Taemin’s apathy began somewhere in the middle of June.

In retrospect, it was more of a realisation than a diagnosis: His despondency had somehow escalated along with the passing days, a matter he had initially perceived beneath his attention. Then on a day gloomy as any other, it struck him that he was being particularly pathetic and somber, which didn’t quite appeal to his moral palate.

Nonetheless, it existed, and began to extend its repulsive tendrils into the other aspects of Taemin’s life – into dancing, studies, art, and all the other trivialities that meant little to nothing to anyone else: It was all a marvellously piteous thing, really. If he had bothered to analyse the whole thing, though, he could probably attribute his apathy to the minutes he spent before his bathroom mirror, the prolonged confinement he was adamant on to his room, and the concentrated self-loathing he held towards himself. Some would have noticed his hours of listless inertia, or the odd scribbles he had grown to scrawl on his arm, but they had all taken prevalence long before he could associate them with anything.

Needless to say, it came: Red eyes became the norm, long sleeves an essentiality – not that anybody cared. Taemin, ensconced daily in his nest of pillows, waited for this period to pass. But it never quite did.

 

***

 

Taemin kept his head lowered and inclined towards the ground. He felt their eyes on him, each condescending and contemptuous; loathing and laughing. At the slight angling of each head, he felt stares pierce and bore into the shell of his skin, and for a fleeting moment he felt , like a shamed criminal awaiting judgement.

His hesitant steps brought him unwillingly across the length of the corridor, trepidation steeping his every tread; he wanted to disappear, to dissipate into the air...

He felt - different, he supposed - different from those he wanted to be. They looked at the stretch of his plump lips; the hideous hook of his nose; the plainness of his eyes… He furrowed his brows darkly, resenting himself for being - for being so ing melodramatic, for whipping himself in the head, for always being - being himself -

Then he passed Minho.

He passed Minho, whose mild conversation with Jonghyun was only magnified by the baritone of his voice, and the grim silence in Taemin’s head.

Taemin was certain that Minho was just like the others; the air grew heavier as the weight of Minho’s gaze pressed onto the dull husk of his skin, like blunt blades that only bruised. Minho’s eyes were judging, Taemin thought, feeling a tinge of bitterness, for the thousandth time, at the tip of his tongue. Minho, whose refined features simply screamed charisma – surely he looked down on one as pathetic as him, scorned him; surely he'd disregard his entire –

Taemin clenched his fists. The knobbiness of his knuckles turned white, like the spectral ghosts in him that grew a little more opaque, that screamed a little louder.

Their castigations seared.

 

***

 

His mind was blank.

Frustrated, Minho pressed the capped back of his pen to his lips, a habit he performed absently. The hands on the clock were edging sideways almost tauntingly; the time limit was growing dangerous. The teacher’s rhythmic gaits filled the near-silence of the classroom, stolidly, impassively; his saunters were a reminder of his scrupulous observation, of his propensity for breathing down necks, of his malice...

The tips of Minho’s fingers began drumming unconsciously against the etched surface of the table; the numbers and letters were daunting him with the prospect of his stupidity, his idiocy – and what the goddamn hell x was should never have been deemed an academic necessity, he thought angrily, his blank answer sheet could attest to that –

– but Taemin would know the answer, wouldn’t he? Minho tore his gaze from the sheet on his table to survey the predicament of his classmates. As his eyes roved discreetly from left to right, he noted the irritated scratching of heads and tugging of hair of – well – of  everyone – everyone besides Taemin, that is.

Taemin, hunched over his table, seemed to commit his undivided attention to the page beneath him, which was scrawled over in furious writing. The boy’s hand flew over the paper deftly, fighting to beat the time limit, which was to end in seven minutes.

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Minho’s lips, which threatened to split into a grin. It took the remaining vestiges of his concentration – as the rest had been drained by the quiz – to maintain a composed countenance, as he marvelled at the boy’s incredible intelligence.

Lee Taemin, he thought: Enigmatic, smart, silent, and – and kind of cute. Minho reflected upon the quirks and traits of his classmate: He liked to draw, had a navy pencil, and treated everybody with a courteous detachment. And he – he was pretty skinny, Minho supposed, and that was all he knew or comprehended about him.

Minho was forced to the realisation that he understood close to nothing about Taemin, a fact that made him crease his brows in disapproval.

He ought to approach the boy. Get to know him a little better. Find out what his hobbies were - maybe even have a meal together. Yes, that would be quite all right – that would be great, in fact. Within Minho came an inexplicable desire stirred so keenly for him to acquaint himself with the lanky boy, who resembled so much the placid surface of a lake, the translucency of a bottle –

“Time’s up!”

Minho started. He jotted several illegible phrases and numbers onto the given blanks, past the point of caring. He passed his paper to the front, and then realised with some disbelief that he had spent a full seven minutes pondering about Taemin, a fact he received with ambivalence.

The teacher retrieved the papers and slotted them into his file. “Class dismissed,” he announced.

Chairs scraped disharmoniously against the floor; students hastily slung their backpacks around their shoulders and made their foray out of the classroom, echoing with them their test-related complaints and grievances.

Jonghyun half-walked, half-jogged to Minho's desk; “Minho, coming along?” he asked. Minho shook his head. Jonghyun raised a questioning eyebrow, but left, however, without comment.

Albeit with a little hesitation, Minho lagged behind, tarrying his leave till Taemin exited the doors. Then he caught up to the boy in the corridor, catching him by the wrist. “Taemin –”

Just as Taemin spun around, he stopped short. Taemin’s wrist was skeletal.

 

***

 

Taemin was just leaving when he felt the foreign feeling of fingers curling around his wrist.

He jolted and nearly jumped in his skin. Instinctively, he tensed his muscles in anticipation of a smack, a hit, an onslaught of blows – but none came. Instead he heard his name, clear and distinct –

Isn’t that Minho’s voice?

He turned around immediately, only to have his suspicions confirmed and breathing accelerated.

He froze, and remained fast in Minho's strange, warm grip, feeling his discomfort mount by the second. His mind was reeling with the sheer disbelief of his proximity to Minho: What business did Minho have – what business would anyone have, in fact – to call upon him? Had he, perhaps, left something behind in class? And - oh God, Minho was touching his arm –  –

“What,” he said curtly. His hadn’t intended for the monosyllabic reply, but he felt a sudden wave of repugnance at the way Minho’s eyes seemed to rake over his features. Don’t look at me, Taemin thought, the digits of his free hand clasping and unclasping by his side.

“Taemin I just – I was just wondering, since I’m struggling a lot in my studies and you seem really smart and all –”

Are you kidding me?

“– I – I don’t know how to say this but – could you help me with my Maths?”

You’re kidding me.

 

***

 

There was this thing about Minho that hovered continually, like a persistent shadow, above Taemin’s conscience. It wasn’t his outward charm, Taemin thought, nor was it the way he ran or the way he frowned when he read... No, it was something else – something else that made him surface in Taemin’s head over and over again, something Taemin couldn’t quite pinpoint or put into words.

His face would constantly appear time and time again when Taemin tended to his errands, so much so that the mere thought of him became mundane. It was unhealthy, as anyone could deduce, but Taemin gave up trying to be rid of it.

Minho was just somewhat special, and that was all there was to him.

 

***

 

As very briefly discussed, Minho arrived at Taemin’s promptly at five. After ringing the doorbell, he spent ten seconds admiring a potted plant, before Taemin materialised at the threshold.

“O-Oh, hey, Minho,” Taemin seemed flustered; his gaze refused to match Minho’s. “I – I’ll prepare a table for – for us. Inside. You can – put your shoes there,” he gestured a little exaggeratedly at the shoe rack by the wall, “and – yeah – come in, I guess.”

They shared a pregnant pause.

“Yeah,” Taemin lowered his gaze, before quickly retreating back behind the door.

Minho couldn’t resist a huge grin as he set about Taemin’s instructions. He kicked off his shoes nonchalantly – oh my God Taemin is so cute, he thought – and placed them onto the shoe rack. There were only four other pairs of shoes besides his, and he raised his eyebrows questioningly. Maybe they keep some more shoes inside, he decided, nonplussed.

As he stepped into the apartment, there were no extra shoes, but he found the place to be quaintly homey. It was decorated with a restraint bordering on simplicity and austerity, which he found comforting. There was basic furniture that fulfilled basic purposes, nothing very fancy or outlandish – and he quite liked that. 

“I like your home,” he told Taemin, who was awaiting his arrival at a table, albeit with an air of hesitance.

“T-Thank you,” Taemin said shyly, “we – I don’t usually have guests over.”

“I?” Minho walked over to the table. “Where are your parents? Do you have any siblings?”

“They –” Taemin demurred. He seemed to be considering his words as he spoke: “My parents – My parents aren’t home. And – And I don’t have any siblings.”

“Do they know about this arrangement between us, though?” Minho asked as he sat, dumping his bag on the floor and retrieving his study materials. “I wouldn’t mind introducing myself to them.”

“I – no,” Taemin said, the volume of his voice decreasing with every syllable. “Th-They’re hardly ever around…” He trailed off.

It then struck Minho - like an abrupt slap to the face - that he was prying Taemin far too much, imploring him with sensitive questions. He shut his mouth and rebuked his brain for screwing him over, for being so freakin' stupid, what the hell was I thinking – !

And in fact, he realised, him being there was probably uncomfortable enough. Good God, he was such an idiot for even suggesting having tuition with Taemin; it was a selfish, thoughtless proposal…

But what else could he have done? In the spark of the moment, he wasn’t thinking articulately; Taemin was there, with a gaze so surprised and a countenance so shy. Minho, stunned by the boniness of the circumference of the boy’s wrist, was further astounded by his hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. Up close, he was abnormally thin, to the magnitude where he almost appeared emaciated. And come to think of it, his previous statement of pretty skinny had been a dead understatement. He never quite caught food passing the boy’s lips before; he only saw Taemin looking at food, sometimes even staring at it, but never really approaching the counter, or considering the price of a pastry –

Minho’s mind began to race – was this even a good idea? Taemin probably only agreed to it because of the good pay he'd offered. He had not prepared anything to say whatsoever, and would Taemin even grace his presence?

Fleetingly, he recalled the devastation of his pop quiz, and the F that was bound to befall his report card should his atrocity in Math persist. So he blurted out the first thing that was on his mind, which, in the midst of stammering and stuttering, was tuition.

“That is, if you’re okay with it, of course, that – that’s what I meant,” he said, stumbling over his words. In the surprise of the moment, realisation struck him: Having tuition could turn out well. He could acquaint himself with Taemin, and could also bump his grades up. But if he messed the whole thing up, just like how his floppy- tongue just did, he'd distance himself even further from Taemin.

Minho’s heart fluttered with relief when Taemin, twice as flustered as he was, probably slightly less incredulous about the idea of tuition, faltered out a meek “ok”.

The rest of the process passed in a swift blur: Taemin, like a frightened mouse, failed to speak from then on, only nodding, docile as a chided child, at Minho’s quick suggestions.

“Um, so, your house?”

Taemin’s head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

“Your – Your address?”

The boy scrambled to find a pen and a piece of paper in his bag and wrote it down in shaky handwriting.

“Thanks – um, meet you at three-thirty?”

He shook his head, eyes still wide.

“Five?”

Nod.

“See you tomorrow, then? At five?”

Nod.

And as a result of Taemin’s excessive nodding and his own emphatic forwardness, here he was, in a tiny apartment, listening with as much attentiveness as he could muster to Taemin’s timid teaching.

“W-Which topic do you need the most help in?” Taemin asked softly, each word timorous. 

Minho thought for a while. “I think - integration? I don't really get it."

“Sure, do you – do you have some assignments we – we can start on?”

From the depths of his bag, Minho, after a fair bit of rummaging, extracted a stack of study-related papers, all of which were blank and crumpled. He shot Taemin a sheepish grin.

Taemin pored over the papers for a minute, before he said, “I think we need to start on… the basic concepts. First. That is.”

He expounded on the basics of the topic hesitantly, answered a few of Minho’s questions, and gave him a set of papers to finish up. All this while, he seemed to be continually contracting into his own personal space, as if afraid of being exposed to the precipice of prolonged conversation. But Minho took little notice, and accepted the pages of questions given to him.

His good-natured groan was followed by assiduous agreement; he set about the task quickly, constantly fidgeting and frowning. During this process, he leaned over the table, his body hunched and inclined towards Taemin’s. His frequent questions were answered softly, but the boy's logical explanations, delivered with startling clarity, despite the lack of temerity in his voice, impressed him tremendously.

At question eight, his brain seemed to expire. Sighing, he looked up.

“Taemin, do you know how to –”

He paused. Taemin was in obvious discomfort, his thin frame leaning cautiously at an angle away from Minho. He had chewed on his bottom lip to redness; his fists were clenched tightly; his entire body was rigid.

"H-Hey – are you okay?"

“...Yeah.” Taemin’s voice was nearly inaudible.

“No, I don’t think you are,” Minho’s words were laced with concern; “am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No!” Taemin said a little too quickly. “I mean I – I’m feeling a little ti – unwell today.”

“Then maybe I should go first, and you can rest,” Minho said. He glanced at a clock perched on the wall. “Oh geez, it’s almost seven!” He groaned. “I didn’t even get much done.”

“You – You spent a long time on the questions,” Taemin pointed out quietly, politely. Minho chuckled in an attempt to relieve the tension in the room. 

“Well, yeah. I’m slow,” he said. “You can look over my answers and tell me where I went wrong next week, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure – see you,” Taemin replied, head hung low as always.

As Minho exited the house, he glanced back, grinning at the productivity of his time spent at Taemin’s. “Be sure to eat a hearty dinner, Taemin,” he said. “Bye!”

Taemin wordlessly smiled, through the creases in his eyes stayed unmoving. Minho swung the door shut.

 

***

 

That had gone terribly.

Taemin felt horrible – Minho surely hated him now. Minho was probably on the way home, speculating at Taemin’s eccentricities, sniggering at his odd propensities.

Being a tutor – and Minho’s one at that – was not quite the easiest job, he realised. He had to explain topics in detail acute enough for Minho’s comprehension, but what was the use? He was atrocious, and his so-called ‘lesson’ preposterous. He could barely speak above any volume deemed audible, and Minho had probably strained his ears to pick up the mere wisps of his voice.

Throughout the course of the two hours he spent with Minho, he had tried, almost desperately, to retreat into his small personal bubble, constantly besieged by the waves of his inky thoughts - they lapped over him, swelled across his skull, leaked into the crevices of his bones… Then his immense, selfish distaste of being looked at; his conceited discomfort at being scrutinised at such proximities - God!  this, he thought, rancid acrimony lodging in his throat; I'm ing horrendous...

And – “eat a hearty dinner”? What was Minho on? Taemin was, to put it bluntly, fat. Did Minho not see the hideous protuberance of his limbs, of his midsection? Did he even understand the pain of the numbers displayed on the bathroom scale? – It was clear mockery; Minho’s comment only spurred him on to avoid the meal at all costs. No, he would not have a hearty dinner, thank you very much. In fact, he wouldn't have one at all. 

Ignoring his growling stomach, he went briskly to his poor excuse of a bedroom, and threw himself upon his creaky bed. He let the soft sheets quell his fiery resentment towards himself; he let the pillows soak the abhorrence of the day.

 

***