8

Minho watched as Taemin voraciously scarfed down the stew in front of him like a starved wolf. He held his spoon like a shovel and paused only to brush his now dark and damp hair out of his face or to catch a dribble of broth before it trickled down his chin. Even this wasn't spared, and he his finger clean after wiping off his skin. Dinner was all that existed to him at that moment. Minho might as well have been a piece of furniture for all the regard Taemin gave him.

Minho grimaced at his own bowl, pushing around the lumps of meat and vegetables with his spoon. Despite his earlier hunger, he found himself now without an appetite. 

Taemin wasn't going anywhere—that had been decided now—and with that resolution came a host of new anxieties, namely how well he'd do ingratiating himself with the rest of the gang. He'd be Minho's responsibility, of course, not that Minho wasn't already treating him as such. 

What turned his stomach the most, however, was the thought of his brother. Here he was imbibing in things that were luxuries to the likes of them when Minseok could be dead in the wreckage of that train or worse. He remembered Pete, who wouldn't even be afforded a proper burial. The coyotes probably got to him already. Still, he knew either one of them would smack him upside the head for sitting here in misery feeling sorry for them. There was risk in what they did, and people died. Moping wasn't going to bring Pete back to life or grant his brother a more favorable fate.

He watched Taemin lift the bowl to his lips and scrape whatever was left into his mouth with a spoon. Minho couldn't help a slight grin—it was paradoxical to see someone as seemingly put together as him completely lacking in table manners. When Taemin set the bowl back down, Minho scooped about half of his own serving into Taemin's dish. Taemin eyed it cautiously, like a mouse unsure if the cheese it was about to sink its teeth into was a treat or a trap.

"Aren't you hungry?" Taemin asked. His spoon hovered above his bowl, hesitating, waiting for permission that was already given.

"Nah," answered Minho, and he raised his glass of subpar table wine to his lips instead and drained it. This was something he could swallow down easily, and it would fill his empty stomach and make it easier to ignore the thoughts that unsettled him.

Taemin frowned. "It's been a long day. You need to keep your strength up." He grabbed the edge of Minho's bowl and dragged it closer to his own, then spooned back over two hunks of meat. "Eat that at least. Please?"

Maybe it was the wine warming his blood, or perhaps it was Taemin's pure earnestness, but Minho was compelled enough to take a bite. Taemin's pleased smile enticed him to fill up another spoonful.

"Thought a hardened criminal like you would be more selfish,” Taemin said, holding the tip of his spoon against his lower lip. He'd devoured his extra portion already, and was up the sauce a bit more delicately this time. His eyes were crunched in the start of a smile. “Are you always this charitable?”

"I wouldn't call myself a hardened criminal," Minho mumbled back around a mouthful of food. "Or particularly charitable."

"Come on!" said Taemin. "You're the kind who'd give the clothes off his back."

Minho made a face of confusion in lieu of an answer and reached for his glass instead. He frowned when he learned he'd already drained it, and set it back down disappointed.

"Minho, you literally gave me the clothes off your back. Your jacket, remember? And honestly, if you had a spare set of your own clothes, I'm sure I would have wound up dressed in those yesterday."

"That's different," Minho muttered, chasing the last hunk of meat around with his spoon. "That—that—you needed—you…" He gave up trying to find words and finished his dish instead. If he was eating, he'd have an excuse not to talk.

"What about me?" Taemin prodded. He leaned in closer across the table, and his face was illuminated by the candlelight. "Am I the exception? I feel quite special."

Minho opened his mouth to speak, but had nothing to offer. His cheeks burned, and he knew he was blushing a rich scarlet. At least in this darkened room, his face would be mostly obscured. He cursed his wine glass for being empty.

"Don't flatter yourself," Minho managed finally, but the crack in his voice had Taemin giggling and himself blushing deeper. A patron at a nearby table eyed them, and Minho wanted to flee in his embarrassment.

"Are—are you finished?" he asked with exasperation, pointing at Taemin's empty dish. "Can we go?"

"I'm finished with my food," said Taemin, dragging his finger through the sauce left on his plate. He popped it between his lips and it clean. "Not sure I'm done teasing you," he added with a wry smile.

Minho leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He tried to put on a stern face of warning, but that seemed to only amuse Taemin more.

"Oh, come on!" the younger man scolded lightly. "Don't be so cranky all the time. It's no fun. You know what fun is, right? I'm not sure you've ever experienced it."

"I've had fun before. I'm not that much of a ing loser," grumbled Minho, though he felt like a massive one for having to defend himself on that matter.

"Prove it."

Minho rolled his eyes, trying not to show his disappointment in himself for falling into such an obvious trap. In a sigh, he said, "What did you have in mind?"

Taemin clasped his hands together in glee and tucked them under his chin. Wearing a mischievous grin, he said, "Truth or dare."

Minho scoffed. "Seriously? Are you a child?"

Unfazed, Taemin repeated, "Truth or dare. I'll even be a good sport about it and go first."

"Uh, okay." Minho uncrossed his arms, adjusted in his chair, and contemplated which of those two options would be less dangerous. "Um, truth, I suppose."

"No! You ask me. Ask me the question. I'm going first."

Minho cleared his throat, feeling like an idiot already. "Um, truth or dare."

Taemin leaned on the table, bringing himself closer to Minho. "Truth," he said.

"Okay." Minho already knew what he wanted to ask. "Where are you from?"

"Boo!" Taemin said. He reached for the jug of wine that sat on their table, then topped his glass full as he continued, "I'm not answering that."

Taemin raised the glass to his lips, threw his head back, and downed it like a shot.

"God, that's terrible," he whined with a sour expression on his face. "Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?"

"Hold up a minute," complained a taken-aback Minho. "You have to answer. That's the whole game. You have to answer or—or do the dare or whatever."

"Not always. You can refuse and take a drink as a punishment."

"What kind of bull rule is that? What's the point of the ing game—"

"Shh! Shh!" Taemin interjected. He reached across the table to tap on Minho's hand to get his attention. "You're getting loud. People are looking. And besides, your ignorance of rules doesn't make them cease to exist. It's a drinking game—the goal is to get people to drink."

"Drinking game? It's a ing children's game," grumbled a pissed off Minho, and he crossed his arms across his chest once more. "That's just bad sportsmanship."

"Whoa, whoa.