Four
The Lifetime Kids“Hyung, you're an idiot.”
“You don’t say.”
“Really, I've never met anyone more stupid.”
“Okay, that’s a bit-“
“Seriously, your stupidity is incredible.”
“Now-“
“You could probably write a book on it, and-“
“Taemin, is this really necessary?”
Taemin blinked rapidly at Minho, almost surprised at having his imbibe of insults interrupted. Minho’s eyes were quite stern in contradiction to their usual soft decorum, and this gave Taemin the faintest flutter of mischievous pride. Minho was a hard man to temper, but, somehow, he could still manage it.
“Personally, I think it's perfectly necessary,” Kibum mumbled, wandering towards Minho and quite literally flopping beside him on the bed, so that his body was stretched out and his eyes trained on the ceiling.
“Yah!” Minho exclaimed. “Sit up, idiot.”
Scowling, Kibum propped himself up until he was perched, cross-legged, by Minho’s side. In comparison to Taemin’s hotel room, Jinki and Minho’s was practically a haven of order; the drawers were neatly crammed and the dressing tables bare of excessive paraphernalia, and the very scent of the room would mislead one to believe they were drifting through a field of lavender. The dim orange-glow was as candid as an alcoholic haze as Jinki drew the curtains, finally resorting to his position beside Taemin again, on the opposite bed to Minho’s.
“Hyung,” Kibum began, pouting his lips and cocking his head in the direction of Jinki, who shuffled slightly on the bed-top to make himself comfortable, before lifting the bottle of beer by his side, “don’t take this in the wrong way, but, like- do you feel old?”
Taemin all but burst out in laughter as Jinki’s eyes widened, bottle half-way towards his lips as he considered the dawning question. In their confines – the poky, yet comfortable hotel room in the aftermath of their work that day – it was just the four of them, and it would remain that way; much to Taemin’s displeasure, Jonghyun had already departed for his flight back home. Despite this, he wasn’t about to let the composer’s absence render his evening to uneventfulness. Driven and fuelled by the adrenaline of the earlier reception by fans, Taemin was lulled by a high that hadn’t yet fallen, and would remain imbued so long as he had his friends by his side – and a bottle of beer. Taking another swig, Taemin eagerly anticipated Jinki’s response.
“Kibum, I've felt like an old man since I was about four,” he provided, lips curling upwards. He knew Kibum’s intentions were well, even if his presentation was one drenched in the ability to misconstrue.
“Yeah, but… I don't know,” Kibum sighed, “I was just curious.” Underneath the reverie of faded mood-lighting, Kibum was strikingly handsome, a luxurious visage only strengthened by the soft fabrics of his comfortable clothing and the healthy glow of his enviable features.
“Do you ever realise,” Minho directed at Kibum, leaning forward with his elbow on his knee as he did so, “that what you ask sometimes can come off as a bit…”
“A bit what?”
“Insulting?”
If Taemin had expected a shocked Kibum, he was quickly proved wrong, as the rapper simply pursed his lips in thought. All three men watched him with the insipid thirst for knowledge, eyes glinting tirelessly, despite their deprivation from sleep.
“Well, I mean, I guess, but…” Kibum shrugged, opting for another drink of his beer rather than to continue his relay.
“This hyung…” Minho exhaled, shaking his head at Kibum and leaning back again. For a minute, there was simply an ethereal silence amongst the four, one that allowed the wealth of their previous day to consume them whole and gnaw at the flesh they carried with blunt teeth. Beside himself, Taemin felt Jinki move slightly, so that their shoulders lightly brushed, but he didn't mind. Such closeness with the leader was commonplace, and soon he knew he'd probably find himself resting his head on the singer’s shoulder, or gripping to his arm, in a bid to conserve the will required for the waking hours.
“I'm so exhausted,” Kibum finally managed, rupturing the acquiescent calm. “I don’t have any idea how Jonghyun can actually get a flight right now.” At the mention of the composer, Taemin stirred slightly, mind pondering over every possible thing it could in connection; was he safe? was he well? was he boarded? was he sleeping? Taemin figured all to be affirmative but the last.
“He's Jonghyun, that’s how,” Minho offered, tone almost flat as he shared. Given his empathetic preconditioning, it seemed Minho couldn’t hide the sour distaste at knowing the chocked schedule his not-by-birth brother was assigned to. They had all experienced the pressure of fixture, after fixture, after fixture, but none-so as frequently and remorselessly as Jonghyun. Minho would often worry for the composer’s health like a gardener would fret over the loam for their plants. Without Jonghyun, they wouldn't flourish, and if over-wrought, Jonghyun would be near-useless in the cut-throat hallows of their career.
“I wish you'd all stop talking about him like that,” Jinki suddenly commented, a terseness hewing out his words that hadn't existed prior.
“Like what?” Minho bounded back, not angered, merely disgruntled, at having been challenged so unexpectantly. Though their leader, and a fair one in all definitions, it was rare that Jinki posed much in the way of argument. He preferred to augment a placid efficiency to their lives, one that had no-doubt only cemented the members' bonds together over the years.
“Like he isn’t human, like he's somehow different from us. He needs sleep too, he needs rest too, he isn't- he isn’t immune to being tired.” Jinki clamped his lips around the bottle of his beer when he finished his brief tangent, resisting the urge to clutch the sleeves of his greying jumper.
“I don’t mean it that way,” Minho sprouted, “clearly, he's human. But the body accustoms, right? His six hours sleep is my twelve, something like that.”
“Maybe not so drastic,” Kibum offered helpfully, depositing his empty bottle on the bedside table. Though he wanted another, he knew it ill-fitting. Their day off in the morning was one sandwiched tightly between a life of hectic freneticism, and he was not about to spend it recovering from another headache, even if this one had been embossed on him by alcoholism.
“Maybe not at all,” Jinki handed back, concern sewing evident distress into his words. It was late, and they were tired, and no piety could rid the grievance of their exhaustion – however, Jinki had a point, for Jinki always had a point, and when he spoke his dongsaengs listened, with pricked ears and piqued attentions.
“Well, what do you want us to do?” Minho retorted, joviality regressing quicker than his smile. “It's hardly like we can step in and stop him, he's a grown man, he can make his own decisions.”
“’Own decisions,’” Kibum stressed sarcastically, prompting a cynical smirk from Taemin. It was true: Their own decisions were never really just their own decisions.
“Well, what I'm saying is, if he really wanted to say no to it all,” Minho weighed, “he would. He isn’t the type of person to let the company walk all over him like that.”
“So, basically… he isn’t Taem’,” Kibum nodded, flaring a solitary flame in Taemin’s gut as he silently observed.
“I didn’t let the company walk all over me,” the maknae defended, “I did what I did because I wanted to, that’s final, can't you leave it already?”
“You couldn't stand at the end of your promotions,” Kibum stressed, waving out a hand emphatically, “and you really want me to believe that?”
“I just mismanaged myself,” Taemin countered, balling a fist subtly, “it was nothing to do with managers, or the company, or-“
“Bull,” Kibum interjected, “absolute-“
“Guys,” Jinki sighed wearily, “can we please not do this now?” The request quietened the two youngers instantly as they receded, both mentally and physically, to their own aethers. Though Taemin knew Kibum was only crafting with good intentions, the shapes he moulded were deformed and of softened clay, unable to bare the load of Taemin’s timeline. There was no use throwing into the kiln what was a structural disaster, and Taemin knew this fact, blatantly.
“Look, hyung, we're all worried about Jonghyun,” Minho assured, taking the initiative to swerve the conversation to calmer tides. “Given everything, it's only rational to be. But, like I said, he's a grown man, with his own mind, and honestly…. I'm pretty sure he knows that mind better than any of us do.”
“Ah, the voice of reason,” Kibum interrupted quickly, patting Minho’s shoulder, “it speaks again.”
“Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Kibum,” Minho retorted, lips twitching slyly.
“Actually... it kinda does,” was Taemin’s contribution, prompting a smug smile to dazzle Kibum’s features. The room's exchanges filtered into silence once more.
Another moment passed, before there was a sudden groan, and three pairs of eyes darted to the impish nature of the man who compelled them.
“Aish!” Kibum exclaimed, banging his balled fist from the duvet impetuously. “What is with everybody? Come on, tomorrow is a day off, and we're in America! It couldn’t get any better. Yet you're all…”
Jinki pursed his lips, Taemin cocked his head and Minho raised an eyebrow.
“All… Moody,” Kibum decided, waving his hands as if the conductor to their symphony. “What's wrong with you all? I mean, it can't just be Jonghyun, there's bound to be something else, whether it's family or money or relatio- Oh.” Kibum halted as if on the verge of a discovery, and it was with bated breath the others waited to find it likewise. The rapper was often unbearable when he was in this state; not tipsy enough to be called a drunkard yet not impeached to sobriety, a stupor of elated ramblings and marvels that ended in convoluted statements of little worth or truth. In his own eyes, he'd uncovered a shocking mystery, but in the eyes of every other present bane, he was, quite simply, ludicrous.
“Whilst we're still alive to hear it, Kibum,” Minho prompted, feeling almost stifled by the growing heat and condemning silence.
“When was the last time any of you had ?”
In complete accordance to the timing of Taemin’s uncontrollable smirk, Minho elapsed his back upon the bed with an arduous sigh and Jinki massaged the bridge of his nose, clearly unamused at Kibum’s hapless sentiment.
“Life doesn’t revolve around , Kibum,” Minho mumbled, as Kibum glanced down at him insightfully, like a scientist probing a microscopic organism.
“Well, technically it does,” Kibum shrugged, as Taemin began to shake his head, bemused. “And besides, you're all acting so…”
“Please stop while you still can,” Jinki begged.
“…frustrated,” Kibum decided. “So hemmed-in. Like, come on, guys – you know I'm making a good point.”
“Yes, Kibum!” Minho exclaimed, as he sprawled against the bedset. “You’ve struck gold!” Sarcasm whetted his word’s appetite for annoyance as Kibum prodded him with a socked toe, forcing the actor to sit up again with the rustle of fabric. Beside Taemin, Jinki had grown noticeably more disgruntled; his shoulders were further stoic and his back an arched line, and even the way he carried himself was immersed in an unwillingness to continue.
“I'm just saying…” Kibum tried, his reasoning falling short on his companion’s ears. “Like, Jinki-hyung,” he pointed, victimising the leader to serve as some form of divine point, “when was the last time you actually had ? Like, literally, when?”
“'Like, literally,'" Jinki mocked, “we aren’t discussing this.” Even beneath the dim lights, Taemin suspected he could witness a faint red seep into Jinki’s cheeks quietly, like a thief in the night, stealing his often pallid complexion.
“Touchy,” Kibum retorted, “which leads me to believe it was quite a while ago, am I right?”
“Kibum, seriously, stop-“
“Was it even this year? Or were you too busy following about-“
“Kibum!” Jinki snapped, so much so that Taemin flinched. A strange tremor pulsed through his body as he observed the way in which Jinki’s eyes were inspirited by a fierceness most foreign to him.
“Wait, following about?” Minho pressed curiously, inching towards the edge of the bed. “Following about who?”
Kibum shrugged a shoulder, dampened by Jinki’s caustic anger. His tongue had been nipped into the shape of a viper’s, and he was too scared to speak, lest he spoke poison.
“Nobody,” Jinki cut-back tersely, but, even then, Taemin couldn’t stop the intrigue in his own gut boiling. Knowing he was often the hand to crack the eggshell, he nudged Jinki gently, and when the elder caught his eye, Taemin childishly wiggled an eyebrow.
“Nobody!” Jinki reiterated, more exasperated this time.
“Nah, there's nobody,” Kibum dismissed, waving a hand, “I was just messing.”
“Right,” Minho nodded, in tandem to the drawn-out, “Sure,” that rang from Taemin’s lips.
“I swear it!” Kibum tried, holding up a hand to symbolise his wealth of honesty. Despite this, neither Taemin nor Minho felt suited to believe him, and instead exchanged an immature glance.
Taemin smiled. Whoever it was that Jinki had taken a liking to, sooner rather than later, they would find out their identity, and there was nothing Jinki could do to hide that. Minho was just too damn driven to let such qualms go.
•••
Lust's Lyre:
Colours taunt the sound of lyre
That haunts me
Again, and again, and again,
Until
That haunts me
Again, and again, and again,
Until
I succumb to your wishes;
Your body; your music;
And paint a dissonance:
I want only you.
Your body; your music;
And paint a dissonance:
I want only you.
•••
Taemin stared at the ceiling blankly. It was black; he supposed, then, that he wasn’t exactly staring at the ceiling, rather the empty nothingness that occurred before it, the barrier of matter that created a rift between him and his visions. With each blink, he could almost forget his eyes were opened, so lethargic they were and so dark the ceiling image above him.
Quietly, he stirred slightly, shifting to his side so that he could just see the glint of moonlight across his phone screen on the bedside table. Tucking his head further into the pillow, he brought a hand up and rested his cheek on it gingerly, like a man who didn't know quite how to control his own body.
Jonghyun hadn’t messaged him yet. When one may have been scared by such qualms, it was not fear that the maknae felt – rather, it was an odd dejection, as if a fundamental right had been denied to him. He never messaged Jonghyun first – it was commonplace tiding in their friendship – and would always allow the elder to initiate conversation. Only, this time, there was no conversation – no landed safely or how's America? and no hello Taeminnie or what time is it with you? There was just an empty inbox, a few drafted (yet unsent) messages from Taemin’s end, and a need that clawed at the dancer to confirm that everything was at it should be.
Pulling his duvet closer to his warm body, Taemin flickered his eyelids shut and tried to rest. After retreating to his own room – one now solely inhabited by him, given Jonghyun’s absence – Taemin had spared no time in hunting through the room’s deluge of miscellany to check if Jonghyun had forgotten anything. He hadn’t, and although Taemin was unsure as to why he'd been so keen to investigate, he had inevitably known he would, for he always did. If he could find something to help shorten the distance, even if just in an abstract way, between him and the composer, he would do so with vigour. It was why, as he lay, cocooned by the soft duvet, he wore an old sweater of Jonghyun’s as his pyjamas, one the elder had granted him under a mix-up of their plethora of clothing items. Though to most it was just a ragged old jumper, to Taemin it was much, much more; if he shut his eyes and really tried, it was like he could still feel Jonghyun inside it, could catch the reminiscent kiss of his mellifluous scent and touch the fabric that had touched him. It was a connection – spiritual, possibly, but undeniably prominent, as Taemin clutched the sweater closer to his chest, relishing it for all he could, and for more than it was.
He missed Jonghyun. Though he could not say he missed quaint fancies such as hugs or night-kisses, he was able to miss the subtle, often melodic, respirations of the composer. If he was awake, they would be so silent Taemin could barely piece them. However, if indebted to sleep, the elder’s breath was a comforting harmony, like the click of a clock or the smatter of light rain against the windowpane. Taemin loved it, loved hearing it, for it massaged his tired aches like nothing else could. However, as much as he indulged in such sentiment, he always pined for more. He pined for the composer's body pressed tightly to his in embrace, to not only hear that breath, but to feel it dance with bare feet along the crook of his neck. He longed for Jonghyun’s hands interlaced with his own, and for their bodies to be together, and when the longing became too much, as it often did, Taemin would content himself again in the elder’s exhalations.
However, tonight, Taemin couldn’t.
Tonight, he was alone.
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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