Sometimes it’s the small things that set you off.

The endless dance practices, the blur of performances, the bewildering back and forth between Korea, Japan, Taiwan, and the rest of the world. The feeling of drowning in fatigue, the sharp pangs and aches from overworked bones and muscles.

The numbing fear that the repetition of each and every day will ultimately amount to nothing. That ten years from now you’ll just be some poor schmuck like the rest of them even though you worked so hard. 

You can forget all of that. You can put it on the back burner, not think about it, and just keep propelling forward, gazing at flashing cameras with crinkled eyes and a wide smile.

Until that one moment. That moment when you think you’re safe, cooking a little meal for yourself in the warmth of the kitchen, alone, and you accidentally drop a bowl of scalding hot soup that you just made and your hands are suddenly, unexpectedly scorched and burning in pain, even though you weren’t even doing anything wrong and goddammit you just wanted a break from life.  A tiny respite, that’s all.

And at that moment, you stare at your reddening hands and somehow, the floodgates open. Somehow, in an instance of dramatic clarity, you come to the realization that the world, everyone, is against you and you’re utterly alone, fighting a losing battle.

That’s how Minho finds Jinki when he finally gets back to their apartment after a long day of photoshoots. Jinki, standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at his burning fingers. Tears tumbling down, wordlessly.

“Hyung…”

Minho doesn’t really know what to say when Jinki furiously tries to swipe away the tears. He doesn’t know what to say when Jinki plasters on a small smile and croaks out a soft hi.  

He doesn’t know what to say so he walks in and folds Jinki into a hug, a hug tight enough that he could feel Jinki’s small, bony shoulders cutting into his arms.

“Hyung,” he whispers, voice trembling just slightly, “You know you have me. You have us.”

And just like that, Jinki’s crying again, hot tears seeping into Minho’s shirt, heaving shoulders thumping against Minho’s embrace.

But the tears, they’re a little less helpless. A little less despairing. 

Maybe when he’s older and less attractive, maybe when he goes to the army and cuts his hair, maybe when his voice starts deteriorating. Maybe then, he’ll just be another nobody, buried beneath the waves of history.

But sheltered in Minho’s warm embrace, he’s almost certain that even then, Minho, Shinee…they’ll be right there with him.