Eight
The Lifetime KidsQuite simply, Lee Taemin loved the sky. The nuances of purple that flitted through the sleek stretches of sinewy cloud, amassed in all its glory under the ring of setting sun… It was a visual spectrum of varying colours – pink, orange, red, blue – that soothed the very fibres of his body until he felt fine as soft hair. Lee Jinki also loved the sky, and as they watched it together, eyes beset with an ever-encompassing twinkle, something pulsed between them with the faintest of whispers; a connection, a bond, found only beneath mid-evening’s hues.
Taemin didn’t want to upset the subtle aria, but curiosity wove through his body and the needle it used was sharp. It pricked every organ, every vein, and scratched along the bone, the same tepid heat of the outside warmth as he leant over the balcony, feeling the weight of the world shift around him. The views here were serendipitous; not quite breath-taking, and not quite profound, but a comforting plateau of greens and a countryside hush, such a disconnection from the urban backdrop of Seoul, the city closest to the suburban retreat. Beside him, nearing into a silhouette now, Jinki silently sipped his bottle of beer, one hand casually in the pocket of his jeans, the other gripping tightly to the bottle.
“Jinki,” Taemin started, confident in knowing that whatever he said couldn’t break their bond, “are you in love?”
As the sun began to set on the horizon, Taemin creaked his neck to fully view the shadowed image of his hyung, whose hair gently wavered in the breeze, framing a softly curved face and two content, yet sullen, eyes. He didn’t respond at first to the question, and simply continued to observe the ever-still, ever-green view, before cocking his head at Taemin and asking, “Why?”
Taemin shrugged a shoulder then, leaning back from the balcony. Unlike Jonghyun, who was seemingly opposed to all forms of height (even human), Taemin went unfazed by the two-story fall that boasted from the glass balcony. He didn’t care for vertigo, and knew the wooden panels of the balcony would sustain him, and even if he rested his elbows on the barrier, the fencing would never shatter. Logic impeded the need for fear, and so Taemin felt easy upon the balcony, despite knowing that, inside, there was warmth, there was wine, and there was the company of his three other hyungs.
“No reason,” Taemin answered emptily, “I just… It's nothing, really.” He tightened his grip around the barrier as he stood, observing, the fading lights contouring all that was left of his make-up from that day, revealing a pallid complexion, pinkish lips.
“Nothing is always something,” Jinki prompted, “no matter how vague.” He glanced back at Taemin, seeking answers, seeking more. It seemed so still on the balcony, so peaceful, as if Taemin could dip his hand into the world’s threads and still be unable to knot them.
“I-“
There was a clatter, a shriek, and a loud, abusive curse.
“The hell…?” Jinki breathed, dumping his beer bottle on the outside table and instantly dashing through the double-doors, back into the lavish modernism of his newly-purchased home. Following in-tow, albeit slower, Taemin swallowed at the world’s new fracture, and guided himself wearily back into Jinki’s room. From downstairs, he heard voices - loud, unscrupulous voices.
“Jesus, Jonghyun, be careful!"
Taemin took a second to awkwardly glance around Jinki’s bedroom, as the man’s voice drifted through the open doorway from downstairs. It was a comfortable room, terribly warm but terribly understated, with thick, compelling colours and a bed made for more then one, though only served for such a number. The walls were sparse, the dark furniture laden with various miscellanies, and, as Taemin inhaled the soft, familiar scent of his hyung, he was almost lilted to sleep where he stood. Eyes flickering, Taemin regained the quirk of feeling, and continued to exit.
“I'm sorry! It was- it was just an accident, hyung, I-"
Taemin walked onto the landing, yet again marvelling at the architectural genius of Jinki’s new home. It was modern, minimalistic, yet not confoundingly so, with wide windows on the ceiling and sharp, angular walls. A homely warmth was exuded despite this new-age abstractionism, lining even the glass railings around the steps. Taemin peered over the railings before beginning his descent, eyeing the open-planned living area – a sleek, sophisticated kitchen that merged with the beautifully designed conservatory. In the orange glow of the mood-lights, the granite of the kitchen was near-resplendent, and the soft, leather sofa appeared even more comforting than it had when the sun had simmered. The steps light beneath his feet, Taemin sauntered down them tentatively, voices drifting up from the wide living area.
“…Honestly, Jinki, I-“
“It's okay, Jjong’, just- just… Be careful, please.”
Taemin reached the bottom of the steps and turned the corner, the polished wooden floor verging into the living room’s expansive rug. In the grate, a fire tugged warmly, spitting up and bequeathing heat and light to the comfortable room. Beside it, Kibum stood, warming his hands, oblivious to those behind him. Taemin’s gaze flickered over the dancer hesitantly, before submitting to the scene of the carnage.
Crouched on the ground with lips grey and taut, Jinki was picking up the remnants of a shattered vase and leaving them on the small display table Taemin assumed to have once flaunted its completed form. Jonghyun hunkered by him to help, but often just got in the way, awkwardly brushing their hands together as Jinki grimaced. Behind Jonghyun, Minho cradled his beer bottle, eyes half-lidded and smile one of sad remorse. Unlike himself, he didn’t make any gesture to help, merely just stood, statuesque, under the gaze of the flickering fire.
“It was just an accident,” Jonghyun tried, “I'm really sorry, hyung.”
Jinki placed the last large shard on the table and rose, and for a split second, something flashed across his countenance, flaring a dull flame of nervousness within Taemin’s gut. However, before enacting his rage, Jinki glanced Taemin’s way, just noticing the maknae’s presence, and he stopped. Instead of shouting, he exhaled slowly, and buried his face in his hands. For a moment, there was an ethereal silence, as their leader composed himself. In the darkening room, he appeared almost dreamlike.
“I'm sorry,” Jonghyun repeated, voice barely breaking the still, and Taemin felt his heart clench, as if in pain. The composer looked so full of regret that any moment he could overflow, and, as he gripped the sleeves of his sweater, a fragile sensitivity emerged, one he tried so desperately to conceal.
All eyes fell on Jinki when he dropped his hands, and looked up at his brother, so endlessly conflicted. A mist still speared his eyes, and his lower lip jutted, but somehow, somewhere, he conjured the words, “It's okay, Jjong’. Don’t worry about it.”
“Did it mean something to you?” Minho asked suddenly. “The vase, I mean.” Whipping his head towards the younger, Jonghyun parted his lips. If the answer was 'yes', then his guilt with become twofold.
Jinki strolled towards the fireplace, where Kibum had now stirred, to face the four others. He was watching with feline interest, spectator to a mime where the audience could not speak.
“It- did,” Jinki admitted, “but it's just an object. It doesn't matter now.” His words were sullen, his shoulders weak.
“What was it?” Kibum queried, coming to life the closer Jinki got to him. “A gift, or-“
“My grandmother's,” Jinki interrupted, “but it's-it's my own fault for putting it in such a stupid place to begin with. It was always going to break sitting there.”
“Jinki, i’m really-“
“It's fine, Jonghyun.”
Jonghyun quietened then, eyes sliding to the floor. Taemin wanted to reach out, grab his hand, ensure him that mistakes happened, that things broke and that this was just, in many ways, the human condition – but he couldn’t. He could merely watch Jonghyun’s distant distress, and chart the downfall of his expression.
“What's up with everyone this evening?” Minho interrupted, eyeing the four others with innocent intrigue. “This is the most depressing house-warming I think I've ever been to.”
Nobody answered.
“Christ, guys, am I talking to a wall?”
“We're just tired,” Taemin felt the need to interject, and he was startled then, for his words seemed inherently defensive, as if Minho had attacked his other hyungs.
“I know,” he sighed, “but still. Five years ago and being tired would have made us even more extreme.”
“This isn’t five years ago, Minho,” Kibum stated dryly, “this is now.”
“And can't now still be fun?” Minho posed, gesturing an arm. “Come on! I remember a time where a bottle of beer and a broken vase would have created the stupidest of evenings.”
“We've just had a long week,” Jinki mumbled, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Which is why I wanted to spend the evening with you all – and just you all. No managers, no family, no pressures, just-“
“Just us five,” Kibum nodded, “like the old times.”
“Like the old times,” Jinki agreed, “so that we could just be ourselves.”
“No pressures,” Taemin understood, “no stress.”
“Precisely,” Jinki added, “just us.”
“Then why are we all so down?” asked Minho, sitting on the arm of the sofa gently. “What's wrong with us? I don't- I don't get it.”
“Because we don't usually do this anymore,” Jonghyun observed, “just… Just us. It doesn't usually happen. We're with each other, but there are others, too.”
“We've forgotten how to be just us," commented Kibum. “We don't visit the dorms anymore, we don't hang out anymore, we've… Forgotten.”
“Actually, you're wrong about one thing,” Jonghyun countered. “Someone does still stay at the dorms…” He trailed off and cocked his head at Taemin, and, noticing the implication, all other eyes followed.
“You still stay at the dorms?” Kibum asked sceptically, a small smile tugging on his lips.
Taemin shrugged, folding his arms and murmuring, “I just- I just go there, occasionally, I guess.”
“Hah, but why?” Minho pressed, nursing his beer-bottle expertly. “Why go back there?”
Taemin shrugged a shoulder.
“Maybe we should all go back there,” Jinki mused, “I mean, not permanently- just sometimes. It could do us good, don't you think?”
“Aish, such a leader,” joked Kibum, raising a slight humour within his friends. Slowly, steadily, they were reverting back to who they were – they were reverting back to family.
"Seriously?” Minho raised an eyebrow, slipping into a lopsided grin.
“Seriously!” Jinki exclaimed, as if, in that second, Jonghyun’s mishap had never occurred.
“I don't know,” Kibum mumbled, with a shrug. “It could be fun.”
“You guys aren’t genuinely considering moving back into the dorms,” Minho murmured, “are you?”
“Just a stray thought,” Jinki replied. “I don't mean moving back in – after all, I just got a new house – but every once in a while, if we have a schedule together or whatever.”
“Yunkyung would think we're off our heads,” Minho mumbled, swigging his bottle of beer again. “Off our heads and completely insane.”
“Maybe we are,” Jinki responded, with an absent shrug. “It's just a thought, flaming charisma." The leader shot a mischievous smile, and Taemin felt something tamper in his gut, a fleeting memory he couldn’t net the wing of.
“Aish,” Minho complained, with a laugh nonetheless.
Then, a sickening thwack.
Everything seemed to pause in the room, a tremulous halt that left Taemin stunned, confused, and horrendously scared. His entire body froze, ice-like and jagged, fingers stiffening as if the air itself was some thick preserve. His eyes rooted to the source of the noise, and his lips parted, and everything around him – the blossoming happiness, the unmuted brotherhood, the casual affection – vanished in an instance.
“Kibum!” Minho exclaimed deeply, and then there was a shatter as his bottle hit the ground, breaking into a thousand shards that flickered and drowned in the colourless liquid.
Jinki was too shocked to move.
Darting to Kibum’s side, Minho and Jonghyun knelt by him quickly, as he lay, sprawled, across the carpeted floor. His head was centimetres from the edge of the fireplace, and it was only by good grace it hadn’t smashed against the ledge. He was unconscious, limpid, eyes shut and breathing shallow, as Minho hunkered by his side and shook his shoulders, gently repeating his name, to wake him.
Kibum had fainted.
Things had changed so quickly.
As Jonghyun snapped a frivolous demand at Minho to get some water, Taemin glanced at Jinki, throat still parched and heart still stammering with fear, shock and a dissonant terror. The leader’s eyes were wide as two unblinking moons, and, so unlike himself, he was as useless as he was still. Taemin could practically map out the shadow of fright that drew across his features.
Kibum had fainted.
Again.
“Kibum-ah? Kibum-ah? Yah, it's okay, it's okay…”
Taemin’s eyes flitted back to where Kibum lay. He'd come around, and Jonghyun was gingerly guiding him to a sitting position, speaking half-relieved, half-worried consolations to reassure him. The rapper’s eyelids flickered quickly, like the wings of a moth, as Minho returned with the drink, a frantic arachnid to his web. Kibum was so pale, so ashen. He took the glass with shaking hands and stared straight at Taemin.
“Yah!” he exclaimed suddenly, batting the hands of Minho and Jonghyun away as they rubbed his shoulder. “Get off! I'm okay, I’m okay.”
“Really?” Jonghyun mumbled, dejected as he fell back into a sitting position. Reluctantly, Minho stood and took a step away, giving Kibum space. All eyes were on him as he finished the drink.
“What?” the rapper asked pointedly, setting the glass by his side. His tone was confident, yet damaged, like a warrior with a slashed arm.
“Better, huh?” Jonghyun rebuked, the calm, gentle lilt of his voice having receded into something almost akin to bitterness. Taemin clenched his fists.
“Oh, we are not doing this again,” Kibum dismissed instantly. At this point, Taemin knew a healthy Kibum would have walked away, but as things were, the rapper made no motion to even stand. “I'm just tired, and it's really warm in here, and-“
“Bull!” Jonghyun exclaimed. Jonghyun rarely swore. Shaking his head, Minho stepped up behind Jonghyun and placed his fingertips on the composer’s shoulder, to lowly try, “Now, now, Jjong’.”
“Oh, just shut up, would you?” Kibum bit back, tentatively touching his own forehead with a trembling hand. “Just- shut up.”
“Don't act like such a child,” Jonghyun accused, snapping his shoulder from Minho’s trailing fingers and pushing himself to his feet, where he stood, shoulders hunched, posture broken. “You're still sick, Kibum! We can all see it.”
“I'm fine,” Kibum rejected, with gritted teeth. Jinki still hadn’t moved, but Minho wavered between the two quarrelling men as if a barricade, ready to block their assaults if the situation deteriorated. Taemin hated times like these, he hated them. Especially when Jonghyun was involved.
“I don't know what's worse,” Jonghyun spoke, voice cracked slightly, “the fact that you're lying to us, or the fact that you're lying to yourself.” With that, he inhaled deeply, shook his head, and muttered, “I need a minute.” Barging past Minho, Jonghyun left in a brazen stampede of silence.
Taemin’s eyes finally landed on Minho and they stopped there, watching as his hyung massaged his temples, before glancing awkwardly at the shattered beer bottle by the sofa.
“Oh, , Jinki I'm sorry, I-“
Jinki just nodded, and Minho understood. He ventured to the kitchen to retrieve what he needed to tidy his mess, leaving only three: Jinki, Taemin and Kibum.
“I'm sorry,” Kibum whispered, and Taemin closed his eyes.
He had to go find Jonghyun.
•••
Night;
The night kissed me in pinpricks;
A buzz on skin, like blood,
Whirring across the pink mesh,
To scar, a line.
A buzz on skin, like blood,
Whirring across the pink mesh,
To scar, a line.
I hear its faint whisper
Against my flesh, and the red,
O’, blood,
Seduces the night.
Against my flesh, and the red,
O’, blood,
Seduces the night.
•••
It was dark outside, now. The sun was set and the last streaks of purple were piercing into the sky like lofty stalagmites, impressive amidst the blues and blacks around them. A few white night-lights illuminated the modern exterior of Jinki’s home, the suave, black body of his expensive car. Taemin didn't know what sort of car it was, for he never really cared for such things. He knew it suited Jinki, though – a strong, sophisticated motor for a strong, sophisticated man. Everything else – the front garden and gates included – imbued to darkness, Taemin let his sights drift to what he could see, to the small, fragile man that sat, lonesome, on the bench by the living room window. The living room was curtained, and, as Taemin blinked at Jonghyun, unseen, he wondered if the composer was cold. There was an empty chill in the air.
“Jjong’?” he asked, voice incredibly quiet and incredibly thick. He wrapped his arms around himself and took a step closer, feet crunching from the gravel. The eerie blankness and rustling of the night almost unnerved him, as Jonghyun lifted his head, expression indecipherable until Taemin reached the bench.
“Taemin-ah…” Jonghyun sighed, blinking up at the younger. “Is he okay?”
Unknowing of how to conduct himself and a familiar nervousness beginning to stir within his gut, Taemin sat on the bench beside Jonghyun. It creaked beneath his weight slightly, and he grimaced, but said little, merely happy of the sanctum of light that meant he could see Jonghyun, meant that they both had their own, tiny island in the middle of the darkening evening. There may very well have been only them on the planet.
“He's shaken, I think,” Taemin admitted honestly, preferring to look at his own, white hands than at Jonghyun’s concerned features. He knew if he looked at the composer, his heartbeat would quicken and his breath would constrict, and Taemin really couldn’t have the composer noticing such afflictions – not now, and not ever. He bit his bottom lip, awaiting a response.
“I shouldn’t have shouted,” Jonghyun spoke, the regret repugnant in his voice. They were close, on this bench. Taemin could drink his scent like alcohol.
“It's okay,” the maknae soothed, “he'll forget it. You were just shocked, we all were.”
“But he didn’t do anything wrong,” Jonghyun countered, “not really, and yet I just- I yelled at him, like he'd insulted me, like he'd hurt me. I'm hurt, Taemin, but that’s only because I'm so… worried.”
Something in Jonghyun’s strained voice forced Taemin to raise his head and gaze at the elder, but as soon as he did, he regretted it. Jonghyun was so euphorically handsome beneath the ethereal shawl of light, cheekbones high and jawline straight. But it wasn’t his beauty that conflicted Taemin, rather it was the way his eyes were cast-over with a silvery sheen, the way his tousled brunette hair gently wavered in the breeze, the way he looked so, so defenceless. Every urge to reach out and comfort him, to grab his hand and kiss his soft lips, to hold his narrow frame and his soft hair, began to proliferate through Taemin. He had to dampen it. He had to.
“Of course you're worried,” Taemin tried meekly, “we all are, hyung.”
“Yeah, and that makes me even more stupid.” Jonghyun hung his head, ashamed, and Taemin parted his lips. His skin prickled with more than the salient chill of night.
“Don't say that about yourself,” the maknae instructed, “don’t put yourself down like that, Jjong’. I hate it when you- when you do that.”
“I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking,” Jonghyun mumbled, head still lowered. “When I started arguing, Minho stood between us because he knew – he knew – I was going to make things more dramatic than they should’ve been, I was going to pick a fight where there should have been comfort.” Jonghyun lifted his head to stare straight ahead. “Why am I like this, Taemin? What the hell is wrong with me? He needed help, support, not- not anger, not abuse.”
“You hardly abused him, hyung,” Taemin interjected pointedly. “We all know you care, Jjong’, we all know you care more than anything. Sometimes we just… We all just get angry, we can't control it. You can't be a saint all the time, that’s not- that’s not possible, that’s not human."
“It isn’t about being a saint,” Jonghyun countered, “it's about not being a sinner.” Silence settled then.
For the longest of minutes, Taemin found himself just watching Jonghyun. The elder stared, helplessly, into space, the mechanics of his mind almost whirring so that Taemin could hear. His skin was losing the flush it had held within the warm cradle of Jinki’s home, and was replaced by a candid paleness, one that spoke of his upset, his confusion. Taemin his lower lip. It was just him and Jonghyun, alone, together, in their own slice of reality, where anything could happen. Gingerly, he reached out a hand and rested it on Jonghyun’s arm, to garner his hyung’s attention. However, when the composer looked around, Taemin let his hand stay there.
“Please,” he extended, “don’t feel guilty.” Jonghyun’s eyes breathed life into Taemin’s as they stared at one another, and Taemin felt something twist, in his stomach, in his heart, in his mind. The fabric of Jonghyun’s sweater was pressed against his fingers, but the distance between them both seemed shorter, seemed less than it had ever been. In Taemin’s world, there was no night, there was no sound, there was no movement – there was only Jonghyun.
“Jonghyun? Taemin? Are you two going to come back inside?”
And just like that, another fracture. Taemin tore his hand from Jonghyun and whipped his head to view the front door, where Jinki leant out of, eyebrows raised and head tilted. He seemed to have recovered from his stunned stupor, but still held a weary uneasiness as he regarded the two men hesitantly.
“I don't know,” Jonghyun mumbled sadly, “I think I'll just head home. It's getting late, anyway, and I promised Roo I'd play her this song I've been working on.”
Uncontrollably, Taemin laughed, and returned his attention to Jonghyun to ask, “You promised Roo?"
“Yeah,” Jonghyun nodded casually, shrugging as he stood, “she's got a good ear for this kind of thing, seriously.”
“Right, well, whatever,” Jinki called over, voice drenched in scepticism. “Taemin?”
“Yeah, I'll- I’m coming,” the maknae agreed, albeit disheartened at the fact Jonghyun was leaving. A shy resentment also flickered in his gut as he considered Jinki’s interruption, but he played it down with the skill of experience. Nothing would have happened anyway – nothing ever happened. He would just have been left with the regret of not pursuing his emotions further, but with the contentment in knowing he hadn't destroyed things. Situations like these were routine.
“Well, okay,” Jinki murmured, and Taemin detected a slight awkwardness in his voice, as if he knew what he'd interrupted. The leader receded back into his home like a fox to den, leaving the door open for Taemin.
The dancer was alone with Jonghyun, again. He stood to meet the composer, nervous as their moods intermingled.
“Thank you,” Jonghyun mumbled quietly, almost timidly. He looked at his shoe with faint interest as Taemin clenched his own sleeves, like a hapless lover.
“For what?” Taemin croaked, oblivious.
“Just listening,” Jonghyun admitted, lifting his head and tilting it. He was so ethereally beautiful. Taemin wanted to reach out with his slender fingers and capture such a vision, to keep forever in his pocket. Despite this, Taemin knew the composer’s beauty was, and would forever be, timeless.
“If it's all I can do,” Taemin answered. He felt his cheeks blush slightly, and hoped Jonghyun couldn’t see. He wished things were different. So, so different.
“It means a lot,” Jonghyun confirmed. “But I- I'm going to go now. Tell Kibum I’m sorry.”
“I will.”
“Goodnight, Taemin.”
“Goodnight, Jonghyun.”
The composer smiled, and like bird to nest, slipped into the darkness.
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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