Taemin liked to think that he was always in full control of his emotions. If nothing else, it was something he personally prided himself in. Being able to show people sides of him that were not necessarily his true feelings, his genuine thoughts. Being able to hide anything and everything and “nothing, hyung, really”. 

 

To him, it wasn’t a lie. He liked to think of it as protection, working both ways, a shield double-plated with masks of differing expressions all around. To protect himself. To protect the people around him that he loved. Why let them know he was hurting? Wherein was the necessity? He couldn’t see the reason why he should.

 

He thought no one knew, when he’d missed the timing to land by just half a second, but even before he’d hit the ground he knew. He closed his eyes to brace himself, to hide the tears he knew would well. 

 

When he opened them three seconds later, Minho was looking straight at him, eyes large and dark and suspicious in the mirror’s reflection. Taemin smiled innocently back at him, his eyes wide and clear and dry as he pushed himself up from his kneeling position, ignoring the sharp jolt shooting through his left leg. He glanced surreptitiously at the clock. Two hours more before dance practice ended. 

 

Twining a towel about his neck as he stuffed his things hurriedly into his bag, wanting to get back to the dorm as soon as possible so that he could get off his feet, he didn’t notice Minho stalk up behind him, and the warm touch to his left elbow caused him to jerk up in surprise.

 

But Minho was uncharacteristically silent – and he bent and slung Taemin’s bag easily over his own broad shoulder and steered him gently, but firmly, by the grip of his elbow towards the exit, out of the studio, and stopping outside the lifts.

 

They always took the stairs, since the studio was only on the third floor, and the lift always took a long time to arrive.

 

Taemin tugged at Minho’s sleeve. “Hyung, we can take the-”

 

Minho eyed Taemin, face blank, and Taemin fell silent. Did Minho hyung know? How could he know? No, he didn’t. He couldn’t have. 

 

Back in the dorm, Minho shoved Taemin unceremoniously down onto the couch and startled, the wind knocked out of him, Taemin wasn’t able to move fast enough to stop Minho from kneeling down and pulling up the left leg of his sweatpants and coming face to face with a rapidly swelling, angry red ankle.

 

“How did-” Taemin began, but Minho cut him off.

 

“You don’t always have to do this alone, Taeminnie.” He straightened, sighed, ruffled Taemin’s hair, and plodded off towards the kitchen, evidently in search of the first-aid box. 

 

And for the first time, watching Minho’s back disappear into the kitchen, Taemin knew how to name the feeling he always felt whenever Minho looked at him: hope.