(no subject)
Title: Rise, Like Lions After Slumber
Fandom/Pairing: SHINee, Minho/Taemin
Summary: He's the ground; that's why you're able to soar.
A/N: This is a continuation of The Sun Will Shine Tomorrow by inamoonlitdream.
When he goes off to college, it's some ritzy genius school full of people who are going to be secret agents and infiltrate foreign governments and cure diseases. He's going to be a spy and fight corruption, be a hero, like you've always thought.
At least, that's what you tell yourself. Aviation is what he tells you, but you're not sure you believe that because he's the most grounded person you know, like a tectonic plate, or maybe the core of your world. And he's doing his best to shake it apart.
"I can't believe you're leaving me."
He's too refined to do something like roll his eyes, but you can read in the lines of his back that he wants to. He's nervous. No, maybe not nervous, just full of tension. Indecision. "I'm not leaving you," is what he finally says.
"You'll be six hours away."
"You mastered calling me on the telephone before we were seven."
"It won't be the same."
"No. It won't." He's methodical in packing, his sweaters all folded at the same angle, and while that's something he's always done, you see how hesitant he is, the way his fingers smooth out wrinkles that don't exist.
"What are you so nervous about?" you ask him, because he's never been afraid of anything, always strong and brave and wise, and it's strange to see him so agitated.
"You. What are you going to do when I'm gone?"
You laugh. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to leave me."
"Promise you'll call if anything happens."
"And if nothing happens." You can't imagine a single day without him.
*
It's weird, that first day of class, not looking around and catching his eye, not leaving whatever group you've slid into to go search him out, find him hiding in corners and shadows. You find yourself twisting your head, finding alcoves you imagine you could have found him in, if he had came here too instead of his genius school full of antisocial geniuses.
"I've decided I'm not going out for the soccer team," you tell him when you call him that evening. You wonder how he's settled in, if he's lonely, but you don't ask because you know he'll evade the question.
He's quiet, and you know he's remembering two years ago when you fell apart and he had to put you back together, stitch by stitch; he's always looked after you. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"I want to try out for the dance team instead."
You can hear the relief in his voice. "Oh?"
"Yeah. The advisor thinks I'd be good at it, and college is a time for new things." Like missing Minho. "When are you coming home?"
"I've only been gone two days."
"Are you sure? It seems like you've been gone months."
"Not even forty-eight hours."
You make sure your voice is as disbelieving as you can make it. "If you say so."
His voice is warm when he laughs.
*
"How come you call me every night?" he asks six weeks in.
"I've always called you every night."
"It should be different now. Aren't you making new friends?"
You want to throw that back in his face, aren't you? because he always answers on the first ring. "I'll never have another friend like you."
He's quiet, and you wonder if you've weirded him out, though it seems he should have got used to that years ago. "Do I owe you an apology?" he finally asks, his voice nearly silent on the line.
"Huh? For what?"
"For making you vulnerable?"
He's always had strange ideas, so you just tsk at him, but you wonder if, deep down, there's any truth to that.
*
"I'm worried about you," he tells you.
"What? Why?" you ask him.
You can hear him thinking. "I always worry about you."
He has, ever since you were six and he was a dragon, even when he shouldn't. "I'm fine."
"You always say that until it's too late."
"But really. I am." Or at least, you think you are. You're not shutting yourself down like last time, even if you are withdrawing, barely making it to dance rehearsals even though you enjoy them.
He doesn't sound like he believes you, but he lets it go.
*
Your phone rings eleven times but you don't bother to reach for it, even though it's the ring tone Minho set for himself years ago. You ignore it for days and days until you figure he's given up, that he's done protecting you. It's strange, because you used to think he would always be around, hovering somewhere, being the ground beneath your feet. It hurts, that he's letting you fall.
When he bursts into your room, you're not expecting it, just like you've never expected any of the things he's done for you, kites and split sandwiches and his hand against your elbow when you stumble.
"What are you doing here?"
"It's semester break," he says. "You haven't been calling like you promised."
"It's because I've been falling apart."
"I see." He makes you get dressed and then digs around your closet until he finds what he's looking for, that goofy kite from twelve years ago. It's been mended in several places, bright purple thread vivid against the dingy yellow.
"You think this is going to help?" you ask him, disbelieving, but you follow him out the door anyways, prepared to fly if he tells you to because you know now, even if he's moving on, he's always going to rush beneath you when your wings give out.
Fandom/Pairing: SHINee, Minho/Taemin
Summary: He's the ground; that's why you're able to soar.
A/N: This is a continuation of The Sun Will Shine Tomorrow by inamoonlitdream.
When he goes off to college, it's some ritzy genius school full of people who are going to be secret agents and infiltrate foreign governments and cure diseases. He's going to be a spy and fight corruption, be a hero, like you've always thought.
At least, that's what you tell yourself. Aviation is what he tells you, but you're not sure you believe that because he's the most grounded person you know, like a tectonic plate, or maybe the core of your world. And he's doing his best to shake it apart.
"I can't believe you're leaving me."
He's too refined to do something like roll his eyes, but you can read in the lines of his back that he wants to. He's nervous. No, maybe not nervous, just full of tension. Indecision. "I'm not leaving you," is what he finally says.
"You'll be six hours away."
"You mastered calling me on the telephone before we were seven."
"It won't be the same."
"No. It won't." He's methodical in packing, his sweaters all folded at the same angle, and while that's something he's always done, you see how hesitant he is, the way his fingers smooth out wrinkles that don't exist.
"What are you so nervous about?" you ask him, because he's never been afraid of anything, always strong and brave and wise, and it's strange to see him so agitated.
"You. What are you going to do when I'm gone?"
You laugh. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to leave me."
"Promise you'll call if anything happens."
"And if nothing happens." You can't imagine a single day without him.
*
It's weird, that first day of class, not looking around and catching his eye, not leaving whatever group you've slid into to go search him out, find him hiding in corners and shadows. You find yourself twisting your head, finding alcoves you imagine you could have found him in, if he had came here too instead of his genius school full of antisocial geniuses.
"I've decided I'm not going out for the soccer team," you tell him when you call him that evening. You wonder how he's settled in, if he's lonely, but you don't ask because you know he'll evade the question.
He's quiet, and you know he's remembering two years ago when you fell apart and he had to put you back together, stitch by stitch; he's always looked after you. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"I want to try out for the dance team instead."
You can hear the relief in his voice. "Oh?"
"Yeah. The advisor thinks I'd be good at it, and college is a time for new things." Like missing Minho. "When are you coming home?"
"I've only been gone two days."
"Are you sure? It seems like you've been gone months."
"Not even forty-eight hours."
You make sure your voice is as disbelieving as you can make it. "If you say so."
His voice is warm when he laughs.
*
"How come you call me every night?" he asks six weeks in.
"I've always called you every night."
"It should be different now. Aren't you making new friends?"
You want to throw that back in his face, aren't you? because he always answers on the first ring. "I'll never have another friend like you."
He's quiet, and you wonder if you've weirded him out, though it seems he should have got used to that years ago. "Do I owe you an apology?" he finally asks, his voice nearly silent on the line.
"Huh? For what?"
"For making you vulnerable?"
He's always had strange ideas, so you just tsk at him, but you wonder if, deep down, there's any truth to that.
*
"I'm worried about you," he tells you.
"What? Why?" you ask him.
You can hear him thinking. "I always worry about you."
He has, ever since you were six and he was a dragon, even when he shouldn't. "I'm fine."
"You always say that until it's too late."
"But really. I am." Or at least, you think you are. You're not shutting yourself down like last time, even if you are withdrawing, barely making it to dance rehearsals even though you enjoy them.
He doesn't sound like he believes you, but he lets it go.
*
Your phone rings eleven times but you don't bother to reach for it, even though it's the ring tone Minho set for himself years ago. You ignore it for days and days until you figure he's given up, that he's done protecting you. It's strange, because you used to think he would always be around, hovering somewhere, being the ground beneath your feet. It hurts, that he's letting you fall.
When he bursts into your room, you're not expecting it, just like you've never expected any of the things he's done for you, kites and split sandwiches and his hand against your elbow when you stumble.
"What are you doing here?"
"It's semester break," he says. "You haven't been calling like you promised."
"It's because I've been falling apart."
"I see." He makes you get dressed and then digs around your closet until he finds what he's looking for, that goofy kite from twelve years ago. It's been mended in several places, bright purple thread vivid against the dingy yellow.
"You think this is going to help?" you ask him, disbelieving, but you follow him out the door anyways, prepared to fly if he tells you to because you know now, even if he's moving on, he's always going to rush beneath you when your wings give out.