Key’s eyes are narrowed, lips pulled downward in more of an expression of exasperation than one of actual anger. He sips at his drink, bending the straw with his meticulously trimmed fingernails and fraying the thin plastic with every tug.

            He looks, as he always does, quite annoyed.

            “If you like him so much, just talk to him,” he demands, a hopeless sigh interwoven between his words.

            Taemin feels himself snap back to attention, jolted out of his daydream that he hadn’t even noticed that he had drifted off into. But of course he had. More and more recently his attention has been slipping, gradually falling to pieces until he can’t focus on anything anymore.

            And there is only one person he has to blame for it.

            “K-Key, you know I can’t do that…” he mumbles, back hunching over in shame as he feels his cheeks burn from his best friend’s words. Yes, Key already knows. He’s quite intuitive, as much as he pretends not to be. He knows it full well. But that little fact certainly doesn’t stop him from suggesting it at every opportunity.

            “Why not?” Key asks with a shrug. His words are innocent, though his intentions are anything but. A subtle smirk plays at his lips as he revels in the embarrassment he causes his friend. He will never understand why Taemin’s shame comes as such an enjoyment to him, but he isn’t all that interested in the ‘why’.

            “B-Because…” Taemin grumbles, speaking more to his shoes than to Key’s face, the floor suddenly much more attractive to him than the knowing stare of his best friend. “He’s… him. And… and I’m just… me.”

            Key simply raises his shoulders again before dropping his hands at his sides. “I don’t see what’s so special about him anyway…” he whispers, casting a sidelong glance to the boy that has so captivated his friend’s attention for the past, how long has it been, full month?

            Taemin merely sighs. The conversation is outplayed and dull by now, the words totally memorized, even the slight stresses and subtle changes in Key’s tone at every syllable already remembered and stored away in his mind. He’s explained to Key just what was so special about him probably a hundreds times over, but to no avail. If Key doesn’t get it by now, then there truly is no use. Or, more likely, Key is just too stubborn to accept Taemin’s long and, admittedly, slightly over detailed reasoning.

            But even through all of Taemin’s details, he still doesn’t feel like his explanation does justice to just what it is that he likes about him. Whenever he does speak about him, which is much more often than he’s willing to admit, he cuts his talks to mere minutes for the sake of an unwilling conversational partner, minutes that are nothing compared to the hours he is absolutely positive he could prattle on about every single thing that made him special.

            Because what he likes about Choi Minho is far too much to express in just minutes.

            He could talk about his smile for hours, which sometimes, much to Key’s chagrin, he does. That warm smile that he wishes more than anything could be directed at him, if only for a split second in time, has been replaying in his head since he his eyes accidentally caught sight of it in the middle of the hallway on the first day of school. Though there were hundreds of footsteps and even more noise, it was the only thing he took note of. Amidst a sea of distractions, it shone.

            He could talk about how nice he seems, the problem of distance confining his judgment to impressions and nothing more. He could, and has, spent nights grappling with himself, convincing his argumentative brain over and over that his laugh is that of someone kind, his gestures, infrequent as Taemin may see them, speak with a gentleness that must belong to someone whose compassion surpasses all bounds.

            He could talk, with much embarrassment, of his strong arms, arms that have been toned with constant exercise and an unparalleled athletic ability that Taemin can’t help but envy, something he secretly thinks about late at night when he should be sleeping. And he wonders, though he will never admit it, just what it would feel like to be held in those strong arms, to be protected by the touch of someone he can only quietly long for.

            But of course he will never tell Key that.

            For all he can say about Choi Minho, there’s a lot he can’t say.

            He can’t tell you of his personality because he just doesn’t know. He can dream and form conjectures to his heart’s content, but he can never say with certainty that Minho is kind, Minho is humorous, or, and this terrifies him more than anything, Minho is cruel, Minho is cold, unfeeling, and nothing like Taemin imagined.

            But he hopes that isn’t true.

            The air is gentle and warm, a quiet backdrop to the constant murmurs that are his thoughts. He tries to do his work when he gets home, even though he knows by now that any attempt to do so is utterly useless. His mind begin to drift, just as he’s begun to expect it to.

            He thinks of Minho’s large hands that would surely feel so warm fitted between his own small fingers. He thinks of Minho’s eyes that he would do anything just to have look at him for a moment. He thinks of his lips, and, as a delicate blush spreads across his face, he allows himself the solitary indulgence of wondering what they would feel like pressed delicately against his own. But Taemin has never kissed anyone before, and is unsure as to what it feels like, so the thought is incomplete, a half-formed ‘what if’ that he knows he will never have the good fortune to finish. He imagines it must feel warm, but beyond that he cannot infer.

            He lies awake at night with his mind slipping further and further into thoughts of Choi Minho, and he is content.

            Taemin has never liked anyone before, and the feeling makes him giddy. He likes the fluttering sensation that bubbles in his stomach every time he thinks about him. He likes the way his throat seizes up when he catches a glance of him in the cafeteria or the hallway, his cheeks flushing as he shyly averts his eyes, though there really is no reason for it. He knows Minho will never notice him anyway.

            He clutches his pillow as his heart plays rhythms in his chest, and he is content. Though he can only love him from afar, he doesn’t mind. He understands. Taemin, though young, is mature beyond his years, and perhaps rational to a fault.

            Minho is the school’s beloved. He is known by everyone. Grab a random student out of the hallway and they have certainly heard of him. Even first years, timid and unlearned as they are, have heard the name echo in the hallways probably a hundred times since their entry into a new school. Handsome and kind, or so Taemin believes, he is lusted after by the majority of the girls in school, and perhaps even target of a few boys’ longing stares, boys who, like Taemin, can do nothing but silently look on from afar.

            Forget loved, he is worshipped. He is Choi Minho, god of the school and friend of everyone.

            And Lee Taemin is just a first year. Quiet, unnoticed, a studious boy with only one or two friends to his name. He is not strong, like Minho is. He doesn’t have his athletic ability, and he is not naturally charismatic. Taemin is thin and fragile. He is far more emotional than he would like to be. And he is hopelessly entranced by someone who will never even look at him.

            But he doesn’t mind.

            “Stop looking at him, Taemin,” Key complains. They’re standing by the lockers and catching up on a few things before heading back to class. Taemin, however, can’t help but peek over his friend’s shoulder every second or so. Though he thinks he’s being subtle, it seems that nothing escapes Key’s watchful and attentive eyes. He should be used to it by now. They’ve been friends for years.

            “I’m not,” Taemin protests timidly, clutching his books to his face to cover the blush that’s surely present on his cheeks. Just one more thing he hates about himself – he gets flustered far too easily. For a split second he wonders if Minho ever gets embarrassed like he does. He is doubtful, but he silently hopes so.

            Key rolls his eyes and shuts his locker far more loudly than what seems necessary to Taemin. “Taemin, stop being naïve,” he demands, his tone even more condescending than the usual, “A guy like that isn’t good for you. Just forget about him.”

            Taemin frowns and slams his locker with equal force. He has never been good at conveying his feelings in words, so he settles for actions. He turns on his heels and stomps down the hallway, leaving a furious Key in the wake of his anger.

            Key is his best friend, but sometimes he gets so frustrated with him he wants to scream. He is just a few months older than Taemin, but he speaks with the affected knowledge of someone in their later years, and far too often treats Taemin like nothing more than a child.

            And Taemin hates it.

            Taemin is young, but he is not clueless. He is inexperienced, but he is not naïve. He knows he will never have Minho the way he wants him. He doesn’t fool himself into thinking that he will. He will never hold Minho’s hand, he will never be held in Minho’s arms, and he will never know what Minho’s full lips feel like against his own. He knows it, and he doesn’t mind. He is content.

            But Key’s words are hateful. They are judgmental. Even if Key means well, they sting. While Taemin’s happiness is by no means an illusion, they do well to break down the tactful guard of positivity he has purposely adopted.

            With every word of skepticism that Key utters, Taemin begins to doubt himself.

            What if his feelings are strange? The idea of liking someone with no intention of pursuit was certainly not unheard of, or was it? Being happy just from the feeling of an intangible and non-existent romance couldn’t be unique to only him, or could it be? He just doesn’t know. Taemin has never liked anyone before, and he isn’t rehearsed on the procedure. He is unsure.

            He lies awake at night, but he is no longer content. He is in pain.

            He wants to hold Minho’s hand in his own. He wants Minho to lie beside him and whisper words of love in his ears. He wants to feel his warmth, and, more than anything, he wants to feel his perfect lips on his own, to complete that unfulfilled ‘what if’ that remains dangling in the depths of his imagination. But he knows that he never will.

            This is the first time that thoughts of Minho do not comfort him. He feels something aching in his stomach, a painful, yet hollow feeling he just doesn’t understand.

            Taemin is not rehearsed in love, and does not know that this is ‘heartbreak’.

            “He isn’t good for you. Forget about him,” Key tells him everyday. And Taemin no longer just brushes it off like he had been. Because he agrees.

            The flutters in his heart have gone and been replaced by the painful throb of a heartbreak he doesn’t understand. He no longer likes when his eyes land on Minho’s, and when he notes with an indescribable feeling of agony his smile that is not, nor ever will be, directed toward him.

            Minho only reminds Taemin of how small he really is. There is nothing unique about him at all. Some people are known by everyone, and have a sea of friends that follow at their heels, but Taemin is quiet, and he doesn’t have many people who even know him, let alone people who are friends with him. Some people are clever and witty, but he is not one of those people. Some people are brilliant in their speech and have words of wisdom that could move even the most learned of scholars, but Taemin’s intelligence is restricted only to the confines of school, and beyond his good grades he has nothing to show.

            He no longer feels happiness just to watch Minho from afar. Though Taemin is young, he has had enough pain in his life, and he doesn’t want more. So he vows to forget him.

            He immerses himself in dance. He is in the studio everyday after school, until all the aches and pains simply shatter in the rhythm of the music, his steps moving quickly to cover up the feeling of heartbreak he still cannot name.

            But as soon as the music stops and his harsh breaths turn to gentle pants, it all comes back. The pain, the frustration, the sting of a love that will not be returned drums along, dictated by the time signature that is his heartbeat.

            “You dance too much,” Key tells him, frustrated that Taemin has been more distant lately. He has no one to hang out with after school anymore, and he misses him. But Key is stubborn. Perhaps more stubborn than Taemin is. So he does not say tell him he misses him. Just, ‘you dance too much.’

            But Taemin is taking your advice, Key.

            What more do you want from him?

            So Taemin dances. Alone and unbothered, he moves with the swiftness of someone without a care in the world. And he hopes that that sentiment can become a reality.

            He is sweating now. He’s been dancing far too long. His legs feel so weak, like he can’t stand anymore. He curses himself for his lack of common sense. He still has to walk home after this. His tired legs still have quite a way to go.

            He hears the click of the door handle and he whips his head around, aghast and incredulous at the sight before him.

            He is even taller up close. Taemin had always admired his height, but now he truly seems to tower over him. He seems more handsome, too, though it could be a delusion manifested by the pure shock that has seemed to halt every function Taemin is capable of. He speaks, but Taemin is too terrified to listen. His hands are shaking at his sides, his already lifeless limbs feeling like they will buckle at any moment.

            “That was incredible! You’re an amazing dancer!” Minho says. And momentarily, Taemin forgets how to speak. Because the Minho who he has wanted for so long, the Minho he has quietly loved from afar with no intention of ever talking to him, the Minho whose long fingers he has imagined laced between his own, whose lips he has longed for time and time again, is now standing in the dance studio, complimenting him for something he should not have even seen.

            “Umm… th-thank you…” He mutters, cursing himself for the stutters he can’t rid from his speech. Minho introduces himself without need. Taemin has known of him since the very moment he could.

            “Well, what’s your name?” Minho asks. Taemin feels himself nearly jump out of his skin. This is a dream, he thinks. It must be a dream. There’s no way, he convinces himself, no way that Minho was truly standing before him, asking him his name of all things.

            There’s no way he’s taken note of a boy such as Taemin.

            “T-Taemin…” He whispers, the two syllables that should be the most familiar in the world to him suddenly sounding foreign on his own tongue.

            He jolts as Minho takes a step forward and extends his hand. He somehow feels the shock more powerfully than he had been before, though he previously would have deemed such a thing impossible. But it’s true. His heart is pounding now, pulsing in his fingertips and jarring his limbs.

            Because Minho is smiling.

            Lips drawn upward and white teeth on full display, he is smiling. That crooked smile that is more perfect than anything Taemin has ever seen, and infinitely more beautiful than any of the smiles he had seen from him before. Because this time it is directed at no one but him.

            He slides his fingers into Minho’s in a gentle handshake. Minho’s hands are large and rough, but undeniably warm. Just as Taemin has imagined during all those nights he lay awake in bed. Just as Taemin has always dreamed of.

            “Well, Taemin,” Minho begins, his face molded into a perfect picture of joy that Taemin never knew he would see so close before, let alone directed at him. And in that split second, he feels it again. That flutter of his heart in his chest, the choking of his throat that he had forgotten felt so good. 

            He had vowed to forget him, but maybe he would put it off for a bit. 

            Maybe he could continue to love him from afar, if only for a little while.

            And when he speaks again, Taemin knows it is the voice of someone kind. He knows it is the voice of someone gentle. He knows it is a voice that belongs to such a man he has imagined, a man he would do anything just to get closer to.

            And when Minho speaks, he silently hopes that he will.

            “It’s nice to meet you.” 

--------------------------

A/N- Hello! I said on the main story that I was thinking about writing a one-shot about the time Taemin spent liking Minho for a month up to their meeting, and here it is! I wasn't actually planning on following through on that proposal, but I got bored during a free period in school today and I whipped this up. 

If you didn't see, I have changed the foreword and the title of this whole story, because... I've decided to keep this going as a series of one-shots that take place in the BI universe. There might be some Jongkey in the future, some more Taemin and his mom, or some more 2min. Whenever I get the inspiration to revisit BI, I will post a one-shot here. So you should subscribe if you want to read them. I said I was unable to let the BI universe go, so this is my way of continuing it. 

A few attentive readers noted on my tumblr that I never write from the bottom's point of view. Well... they're right. I didn't even do it here. It's hard for me to write from a bottom's point of view because... in real life, I'm a top. Oops, too much information...?

Anyway, I had fun with this point of view. I've never done an omniscient narrator before, and honestly, I never thought I would. But I had so much fun doing it in this one-shot that I might have to try it again. 

Hope you liked~

-Gelisi