Key had only been trying to have fun.

They always said he was too uptight, that he always thought first and acted much much later, when the time had already passed. So at the company dinner with their other fellow artists, where everyone close to him was in high spirits from the Triple Crown victory, Key began to sing.

It was only light humming at first. Nothing smart, or funny. No parodies or satirical limericks. Not even one of their famous raps that he was secretly so proud of. No chart-topping hits from America that he was forced to perform for solos. No… this had to be special. For some reason in Key’s muddled head, this song had to be unique.

Loud chatter continued around the table, layered over his deep voice, and something about being ignored spurred his enthusiasm on. He got louder and louder till every eye in the room was turned to look at him.

In hindsight, it was probably the drink, but Quasimodo was the first tune that popped into Key’s head.

The words sounded like gibberish on his tongue, but the notes fell out just fine, even when he wasn’t singing his own parts. In the corner of his consciousness, someone tugged his shirt in a signal to sit down. Even so, he closed his eyes, because he had no need for people’s distaste. All that mattered was the pain of the lyrics, and the tragedy of a broken love. He really didn’t care what everyone thought of him right now, he just wanted to sing his lungs out about a man who couldn’t be with the one he cherished, because of his own shortcomings. So that’s what he did. Eventually the tugging died.

Key never gave a second thought to his skills as a singer, and he doubted anyone else did either. He just wasn’t as capable or well-trained, no matter how much Jonghyun or Nicole tried to convince him otherwise. But when he sang that night, he sang for himself; sang for the trembling in his vacant chest and for the thinning of his blood from excess alcohol. Sang for the one person he needed this song to reach, the one person he chased to impress, wherever he was in that room. And the change in pitch and melody carried over so well, even he was surprised by how good he sounded. Suddenly, he wanted to giggle with self-pride, but the song demanded it be sung to the end, no interruptions. 

When it ended, the diva wanted to slump to his chair and fall asleep, but the applause was too loud, the crowd suddenly boisterous. Someone was toasting his wonderful voice; someone else was calling him a beautiful person, and suddenly Key was feeling ill—why weren’t they sad from the song? Why was no one sniffing into their tissues, or looking away with teary eyes? He felt too ill to stay upright another minute, swaying from disappointment.

When Onew lunged at him from nowhere, recognizable to Key by his incongruously sour smelling shampoo, he let it happen. The short arms tightly wrapped around the boy as instantly as they made contact, and Key simply he let it happen.

Feeling more and more like a heavy sack of potatoes and mumbling useless incoherencies, Key let himself be dragged to a less populated part of the party; or maybe they’d already left the party and were someplace else, someplace unknown. He fancied the idea; of being alone with the leader on some secluded plane of reality that couldn’t be reached by anyone else. But he really couldn’t tell the difference, right now, inebriated as he was. Things were happening too fast for his brain to process.

Onew was still holding him steady when he spluttered, “Wh-what is this?? What’re you doing??” The boy weakly struggled to get out of the leader’s grasp. “Let go of me you oaf… let—go…!!”

But the arms only grew tenser, the grip more unyielding than before. Key began to sweat. He began losing his breath. This was killing him. Slowly, he was dying and he couldn’t even yell for help, couldn’t even fight back because half of him wanted to be held this steady. His eyes started playing odd mixes of colors and shapes; his vision swimming all over the room till it went completely bizarre, showing him nothing but a million copies of Onew’s face.

“J-Jinki…” he began in a rasping voice. And perhaps he really should watch his drink because he sounded like he was sniveling.

“Shh… It’s OK, I’m here,” Onew said. The strange part was he sounded like he was consoling a crying person, too. “You’re about to faint, you had too much to drink.” Key oscillated backwards and the arms clasped harder around him, like a ring of iron choking the life out of him.

“L-let go…”

“Kibum, you’ll fall if I let go,” the voice of reason hugged him harder and harder till the boy thought his insides would be obliterated very soon. Maybe his crying was real, after all.

A few of comfort at his back were what made Key realize his heart was hurting, making him “choke” out of his quivering mouth. The ache was cleverly destroying him, camouflaged under Onew’s embrace. The boy directed his eyes upward and slowly the million copies became one—slowly, Key was disoriented from the proximity they shared in that moment. Any two people standing that close to each other could not let it slide as a joke. He sniffed and made to wipe his face free of annoyingly hot tears.

“Jinki, I—”

“You always call me by my real name when you’re drunk,” the leader cut him off, probably having deduced what Key wasw going to say, and stalling. “Or when you’re really angry and are about to break my neck.” A soft chuckle blew the wisps of hair at Key’s forehead before a chubby palm brushed them aside. “Are you going to break my neck, Kibum ah?”

Key blinked the murkiness away and noticed how carefully Onew was holding him, leaning himself on the wall to let Key’s body drape uselessly over his chest and shoulder. If they fell like this, only the eldest would get hurt. The boy’s eyes burned from more oncoming surges of inexplicable sorrow as they met the other’s calm ones, and he brought his hand up to tenderly cup a smooth cheek.

“Not if you mend my heart first…” was all the boy could get out before he passed out in a warm encirclement of care.

 Make-up ran down Key’s face in thick streams. The feeling was good; familiar after all they’d been through in the last two months.

Onew would get his surgery later in the week, Dr. Ali had informed them. The media had been surprisingly kind, keeping their distance upon finding out the truth of the leader’s disappearance. And interviewers had been clever enough to avoid asking Key or Minho any questions, saving the band from a lot of embarrassment. Jonghyun was meant to give all their public statements, in the absence of a leader but he’d gone missing, citing illness— perhaps, he was worried about breaking down in front of the unsympathetic cameras.

Most strikingly, Taemin had come through for them.

“What does SHINee’s future look like at the moment, Taemin ssi?” The question had seemed outrageously insensitive to Key, and he’s almost squawked in horror. But the maknae kept his cool and said—

“I’m not a doctor to say what the outcome of the operation will be. Nor am I a priest to ensure some almighty power has blessed us, or a fortune-teller who knows how karma will shape up for our joint lives. I’m just a boy waiting for his hyung to come back home, safe and sound. We all are. This isn’t a band. This is my family. And I want my family to stay together, always.”

Key remembered looking over at the dancer during the show. How wrong he’d been about Taemin, when they’d first met six years ago. How wrong it was, to feel protectiveness toward a boy so strong he could lift all four of them up on his own, broken as they were. Truly, Taemin was only a maknae by name. No one could call him a baby.

“What will your current activities focus on, as a band?” another idiotic question went.

“Hoping with all our hearts that things go back to normal. That’s really all we can do. It’s frustrating, how powerless we are in this situation, but we’re going to be strong. It’s what Jinki hyung would’ve told us to do, if someone else were in his place.”

The mention of Onew’s real name had been the clincher. The fact that everyone needed to recognize this as a real life problem, and not a publicity stunt had been what they should’ve emphasized on, right from the start. And wise, crafty little Taemin had predicted the potency of that name. If Onew were here, he’d laugh loudly and ruffle the dancer’s hair, calling him smart and cunning. Key leaned back into his chair, hoping a smile would come to him.

It didn’t.

Now, as his made up face melted off under the jet of hot water, he felt faint. The heat pushed into him, the thick steam made his eyes find it difficult to cope. He rested his side on wet tiles, hoping to alleviate his dizziness. The water stayed hot and the tiles contrasted it with coldness. Key found himself wishing the cold disappeared, and warm skin replaced it. Warm skin that held him close and—

His eyes opened, and he turned the shower knob off. What kind of thinking was that? What was he doing, hoping for a— No. This was just a mirage over his thoughts. This was all just his giddiness playing games with him… wasn’t it? He wouldn’t think like that about a person he barely knew… would he?

In the all-consuming burn of the remaining steam, Key squatted down to the bathroom floor, realization burrowing a hole into his skill.

What is he to me? The question presented itself.

He’s my band-mate, my colleague at work, my—

No. What is Lee Jinki to you? What does he mean to you?

Key had no answer. Dripping with bathwater and insanity, he rocked to and fro on his haunches, the back of his head lightly hitting the wall over and over. Who was Lee Jinki? What kind of person was he? What part did he play in Key’s life? What was their relationship? …Nothing. No answer materialized from behind the screen of heavy steam. and burning, the boy squeezed his eyes shut, pushing away his meaningless thoughts.

But when he got up, wrapping a fluffy white towel around himself and clearing the fogged glass, a stranger stared back at him, red-skinned and weak-looking.

A stranger named Kim Kibum. 

 Minho had been knocking on the door for quite some time, now.

Usually Key wouldn’t be bothered. It was an off day, he had a full box of licorice to make his way through and the pajamas were very comfortable. Walking through the dorm and killing his time, chewing the candy slowly and pleasuring in the sweetness— this was the perfect way to spend break time.

But Minho was being so loud!

“YAH!! KEEP IT DOWN, WOULD YOU?!” Jonghyun yelled, coming out of his room with disheveled hair. “I’m trying to sleep in!”

“Well, I’m trying to pee!! But he’s been in there for almost an hour!!” Minho whined in reply.

“Who’s in there?” Taemin asked, turning toward them from his seat on the living room couch.

“… hyung?” Key called out, his steps advancing slowly towards the door. Something didn’t feel right, in his gut. He pushed the can of licorice into his deep pajama pocket and knocked on the wood. “Hyung, are you alright?”

“Do you think he fell asleep?” the maknae joked, joining the scene. For an unknown reason, the joke didn’t come out sounding very funny.

“Hyung—” Key tried opening the door, twisting the knob tentatively. Unlocked, it swung open inwards.

Writhing like a dying fish in a puddle of what looked like vomit, toothbrush and tube of paste dirtied and fallen to the ground, sink tap gushing with forgotten water, half his face covered in shaving cream was how they found him. His shirt had ridden half-way up his stomach, his mouth was frothing and stuck open as if in shock, his nails dug into the grout between the anti-skid floor tiles.

Even when seeing the other in such a ridiculous position, Key was reminded of apocalypse.

There would be no fact sharing this session.

Seating himself on a chair next to the hospital bed, Key looked at the body of a man who had leached all the space in his mind. At this juncture, the boy realized this wasn’t about anyone’s feelings. If Onew died, things would obviously change forever— there would be no more SHINee, hence no more Key. Fans would be distraught, but a new band would replace them and soon they’d be forgotten. Another page in history that no one would intentionally flip to.

Two months ago, this scenario would’ve scared Key. But now a greater danger loomed over them.

Now, even if the surgery proved to be a success… what then? Looking at the leader’s face, seeing him move and talk and laugh again, would always be a reminder of what almost happened; of how the world almost ended. Onew would become a man who’d seen into the gaping mouth of death and then turned and walked back towards his life. But what kind of life would that be? How deeply changed would this experience leave him?

Key knew. If Onew woke up, he wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t be the same goofball who fumbled at important parts of choreography. He wouldn’t be the same childish leader, playing pranks on all his friends. He wouldn't be the annoyingly inquisitive internet junkie. He wouldn't be that over-sensitive, easily hurt angel who liked singing others to sleep.

He wouldn’t be Lee Jinki, the man Key fell in l—

The younger gritted his teeth to try and stop thinking about that again. “Jinki,” he started, and the respirator wheezed in response. His eyes flicked to it and for a second he could’ve believed that names had power in them. “You don’t have to try this hard to prove your point, hyung,” he went on. “I already know what I’m not. I’ve learnt my lesson.”

Crying had become a luxury. No desperate tears came anymore, as if they’d withdrawn themselves to fate, too. Key sat there in mourning, believing this to be their final meeting, but his eyes were as dry as the desert.

“I know I’m not Jonghyun,” he mumbled, playing with his phone cover again. “I don’t have his devotional music. Sometimes… sometimes I want to cut the strings of his guitar, just so I’d feel better. I hate that I’m not as good as him at things you would appreciate, because when he sings you only see him and no one else.

“I know I’m not Minho with his beautiful poetry. I tried keeping a diary once, but it only has one page filled in it. And that’s a grocery list… I want to scribble on his pages with black permanent marker, hide them somewhere so he won’t lend them to you for reading. I never liked when you smiled at his clever little rhymes.

“I know I’m not Taemin. He’s far too smart to be compared with. But I hate when you play shogi with him, or when you spend your free time with him discussing history and art. I never want him to ask you for help with his problems, and I hate that he gets to make more memories with you than me. It seems so unfair.”

The saline drip was halfway full, the cardiograph beeped steadily. They curtains were still, the world was silent. Key looked at the eyes that would probably never open again, and closed his own.

“But I’m not Key, either, you know?” he whispered. “I’m not a diva, or a fashionista, or anything else they call me on TV... And I hate that. I want to be cool, like Key. I want to be that forever-composed guy everyone talks about, the fierce and independent guy all the boys want to be and all the girls want to befriend. I want to be the classy Almighty Key who is unfazed by things like illness and coma. Who brushes them off, and carries on being fabulous.

“But I can’t do it. I never seem competent at it. Instead I botch up things by being Kibum. The awkward, demanding, attention-seeking fool who has no confidence in himself or his feelings. I’m just plain old Kibum, who can only watch you from a distance because he’s scared he’ll make a fool of himself. I’m just that idiot Kibum who wants to say a million things to you, but only works up the courage when you’re not listening anymore. I’m that moron Kibum, who is mad enough to believe he alone has this... this fairy-tale power to make you come back to him. And all for what? So he can go back to watching you from a distance.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was time. His eyes stayed shut.

“Wake up for me,” the extreme anxiety bubbled over. This was a last ditch attempt on Key’s part, who’d been secretly hopeful for a miracle all this while. “I don’t deserve it. I— I’m probably the last person to deserve it. But wake up for me. Please. I know you can hear this, you’ve been hearing everything, damnit...! Just this one selfish request and I’ll never ask for anything again. Please… Please, Jinki, please!!”

When the nurses arrived to drag Onew’s gurney away for the operation theatre, Key was still sitting on the chair, blind to the world and chanting his “please”s like a prayer.

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Final chapter will be updated within the hour. Ugh. Work is killing. 

Once again, I want to thank all of you for supporting this story by reading it. It's so humblig to see the number of reader rise by a 100 everyday. Very unprecedented and unforseen love, this was. And I thank you all with all of my heart for that.

~IQ