Title: Little Things Entwine Us
Pairing: timelord!Taemin x Jinki, side!JoonYu 
Rating: PG
Genre: DoctorWho!AU 
Summary: The first time Taemin is compelled to stay is on whim.

Word Count: 3,744+

Disclaimer: I’m only a 92-liner university student trying to express himself through alternate universes born out of my diminishing imagination.
 

Author's Notes: Unorthodox one-shot is a result of a 3A.M. café con leche, Doctor Who teaser and a dream. Onward, teddybears!
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Little Things Entwine Us

The first time Taemin is compelled to stay is on whim.

The flyer outside of The Coffee Bean promoted a festival in Apgujeong at the end of the week. He doesn’t pay it any mind, much rather enjoying the warmth of Earth’s sun on his new skin and the coolness of iced fruit sliding down his throat.

“--Keroro would not wear those. They the luck out of nature.”

“Tell me, Chansung-ah, wherever will you find a gifted pair of comfortable trousers such as these? These made me who I am.”

Chansung says this, “Leprechaun.”

The image that naturally comes to mind is that of an elderly Silurian, reptile-like humanoids, (or homo reptila if you want Doctor specifics, but never mind him), whose jade scales are golden with age and wears scarlet armour to represent his strong spirit. The memory draws out a content sigh and Taemin parts his eyes into slits, squinting for having chosen a seat in the direct path of sunlight.

Two men are walking toward the café all grin and jokes. The bulkier one is counting off more teasing insults that seem to have no effect on the smiling, legs-clad-in-bright-bright-green, wild haired man that reaches to haul open the door for them when he stops and points to the flyer taped there.

“Ah, look here, this is the festival I told you about.”

“The one you signed up for?”

“Yeah, you should help out. I’m still unsure of what…”

Their words trail off but Taemin doesn’t go back to sunbathing; instead he uncrosses his ankles and brings them to the ground, sits up in the patio chair and leans over the armrest to see the café entrance. The text of the flyer is small, but he makes out an enthusiastically printed **Volunteers Wanted** and sign-up date near the bottom. Behind the flyer he sees green legs standing in line at the register, and he looks down at his own pea-green parka.

Feeling warm under the sun he commences to shimmy off the coat, wrapping the arms of it around his waist and leaning back against the uncomfortable iron chair. He breaths in deep; the air isn’t what it used to be--or what it’s going to be--but he doesn’t mind the stale stench of exhaust pipe fumes, coffee beans, and the putrid white flowers of pyrus calleryana--pear trees (that seem to be on every damn continent).

He remembers the multi-berry smoothie then and reaches for his drink on the table, ling eagerly on the straw and toying with a stubborn seed that gets stuck between his molars. Taemin is relaxed despite the tension in his shoulders and the weight of age in his palm. His fingers always return in the oddest condition.

“I’ll burn them on your legs!”

“You can’t do that, the honey-bees will not have anywhere to go. You’ll make them angry.”

“Whatever, bees. Wait, why would they be in your trousers?”

“Honey thighs! Honey!”

“What! That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!”

The two men are noisy as they take their leave and when one of them begins to emanate the sound of choking Taemin bothers to turn his head and see the bulkier man pounding his hand on the backside of Honey Thighs.

“Breathe!” Thump. “Breathe!” Thwack. “Breeeth!!!”

“I can breathe.” Cough. “Oxygen is my friend now!”

“Nitrogen too! Too much oxygen can kill you.” Honey Thighs pats his chest for good measure before slurping back another swill of an iced drink. “Don’t drink too fast!”

From where Taemin is sitting he can see the man’s profile. His Adams apple joggles as he drinks and ignores his. . .friend? Companion? No way are they brothers; perhaps relatives?

The pair leaves. Taemin watches.

He leans over again.

“Huh.”

Really, that man in green trousers has not influenced his decision. at all.

He’s seated on the pavement behind the stage, entertaining a seven year old dancer wearing a glittering pink and white costume. She hops around in front of him, thick ponytail whishing behind her and grabby hands aiming to pop the bubbles before they float out of reach.

She giggles and claps her pudgy hands over a mutant bubble made up of multiple smaller ones, cheering when the sudsy aftermath slides between her palms. She rubs her hands together quickly. Taemin closes his eyes when she makes an ‘O’ with her hands and blows out a bubble in his face, it bursts on his nose.

Applauding resounds from the other side of the stage, the announcer thanks the latest participant for their skill and Taemin wiping his nose gives the young dancer an apologetic look. He rises to his feet, setting down the bubble machine gun on the yard table and picking out a bottle of sponsored Vitamin Water. The contestant jogs down the steps of the stage, fútbol under his arm and athletic uniform crinkled from whatever tricks he does to gain attention.

Taemin waves him over, hands him a pen to sign off on the clipboard, then points in the direction of the waiting area.

“One day Vitamin Water will be begging me to endorse them.” The guy, MINHO as he had printed, is confident. Taemin gives him the bottle.

He doesn’t pay any attention to the names being introduced before each of the performances, not that he’s too busy with stocking new bottles; he just chooses not to remember useless information.

It’s one particular song that has him excusing himself from little SeungMi’s “exclusive” dance practice. A song that he hasn’t heard since Giacomo Puccini’s music made Queen Elena of Montenegro tear up. It’s a beautifully sad song and he listens with a fondness to the belting notes and reverting lyrics of Nessun Dorma.

Never has he heard a Korean-native pronounce the Italian accent so nicely. He resists abandoning his booth and SeungMi to watch this spectacular performance, because why is the audience not as moved as Madam Elena was? They should be weeping and awing at this point.

When the performance ends on a long, powerful note Taemin finds his restless feet shuffling several steps in front of the booth, and SeungMi has stolen his seat, an amused look on her face as her short legs scissor. The dozens of bottles on the table are aligned by flavor; he takes the next one, thinks better of it, and sets it back in place.

The owner of the angelic voice trips on the second to last step and Taemin stares profoundly adamant. He almost forgets to wave Honey Thighs over. Almost.

“Over here you!” He yells and the young man’s look of lost puzzlement turns into a bright grin before jogging over.

“Is this where we sign off?”

Taemin finds it amazing that the man isn’t out of breath after that solo. “It is. Would you please sign here,” he points to the next slot. “--and feel free to take a drink, or two if you’d like, for your voice.”

The man ducks his head a bit while signing, shoulders rising slightly as if he’s trying to hide within himself, and his lips are so tightly pressed into a pursed smile that Taemin can almost make out the line of his teeth.

He slides the clipboard to the side when the man is done and points to the drinks. “Go on. A voice like yours has to be well oiled.”

The vocalist releases a breathy thanks.

He only takes one bottle, sync berry-cherry flavour, bows deeply for someone he doesn’t know, and walks off to the waiting area.

Taemin looks at the clipboard.

JINKI.

The point of the performances were not to win a physical prize, they were to entertain the festival spectators, but of course a winner has to be named and at the last minute, Kibum, the head coordinator for the festival, wearing a walkie-talkie strapped to his belt, demands for Taemin to find a suitable prize.

SnarKey(Bum) is the best nickname his mind ever-so-cleverly comes up with from mashing together two English words and Korean characters.

The only kinds of rewards to find at a festival are street food, cheap shelf toys, alcohol (Hite beer, soju and rice wine), and generic t-shirts. Taemin crosses young teens selling said t-shirts and boxes of spicy ramyeon. That’ll have to do.

“This is Shin Ramyeon, this is the good stuff.” The host, this year’s Miss Korea, says and backstage Taemin exhales with relief.

“Ramyeon? Ramyun? I can’t believe this.” SnarKey is grumbling to a female volunteer, Nana if he remembers correctly. “I could’ve found something better than ramyeon.”

Nana answers, “It’s only a festival, baby, don’t have high hopes for something amazing to happen today.”

Taemin slides past them, completely unbothered.

Behind the stage the participants are abnormally composed, completely different from an ear