13

Minho winced at the sharp burst of pain that erupted in his lower back as he strained to pass a comb through a particularly stubborn knot in Taemin's hair. He squeezed a dribble of water out of the rag onto the tangled strand, trying to dissolve the blood and grime that formed a frustrating glue. Taemin's face was clean at least, and so were his hands. Minho scrubbed whatever skin was exposed while Taemin continued to slumber away like the dead, but he didn't feel comfortable enough to undress him and wash him further. He had only managed one button on his shirt before a violent blush overtook him, and he refastened the garment even higher than it was buttoned before, obscuring even Taemin's collar bones. Besides, the water was a sickly grey from just the small amount of area he was able to wash, and he wasn't sure Taemin could manage to get any cleaner from it. Once he finally awoke, they'd need a fresh bucket for the rest of him. Minho, undoubtedly, would fetch and warm this new water for Taemin despite his own debilitating injury.

It wasn't like Taemin couldn't do it himself, and he probably should be the one to do it. Minho knew that if he asked, Taemin might and whine for a minute or two, but he'd eventually go fill the bucket and stoke the fire, grumbling all the way. As awful as their first introduction had been, Minho knew that he could rely on Kibum to show Taemin a helping hand if he needed. Kibum had noticed it already, how deeply and irrevocably he cared for Taemin in ways he didn't understand or know how to express. He hadn't been conscious of it at the time, but at some point they'd become bound by something more complex than an exchange of debts owed. Sure, Taemin had saved his life twice, but Minho knew he'd look after him like this even if he hadn't. It wasn't out of obligation or duty. It just was. Minho didn't understand it himself, but he never considered himself to be the smartest man. 

"ing piece of ," Minho muttered as two teeth of the comb lost their battle against the mat in Taemin's hair and snapped. He plucked the broken pieces out with his fingers, careful not to tug any of the strands. 

"That's a little rude," said Taemin softly. His eyes were still closed, but a small smile danced at the corners of his mouth. "I was growing quite fond of you. Shame you don't feel the same."

Minho dripped more water into Taemin's hair, and Taemin shivered when a droplet escaped down his neck.

"I was talking about the comb. How long have you been awake for?" asked Minho.

Taemin hummed. "A while," he answered. "I didn't want you to stop with all this tenderness. It's nice."

Minho didn't answer, but he also didn't stop combing through Taemin's hair.

"I think I'm like touch-starved or something. Have you ever heard of that?"

After a beat of silence, Taemin narrowly opened one eye to study Minho's face. His words caught in his throat, and he shook his head instead. Taemin pouted in response, and Minho tried to ignore the way his heart thumbed in his chest like a bug flying repeatedly into a window.

"It's the least you could do, I guess," Taemin said, fighting back a yawn. He stretched, and his arms went to either side of Minho, like some strange backwards hug. Taemin didn't move from this position, and instead blinked up at Minho looking both pretty and dumb. Minho tried to avoid glancing at the patch of exposed skin at Taemin's waistband that was revealed from his stretch, but his eyes darted there as involuntarily as a sneeze. Taemin didn't notice—at least Minho hoped he didn't—and kept rambling on. "Y'know, you really are the stereotype of a y cowboy—er, an outlaw, whatever the hell you are. Could slap you on the cover of a romance novel and that would fly off the shelves. With your chest, those abs…" Taemin let out a low whistle. "I did not mind bathing you—I'll tell you that. I'll even let you return the favor."

"Wh—what?" stammered Minho. His skin was on fire from his collar bones to the very tips of his ears, and his fingers froze in Taemin's hair. "How did… when did you…"

"How'd you think you got so damn clean? I scrubbed you from head to toe, you jackass. Kibum told me to, said you would die if your wounds weren't clean, and you wouldn't let him touch you. Annie could manage your hands and face, but as soon as anyone went for your clothes you started swinging. You'd only let me. I looked after you for days with no ing sleep, clearing away the blood, changing your bandages, comforting you when you cried out in the night like a goddamn baby. I thought I was gonna lose my hand from you gripping it so hard."

"I—I didn't…" Minho fumbled over his words. The way their hands had been linked together—he'd thought that was Taemin's doing. "You, uh, you undressed me? You…" Minho forced down a dry swallow. His ears burned. "You b—bathed me? N—?"

"People generally don't wash up fully dressed, Minho," Taemin said, rolling his eyes. He picked himself up from Minho's lap and sat cross-legged on the cot beside him. "Anyway, the more I think about it, I was both traumatized and sleep deprived when I was giving you that scrub down, and my mind wasn't really focused on checking out the goods. Maybe I was hallucinating or something. Maybe you actually have a teeny tiny…" he held up his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart for emphasis, "...teensy little shriveled up raisin of a di—"

"I do not!" Minho protested, but both the volume and the desperation of his voice only served to shame him further. He tried again. "I do not. I am perfectly, uh, well-endowed and—"

"Prove it!" interrupted Taemin. His fingers landed on Minho's knee and began a slow walk up his thigh. "The more I think about it, the more I'm sure it was absolutely microscopic."

Minho was dumbfounded. "I—I… it… it…"

"I—I…" mocked Taemin. "Come on! It isn't like I haven't seen it before. Here, I'll be nice and give you a choice: Either whip out your , or you have to reciprocate by giving me a bath. You have to do one or the other."

Minho sputtered, "I—I don't have to do anything!"

"Yes, you do!" answered Taemin in a sing-songy taunt.

Minho wrang out the rag with aggression and threw it in the bucket of dirty water. "Why? What gives you the goddamn authority, huh?"

"Because… because I saved your ing life! Twice!"

Minho let out a sigh. It was hard to argue with that, but he still wasn't going to expose himself for Taemin's pleasure. He clenched his teeth and gripped the side of the cot as he raised himself to his feet, fighting the surge of dizziness that grabbed hold of his skull and threatened to send him tumbling. Taemin caught hold of his forearm and pressed a hand to his lower back to stabilize him, and once it was clear Minho could stand on his own, he let him go.

"Thanks for that," Minho mumbled. He grabbed the bucket and limped towards the tent flap to toss out the muck. Each step drove a spike of pain up through his heel to his back, and it was only through sheer willpower that he didn't collapse and start crying. He swallowed down the agony and added, "And thanks for getting me here and, um, for taking care of me. I would be dead without you twice over now. That much is true. There's no way that I could pay you back…" Taemin arched a suggestive eyebrow at this, and Minho quickly tacked on, "...that I'm, uh, particularly comfortable with. I am beyond grateful, though. Truly."

Taemin's face dropped to an expression of bored neutrality. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Honestly, it wasn't like it was out of the goodness of my heart. I'm kind of ed if you get yourself killed." He let out a small, pitiful laugh and picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "I don't know where I am, I don't know anyone, I can't communicate with a single soul but you—except Kibum, I guess, but if I didn't bother to try and save you it's not like I would have met him anyway." He fell back against the pillow and added in a low, whiny grumble, "Not that I really enjoyed meeting him."

Minho looked at Taemin, really, really looked at him. Despite the sleep he'd just awoken from, his eyes were sunken and shadowed. That seemingly perpetual playful light that had danced behind them had diminished to a meager flicker. His cheeks looked gaunt; his skin was an ashen gray. His hair was stringy and separated where it wasn't matted together, and his nearly new clothes were splattered and smudged in dirt and blood—Minho's blood, presumably. He was absolutely pitiful, and Minho knew he'd been beaten.

"Alright," he began after a deep breath. "We'll do the bath, but you better not strip further than your ing trousers. You may be angling for an eyeful of , but I'm not. You can take care of polishing the family jewels yourself, alright? I'