The heavy thump of large, slow footsteps resounds throughout the four-walled room, faintly through the gaps between the pots on the shelf and lingers just a second longer until a small thud takes over. The mug hits the mahogany of the table and the aroma of black Oolong tea wafts up, diffuses into the confined air of the studio. Minho is back in his studio and, supposedly, that marks a new day.

 

At 7 in the morning again.

 

Pulling the curtains aside, Minho welcomes the sun as it pours in through his window and bathes his studio in its warm light. He likes to think that the first few rays of the sunlight bring new hopes and fresh luck - not like it is anywhere proven to be true anyway - so he never skips that grand opening and makes it a ritualistic act instead, like something that would definitely jeopardise his career if it’s not practised in the first place.

 

That’s one of the things that are uniquely special to him. Things that are rarely done by others, but everyone has stuff they hold sacred in life however weird and ridiculous.

 

As for Minho, besides the greeting-the-sun-morning ceremony that he deems crucial to ensure his daily sense of sanity is not tapered, his morning tea is just as equally important. He enjoys the hot oolong light; one that comes with the fruity and honeyed fragrance, sweet and soft and just so to fill his entire six feet one-inch tall body with positive energy. He will be needing that to go on with his day, to proceed with his typical, mind-numbing routine in the studio.

 

Minho’s life as a potter has been pretty much this and that - a little bit of waking up extraordinarily early to pick up new boxes of clay from his doorstep and preparing himself for the work regime that he has acclimatised himself to. The fundamental concept sticks to being an artist, but at the same time, he’s an entrepreneur as well as an instructor. Complicated as it is, Minho knows the real struggle not to be able to pick a stand and one fixed role in his area of expertise.

 

But, it is what it is. What matters is Minho enjoys what he’s doing.

 

Gently, he grips the edge of the plastic, twists his wrists slightly and pulls it out of the box. A whole, tightly wrapped clay is dumped onto the worktable, followed by a heavy sigh from the man as he dons the apron. As if on cue, his mind begins its automated calculation:

 

First, unwrap the clay, cut it into adequate pieces then start wedging. Next, weigh each of the pieces. Make sure they are not too small, too big, too light or too heavy - that will only welcome defects in the pottery. Standardise them all accordingly; 0.5 pounds of clay for espresso mugs, 1.3 pounds for a tea bowl, et cetera. After that, begin the wheel-throwing. Next, the kiln. And, if that doesn’t take up the whole day yet, repeat, ad nauseam.

 

Once the fuzziness has dissipated and Minho is sure that he is ready to start grinding for the day, he spares no time to get on the grooves. Each potter lives in a different order of practices. Most of them prefer to start preparing the clay because they aim to scratch as many things off the list as possible while waiting for their pots, mugs, bowls - just everything that they craft on the wheel - to dry on the shelves. But some others like it better if they unload the kiln first (which is the other way around) so the last night’s batch can sit to cool before glazing.

 

Either way is fine. Versatility, after all, is the quintessence of artistic excellence; a skill that is very much needed in life.

 

Minho is certainly the former, though. Eight shaped mugs and five saucers are done, ready to be exposed to dry. He washes his hands clean, moves to the kiln and fishes out the potteries that he has left overnight. Throughout his childhood, he had seen his father doing the same thing, abiding by the same rules and following the same sequence as he does right now. 

 

The skill (or passion, for that matter) is not like an heirloom, obviously. It is not passed down in the Choi family for generations - in fact, only his father had that drastic career swerve while the rest followed the traditional norm of having ‘nice, stable jobs’ to ensure lifelong peace and happiness. Still, no regret was necessary. Minho had the privilege to grow up among a cacophony of young, cheerful and art-minded children. They were the best of his congenial company whereas the clay has been his closest confidant ever since.

 

Not so bad, right?

 

If that question is thrown at Minho now as he closes the lid of the kiln with hands dusted clean, he would agree. If he is asked again when he starts designing and colouring the potteries, - even if he prefers silence over human interactions while doing it - he would agree. If he is asked for one last time later that day when he shuts the front door of his studio tight, albeit grudgingly, he would still agree.

 

Because Minho has an undying passion for this thing; his favourite pastime that generates money. He knew pottery by its beauty. Surely, it gets gruelling over time. A simple, leisure activity turns into an ultimate, brutal task when the exhibition is just around the corner, or when the workshop advertisement is up and people show interest in joining it, or when the orders simply pile up - all these scenarios, even the single thought of them, are able to gauge the worst possible reaction out of him. Hence, he has to prepare both himself and his business for the sudden jolt of demand, especially the surprising sales spikes at unexpected times.

 

Like now.

 

“Hello. It’s CHOI’s Studio here,” Minho sandwiches the phone between his ear and his shoulder. The other end stays quiet, but he can hear silent footsteps echoing over the line, indicating the presence of the silent speaker. Hesitantly, he tries again, “Hello?”

 

“H-hi,” a voice replies, soft and unsure and timid. “Is this CHOI’s Studio?”

 

Minho blinks cluelessly. He just announced it, didn’t he? 

 

“Yes, you’re correct. How can I help you?”

 

The awkward silence returns. It lasts long enough for Minho to assume that he’s being doted on, that the call holds no significant value in the growth of his business. One more minute, he thinks and checks his wristwatch. If they say nothing, end the call.

 

So, Minho starts counting under his breath.

 

54, 55, 56, 57, …

 

“I want to ask about the workshop,” comes the answer again after almost a minute of stillness. “Can I book my first session tomorrow?”

 

Minho frowns. “Tomorrow? But the workshop is next week. The other instructors and some pro ceramicists will be attending, too.”

 

“I know,” his voice rises slightly in nothing but unconcealed desperation. Close enough to a whine, though Minho ignores the acknowledgement pointedly. “But I can’t make it there next week for… some reason. The basic course only consists of three sessions, right? That’s six hours altogether, meaning one session equals two hours. We can finish it this week if we start tomorrow.”

 

“Yes but—”

 

“And I will still pay the same price. Higher, even, if you really have to squeeze yourself out of your tight schedule,” then he pauses, so unprovoked and abrupt in between his messy pleas. “W-wait. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to be those people who pay extra to be the first in line, no. Sorry. God, sorry if my words hurt you. I don’t mean it that way, but I saw your exhibition the other day. I checked your website and I’m so keen to learn how to make those mugs. They say you’re good at it. The best, even. So I really hope you can consider it. I know it’s difficult but—”

 

“Hey, hey,” Minho has to be the bigger person and cut him there before anything happens. He needs to. “Breathe. You sound like you’re going to pass out anytime soon. Inhale, come on. Slowly. Now exhale.”

 

The silence resurfaces, much to Minho’s disgruntlement, but this time, it comes with the faintest sound of the other’s sharp inhalation and slow, relaxed sigh. Minho gives him another few moments to recollect himself before continuing:

 

“Fine,” Minho flips the table calendar and wonders if this unplanned decision would hobble himself within the same week. His tone is heavy, then the sigh gets even heavier as he pinches his temple. “Fine. I’ll book the station in my studio for three days straight starting from tomorrow. Two hours each session, as you already know it. What’s your name?”

 

“What am I supposed to bring?”

 

“The…,” Minho’s words tail off in fogged confusion when his question is dodged. He turns to face the medium-sized chalkboard on his right and hums, “Apron, sponge, some tools. The list can be found on the website, actually. Just in case you cannot find any, and by any I mean the tools, then just drop round with what you have. I can provide them here, but don’t tell anyone I say that.”

 

There are some indistinct but obvious scribbling noises on the other end before another reply filters through, an ‘okay~’ hits Minho’s ear in greeting.

 

“Yep. Right. So… your name, please?”

 

“Oh!” He giggles. A giggle that stops Minho from biting the cap of his sharpie halfway. A very tiny sounding one, but it strikes him so fiercely then. “Taemin. Lee Taemin.”

 

“Okay, Tae…min. Taemin, yes. Three days. At 10, yeah?”

 

“Yes. Apron, sponge, tools. Tomorrow at 10, and for three days straight. Two hours each. Six hours in total. Yes, perfect. See you, Minho!”

 

Just when the potter opens his mouth to stop Taemin from repeating exactly what he has said, the call ends. Minho is left just as confused as he was when he first picked up the call not less than 10 minutes ago. Not only that, but he also adds a real literal burden onto his own shoulders by agreeing to a stranger’s request.

 

Now, Minho is swamped with both work and the responsibility to teach but there’s no room to back away.

 

It should be interesting, shouldn't it?

 

That, Minho glances down at the name he so messily jotted on his notebook and tilts his head, is something.

 

Day One

 

A new day has dawned. As usual, Minho is found standing in front of his studio already with a mug of Oolong tea in one hand, fumbling with the keys in the other. It’s a bright, beautiful day. The sunlit clouds are gliding across the pale blue sky with ease, reflecting shaded lights on the exuberant passers-by. 

 

It takes Minho a while to get inside, then less of the record to sort everything out again. His worktable is almost always left clean, but that doesn’t matter that time. On that day, what’s important is the knowledge that he’s about to share with someone, the lesson that he is entrusted to teach.

 

The chalkboard that was once filled with myriads of order ideas is already erased clean, now superseded by one fixed sketching of a mug. A simple, easy and authentic mug. A design that is made for beginners to learn and try without fearing feasible failures.

 

Because Taemin said he was, and still probably is, eager to learn that one the most. But yeah, that’s only valid if Minho had heard it correctly - which is understandable, really, since Taemin literally spewed a lot of information at once yesterday. Like a shy chatterbox, but a chatterbox all the same.

 

Glancing at his wristwatch, Minho notices that it is nearing 10 AM. He wonders if Taemin is having a hard time trying to find his studio. Will he manage to come on time?

 

The gentle knock on the door catches his attention as he wheels around, ready to meet his cus—let’s just consider Taemin his student. He’s not there to buy anything but the exact opposite; he’s there to learn so he doesn’t have to buy anything.

 

“I’m sorry,” he pants with regret and Minho watches, pretty much saying nothing.

 

Taemin, as Minho can tell from the voice alone through the phone call, is young. Not the teen-like young, but presumably younger than Minho by at least a few years. He’s blond, cherubic face a little pink from the prospect of being late to his first-ever pottery class with the instructor he so willingly begged to make time and teach him, palms hidden from how big the sweater sleeves are. He looks endearingly soft and small that Minho has to shake the fogginess away, blinking several times to allow his brain to compute properly.

 

“No worries,” Minho’s voice wavers slightly and he pretends to look at his wristwatch again as if he has not been doing it for the last 30 minutes. “You’re just in time. Minus my dumbstruck reaction, you could’ve been here sharp at 10.”

 

His answer brings a smile to Taemin’s face. He stands on the balls of his feet and offers a hand, “Hi.”

 

Hi?

 

“Hi.”

 

Now that makes it a little more difficult to process. Wasn't Taemin timid over the phone? Maybe Minho went too much with the assumption (again, was it really an assumption when you can vividly picture a guy fidgeting and shifting around while trying so hard to find and string words together?) but this sudden tilt of behaviour somehow amuses Minho.

 

In a good way, that is.

 

Refusing to succumb to his sudden, overly active mind generating an endless train of thoughts, Minho clears his throat and gestures to the locker. “You can put your things there. Bag, phone, wallet, jewellery—yes, could you please take off your bracelet? For safety purposes.”

 

“This?” Taemin lifts his right wrist and points at the bracelet. When Minho gives him a nod in affirmation, he proceeds to pull it off, leaving his wrist bare and clean without any accessories, then tosses it into his bag.

 

The bag which, soon enough, goes into the locker box, slammed shut and tight with the owner standing three feet from Minho, beaming just as ebulliently.

 

Grinning, Taemin announces, “Those are my rosary beads.”

 

Oh. Now Minho feels bad about demanding it to be off. 

 

“But it’s okay,” Taemin adds quickly as if he senses Minho’s sudden disheartenment and tries to cheer him up. “My mom gave it to me when I was 10 because she thought it could protect me from dangerous things in school. I didn’t understand, actually, since nothing really happened before she got me those beads. Weird, right? When I asked her, she said, ‘Simply. Just wear it. That’s protection.’ So I did. Anyway, what I’m saying is, you didn’t offend me.”

 

The lengthy justification leaves Minho in awe, but he doesn’t dwell on it longer than a fraction of a second for fear of taking it very personally. By personal, Minho means the hint of warmth that will worm into his guts at the sight of Taemin being incredibly honest and vulnerable while sharing a fragment of his precious childhood memories. 

 

“Thanks. Shall we start?”

 

“Yes!”

 

The preparation is fairly easy. Minho manages to guide Taemin through every step, like getting his hair pulled into a messy little ponytail. It’s not too long to disturb but Minho would rather be cautious about it. For Minho’s sake, he’s paid to teach. For Taemin’s, he comes to learn. There’s no space for regret in every class. Even if there is, it never yields nice outcomes and he wants to avoid it as best as he could.

 

“Nice apron,” Minho comments as he gathers Taemin’s tools, eyes fixated on the said piece. Soft beige in the windowpane check pattern. He might’ve bought an art apron instead of the slipster pottery one, considering it comes with intricate prints of flowers on the edge - an exact opposite of Minho’s bland, dull and grey open leg apron. Cute.

 

Taemin visibly flushes, cheeks flustered crimson. He clearly doesn’t see it coming. “T-thanks. I chose it haphazardly on my way here.”

 

“I gotta say you made a great choice while dealing with the time constraints. Now, let’s set up your station.”

 

“Yes!”

 

There he goes again with his enthusiastic chime for the second time that day, knocking Minho’s heart violently that he finds hard to concentrate.

 

Almost.

 

The studio is spacious. Just nice to contain the worktable, shelves, a stack of boxes with enough space for people to create their own station.

 

Well, maybe ‘creating’ is not the correct word to use because Minho’s approval is still pretty much required there. So, instead of warranting chaos, Minho helps Taemin with it. The younger (he insists) seems to be thanking him internally for that polite gesture.

 

Their stations are set facing each other. Taemin sits right across and fiddles with the apron, fixing and tugging and grunting all the while - the trouble that is bound to happen. Minho has expected that.

 

It could be difficult for someone, much more for beginners, to sit comfortably if their concern lies on ‘how do I cover my legs when I have to spread them so wide in front of someone else?’ It’s normal really, but that also explains why it’s important to wear the most appropriate apron for these occasions.

 

Taemin, on the contrary, is wearing a different kind. A full-length apron. The one that would just drape over the front and leave his knees jutting out on either side. Embarrassment clouds his entire frame and his blush darkens for which Minho doesn’t know the exact reason. 

 

Is he shy from the mere idea of having to sit like that for two hours that his whole body just boils into a bright, inescapable red? If it’s true, that’s cute. 

 

Or he’s angry at the apron for not doing its job to cover him from glazes and clays and discomfiture in front of his instructor? Because that, too, would be so cute. So ing cute, actually.

 

The possibilities are endless. Minho mentally waves it off and lets the list grow in length.

 

Now, where is he, again?

 

Oh, technicality. Right.

 

Thing is, you have to spread your legs. Otherwise, everything will fall out of design; the throwing wheel is going to be too far to reach and that will make your throwing process e. Everything else that comes afterwards is a disaster, like a real domino effect after one inevitable lapse from the start.

 

“It’s okay,” Minho gives a shot at comforting the other, professionalism overtakes the tone of his voice. “I can relocate my station and sit beside you instead if that can help you feel better.”

 

Taemin huffs and shakes his head ardently. “I cannot see you properly. I’m a visual learner and you will need to demonstrate first, right? Then only I can copy.”

 

“Fair point. Uh, I have one spare apron, too. I can get it for you. It’s not pretty, however. It's dull and green, a little worn out and doesn’t have flowers like yours.” The cute one of yours. “But I can give you this one that I’m wearing and I will take the other.”

 

“No, no, no. It’s okay!” Taemin is now giggling, still shy but masked with a vibrant smile this time. “You’re too kind. I just need to get used to this.”

 

Minho falters. He’s being reasonably kind, isn’t he? He’s a teacher, after all. Anyone who is under his tutelage is his priority. That’s what Taemin is, right?

 

“Okay, then. If that’s the case, I want you to… just move about a little. Position yourself properly. Be as relaxed and comfortable as possible - don’t strain your back and neck, since breathing technique is super important in the making of pottery. With me so far?”

 

“Yes!”

 

God. Again.

 

***

 

For Minho, their first session goes well. It runs so smoothly that it doesn’t feel like a class at all; more like a catch-up time with a fellow potter - a clumsy one, however. It’s a relief that everything dawns on them just as Minho envisions it to be.

 

Except for one thing.

 

Taemin’s talkativeness.

 

Minho didn’t see it coming. Of their shared minutes together - the memories in the making as Minho calls it - chief among them is Taemin talking. Just, simply talking aimlessly, pointlessly. With words and words and more words to resuscitate the ever so quiet studio, lifting the atmosphere to its absolute degree that Minho finds it hard to recognise his own workplace for a moment.

 

It’s not a bad thing. Minho’s mood is labile, so is the vibe in that place but Taemin is unbearable. He’s unstoppable.

 

“Remember the rosary beads? I told you that my mother got it for me, right? It’s funny because she didn’t even own one! Why would she make me wear something that she had—or has, who knows?—so little faith in? Ridiculous. I refused to give in at first, questioning so many things that she thought I was ill for having certain ‘religious fixations’ through delusions. But, fine. I did wear them to satiate her. Except!”

 

“Taem,” Quit talking, you’re spinning the wheel the wrong way.

 

“Except I don’t actually feel protected. If anything, it makes me feel even more rebellious. When I was 19, I once snuck out of the house in the middle of the night just to go to church. I know it doesn’t sound rebellious yet; church, out of all places, geez. But hold up! I haven’t told you the whole story. You wouldn’t believe me. Thing is—”

 

Minho swallows the discomfort and leans forward. Taemin is crazily immersed in his storytelling to realise how close he has gotten, so Minho steels himself and hovers his hand over Taemin’s smaller one to bring the moving wheel to a halt, simultaneously gaining Taemin’s attention.

 

“You’re doing it the wrong way, Taemin,” Minho says gently to not overwhelm him. “Your wedging was amazing. Now, all you need to do is stop rotating the plate for a moment and pat. Okay? Firm. Solid. Then, exert some pressure on the edge,” he amply demonstrates and drags Taemin’s hands around the clay, squeezing and holding just enough before pulling away. “Like that.”

 

For a long suspended moment, there is infinite silence. Taemin’s eyes are still wide, lips slightly apart as if he’s trying his best to absorb what Minho has just said. Sounded like a lot of information, didn’t it?

 

Minho stays quiet. Taemin’s chest rises and falls slowly, slightly uneven from the ragged pattern. The sound of the wind blowing through the window fills the emptiness of the studio, injecting bouts of nervousness into Minho’s soul while his student stares at him squarely. 

 

“Tae?”

 

Splotches of pink appear on Taemin’s cheeks. He answers compliantly, “Yes?”

 

Minho shifts slightly and averts his gaze. The tone only discomfits him further. Dammit, he should’ve just let Taemin blabber his ears off earlier. That was so much better than whatever tension that his eyes hold at the moment.

 

“Your…” Clay. Your damn clay is drying.

 

Minho wants to utter those words so badly. He wants to zero in on the pottery, on the sponge and the messy arrangement of Taemin’s tools all over the worktable. He wants Taemin to focus on those and not him - not his eyes, at least, lest he forgets his own role and starts breaching the line they so weakly draw in this forsaken lesson.

 

But he cannot. He simply doesn’t have the physical capability to. Instead, Minho says:

 

“Your time. It’s ticking.”

 

Responding as if nothing has just happened, Taemin’s smile reappears. He straightens up and replies, “Okay. Better squeeze in as much as we can, then.”

 

Unable to comprehend the sudden change of behaviour, Minho only nods mutedly. If Taemin decides to keep up that way, it would surely make things easier. But if he wants to continue telling his story, who is Minho to stop him anyway?

 

God, pathetic. Speaking as if he has the heart to do it.

 

“So, I was saying. The problem is…” the younger man resumes as Minho tenses up, bracing himself for Taemin’s lightning-fast chatter again.

 

It’s not that Minho hates it. He’s just not used to having someone with an unfaltering passion to talk like this. Like Taemin. 

 

Being an instructor, good communication skills are crucial to ensure the success of the students. Pottery is not a factual thing - it’s more towards hands-on experience where Minho is required to cut through the jargon and make things simple enough to walk them through the course effortlessly.

 

Still. Outside his career bubble, Minho is not someone who talks so much. Not austere, per se. He just barely knows how to do it when he is told to, less when he is left to decide the speech on his own.

 

But Taemin is different. He moves a mile a minute, a lightyear in a millisecond with his words; something that Minho never thinks possible in this world. Now they’ve assembled - two persons from opposite ends of the spectrum, trapped and confined in one place but only one person does the talking - isn’t that enough to scare Minho? Wouldn’t anyone be scared if they were Minho?

 

Sighing, he gives in to listen resignedly as Taemin launches into a detailed spiel, his eyes stay fixed on the other’s clumsy hands. They’re wet from the clay and Minho’s fingers itch to grab the sponge and dab the excess water.

 

“I ended up going to the church just to listen to my voice echo in the apse. I should’ve been scared if I were caught, but I wasn't, so the terror was unnecessary. I wanted to bring someone else with me, but I was not the most friendly one of all. I had none.”

 

“The other way around,” Minho interjects again, the same lump forming in his throat inadvertently. “Your hands are not correctly placed.”

 

“Oh?” The same pair of clueless eyes meet Minho’s again - genuine, still as sincere but lost. He always stops talking abruptly, so instantly that Minho feels horrible about it but the smile on his face convinces him otherwise. Those small palms move again, albeit slower this time to match Minho’s pattern. “Like this?”

 

Minho nods in approval, “Like that. But I think we will just call it a day, yeah? Your two hours are done means your first session is finished.”

 

“Huh? But…”

 

Surprised by the hint of rebuttal, Minho follows Taemin’s line of sight and notices that he’s eyeing the sketching on the board, probably wondering why the class has ended when he clearly hasn’t finished crafting.

 

Within that briefest moment, Taemin’s lower lip is jutted out slightly (in a pout that Minho knows better than to stare at it) before his focused gaze is back on the instructor, all ready to attack with the barrage of questions.

 

“I haven’t… gotten there. I only patted and fixed the clay—”

 

“Coning. It’s called coning.”

 

“—yes, coning. Point is, what if I couldn’t make my own mug by the third session?” Taemin mutters, lines of doubt and worry begin to etch deeply into his forehead.

 

The insecurity pains Minho, but on top of everything, the sight is admittedly endearing. Taemin’s pout is permanent like an act that he always resorts to doing whenever things don’t go his way; his eyes sparkle a different glimmer as they come with the hopeful glint over his wishful thinking. It’s like he’s weaponising his cuteness while laying out his requests.

 

And Minho is really not the strongest soldier.

 

“Don’t worry,” Minho already starts to move his station aside then draws himself close to help Taemin with his. “The mug is relatively easy to make but it’s only possible if you have the basics which are basically what you’ve been learning today. Don’t mind the incomplete piece. Tomorrow, I’ll give you an extra hour and we can go through it again - right from the wedging to coning, exactly where you’re currently leaving your clay at - then proceed with centring, lifting and lastly, t.”

 

Taemin perks up and beams, gripping Minho’s working arm with his mud-coated palm, ignoring the other’s sensitive flinch in response to his touch. “An extra hour?! Is it free?”

 

The exclamation garners layers of guilt in the pit of Minho’s stomach. His throat tightens and his brain works immediately to produce acceptable reasoning. How is he going to tell this man—no, pumpkin—that he is willing to give him that one hour but only if he could stop talking so actively? Because it just freaks Minho out? Is there any kind of way of saying that without sounding like a complete demanding ?

 

“Yeah,” his mouth betrays the train of thoughts, leaving them afloat in his mind. It’s havoc up there really, less of a mess on his arm. “I will give you that one hour. It’s on me, don’t worry.”

 

“Oh yeah!”

 

And that’s just how it happens. Minho spends the remaining time watching as Taemin futzes around in the studio, separating his tools from the existing ones and asking for a label board to write his name. He basically creates his own corner in Minho’s workplace but instead of stopping him, Minho lets him go on - go wild.

 

If that’s not enough, Minho finds himself trailing after Taemin, mostly to make sure he doesn’t spill the glazes while exploring the broad worktable. There are questions asked and answers returned, back and forth for the umpteenth time. Then, before they know it, Taemin has sorted things out and is ready to go home.

 

“Thank you for today, Minho,” he says through his ever-radiating smile, once more catching the older man off-guard. “I enjoyed it so much. Your studio is pretty.”

 

“Don’t thank me. I’m paid for this, remember?” Minho chuckles while walking Taemin out to the front door as if he came earlier for a friendly weekend visit. “But thank you for that compliment. It’s… boring. Bland and old. I didn’t know someone like you would enjoy this place.”

 

“Eh? It’s nice. Obviously, the owner is not bland and old.”

 

The remark punches a laugh out of Minho, his shoulders shake from the muted intensity and his mind runs rampant. Taemin is cheeky. Talkative and cheeky. 

 

Quickly, they bid goodbye and soon enough, Taemin is out of sight. There is no way that Minho can ever articulate the emotions that he’s feeling at that moment - somehow, he is relieved to know that he no longer needs to bear the weight of Taemin’s never-ending story, forcing themselves so roughly past the interstices of Minho’s skull.

 

At some point, though, he senses the loneliness. It creeps in as soon as Taemin disappears but Minho shuts it down immediately. He doesn’t allow it to grow in size or spread in volume. 

 

For now, what’s better is having that personal space back so he can bask in the familiar quietness again, the actual piece of heaven on Earth that he has grown to believe.

 

Only until Taemin comes again tomorrow.

 

Day Two

 

“Minho!”

 

The aforementioned man shrieks and turns around, the smile makes its way to his lips when he sees Taemin within reach. Just like yesterday, he comes in that oversized sweater of his - only this time it’s in purple with layered cuts on the edges.

 

He looks warm. So warm and still very small.

 

“Hey,” Minho responds a second too late while tearing his gaze away, massaging down his chin to wipe out the loony grin. It’s still so early in the morning that he doesn’t expect Taemin to make his presence known just yet. Curious, he asks, “So early?”

 

Yeah, it’s more of a statement but the tone gives it away. Taemin catches it instantly.

 

“Yep. I went to my favourite café and I brought some bagels… for you. I noticed that you’re more of a tea person, so I didn’t get any coffee,” he grins sheepishly then points at the mug near the window brazenly, flustered Minho eyeing it too. “See! Must be the tea. What kind? Do you have any specific favourites?”

 

Seriously, how is Taemin so precise with his observation? He was busy talking yesterday. Yet, he took his time to acknowledge and memorise every little detail about Minho - his preferences, the breakfast treat, the colour pick. It’s so sweet that it stirs something inside the otherwise single, angst-ridden man, and so he clenches his jaw tight.

 

“Oolong,” Minho loosens up a bit, his way of delivering words differ starkly from the noises occupying his head. “Light, hot. I usually steep it first thing after coming out of the shower.”

 

“Uh-oh.”

 

For a fleeting second, right after the mention of the shower, Taemin’s face turns pink. Minho would be lying through his teeth if he says he sees nothing. Too bad, Taemin’s skin is so pale that the slightest change of tone on his high cheekbones would be prominent for everyone to notice.

 

Minho is not complaining, though. Avoiding the clear evidence, yes. But complaining? Never.

 

“Mm-hm,” he replies, an eyebrow arched in amusement before returning to the worktable where he has divided the clay into two plates; one for Taemin (with his large label board claiming territory) and one for himself.

 

The stations, too, have been placed accordingly. Throughout the morning, working as the sole occupant of the studio, Minho decided to set everything up so they can get right into it when Taemin comes. After all, it’s his dream to be able to craft his own mug by the end of their three sessions together and Minho aims to make it smooth sailing from there.

 

“Okay, shall we start? Three hours today. Tie up your hair, put on the apron and start the wedging all over again. All good?”

 

“Yes!”

 

With Taemin’s presence, everything feels different. It’s not bizarre or uncommon - truth is, they’ve come to an agreement that they do share commonality at certain degrees - but it surely affects every small feature in there. Maybe it’s the way he smells like candy? Particularly, the way his sweet candy smelling perfume is so potent that it outweighs the heavy, earthy smell of compacted clay.

 

What’s that—flowerbomb? Or Pour Femme?

 

So simply, Taemin turns the studio into an open garden; large and lush and attractive, his fragrance blends so well with the floral scent and is brought alive by the sound of tinkling wind chimes, little birds, burbling waterfalls and flowers gently rustling in the wind.

 

Like a fairytale.

 

But of course, it’s not complete without the most Taemin thing ever - his incredibly quick chatter.

 

“Okay. Centring now, alright? Thumb on the thumb. Make sure one is right on top of another—like that, yes. Pile up the pressure on top, gather the compression in one spot then squeeze up slowly.”

 

Minho tries to talk Taemin through it, only demonstrating whenever necessary but on most occasions, he just observes. Not like he has much space to talk anyway. Taemin has gone full speed with his storytelling again that Minho is only permitted to comment on his blunders, usually the ridiculous ones.

 

“Last Summer, as I told you just now, was the most interesting one. It’s the way I didn’t get to go out as often as I wanted to so I spent every day reading books. I’m not a bookworm, you know. But I like the idea of learning something new—uh,” Taemin fumbles, reaches for his sponge and rests it lightly on the moving plate to absorb the wetness, Minho’s eyes following each movement closely, silently.

 

“So, I read this one book!” Taemin continues with the absence of Minho’s reply, oblivious of the underlying subtext that Minho is not having that. “It’s a memoir. Do you like reading memoirs? I think… they are too crude. And I’m not even talking about the language, seriously. It’s more about the realness of the experience, of knowing that someone out there is going through something worse than what films have tried to depict over the years. Or what fiction writers have tried to explain. It’s satisfying and terrifying at the same time.”

 

When it gets overwhelming, the uncomfortableness comes again. The potter confronts an intractable fear of being harsh in his teaching again, especially when he cannot find reasons to take over the spotlight.

 

“Drill down,” Minho commands out of topic. “Now gather the compression on the bottom instead, and be more single-focused.”

 

He didn’t actually mean the ‘single-focused’ in a bad way, but the other might’ve interpreted it negatively that he stops talking instantly. Worse of all, Taemin doesn’t even bother to continue.

 

Once more blanketed in guilt, Minho sighs morosely. “No, I mean, single-focused on the pressure. You…” he swallows thickly, already hating himself for saying the next few words that he wishes stay buried in his throat. His voice subdues, but he proceeds traitorously not to upset Taemin, “May continue with your summer story. What book was it, again?”

 

Responding as if this simple approval is tantamount to an unimaginable reward, Taemin squeals in laughter and launches straight into the of his combined memories. Minho learns that the book is called The Bright Hour. Apparently, it’s about a poet, a mother who was diagnosed with cancer and she held on to the ‘uncertain ending’ of her story by urging everyone to do what one loves to do or anything that makes people human - love, art, music and words. Taemin describes it perfectly, going in great length about the best chapter down to his personal, most favourite line.

 

“I think… one of the most irreplaceable gifts from reading memoirs is the chance to be in their shoes. We will never know if we would ever face that sort of circumstances. If we do, then good thing: we’ve read someone’s struggle and regret. Courting their risk, we can definitely do better. But if we don’t, then we can practise kindness towards those who do. It’s a win-win situation, right? I only want to make people happy.”

 

While Taemin talks, Minho blinks in apprehension at what could possibly issue that feeling. There must be a tragedy - crisis, if not - that results in him wanting to have at least a taste of someone else’s suffering. But it feels impolite and irresponsible to ask, even more to dig for reasons and potential secrets in his already exposed life, so Minho stays quiet. He tends to his own clay thoughtlessly.

 

“But that’s a win-lose situation,” Minho suddenly says, for once responding to Taemin’s story that he has forced himself to neglect for the past hours. “If you want to be kind to people but they decide to treat you like you're worth nothing more than a small bag of chips - that’s a win-lose situation.”

 

“Mm… nope,” Taemin answers cheekily while holding the t tool, moving it vaguely in the air. “If they want to treat me that way, so be it. They can ignore my acts of kindness pointedly, reject them or even return them tenfold, but I will just continue to be kind, to be me. It’s a win for me, hence the win-win situation.”

 

“Right.”

 

And the story continues with no signs of stopping or slowing down at all, sliding past the discourse easily. Minho is still pretty much dumbfounded by how ridiculously kind Taemin truly is. The cracks in their conversation somehow suggest that they both may be gaping chasms, but that is beside the point.

 

There is something about the mere thought of Taemin being treated less than he deserves that makes Minho’s blood boil in anger. Perhaps he’s thinking about it too much (for the record, they have only met for a day and a half) and Taemin might not be what he describes himself to be, but it definitely takes the crucible of anything to show someone the actual meaning of life and how we are supposed to include tenderness in anything that involves human interactions.

 

Easy for Minho to say since his life has been untested thus far, though the conviction does nothing to assuage his anger.

 

“T,” Minho changes the subject and stands up, moving close enough that his right knee bumps against Taemin’s left one. “You’ve sculptured your mug so far. See? This is the overall shape, the curve and here’s the base. Now, move the plate, please.”

 

Minho used to be those who are loath to touch people directly. True, teaching should enable that if it is really required but not everyone fancies that gesture. Minho knows it. Even so, he has to hold Taemin’s hand this time and, praying to every deity above and below that Taemin wouldn’t jerk it away in disgust, lead the t tool around, thinning the clay around the rim then slowly downwards.

 

From his peripheral vision, he can sense the weight of Taemin’s gaze on his profile, staring unabashedly as he explains. Minho doesn’t mind, of course, but he would appreciate a reply to show that Taemin understands. Anything short of a response from him would just send Minho into a tailspin of insecurity - funny because he’s the teacher.

 

“Don’t be so frenetic. Just do it gently. Are you seeing this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Hm? Come on. Are you keen to do it yourself, Taemin?” Minho tries to coax the same rush of enthusiasm out of the latter. By some means, the lack of adrenaline that accompanies his tone doesn’t sit right with Minho and he wants to alter it.

 

“Yes!”

 

Then Minho finally smiles.

 

“Good. Get going, then we will trim the base and take it off the plate onto a coaster. You got this.”

 

In the meantime, Minho checks his workboard for the week with Taemin’s constant blabber leading his every step. 7 casseroles and 20 honey pots. The remaining days should be more than enough to complete them, he thinks. Half of the email chains are tended to so one less necessary to pull up an all-nighter when Taemin’s sessions end. 

 

“Done?” Minho questions, deciding to break the eerie silence that escorts him everywhere.

 

Silence is always horrendous with Taemin around. 

 

When he earns nothing as a reply, Minho turns around. On his right, Taemin is busy cutting the base of his little, slightly irregular mug, lower lip underneath his upper teeth. It takes him almost three minutes to move the clay onto the coaster - long enough for Minho to notice, but short enough to forget in the avalanche of all the other giddy feelings at the time.

 

“Almost…” Minho hears his little murmur. He probably thinks even a heavier exhale at this point would ruin his masterpiece. “Okay, done! Why do I think it’s a little lopsided?”

 

Well.

 

Honestly, it is lopsided. There’s no need for Minho to squat and take a closer look because it’s crazy obvious even from the current angle he’s staring at it. Anxiousness colours Taemin’s facial expression as he stares up at Minho, frowning eventually, almost pleadingly. 

 

“Well, that’s normal,” Minho says with an untarnished conviction, clean hands resting on Taemin’s shoulder without himself realising. “It’s your first time, so you have to expect some mistakes here and there. But look, your powerful mug is holding on. Look at how strong.”

 

“What if it falls in the kiln?”

 

The question tickles Minho in an inexplicable way. It’s innocent and cute and so Taemin to think that far, but the concern is highly understandable. Maybe he just doesn’t know how the kiln really works - or how it is designed to heat the mugs and pots evenly. If given the choice, Minho would explain the entirety of the process but time is a y thing. He will save that for sometime soon.

 

“Nah, it won’t. I will guard the kiln all night to make sure yours stays solid,” Minho jokes while pulling his hand away to refocus on his former task. He means what he says, though. He believes in Taemin’s passion unchangingly. That’s what counts.

 

“Now, clean up your station. The second session is done and dusted. Tomorrow, we will focus on glazing. Sounds great to you?”

 

“Yes!”

 

The rest of the day goes on as usual. Taemin cleans himself up and hops to the front door, eager to bid goodbye.

 

“I’m super excited to share with my younger sister about my mug. She must be elated to know it’s a success.”

 

Minho chuckles and crosses his arms on his chest. Nobody would understand if he chooses to express how ing cute Taemin is being because his personal reserve is grossly overtaxed by now. Thanks to Taemin, seriously.

 

“Yeah, almost a success. And why, if I may ask?”

 

Taemin grins softly. “She thought I was too clumsy to create one myself.”

 

And with that, he leaves. The familiar, sweet fragrance evaporates in his absence and the scent of clay loam overpowers the once fresh air, making Minho hurl faintly in distaste.

 

One more day.

 

Just one more and he’s done with Taemin. No more running away from his ‘did you know’ and having to swallow dignity to interrupt. That way, Minho can be normal again.

 

Or so, he thinks.

 

Day Three

 

Minho wakes up unacceptably early that day. Nothing warrants it really, he just jerks awake and feels good about the day that he hasn’t even lived through. The optimism may be a punny thing but nothing is preposterous about it.

 

Just like his other sacrosanct rituals of the day.

 

Going on his daily pilgrimage to the studio, Minho brings an additional mug with him. Earl Grey this time, because Taemin has expressed his pickiness when it comes to tea. He is not averse to Oolong, but he’d rather have his favourite drink to kickstart the day. Since Minho has an extra box of the Twinings, he might as well prepare some for Taemin on his last day.

 

‘Consider it a celebratory treat,’ Minho plans to use it as his excuse. ‘You crafted your own mug from scratch and now you can flaunt it to your sister.’

 

The wide grin that stretches across his face is making it impossible for Minho to hide. Not like there’s any reason for him to do it now, though. His early morning routine consists of him fumbling around solitarily, making use of the private time for himself before Taemin comes and ruins it for both better and worse.

 

The kiln has been unloaded. Sets of mugs and pots are arranged on the shelves for glazing. Among the standardised ones, Taemin’s irregular masterpiece settles timidly. Just like his owner. Except his mug has not fallen as Taemin has expected it to. Instead, it comes out nicer than ever. The clay dries so well that the clumsy splotches of mud are visible to the eye, but if seen past it, the additional touches look aesthetically pleasing.

 

The cost of dealing with art, Minho believes.

 

His wristwatch says it’s 9:45 AM then. If that’s true, Taemin should arrive anytime soon, so Minho begins separating Taemin’s mug from his other works and even goes as far as setting up the worktable for them. There’s no need for stations at this stage really. They will only be dealing with glazes, brushes and many inks. The only part of pottery where someone can showcase the artistry side of themselves.

 

20 minutes passed like a breeze but Taemin is still nowhere to be found. It seems highly unlikely that he will come late knowing for a fact that Taemin is crack punctual about his events, especially this business. He takes this class seriously, doesn’t he? He begged for these three sessions, after all.

 

Minho decides to wait for another half an hour. The anxiety is kicking in - as an instructor, he hates not knowing his students’ whereabouts, especially during their class hours. As a friend, he despises the idea of being clueless about Taemin’s well-being. What is he supposed to do, then? Wait some more?

 

After three days of getting to know Taemin a little deeper, more through his stories than his own admittance, Minho can’t help but develop this sense of protectiveness when it comes to the younger man. This outrage moment oftentimes comes alive, usually fuelled by the fleeting thought of Taemin getting harmed in any way.

 

He would’ve called - goddamn, he has tried calling - but it reached no one. Minho is sick of the woman operator telling him to leave a voicemail or to try again later because he doesn’t want a response at a later time. He needs Taemin to answer his call now, right this instant as he paces back and forth in his studio, too worried to even sit down.

 

One hour becomes two, then three and four. Minho’s waiting spot moves from one to the other. Still no Taemin, no stories, no nothing.

 

Minho is engulfed in the quietness that he has longed during Taemin’s presence - and looking in that sense, he should’ve been grateful that Taemin doesn’t make it today. It means he doesn’t have to waste his time listening to a litany of nonsensical words, or ruling out offensive reasons whenever he needs to cut him in between. If Minho sees it that way, he’s winning, right?

 

Thing is, he doesn’t. He has tried his damnedest best to change his perspective, to make use of another person’s loss and exploit it to his own benefits, to get rid of the blasting white noise of Taemin (though deep inside, he knows Taemin’s voice is soft and tantalising and comforting, the actual opposite of noisy) but it doesn’t work. He cannot do it.

 

If anything, Minho finds himself spacing out and turning to the door at the slightest creaking noise in hopes it’d be the same Taemin as the one who came on the first day - the panting in guilt and regret Taemin who apologises needlessly for being late. If anything, Minho feels disturbed by the silence that ensues while he kills the time by finishing off the orders, two mugs of hot Oolong tea turning cold by the end of the day, pathetically untouched.

 

If anything, Minho realises it:

 

He misses Taemin’s rapid chatter.

 

He feels incomplete without it now. Yes, he has complained about it so many times and his patience was really stretching thin when he had to be a nonparticipant, but now when he’s not being one, he misses it. He can feel his heart plummet to his stomach in its rawness; all the fears of growing attached versus being abandoned looming over him again like a tidal wave.

 

Minho just misses Taemin.

 

He misses Taemin so badly. 

 

The studio becomes frigid that day. Work falls into a routine, on repeat. Taemin’s warm, mug remains stationary on the worktable as Minho forces himself to get up and sign his leave. It’s already 5 PM and for Taemin to be there, the chances are minuscule. Minho stops hoping entirely.

 

“Hey, Tae. I’m… uh,” Minho stutters while walking back to his house, his phone glued to his ear with words bubbling in his throat. If this is the only way he gets to reconnect with Taemin, then maybe he should give it a try. “I’m Minho, as you might be able to recognise from the voice. You… didn’t come today. I have no idea why—if it’s about me, I wish you could tell me. If it’s not then, well, you can tell me, too. I just hope you’d ring me back, you know. And regarding the classes… I can finish the mug for you, if you want. I don’t even know if this voicemail will make it to you; good if it does, if it doesn’t, but I just want to know if you’re okay. That’s all. I’d appreciate your reply very much.”

 

And Minho goes to sleep early that night.

 

Just as early as he woke up, except no positivity is on sight. Only an unbearable weight of stress and fatigue enveloping him, his bed, his house and his life.

 

He misses Taemin so much.

 

Day Four

 

Life is unstoppable the way it is. Inevitably, another day begins after the foul one regardless of how humans are reacting to it.

 

Tired, unmotivated Minho comes back to the studio, barely ready to finish the leftover orders and that one little mug of you-know-who. He has spent the entire night trying to recompose himself, to recollect his wits and piece them together into a full form so he can finally stop worrying about s.

 

But there he is, as he sits on the stool near the window that he leaves ajar, a small sponge in his hand to clear the dust off the mug, still pretty much thinking about Taemin. It’s a shame that he has to do it on Taemin’s behalf despite knowing the other would kill to be the one who paints, but there’s nothing to be done. Minho is tired of boring himself with the weary platitudes. The only thing that he can do to put an end to this torment is by finishing this piece, setting it aside and shutting it out of sight completely until Taemin comes to pick it up on his own.

 

Why?

 

Because Minho was paid for this creation. He was paid to finish this pottery within six hours and legitimately, he has failed that goal. Instead of three days, he uses four. One of those was literally burned down by waiting for the uncertainty, mixed and thoroughly blended with the potter’s despondency. The smooth sailing journey that Minho aimed to provide to Taemin ends up being the worst, hard-edged voyage he has ever conducted in his career.

 

And the epiphany hurts a lot.

 

Still, Minho holds it together and continues professionally. In the background, he plays Taemin’s favourite song. Better Place by Spring Gang. That knowledge is well-earned through his story, just like every other detail of the man. Taemin said he enjoys basking under the sunny spot during summer days with his dogs, namely Adam and Eve while jamming to that lightweight jazzy music.

 

“It makes me so happy,” Minho can hear him so clearly as he recalls the unidirectional conversation. The tip of his brush is now coated with a shiny purple glaze. One more dip and it is layered evenly across the surface of the mug. “Because being with my dogs makes me happy. The sunlight makes me happy. This song makes me happy. It’s as simple as that.”

 

Some part of Minho dies down a little at the realisation that he might not hear anything from Taemin ever again if that’s what that other man wishes to do. He hates every single thing that associates well with that thought - anything at all that implies that Taemin will never be there because that’s wrong.

 

It’s so wrong for Taemin to leave him hanging like that after two amazing and enjoyable days. It’s so wrong for Taemin to stop coming after the second day and expect things to return to their normalcy; for Minho to succumb to the pall of quietness that douses his studio. It’s so wrong for Taemin to expect Minho to not acknowledge his presence; to pretend like it never happened, like he never existed.

 

God, it’s egregious.  

 

“Why is it so windy today?” Minho grumbles at the gush of wind hitting his face, eyes squinted as he looks out the window. The filthy dampness of the ground from the outside enters the unwelcoming space of his studio and it only serves to agitate him further. Minho doesn’t want that. He wants Taemin’s sweet scent back.

 

“Then thank God I made it here before it starts raining…?”

 

Minho stills, his hand freezes on the spot with the glaze dripping onto his apron. He must’ve gone mad because he can hear Taemin’s voice loud and clear - which is abysmal. It cannot be true. Taemin is not there. His class ended. He has no reason to come back.

 

“Minho?”

 

The voice comes again, interrogating and unrelenting, egging him on to find the source of the noise. The seemingly inexorable delusion brews so intensely that it sends Minho’s world reeling. Each passing second feels like a steady escalation of tensions, and he is losing his grip on both reality and sanity. 

 

He’s afraid of turning around; afraid of the possibility that he’s hallucinating and the person he’s dying to meet is not there; afraid of the harsh truth that he needs to continue glazing that damn mug for someone else that’s not even his customer, to begin with. He’s afraid that, whatever it is that he is currently experiencing, none of it is real.

 

Because Minho would rather stay in the sinkhole forever than getting his hopes high and falling right back into the pit in disappointment.

 

“Get a grip of yourself, dammit,” Minho is incredulous that his inner self demands more of Taemin. Grunting in frustration, he dips the tip of the brush into the glaze again. “Stop thinking. Start focusing. You’re going to ruin this . We will find some wunderpills later to quiet the noise.”

 

But so suddenly…

 

“Hey, that’s my mug! Nooooo!”

 

Taemin scooches past his side and holds Minho’s working hand, his cheeks puffed and pouting aggressively. He’s looking Minho right in the eyes before whining, “What are you doing! I told you, I want to do this part!”

 

Blinking in disbelief, Minho manages to look right back although blankly. At that moment, he starts to feel dizzy. His grip on the brush loosens and he notices that the corners of his periphery are dissolving rapidly, consuming more of the space until the whole studio begins fading away, leaving Taemin’s silhouette shining brightly in a complete nonexistent background.

 

Minho doesn’t know if it’s just him responding to his internal stimuli, the manifestation of Taemin coming back to the studio, to him, but for sure, he feels like someone who has lost all touch with reality. Everything gets dangerously blurry, his head spins and throbs that he thinks he’s going to pass out.

 

“Minho, are you alright?” Taemin starts panicking, the concern is noticeable in his heavenly soft voice.

 

His words bring Minho back to the actual world; back in the studio, sitting near the window, his hand in Taemin’s little palm, and his surroundings rebuild instantly.

 

“Yeah…” Minho pants unblinkingly. “I’m alright.”

 

“No, you don’t look good,” Taemin snatches the brush from Minho’s weak grip and sets it aside, almost pulling his other hand away at the same time but Minho refuses to let go.

 

When a pair of confused eyes meet Minho’s larger ones, the potter knows he’s not dreaming. No matter how hard he tries to bring back this clueless image of Taemin in his imagination, it never gets anywhere remotely close to the real thing, and Minho is convinced that this is the real person.

 

Without much preamble, Minho shoots up and throws his arms around Taemin’s slender frame, trapping the younger man in his embrace. He hears a gasp, though it is muffled against the broadness of his chest, and Minho smiles knowingly - small at first, then grows larger and wider from ear to ear.

 

“You’re here,” Minho whispers in an embarrassed mumble whilst fighting the urge to mouth the words against Taemin’s blond strands. “You came back.”

 

“Y-yeah. But are you really okay…?” Taemin asks, still unsure if he’s allowed to hug Minho back.

 

“Spectacular. Magnificent.”

 

The hug lasts for at least five minutes, Minho reckons. His grip is not forceful but gentle and tender, providing some space for Taemin to back away if he ever gets uncomfortable. The reaction is completely reasonable. Minho is his instructor, not a friend. They haven’t established anything of that sort.

 

But when Taemin starts relaxing down, his entire frame wilting into the protective hug, the caveman in Minho roars triumphantly. Just yesterday, he felt like his world was collapsing and splitting into two. Today, Taemin comes and seals it together again.

 

“I’m… going to fall asleep,” Taemin’s cheeky remark rings in Minho’s ear. “You’re so warm.”

 

And Minho pulls back in a woolly reply, “Sorry. I’m just excited to see you again.”

 

“Do you think I’m never coming back?”

 

“No, the correct question is: why would you?”

 

Taemin taps his chin and pretends to ponder, his humming reverberates under Minho’s skin. “Because my mug is still here?” He says then his facial expression changes; the soft features crease together into a faux-resentful one. “And speaking of that—why did you paint it without me!”

 

“Because I thought you were never coming back,” Minho grins and lifts the mug. “But it’s okay. I only did the marble base layering. See? It’s no longer rough. More like porcelain now.” Like your skin.

 

Minho is still in denial. He’s being extra careful with his actions (not like he thought of it so much before the hug anyway) and makes sure to thread his words properly. One small mistake and Taemin will most likely stray himself away forever.

 

“Is that so? I can do the rest, then?”

 

“If you want,” Minho shrugs playfully and brings the brush closer, threatening to continue the glazing. “As I said, I can do it for you.”

 

“No!” Taemin’s chest rises in eagerness and claims his masterpiece, earning a hearty guffaw from Minho. “I’ll do it. Move a little, let me sit.”

 

Just like that, Minho’s misery ends. He stands up to make room for Taemin, allowing him to put on his apron and sit on the stool, all geared up to resume the glazing. Minho, in his bursting excitement, pulls a chair closer to the table and settles down. That way, he’s only a few inches away from Taemin. His chin is settled on the breadth of his palm, jerked forward slightly while staring at Taemin expectantly.

 

“What?” Taemin’s cheeks turn pinkish and Minho’s chest tightens.

 

“Tell me,” Minho demands, now dipping his head slightly so he can cover the lunatic smile with his hand. Otherwise, he might creep Taemin out.

 

“Tell you what?”

 

“Anything.”

 

It’s clear that Taemin is perplexed by the whole situation with Minho getting very comfortable around him. Minho can see it in his eyes - the way they shake momentarily at the request but, like all the micro things, the bewilderment reduces just as quickly.

 

“Well, what is it that you want to know?” By then, Taemin already has his full attention on the task. With every random of the brush, daring patterns are produced on his mug. He doesn’t seem to plan the design beforehand and just goes for it instead - bold and carefree with each little decoration.

 

Which is fine by Minho. It’s not his mug anyway.

 

“Uh…” Minho scratches the tip of his nose, unable to come up with an immediate response. If he were to be honest, right now, there’s only one thing on his mind that is in dire need of answers and that is to know what truly happened yesterday. Every single thing, from A to Z. 

 

But he’s scared of Taemin’s reaction. What if he thinks Minho is too nosy in his personal life? What if he thinks Minho doesn’t deserve to know anything outside the class? What if he thinks Minho should just shut the up?

 

No, Minho’s mind refutes. That’s highly impossible because Taemin wouldn’t have told him all those stories if he uses the very same logic. Thinking that it’s best to just give it a shot, Minho clears his throat.

 

“I want to know about your… day. Yesterday. If you don’t mind telling me, of course. No pressure.”

 

“Oh, yesterday,” Taemin chuckles and Minho perks up, already anticipating the answer. “Nothing happened to me yesterday. I just had to take a day off because my sister fell sick, so I decided to take care of her. It wasn’t that serious, actually. She just felt feverish upon waking up but I was the only one at home.”

 

“I see. And your parents?”

 

“Never at home. Working months on end,” Taemin shrugs nonchalantly and prints little dots onto the surface with the black ink. “Even if they were, I doubt they would care.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Minho offers, the bitterness of his own words sends him off the edge and trips over the cliff. That was a sensitive question, he should’ve known better than to ask.

 

“Nah. I don’t actually mind. This is why I enjoy going out and learning things. Like this one! I’ve always wanted to try pottery, you know? When I was a child, I thought art was healing so I started to pick up habits of attending art therapy classes. Unfortunately, they were only open to people who really need guidance, so I was often screened out. But that didn’t stop me. It came—why are you looking at me like that?”

 

The potter, still smiling to himself while listening to Taemin with rapt attention, only blinks quizzically at the question, clearly unbothered, “What? Like what?”

 

Taemin’s eyes stay on him for a little longer before he casts his gaze low, shaking his head wordlessly while using his fringe to cover his face. Judging from his behaviour, Minho can tell that Taemin is getting flustered. He’s probably suffering from a full-bodied flush at this point.

 

“Taemin,” Minho laughs and pinches his chin lightly. “What is it?”

 

“N-nothing. I was just saying…”

 

The introduction to his story, Minho notes, is always painstakingly slow. The buildup, however, is extremely rapid that by the time it reaches the culmination, the storyline is just mashed together into Taemin’s personal version of unidentifiable words. Minho finds it so adorable whenever he falters, eyes wide and nose scrunched slightly, a little lost with excitement that his inner warning bells are clanging off unreasonably.

 

And the lightning-fast chatter returns. For once in four days, Minho spends his time listening to Taemin intently, taking mental notes of the fun facts that he occasionally drops in the conversation and throws some follow up questions whenever necessary. He’s still being a nonparticipant - if not a silent, isolated spectator - but the willingness is there. He wants to be the listener while Taemin talks and talks then talks some more.

 

The bleak wind that circulates in the studio is replaced by the layers of warmth from Taemin’s stories, the heat that emanates from his petite body. It’s so comforting that Minho almost forgets how it felt yesterday when none of this was present, when he was left alone to mend his heart and salvage the uniquely crafted mug. The most significant difference is in the air - those weird, revolting odours from the clay and glaze buckets that once gutted Minho to no end have quickly vanished, now topped by Taemin’s sweet-smelling scent of blended floral and candy fragrances.

 

It’s like his studio has been demolished and the imaginary garden of all-Taemin resurfaces.

 

He misses this.

 

“Okay, okay, give it to me. We will leave it to dry. What’s that design, even?”

 

“It’s a cat! Can’t you see it? These are the paws, Minho.”

 

“Those are three dots, Taemin.”

 

Taemin grumbles, “Paws. Not dots. I like cats. Can I put my mug on that shelf? Mind if I push those honey pots aside and make space for my cat mug?”

 

“Mm-hm, go ahead.”

 

Time seems to pass more quickly when Minho is enjoying himself because suddenly, it’s 4 PM. The rain has stopped for quite a while now and Taemin needs to go back home. 

 

“I wish I could wait for my mug but I really need to leave now. My sister is not fully well. Is it okay if I just leave it to dry overnight here then I’ll come again tomorrow morning to retrieve it?”

 

“Of course. It will stay there. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

 

For much of the time Minho is delirious, but there are still lucid intervals that remind him that Taemin can’t stay there all the time. He has a different life while Minho has one of his own. That thought alone engenders a legion of feelings.

 

“Hey, Tae,” Minho calls out, fighting with reluctance internally and shudders when Taemin turns around, their eyes meeting again for the nth time of the day. “What do you do for a living?”

 

“Taking care of my sister!” He yells from behind the car door. Minho is not sure if he’s being dead serious or not, but he can nearly see the amused grin that splits across Taemin’s face from a distance. “Why are you asking?”

 

“I was just wondering. Do you want to… spend time here in the studio sometime? You can just come for fun, if you’d like. Anytime. Preferably every day, but no pressure.”

 

“Sold!”

 

Minho raises both eyebrows, barely grasping the answer.

 

“I said the offer is sold!” Taemin raises his voice slightly then chuckles, lowering himself into the car then driving out of the entryway.

 

And there’s Minho, like a man in a trance, staring into space before his lips twitch into a wide smile, bolstered by the notion that he will surely meet Taemin again very soon. Already, he has started conjuring scenarios in his mind for the next day. Taemin is included in most of the plans that await and the context alone is enough to leave Minho feeling childishly giddy in his spot.

 

Maybe silence is overrated, after all.

 

Now Minho wants nothing more of that sort.

 

---

 

A/N:

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