“Rock, paper, scissors!”

 

The first second after that exclamation is always nerve-wracking. Neither of them has their eyes open until some time when someone is brave enough to, or when a cheer is audible, loud and proud to declare victory. When that happens, the other should be ready to take the L. To accept the punishment.

 

And that day, it happens to be Taemin. 

 

“Yes!” Minho pumps the same small fist high in the air, curling tight that his knuckles turn white. “I won!”

 

“I can see.” Taemin huffs with a natural pout, disgruntled. The five-year-old squats in a tantrum, his fingers still forming the V-sign to signify scissors as he rocks himself back and forth lazily. “Hyung, you cheated!”

 

Minho grunts before reaching for Taemin’s wrists, tugging him up to stand again despite the clear petulance.  “What? No, I didn’t cheat. I won just right.”

 

“Nu-uh, I saw you open your eyes before throwing forward your hand. I saw." Taemin wags a finger threateningly, a common gesture to warn his friends about his eagle eye. It’s supposed to look scary.

 

Oh, he really thinks he’s being scary when Minho doesn’t dare to say anything.

 

However, the seven-year-old boy only snorts, already spinning Taemin around and pushing the smaller body towards the single swing in the playground. No, no, no. 

 

“Remember our bet?” Minho grins as he hops onto the seat, the underpart of his shoes barely grazing the ground.

 

“Yes. The one who loses gets to go home!” Taemin shoots his attempt while peeking from behind, flushed cheeks looking even rounder under the warm sunlight that evening. Minho squints his eyes and flicks Taemin’s forehead playfully, making him wince. “Ow!”

 

“Quickly,” Minho urges him, already wriggling on the swing impatiently. Being a victor has never felt so good, especially when he can see pudgy fingers wrapping around the chains, then the barely-there force pushing the swing with a childlike whine accompanying it.

 

They always do that. After spending the evening chasing each other down, they will play that game and determine a winner. The winner, in this case, gets to sit on the swing while the other automatically becomes the voluntary pusher. It will last for as long as the winner desires. They agreed on that.

 

“I’m triiiii—ugh, hyung, you’re heavy!” 

 

“But I won,” Minho retorts. The swing hardly moves.

 

“Still!” Taemin slants his body slightly to channel his total energy into his clammy palms, shaky knees doing their absolute best to hold the entire small frame from falling flat on his back.

 

Okay, now it hikes a little. Minho emits an excitable shrill of laughter.

 

“See, you can do this! Go, Tae, go,” he chants as the younger boy struggles to find his footing that he ends up withdrawing as fast as possible, hands not quite letting go of the chains. It slows down the pace of the swing, and Minho blinks confusedly, unhappy. “You’re not supposed to do it that way.”

 

“Um?”

 

“You should push me all the way up, veeeery high,” Minho points up after glancing over his shoulder, making sure the clueless eyes follow the flow of his demand. “Then let me go. Be careful because you need to move fast since I’ll be oscillating. By then, just step aside and only help when I’m slowing down. OK?”

 

Oscillating is such a big word for a five-year-old, but Taemin nods regardless, just sewing parts he understands if that’s sufficient enough. Garnering the power again, he starts pushing Minho as instructed, higher and higher still with his eyes slip closed. Ugh. So heavy.  

 

“H–hyung, I’m letting go,” Taemin squeaks when his shoes almost slip. He doesn’t wait for Minho’s answer because he’s losing strength, so he jumps aside and pulls his hands away, the swing falling behind before swinging back and forth. Just like how Taemin expects Minho to enjoy.

 

“Waaah!” Minho laughs aloud, his legs kicking freely. Taemin has his bangs sticking to his forehead, but he stares in pure amazement when Minho remains suspended in the air. Did he do that? His small self? What, superpower? “Taemin, push a bit more!”

 

“Okay!”

 

And the enthusiastic boy guards the back, happy that he does it well. His palms are out, fingers wiggling a little with anticipation when he sees the swing is falling back towards him. He gets this. Yep, he catches it. Now all he has to do is push it harder than before. More weight, more force until Minho flies high, more and more and more until he could touch the sky, and then—oh. 

 

The world shakes for a moment when he loses his balance for not jumping on time. The swing bats him right onto the pea gravel, and Minho has never halted his playtime as quickly as that time. He rushes over to his friend who already pulls his knees to his chest, silently checking his hands with worry.

 

“Taemin, are you okay?” Minho asks and kneels on the side.

 

Comes a silence, the eerie kind, until Taemin’s laboured breathing breaks it. As he lifts his head, Minho sees beads of crystal pooling in the hazel eyes, flooding dangerously fast before the boy breaks into fits of tears. Taemin wails and wails and wails, shoulders shaking palpably while showing his scarred palms for Minho to check.

 

“Oh no.” 

 

There are striking red lines, but Minho doesn’t mention that. He knows Taemin faces that one mortal fear for blood, so he has no reason to scare him further with the possibility. Plus, those are only scratches. The baby flesh of his palm is still intact, not currently bleeding. “Shh, it’s okay,” Minho tries, honestly so lost with his own reassurance. “You’re okay.”

 

“But it’s—hic—red. It might break and b-blood… will rush out.”

 

“No, there won’t be any blood,” Minho holds Taemin’s wrists and inspect the wounds properly, just to make sure he’s not lying either. There better be no blood. He runs a gentle finger over the lines lightly. “See? It’s dry,” then he holds the same finger up to prove his point. “No blood.”

 

Taemin blinks. His hands are hot from the impact, but he leans forward to stare at Minho’s fingertip, his sobs subsiding consciously once the realisation sinks in. “No blood,” he repeats before gazing down at his palms to answer with a swallow. “Not bleeding.”

 

“Yes, not bleeding,” Minho stifles his sigh. The tension finally leaves his body. “But how are you going back like that? Your mother will scold you for getting injured.”

 

“Mom will get angry. I was just having fun,” Taemin straightens his legs. That could only mean one thing. No more playing for the next three days.

 

Taemin always claims that it’s all fun and games that get him rolling on the ground, leaving blotches of red and purple on his otherwise pale, clean skin. He’s not like the other kids who play there. The rest of them are like Minho—healthy, die-to-try kind of kids who don’t regret it when they get hurt. Those who don’t care when they get nagged at.

 

Taemin, unfortunately, is different. And yet, that difference is the reason Minho wants to befriend him. The world is big. The field is big. The playground, too, is big. He wants Taemin to know how it feels to conquer every part of the ground, to hide under the slide and to run while screaming hard.

 

But of course, it isn’t very easy.  They’re not the same.

 

“Come on,” Minho stands up before helping Taemin do the same, guiding him to the swing instead. “Let me push you this time.”

 

“B-but, hyung, you’re the winner.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. Stay put, and don’t hold the chains with your hands. There might be bad things on the steel,” Minho mumbles. Bad things. Mom always says the steels are dirty. Those won’t do Taemin’s injuries any good. “I will only push slowly, so don’t worry about falling. I’m right behind, okay?”

 

The brunette hair bobs lightly even if Minho hears no reply. Very carefully, he drags the swing back and assists it forward, watching every one of Taemin’s responses before continuing. The five-year-old jolts a few times at first, unable to keep himself stable without anchoring to the handle, but after a while, he starts to get used to it.

 

Taemin is enjoying the breeze that evening.

 

“When you grow up, you have to be strong.”

 

“Hmm?” Taemin curves his back lightly and shakes his legs. They never touch the ground anyway. 

 

“I say, when you grow up, you have to be strong. Father always tells me that the world is a challenging and rough place. As you get older, you will be exposed to more danger. You will fall and get sick more often,” Minho says while pushing Taemin gently from the back. “And when it happens, people might don’t care anymore.”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

“So you have to be strong, okay?” Minho jostles the swing teasingly. “If you injure your palms in the future, you cannot just wail at random people. Instead, be strong. Ask for help. But be strong before anything else.”

 

Taemin pinches his own fingernail. His expression is very contemplative. “Does it mean… I cannot cry?”

 

“No, you can. I cried too when I fell off my bicycle two months ago," Minho grits out in embarrassment. “I just think being strong will help. If not now, later when you’re big enough because the more you size, the more painful it gets.”

 

None of it makes sense to Taemin. To be fair, a quarter of it is still irrelevant to Minho. Those words are only the exact copy of what he’s heard from his father, so now he’s passing it to Taemin. Like a friend to another, he doesn’t want Taemin to suffer by expecting only lovely things from the Zombieland people called Earth. 

 

“But what if I can’t be strong… hyung?”

 

“What?”

 

“What if I can’t be strong like you and still cry when I fall at the age of 20? 24. 28?”

 

Minho can’t answer that. Then what? His hands never stop working on the swing at the moment, that's for sure.

 

“Will you still be there to help me?” Taemin asks again when his last question is ignored. “When I’m already so big and working… I don’t know what my job would be, but I hope it’s enough for me to buy my favourite cream puffs from the bakery on the high street every day,” he rambles to himself softly, pure with innocence. “But by then, if I still can’t be strong, will you be there with me, hyung? And help me as you did just now?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Taemin tilts his head and smiles widely, the stickiness of the tears lingering on his cheeks. The clearest giveaway that he got hurt while playing that day. “Really? Promise?”

 

“Promise,” Minho nods, sheepish but convincing. “We will be together like this until we’re old.”

 

“Mm! Until we’re old!”

 

♡