Five
The Lifetime KidsTaemin awoke to a mannerly nudging of his right foot, which was partially exposed from the comfortable cream duvet he was (mostly) swaddled in. Cracking his eyes open to the gentle, albeit mischievous, tickling, it took him mere seconds to piece together the form of the half-awake man before him.
That morning, Lee Jinki’s clear skin went in beautiful coalescence with the faint streaks of light that were making a contrived journey across the haphazard room. It dripped like water from rock-face upon every spare thing – the unfolded clothing, the unpacked accessories, the discarded food wrappers – and were he in-tune enough to contemplate anything other than Jinki’s smooth, untampered skin, he would have been embarrassed at the room's reverie of rubbish. Alas, the only thing noticeable to him was Jinki, the way he crouched by the bedside with his body all concealed by a large, maroon sweater, hair an untamed scrabble of toned brunette. He smiled briefly, and Taemin reciprocated the expression, until the leader’s lips fell, and with it Taemin’s incoherency.
“Are you awake?” Jinki asked carefully, rising to properly stand as he continued to watch Taemin, who must have look so embedded within the very fabrics he curled beneath. The question was an odd one to most but mere routine for Taemin; over many years, it had seemed, the mornings were Jinki’s expertise, and he knew exactly how to guide Taemin from dream to reality – and it was not with word, for words wouldn't wake him. No matter how loud one shouted, jeered or snarled, Taemin would remain oblivious, elapsed in the vivacious ruins of sleep. Jinki’s question was also one sculpted by years of routine, for, just because his hazel eyes were open, that didn't make Taemin fundamentally awake. To be awake was to do more than observe – it was to understand, to acknowledge. Anything else was a sleeper caught wide-eyed.
Taemin nodded slowly, stifling a weary yawn and pushing his arms out from beneath the duvet. They were bare, the skin lithe with newfound prickles in the morning chill, and as Jinki watched him, Taemin wondered how he must appear. Like an unfurling leaf, potentially, clawed from Spring’s womb with fervent strength. Jinki waited until Taemin had sat up and had cottoned on to the blurry room surrounding him, ears pricking at the distant sounds of conversation (he certainly would recognize Minho’s gentle voice anywhere) and nostrils flaring at the scent of nothing more than familiarity. The door was open just a slit, no-doubt the source of the outer-world of talk, and Jinki was stoic, almost awkward, in his over-sized sweater and newly-woken haze.
“Taemin,” he spoke sincerely, “something bad has happened.”
It took the dancer a minute to decipher his hyung’s intentions in the weary world. The foremost thought on Taemin’s mind was the man who was missing from the room, the man who should have been there to wake him, and secondary to that was the isolated guilt that told him such thoughts were ill, decrepit and wrong. A tertiary niggle also exasperated his will, that something too distant to be a headache but too near to be a comfort was twiddling the threads of his mind as he contemplated last night’s alcohol, and each and every qualm were hurdles he took moments to leap over as he made his way to Jinki’s sentiment. When he reached it, however, the maknae could merely frown.
“Hm?” he pondered, face somewhat expressionless as he regarded Jinki, who looked quite ethereal, really, beneath the pillars of light that adorned him. Jinki’s hesitant expression was one designed for after a breakfast coffee, where the stresses of living were remembered and the day-break of reality rose, and was not one intended for the initial welcome from sleep. Taemin’s stomach groaned almost silently as he squinted, confused.
“Something bad has happened,” Jinki murmured again, glancing behind himself sceptically, as if someone was lurking to listen. Peeking around to check what the singer sought, Taemin slumped back slightly when he found nothing of any worth. He wondered how early it was. Very, perhaps.
“Bad?” Taemin managed, coaxing his eyes with the back of his palms as he rubbed the sleep away. He felt so lethargic, so languid, so heavy, and merely had one simple want: To coil back into the duvet and never rise. But Jinki’s concern snipped each head of the blossom that flourished, until all Taemin could do was wait for an answer and battle to configure it.
“Bad,” Jinki confirmed, “very bad. C’mon, Taem’,” he beckoned, “get up.” Though his words were gentle, wrought and succinct, his will was determined and impassioned and tough. Wishing to protest but slackened by the concern the elder flaunted, Taemin warily removed the duvet from himself, wincing at the refreshed morning air that scrabbled over him. He no longer wore Jonghyun’s sweater, having thrown it off earlier that night, but did wear a baggy, grey night shirt, that was at least three sizes too large and didn’t fail to disguise the wiry muscle of his arms. Even his pyjama trousers were too big, a blue and grey tartan print that looked more comfortable than it actually was, the perfect representation of illusion, almost as if his life in clothing.
“What happened?” Taemin pondered, voice thick, drawled. Slowly, stubbornly, he pushed himself to his feet, only managing to balance as his heart began to beat faster and his lungs expel breath quicker. He hated this feeling, of his body only beginning to function, and his mind comprehending the aching world, for both things did their jobs at separate, unmatchable paces.
Lowering his head, for a moment Taemin watched as Jinki’s brow-creased, and an often withheld persona of the singer tried to prise through the gaps of his decorum. It disappeared quickly, however, swallowed with Jinki’s worry as he explained, “It's Kibum.”
“Is he hungover?” Taemin queried, as Jinki turned to pad out of the room. Facing no answer, Taemin followed, barefoot, out to the empty hotel corridor.
Here, the acquiescent kiss of the world was near-invisible. Maudlin purples and decadent golds furnished a modern, minimalistic hallway, with doors dotted either side of Taemin’s room in a plethora. Though he knew many of the rooms were acquired by their busy staff, behind few of the doors were still the bodies of strangers, and had he not been so tired, Taemin would never have dared venture out in the corridor so untidy, so uncouth, lest he be spotted by the cameras of those who could find him. However, his elated haze had depressed his understanding, and he followed by Jinki’s example – one that didn’t seem to care, not about the corridor’s scent of lavender or of the dim lights overhead. Fortunately for Jinki, the only other man in the corridor was a figure they both recognised completely, and one Taemin didn’t mind appearing a state in front of.
“Really,” Minho tried, mid-conversation, “I don’t even know how it happened, Jjong, I- No, yeah, he didn’t eat anything yet, I just-“ His hushed tone was sent through the phone’s receiver in casual waves. Unlike Taemin, unlike Jinki, Minho was already dressed, in a pair of ripped black jeans and a black sweater, terribly handsome, yet terribly understated. He paced slowly outside of the door to Kibum’s room, phone all but fused to his ear as he talked. Acknowledging Taemin, he offered a faint smile, but one that was too weak to bite back at the frown that dissipated it.
Taemin glanced at Jinki quizzically as the elder clutched the edges of his sleeves. Now finally at a strength to behold it, a nausea formed of nervousness began to convolute in Taemin’s gut, unfolding salient limbs from a serpentine body the more and more Minho discussed with Jonghyun.
“Look, Jonghyun, I've told you three times, Yunkyung doesn't know about it and we honestly think- Well, he won't find out about it if it's just a one-off thing, and that’s what we're hoping it is- Yeah- Yes- I know-“ Minho's words were becoming increasingly clipped as he talked, so unlike his usual, upbeat, positive self. Taemin clenched his fists, still hovering by the open door to his room. Whatever was going on, it clearly was as serious as Jinki’s mood had indicated.
“I have to go, Jonghyun, Taem’s awake- What? No, he isn't, why do you always ask that? Nevermind, just- Yeah, I will, don’t worry. Later, hyung- Bye.” A second after, Minho hung up with an impertinent scowl, and jammed his mobile into the pocket of his jeans.
“What does Jonghyun think?” Jinki asked, lips parted as he regarded Minho curiously, so intrigued it seemed the very tips of his hair would burn at wonder's fire.
“He thinks we should tell Yunkyung,” Minho sighed, “come clean, but I just…”
“Tell Yunkyung what?” Taemin interjected, thirst for knowledge parching him. “Hyung, what's going on?”
A brief silence settled over the two elders as they both exchanged a glance.
“Kibum has been, well, sick,” Minho confirmed finally, noticing this was a discussion that Jinki didn't want to lead.
“Oh,” Taemin dispelled, the worry in his gut fading out, for at their concern he'd expected much worse. People got sick, and though it was unpleasant for them and most certainly for their careers, it was not something they could help. With time, Kibum would heal. With time, he had to. “Is that… Is that it?”
“No, Taemin, you don't-“ Minho paused, massaging the bridge of his nose. His form was so tense, as if a tent tied down by guyropes.
“This morning,” Jinki took over, diverting Taemin’s attention to him, his shoulders noticeably more slack, “Minho knocked on Kibum’s door and he- He didn't answer. So Minho, naturally, went inside.”
Taemin raised an eyebrow, rubbing his bare arms. He was unsure where this was going, and was unsure he wanted to know, and anticipation was building upon an already settled apotheosis as his eyes flitted quickly between his hyungs.
“He found Kibum,” Jinki explained, clearly hesitant, “just… Lying there. By his bed. And he wasn’t moving, and he'd been sick.”
“He'd fainted,” Minho elaborated precisely, “and he didn't remember a thing. The headaches yesterday, and now this today… Sure, it's early, and sure, we haven't slept much, but he completely snapped at me and I-“
“He's sick, Taemin,” Jinki asserted, quietening Minho down. “He needs to go to hospital.”
Taemin blinked as he processed the information. Hospital. Kibum. Sick.
“Well, then, we need to tell Yunkyung,” Taemin decided instantly, a sprout of fear twisting ivy through him. “Get Kibum checked out. Being sick is one thing, but fainting is…”
“We can't tell Yunkyung,” Minho countered, “because Yunkyung wouldn't let us go. Taemin, think about this rationally a second. We have a flight later, back home, where our schedule is waiting. We can't delay our flight to send him to some hospital that would take hours to get an appointment in and, even worse, one that might keep him overnight. We have to go home. We can't delay things.”
“His health is more important than our schedule,” Taemin argued, as Minho exhaled heavily. “If he is badly sick then we can't-“
“We've been here before,” Minho declared begrudgingly, “and you know Yunkyung doesn’t see it like that.”
“Well, we can make him,” Taemin decided naively, protective instincts flaring as images of an ashen, sickened Kibum jagged into his flesh. “Fainting is bad, hyung, it's really bad. What if it happens again, what if it happens in public, what if-“
“Calm down, Taem’,” Jinki consoled softly, and the dancer could almost feel the man soothe the capricious tightness of his stance away as he placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “None of that will happen. But we have to make sure that, regardless, Kibum rests today. Yunkyung just can't know what is wrong, we can't let him find out.”
“But-“
“But nothing, Taemin,” Minho expressed dully, flattening a palm against his own forehead and shutting his eyes briefly. When he removed the strong hand, he appeared slightly more refreshed, more relieved, than he had the instant earlier. “This is- Well, it's , but Kibum… It's safer for him if we keep this quiet, just between the five of us. At least until we get back home, at least until the flight. Then, if it gets worse, we can tell Yunkyung.”
“You guys act like you're scared of him,” Taemin accused, a deep resentment for Kibum’s position churning an embroil in his gut.
He faced no response.
•••
Something:
Last night,
Something moved me;
Sifting, sorting, speaking
Lurid whispers in my ear.
Something moved me;
Sifting, sorting, speaking
Lurid whispers in my ear.
When morning came,
That something left me,
Til’ all that could be seen
Was the traces of its breath.
That something left me,
Til’ all that could be seen
Was the traces of its breath.
•••
“Hey, Taemin, why don’t you wear your rosary beads anymore?”
Taemin was folding one of Kibum’s many spare jackets as the question was pieced to him. It was a black jacket - leather, expensive - and held the familiarly decadent scent of Kibum’s cologne. Though a man of experimentation and lavish exploration, Kibum’s usual fragrance was one that had remained steady over the years, and was as nostalgic to Taemin as the very sight of the elder male, who always reminded the dancer of something. Whether it be a practice or performance, a worry or a wonder, Kibum flaunted that resonant gift of reminiscence and memory, always prompting a stray recollection within Taemin.
“Hm?” Taemin prompted, back to Kibum as he slid the jacket into the suitcase. Behind him, Kibum was sprawled across the bed, fingers laced atop his chest. There was something very much casual about him, and to a stranger it would appear he was perfectly fine – however, Taemin was not in the least a stranger, and could tell almost instantly that his hyung was not entirely well. His words were less broad, manner more meek, and his often-clear skin seemed clammy and pallid. He wasn't as active either, preferring to simply lie across the narrow confines of his bed.
“Your rosary beads,” Kibum murmured curiously, “you used to always wear them, y’know?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Taemin dismissed, reaching behind him to pull another of Kibum’s discarded pieces of clothing into the case. Any signs of sickness the room had been doused in had been viciously scrubbed away by Minho and Jinki. Kibum’s tears had been wiped, his fears had been quelled and his nerves had been calmed. Now, however, it was Taemin’s turn to feel jarred; Jinki and Minho had gone out, and he was staying with Kibum to pack – a lie that had only just washed over their cautious manager. Fortunately, Yunkyung was not an invasive man, and could understand the members’ needs for privacy, so he had conceded to the fabrication with little persuasion. Truly, Taemin was the doctor and Kibum was the patient, ready to protect and help guide his over-wrought hyung through his unfortunate bout of sickness.
“Whatever,” Kibum mumbled half-heartedly, lacking the enthusiasm needed to taunt further. Taemin and his rosary beads was of a lesser concern in comparison to Taemin and his inclination to hand his body over to contagion. If Kibum was suffering from flu, then it would spread to the closest-contact. The dancer didn't seem phased.
“I just don’t understand,” Kibum finally grumbled, as Taemin zipped up the suitcase, satisfied he'd uncovered everything of Kibum’s.
“Understand what?” he queried, turning to face the slackened rapper. Kibum was drawn across the bed like a weed sprouting from a miry loam, consumed by his surroundings though still vivid enough to cause colour. His eyelids were near-closed and his expression of tired countenance.
“What I've done wrong,” Kibum mused, “to get sick, I mean. I eat well, I exercise, I'm clean, I just- I don’t get it.”
“We don’t always chose to get sick,” Taemin commented wisely, “and we can't always exactly stop it either. Just rest, hyung.”
“It's just a flu, right?” Kibum asked, tilting his head to Taemin. His eyes glistened slightly, stopping Taemin before he could step any closer.
“Yeah,” he tried unconvincingly, “of course, hyung.”
“Because it doesn’t feel like one,” Kibum hissed. “I feel like , Taem’.”
“That’s what illness does,” Taemin tried, “but you'll get better.”
“No,” Kibum shook his head, “I've had a flu before, and it's not… It isn't- like this.”
“Why not?”
Kibum chewed on his lower lip, thoughtful, contemplation dashing colour against his cheeks.
“I don’t know,” he finally managed, slumping against the bed further. “But when we get home, the first thing I'm doing is seeing a doctor.”
“Yeah,” Taemin nodded, “yeah.”
“That, or I'm sleeping.”
Taemin mildly chortled.
Silence passed between them both then, and it was almost a solivagant whisper from life’s often copious onslaught. For a reason indecipherable, Taemin didn’t find quietness with Kibum as comfortable as he did with Minho or Jinki. It was infinitely better than silence with Jonghyun, however Taemin knew the reasoning for that was on its own convoluted tangent. With Kibum, it seemed empty, for the rapper was always full of life and energy. If he didn’t speak, then one would know something was wrong.
“What was that thing about Jinki last night?” Taemin pondered absent-mindedly. Kibum stirred slightly, as Taemin elaborated, “Y’know, the whole… Him liking someone?”
“Hm?” Kibum sighed, before drumming his fingers atop his chest. He laughed then, but it seemed forced beneath the circumstances. “Ah… It was nothing. I was just messing. You know Jinki as well as I do, even if he did have a thing for someone, he'd never say.”
“Sometimes people don't have to,” Taemin commented, fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater. “Whoever she is, I hope he lets her know. He's bad with feelings.”
“Understatement,” Kibum smirked, but there was something else in his voice than humour – a residual trace of some deeply buried anxiety, or angst. Taemin couldn't place it.
“Or maybe he shouldn’t let her know,” Taemin debated, cocking his head to the side, “given, well, y’know.”
“Yah- stop thinking about it,” Kibum muttered, “I told you I was just kidding.”
“There's truth behind every joke,” Taemin mused thoughtfully, and then (because, really, he'd fixated his limited attention on a blank space of the wall) a cushion rebounded from his side, landing on the floor with a hazy thwump.
“Since when did you start talking like Jonghyun?” the rapper groaned, as Taemin stooped down to pick up the makeshift missile. “One of him is enough!” Taemin slung the pillow atop the empty bed behind him and bit his bottom lip. Was he really speaking like Jonghyun?
“Aish, it was just an expression,” Taemin dismissed, “I'm nothing like that idiot.”
“Maybe,” Kibum sighed, “maybe.” A second passed before, tentatively, “Taem’, can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” Taemin shrugged, falling back on the free bed and resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped and shoulders mildly hunched. He watched Kibum with a primitive spirit of protection, ready to act at the slightest of misgivings. The elder was calm, however; pleasant.
“Don’t tell Jjong’, or Minho, but I- I actually really do think Jinki is in love with someone.”
Resting the side of his cheek on his bed so that he could blink at Taemin, the maknae allowed the information to wash over him, skin sponging up each possibility he could hew out of the statement. Kibum was perceptive, often-times was right when he made sudden judgement, but Taemin knew that such a call would not have been made quickly. Love, in its most passionate of forms, was dangerous – especially for them.
“Why?” Taemin queried, raising an eyebrow. If Kibum was right, and he had been in such issues prior, then Taemin knew a different aura would manifest itself around his perception of Jinki. His hyung would be a man in love, and Taemin would be an observer who could do nothing but watch his downfall.
“He's just… I don't know,” Kibum sighed, reverting his gaze back to the ceiling. “I always feel like people are different when they're in love, Taem’. You remember back when we were rookies, and things weren’t like they are now, and I had that fight with Minho about-about that girl he was with? Yoonseo, or-or whatever her name was. I got mad at him because of our contracts. I thought he'd everything up for us, Taem’ – and he almost did. But he left her, and for a while it broke him – you remember that, don’t you? – but… But don’t you remember, he never said a word about her. Not to me, not to you, not to Jinki or Jonghyun. She didn’t exist in the world outside of his own.”
“So, you're saying you somehow worked out he was with her?” Taemin asked, incredulous.
“Yeah,” Kibum nodded, “yeah, I did. I did because he acted differently from how he had before. His love consumed him, changed him, made him a new sort of guy, and I- I guess I picked up on that.”
“But how?” Taemin pondered, unable to believe his hyung completely. “How did you actually know?”
“I just had a feeling,” Kibum admitted, “I just knew.”
“You can't just know things,” Taemin countered, “not without, like, actual evidence, hyung.”
“Call it an intuition,” Kibum provided, “that comes from experience. When a person is in love, it changes them. I see that change in Jinki.”
“Okay, fine,” the maknae conceded, flexing his fingers and tilting his head on that slender neck of his. At times, he was almost elven in appearance, so ethereal with the littlest of touches. “Hypothetically speaking, let's… Let's say he is in love. Then who with? Who could he even… Who could he even be in love with?"
“I don’t know.”
“Could it be someone from the company? A family friend?”
“One of us,” Kibum joked, and then he laughed. Taemin tried to reciprocate the joy, but found it became stunted. For Kibum, such a notion was but a humorous aside. To Taemin, it was his reality.
“God help us,” Taemin joked, but his voice was meek, and he silently prayed Kibum couldn’t catch it.
“Well, whatever,” Kibum finally concluded, tone strained against the back of his throat, “regardless, something is up with him. Maybe it isn’t love but I-I just have that feeling. I just do.”
“Your intuition,” Taemin agreed, and then he lowered his head.
If Kibum’s intuition was as good as be suggested, then the rapper would only know that Taemin was in love, too.
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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