"Oh, must we dream our dreams

and have them, too?"

-Elizabeth Bishop

             It was the first time anyone save me passed through this door in a very long time. The irony continued to haunt me as I was forced to carry this kid—who was extremely inebriated and incognizant of what was happening to him—from the car, up the outside steps, the elevator, and finally over the threshold in my arms, as if he were a makeshift bride. It both infuriated me as much as it secretly amused me. This was all one sick, cosmic joke, right?   

            Why was he so light, anyway? It was like he weighed a hundred pounds. No wonder he got -faced so easily. What did this kid eat—air? Was he healthy? I don't think I'd ever met someone so seemingly frail before, but at the same time hard-headed and strong.

            We passed this way, him in my arms, as I consciously ignored her face beaming down from the frames on the wall (the ones I hadn’t taken down), the hutch cabinet that she decorated with wedding china (the ones I hadn’t broken), down the hall into the room that I once shared with her (but had never dared bring another in since). I laid him on the bed, amazed at how he seemed to fit perfectly in the small indent my wife had left in the well-used mattress, but just as I was about to slide the sheets over him—the sheets that once covered her perfect body—I stopped.

            I can’t put him here. Of all places, not here…

            I was arguing with myself. I didn’t know what to do with him, honestly. I couldn’t throw him on the couch—for some reason that seemed wrong. Neglectful. I couldn’t explain it soberly, but I felt like it was my job to look after him. At least until the night was over…

            What was I doing? I had no idea. I felt strangely obligated to this kid—this man—this complete enigmatic stranger whom I should, by no right, feel obligation to.

            I was about to lift him off the bed, but as soon as I reached down for him he started —very slightly, but awkwardly enough to cause my mind to wander. I caught myself studying his face then, the delicate arches and soft hue of his skin, the plump lips that were open just wide enough for me to make out the bottoms of his two front teeth.

            Perfect teeth. Straight and white and—holy hell, why does this even matter? I am so wasted.

            Clearly, I’d had way too much: that was the obvious explanation behind my body’s weird reaction. I was just lonely; desperately and indiscriminately lonely…

            He is not your wife, he is not your wife… How many times had I repeated this mantra in the past five hours? Why did he look so much like her? Why were the similarities only growing? My mind felt scrambled.

            this—he can’t stay here.

            I bent over and slid my hand under his neck, the other under his knees in an attempt to move him again—but now not only was he , he was also hooking his arms around my shoulders, pulling me in close enough that I could smell his hair and skin as he whispered to me in a soft, breathy voice, “Hyung~”

            Again, my body reacted. And again I pushed him away. “Fine. Just sleep here—I don’t care. I’ll take the couch.”

            I was tired of fighting with him—with myself. I covered him again, noticing that the grey satin sheet clung to his frame as he his side, the fabric hanging over his strangely feminine shape so that he appeared, more than ever, like a woman lying there. A woman lying in my bed. Her bed. I coudn't help but be enticed, even though I didn't want to be, and had I not known any better, I... 

            “Choi Minho, you ,” I reprimand myself, “you are drunk.” 

            I fanned the duvet over him so that he wouldn’t be cold, cradled one of the pillows underarm, and then settled myself in the living room. 

            A nobody. He is a nobody. This is just coincidence. He has nothing to do with her.

            My mind would not stop going a hundred miles a minute. I sped through the events of the day and night at warp speed, all the weird things that happened that I in no way saw coming. I hadn't intended to return here like this. It felt alien yet comforting; to have someone in this house who was breathing besides me.

            No. I can't let him distract me.

            But I obviously couldn’t kill myself in the house. Especially with another person there. This Lee Taemin, whoever he was, was making it hard to keep my promise to my wife.

            Two hours—two ing hours. That’s how long I laid there, fighting things in my mind and body that I could not understand or begin to define. I was fully aware that I had to be at work in less than eight hours (by choice), but I had no idea about him. And I didn’t want to care. I didn’t even know what he did, or what manager he worked for. Even how long he’d been with the company was a mystery. I knew absolutely zero about him. He never got around to saying one damn thing about himself, just pried into my life. Why? The more I thought about that, the more it made me mad. The more it made me mad, the more I felt beyond self-control. The more I found it hard to control and govern my lingeringly drunken self, the more I thought of her; yearned for her; cursed that kid in the bed who looked like her for keeping me from her—

            My body was confused. Lots of mixed messages. This night had been so weird, in so many ways. The very night I meant to end my loneliness was the same one that I not only talked extensively with another person, but also brought him home—to my refuge, my fortress. My otherwise shrine, this graveyard of memories.

            What the hell is he doing to me…? For the first time I felt crazy. He smelled good; felt good close to me, soft and warm and slender—it suddenly sickened me. 

            “Jesus God, let it be the alcohol talking…”

             Even still, I could not relax enough for it to go away, or to get to sleep. This was not how I wanted to spend my final day in this life. 

             . I give up. 

            And I did—I gave up everything under the showerhead seven minutes later. He forced me to do it. I hated it. It didn't matter that I saw her face, I still hated it. I hated the truth of how pathetic I really was in her absence, and as I watched the evidence of my desperation swirl down the drain, I pulled back my fist and crashed it against the wall. It was a stupid thing to do but I was too far from sober to have any kind of aim, so that in place of breaking my hand I merely bruised it, though the bruising of my self-esteem would leave a much more violent mark. 

~*~

            “Hyung…?”

            This was the quiet, mouselike voice that caused me to stir that next morning. Taemin was standing by the couch where I'd spent the night, gently rocking my shoulder in attempt to wake me. The look in his eyes seemed mildly concerned, but not overly so.

            “Hm.” I rattled back gruffly. “What.”

            “You okay?”

            I muttered something unintelligible so he’d go away. My head was splitting. I didn’t want to think anymore; feel anymore. I didn’t want to acknowledge him or look at him—all the things he reminded me or somehow came to resemble—but still, I could sense his looming shadow and knew he would not go away until I answered to his satisfaction.

            Just like that, he is in control again?

            He had a haunting presence just like her, after all—only his was more terribly tangible. When I finally turned to look at him, he was grinning somewhat childishly. “What?” I ask. “What’s with the face?”

            “Just glad you’re alive,” he said. “I heard you last night and thought maybe you were hurt.”

            My cheeks flushed bright red and I quickly rolled onto my side so he couldn’t see them. Sternly I replied: “I’m fine.”

             Like a turtle, I want to slide into myself at this point—into my carapace, my armor. I should have never given him so much freedom to begin with. I want him gone. I want to go back to the world that makes sense: my loneliness, my numbness, my haunting pain. I did my job; I did over and above what most people would do. I took care of him for the night, didn’t I? I didn’t have any more responsibility; I shouldn’t even care…

            “About last night,” Taemin started, and for a split second I was nervous about what he was going to say. “Thank you for taking care of me…”

            “You don’t have to thank me. You can leave anytime.”

            “Your home is nice.”

            "I don't want to talk about it."

            "Different than I expected." Here, I caught him looking closely at one picture on the wall in particular, but was grateful he didn't ask about it. I didn't want him to acknowlege anything about my life. My real life before she left it. "Your hand all right?"

            He must have noticed the fact that I was nursing it close to my chest. It hurt like hell, but I didn't care. "Aren’t you late for work?”

            “Aren’t you?” he indifferently answered. “I work in the evening, remember?”

            “I work when I want.”

            “How nice. You have a lot of freedom, hyung.”

            I sniffed. “Yeah. I’m the epitome of happiness.”

            “You could be,” was his simple counter to my sarcasm, a beaming smile on his face as he turned from the photo of me and my bride standing, full-costume, in the temple where we ceremoniously tied our souls together. 

            But what could I say to this? I just wanted him to leave. I never wanted to be reminded again—he wasn’t real, she was. He’d delayed me a day, but nothing would stop me tonight.

            “You… er… need cab fare?” I say stupidly. I don’t know why. I don’t even know if I would have really given him money had he asked for it. My conscience was trying to pay off the overriding sense of guilt any way it knew how.

            “No, but thank you. I know exactly where I am. I can walk from here.”

            This only sounded suspicious after I had a moment to think it over as he was washing his face in the bathroom. How did he know where we were? Did he remember anything about last night? And how was it possible for him to walk home—a mere intern, where I lived in an expensive part of town?

            When he was done, he bowed and waved goodbye. He looked as pristine now as he had when I first met him. Totally kempt and sober. I didn't even know how this was possible, especially given his light weight, but wondered if he was making an extra effort to hide the effects of his hangover from me.

            “Hey,” I called to him as he made for the door, “do you live around here?”

            He shook his head. “Nope.”

            “Then how are you walking?”

            “The subway, hyung,” he nearly laughed. “I’ll be fine.”

            “I wasn’t asking for that—I don’t care whether or not you’re safe.”

            He only smiled more. It was like he found everything I said, no matter how curt or coarse, to be endearing. “Thanks again. For the drinks and… just everything.”

            “It won’t happen again.”

            “I’ll look forward to it anyway.”

________________

A/N:

So, Minho's really trying to resist Taemin's influence on him. He's been in such a shell of grief for so long, he's reacting negatively to someone trying to pierce his protective armor. And no matter how Minho fights for control, Taemin seems in charge of the situation. How frustratingly awesome for our poor narrator. ><  We all know Minho's a perfectionist, a person who likes to be calm and in control. Quite OCD. But he is also desperately loyal and protective, even if it's to a fault. So here comes this Taemin person to mess up his sense of order, because he is an emotional, fiery, and unpredicatable Cancer (just like me). He has a tendency to appear weak, even though clearly is not.

At any rate, I have worked hard to stay away from fanfic tropes and stereotypes in this story, because I think these characters deserve an attentive depth, which is another reason why I made them older. I hope the 'private stuff' wasn't too much for you guys; I found this situation to be painfully honest. I thought, wow, this person probably hasn't had any kind of feelings like that in a long time, especially given that to think of his wife that way only makes him feel worse in the end, so he's probably learned to stay away from it. How vulnerable and strange that must have been for him, especially given the source of his frustration being anatomically male. 

I hope you are still enjoying this. Please keep in mind that it hasn't even been twenty-four hours since the first chapter, so that's why Minho's still lost in his rather chaotic thoughts. It won't be like that forever. I just really wanted to pay careful attention to the complexity of his torment and how radical this person coming into his sphere would be. Kinda mind-f*ing, honestly. Especially for someone so hell-bent on dying; it would take something quite influential to derail his ambition.

Best, UnnieM ♥