BOT Summer 2012: The Quack by misplacebaggage
Title: The Quack
Author: misplacebaggage
Rating: PG
Pairing/Focus: Jinki, Taemin
Summary: The path of least resistance makes rivers and men crooked.
He knew that some of the seniors had planted the pills and one of them had spun a rather artful story about how she had just been hoping to borrow some chapstick and found instead two bags of white powder (probably cornstarch, but who was going to check?) and a few joints wrapped in tissue paper. The boys stayed out of it, but he couldn’t stop staring as Goohye packed her things into a van and drove away. The girls whispered among each other, tossing their heads, their shiny hair, and pulled their delicate fingers over and around their eyes, their cheekbones, and their breasts. They had a way of weeding out their own. Jinki wasn’t sure whether he agreed with that. Deep down, he could admit to himself that it was wrong. Not just the bag checks, and being treated like they were already criminals, but the indignity not being wanted anymore and being sent away, tarnished in name and rumor.
He knows that there is a bag check for them during dinner. He’s not supposed to know, but it’s one of the perks of seniority. The others have their own connections, so he doesn’t bother to let them know. Usually they are good about things like this--calm and mature and rational and completely innocent. He’s already hungry.
He opens his door. Taemin is kneeling over his pack, the one he keeps little pictures and books in. He whirls around when the hinges squeak.
“Jinki!” Taemin says. His expression is half-cringe, half fear. He doesn't sound guilty, but he sure as hell looks it, his hands buried in Jinki’s things like a surgeon rifling through his guts. They stare at each other.
Taemin has such beautiful, fine-boned hands and such perfectly round fingertips. And right now, they are in the middle of stuffing Jinki’s bag full of syringes and bottles of clear liquid and powder. It's an amateur copycat effort at framing a fellow trainee. Depressingly amateurish, Jinki realizes with flat disappointment, and representative of Taemin’s performance in his other efforts of dancing and singing.
He closes the door. He needs to be the man about this. He needs to set a good example--not let this end in personal pettiness, not to sink to the level of money and games. He needs to set an example--the kind that inspires better behavior, not fear. He's Taemin’s Jinki, and has his own wounded integrity to look after, and that responsibility weighs more than ambition.
Taemin looks like he might bolt, and stumble over and around and crash into the doorframe on the way out. Jinki steps into the room one foot at a time. They're both so very clumsy and neither of them can afford to trip. He edges to his roommate’s bed and sits down. The iron frame groans slightly. Jinki ignores the bed’s vocal objection. This part--the sitting down, holding the eye contact--is all very important.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Taemin blinks again. So many expressions-aggression, doubt, guilt, anxiety, desire-all vie for attention, rippling onto the blank canvas of his face. Jinki tells himself to tend to that desire, first and foremost. It's all any of them want--to be loved.
“Jinki,” Taemin mumbles. “I can explain.” Jinki looks at the hands, beautiful and limp.
“I don't need explanations,” he says. Taemin’s mouth seals into a line. Is he resentful? Jinki wonders. Jealous? There's no question about it--he must be, otherwise they wouldn’t be staring at each other, petrified. No sarcasm, Jinki thinks. No self-deprecation. This is the hardest thing he's done so far.
“Taemin,” he says. “You can give me what's in your hands.”
“I don't have anything in my hands,” he says. “Really.” Belatedly he jerks his hands back, out of the bag, and shoves them behind his back.
“Taemin,” Jinki repeats. The weight of ambition is so very strong. Jinki knows. He can't let his disappointment show. Now comes the hard part.
“Taemin, what were you doing?” he asks.
“I can explain,” he mumbles. Jinki slouches with relief. Thank God, him and his big need. Now it’s easy for him to do the right thing. To be a man. If you had denied it, he thinks, things would've been so much worse.
“Do you want to work on your singing some more?” He asks. Taemin looks down and grabs onto his knees. Jinki is watching his face closely, but all Taemin does is puckers his mouth in a heavy frown. His silence feels defiant. Jinki resist the urge to walk out, or break the mood with a bad joke.
“Taemin,” he says.
“Jinki,” Taemin responds. They stare at each other. This is the worst joke of all. They're like two shellshocked birds chirping at each other. Jinki doesn't want to be here. Why did you have to walk into the room this very second? Why was Taemin such a coward? He suppresses the last thought. Taemin begins blinking rapidly. Jinki waits, because he only does that when he's preparing himself to speak up. To be honest, he doesn't expect much. This unexpected disappointment has opened a Pandora's box of possible flaws. Don’t judge him, he reminds himself. You were once that young. He could never have been that naïve, though.
“Please don't say anything,” Taemin says finally, and looks up. He looks more frightened and angry. Jinki wants to reach out, pat his hair, touch him on the back, reassure him, let him know in some small way that he’s still good, he's perfectly all right. But at the same time he can't just let this go. He knows it happens, he knows people do things and scheme and plot and elbow their way to the top.
Why did it have to be you? He thinks the mortification alone must be killing Taemin. This is agonizing. No--this is excruciating. Taemin stops blinking.
“Jinki,” he said more strongly. “I won't do it again, I swear.” Just forgive him. A part of him wants to let it go. He bends down and pulls his dingy shoelace. It pops through the knot and he takes off his sneaker.
“We can talk about it,” he offers. He paces himself by Taemin’s shallow breaths. The silence-Taemin’s silence--resists him. You have to be firm, Jinki reminds himself. Firm but kind.
“Are you feeling okay ?” he asked. Taemin looks at him. Jinki knows what he must be thinking: are you stupid? Why are you doing this? Then he asks, tentatively:
“Are you going to beat me up?”
Jinki suppresses the snort. No, he can't ever recall feeling that young. But he shouldn't hold it against Taemin.
“Do you want me to beat you up?” He asks.
“No,” Taemin whispers. His fists unclench behind his back and he puts them them to his lap. “Do you hate me?” he asks. Jinki blinks and reorients his focus towards his other shoe. He couldn't hate Taemin even if he tried. He can't say that, though--it would crush them.
“No, I don't hate you.” He ponders the socks. Should he take them off? They stared back at him, grayish and bleached under the lights. Taemin grabs the zipper of Jinki’s bag and pulls. The lid falls shut with a bang, but Taemin closes it and seals it all the way. He stands up, and puts his hands in his pockets.
“Let's go get something to eat,” he says. Jinki exhales. Thank God he doesn't have to do this alone. Thank God Taemin’s making an effort. He stares at his socks.
“But I just took off my shoes,” he says.
Taemin walks up to him.
“Come on, Jinki,” he says, and kneels down. He grabs one lace, and threads it back into its eyelet, chipped white with time. He threads the other one through, and pulls tight. Over and over, crossing the laces each time, weaving a sturdy net to keep Jinki’s feet inside his shoes. Finally, he pulls the tongues of his sneakers straight and even. Jinki stands up and holds out a hand for Taemin. Taemin takes it, and Jinki pulls him up. He picks up his bag and walks to the door. He’ll dispose of everything outside the dorms, in an alley somewhere.
“Next time,” Jinki says, “Talk to me first, okay?”
Taemin looks at him. There is a lot of doubt in his expression, and a lot of guilt. He bites his lip and looks down at the floor. Jinki squeezes his hand.
“I feel like having duck for dinner,” Taemin says in a small voice. “Is that alright?”
“Sure,” Jinki says. “As long as it’s not Donald Duck.”
Author: misplacebaggage
Rating: PG
Pairing/Focus: Jinki, Taemin
Summary: The path of least resistance makes rivers and men crooked.
He knew that some of the seniors had planted the pills and one of them had spun a rather artful story about how she had just been hoping to borrow some chapstick and found instead two bags of white powder (probably cornstarch, but who was going to check?) and a few joints wrapped in tissue paper. The boys stayed out of it, but he couldn’t stop staring as Goohye packed her things into a van and drove away. The girls whispered among each other, tossing their heads, their shiny hair, and pulled their delicate fingers over and around their eyes, their cheekbones, and their breasts. They had a way of weeding out their own. Jinki wasn’t sure whether he agreed with that. Deep down, he could admit to himself that it was wrong. Not just the bag checks, and being treated like they were already criminals, but the indignity not being wanted anymore and being sent away, tarnished in name and rumor.
He knows that there is a bag check for them during dinner. He’s not supposed to know, but it’s one of the perks of seniority. The others have their own connections, so he doesn’t bother to let them know. Usually they are good about things like this--calm and mature and rational and completely innocent. He’s already hungry.
He opens his door. Taemin is kneeling over his pack, the one he keeps little pictures and books in. He whirls around when the hinges squeak.
“Jinki!” Taemin says. His expression is half-cringe, half fear. He doesn't sound guilty, but he sure as hell looks it, his hands buried in Jinki’s things like a surgeon rifling through his guts. They stare at each other.
Taemin has such beautiful, fine-boned hands and such perfectly round fingertips. And right now, they are in the middle of stuffing Jinki’s bag full of syringes and bottles of clear liquid and powder. It's an amateur copycat effort at framing a fellow trainee. Depressingly amateurish, Jinki realizes with flat disappointment, and representative of Taemin’s performance in his other efforts of dancing and singing.
He closes the door. He needs to be the man about this. He needs to set a good example--not let this end in personal pettiness, not to sink to the level of money and games. He needs to set an example--the kind that inspires better behavior, not fear. He's Taemin’s Jinki, and has his own wounded integrity to look after, and that responsibility weighs more than ambition.
Taemin looks like he might bolt, and stumble over and around and crash into the doorframe on the way out. Jinki steps into the room one foot at a time. They're both so very clumsy and neither of them can afford to trip. He edges to his roommate’s bed and sits down. The iron frame groans slightly. Jinki ignores the bed’s vocal objection. This part--the sitting down, holding the eye contact--is all very important.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Taemin blinks again. So many expressions-aggression, doubt, guilt, anxiety, desire-all vie for attention, rippling onto the blank canvas of his face. Jinki tells himself to tend to that desire, first and foremost. It's all any of them want--to be loved.
“Jinki,” Taemin mumbles. “I can explain.” Jinki looks at the hands, beautiful and limp.
“I don't need explanations,” he says. Taemin’s mouth seals into a line. Is he resentful? Jinki wonders. Jealous? There's no question about it--he must be, otherwise they wouldn’t be staring at each other, petrified. No sarcasm, Jinki thinks. No self-deprecation. This is the hardest thing he's done so far.
“Taemin,” he says. “You can give me what's in your hands.”
“I don't have anything in my hands,” he says. “Really.” Belatedly he jerks his hands back, out of the bag, and shoves them behind his back.
“Taemin,” Jinki repeats. The weight of ambition is so very strong. Jinki knows. He can't let his disappointment show. Now comes the hard part.
“Taemin, what were you doing?” he asks.
“I can explain,” he mumbles. Jinki slouches with relief. Thank God, him and his big need. Now it’s easy for him to do the right thing. To be a man. If you had denied it, he thinks, things would've been so much worse.
“Do you want to work on your singing some more?” He asks. Taemin looks down and grabs onto his knees. Jinki is watching his face closely, but all Taemin does is puckers his mouth in a heavy frown. His silence feels defiant. Jinki resist the urge to walk out, or break the mood with a bad joke.
“Taemin,” he says.
“Jinki,” Taemin responds. They stare at each other. This is the worst joke of all. They're like two shellshocked birds chirping at each other. Jinki doesn't want to be here. Why did you have to walk into the room this very second? Why was Taemin such a coward? He suppresses the last thought. Taemin begins blinking rapidly. Jinki waits, because he only does that when he's preparing himself to speak up. To be honest, he doesn't expect much. This unexpected disappointment has opened a Pandora's box of possible flaws. Don’t judge him, he reminds himself. You were once that young. He could never have been that naïve, though.
“Please don't say anything,” Taemin says finally, and looks up. He looks more frightened and angry. Jinki wants to reach out, pat his hair, touch him on the back, reassure him, let him know in some small way that he’s still good, he's perfectly all right. But at the same time he can't just let this go. He knows it happens, he knows people do things and scheme and plot and elbow their way to the top.
Why did it have to be you? He thinks the mortification alone must be killing Taemin. This is agonizing. No--this is excruciating. Taemin stops blinking.
“Jinki,” he said more strongly. “I won't do it again, I swear.” Just forgive him. A part of him wants to let it go. He bends down and pulls his dingy shoelace. It pops through the knot and he takes off his sneaker.
“We can talk about it,” he offers. He paces himself by Taemin’s shallow breaths. The silence-Taemin’s silence--resists him. You have to be firm, Jinki reminds himself. Firm but kind.
“Are you feeling okay ?” he asked. Taemin looks at him. Jinki knows what he must be thinking: are you stupid? Why are you doing this? Then he asks, tentatively:
“Are you going to beat me up?”
Jinki suppresses the snort. No, he can't ever recall feeling that young. But he shouldn't hold it against Taemin.
“Do you want me to beat you up?” He asks.
“No,” Taemin whispers. His fists unclench behind his back and he puts them them to his lap. “Do you hate me?” he asks. Jinki blinks and reorients his focus towards his other shoe. He couldn't hate Taemin even if he tried. He can't say that, though--it would crush them.
“No, I don't hate you.” He ponders the socks. Should he take them off? They stared back at him, grayish and bleached under the lights. Taemin grabs the zipper of Jinki’s bag and pulls. The lid falls shut with a bang, but Taemin closes it and seals it all the way. He stands up, and puts his hands in his pockets.
“Let's go get something to eat,” he says. Jinki exhales. Thank God he doesn't have to do this alone. Thank God Taemin’s making an effort. He stares at his socks.
“But I just took off my shoes,” he says.
Taemin walks up to him.
“Come on, Jinki,” he says, and kneels down. He grabs one lace, and threads it back into its eyelet, chipped white with time. He threads the other one through, and pulls tight. Over and over, crossing the laces each time, weaving a sturdy net to keep Jinki’s feet inside his shoes. Finally, he pulls the tongues of his sneakers straight and even. Jinki stands up and holds out a hand for Taemin. Taemin takes it, and Jinki pulls him up. He picks up his bag and walks to the door. He’ll dispose of everything outside the dorms, in an alley somewhere.
“Next time,” Jinki says, “Talk to me first, okay?”
Taemin looks at him. There is a lot of doubt in his expression, and a lot of guilt. He bites his lip and looks down at the floor. Jinki squeezes his hand.
“I feel like having duck for dinner,” Taemin says in a small voice. “Is that alright?”
“Sure,” Jinki says. “As long as it’s not Donald Duck.”