his childhood. Wrapped in a cocoon, he often huddled by the bed’s side, unemergent from the chrysalis of warmth he'd created. He would also often fall asleep there on nothing more than a whimsy, conscience lilted by the softness of the fabric.
Noting that he faced the bed opposite his own, a multitude of emotions perfected the art of confusion within him, proliferating outwards to stricken his very posture. Soon, the bed would be more than a mass of upended duvets and scatterings of clothes. Soon, the buzz of the en suite shower would cease, and a man would appear, beset in a warm glow of cleanliness and purity. Soon, Taemin knew his time to be alone would be shattered – but he didn’t mind that, didn't mind it at all. He wanted the glass broken. He wanted Jonghyun to break it. Curling his hands into tiny balls, taemin tucked his chin into the duvet, considerate.
Suddenly, there was the slightest of clicks as the door breathed open, and Taemin would have stirred had he not been deeply encompassed by the gauze of sleeplessness. It was so late that the night ticked with a compassionate haze of such misgivings, in perfect rhythm with the dissonance of the clock in the cream room’s corner. Taemin noticed that everything about the room was somewhat cream, or beige, or chocolate – understated and comfortable, as Minho had requested.
“Hey,” Jinki murmured, lips twitching into a smile as he slipped in through the door. This wasn't the first time he'd witnessed the younger confined to a blanket fortress, but it seemed to get even more amusing with time; originally, Jinki had assumed it to be a quirk formed of immaturity, to be lost as the maknae reached adulthood, but the further Taemin grew, the more he regressed, becoming closer and closer wrapped in the fabric of whatever duvet he slept under.
“Morning,” Taemin extended, a joke on his lips. Jinki nodded, catching the humour. Though the curtains were drawn, it was so dark out that both men knew the sun would soon rise, and with it, inevitably, their spirits.
“I just wanted to see you to say goodnight,” Jinki commented, “to see you were settled okay.” He rubbed a bare elbow with his hand tenderly, over-sized night-shirt drowning his frame. His brunette hair was tousled and care-free as he glanced down upon the younger expectantly, almost unsteady on his feet given the need for sleep that enveloped him.
“I thought you were here to get some no make-up shots,” Taemin mumbled, voice drawled and drowsy, “like ‘hey, no pictures.’” He lifted a hand from the duvet and covered his face, prompting a chortle from Jinki, a laugh ridged with age, if nothing else.
“Yeah, I think we've all seen that enough,” Jinki retorted, Taemin dropping his hands and furrowing his brows, falsely angered. “You sharing with Jonghyun?”
“Yeah, you with Minho?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool,” Taemin concluded, a pointless reply for he had no strength to wrangle another. Noticing this, Jinki nodded to himself decidedly.
“Tomorrow should be good,” Jinki consoled, voice thick and tilted. Taemin wondered whether he'd remember what he'd said when the morning struck, like a drunkard with no bounds. Over-wrought Jinki was synonymous with over-expressive Jinki – but, thankfully, over-expressive Jinki was as endearing as he was charming, as caring as he was likeable.
“It will be,” Taemin nodded sleepily, “we can have time to do stuff, the next day, or something.”
“Not all of us, Jjong’ has an earlier flight.”
“What?”
“Didn't he tell you?”
Taemin shook his head, dejected. Jonghyun hadn't told him, hadn't offered a word of it.
“Well, he does,” Jinki furthered sadly, clutching the door-frame with a strong hand, “for his solo, or something. So, the rest of us can, just not him.”
“Oh,” Taemin spoke. The regret that swathed him could not be assuaged as he considered this information; their first occasion together in weeks, yet it would be cut short, cut empty, cut wrong. He only had one day with Jonghyun, when he should have had two. Taemin dug his nails into his palms, resolute not to let the disappointment show.
“Yeah,” Jinki sighed, seemingly as equally upset by the notion. “I'm worried about him, Taemin.”
“Don’t be, hyung,” Taemin tried, almost effortlessly. “He's fine.”
“Is he?”
“Of course.”
Jinki looked away, cocking his head as he did so. There was something almost fragile about him, the weight of his responsibilities contorting his bones to feathers, little birds borne of pressure that resided in the nest of his thoughts. Looking back up at Taemin, his eyes were soft, two unblinking moons, as he muttered, “Goodnight, Taemin. Sleep well.”
“You too, Jinki.”
As Jinki exited, Taemin watched him hesitantly. No sooner had he left than when the dancer tried for sleep.
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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