fic: Punch Drunk -2/?-
Warnings: None
“Ahhh Lee, you’re back!”
Checking his back once more, Taemin finally creeps into the gym flushed and out of breath. Instinctively he scrambles to compose himself in front of the coach as to not look as pathetic as he was. He’d have to work on his “escape tactics” a little more if he planned on making a daily trek here unscathed.
Thank God it was the weekend tomorrow, so he could just take a back route from his apartment to the gym.
“Sup Coach,” he smiled through his exhaustion, slapping hands with the older man-who only had to take one close look at him and began chuckling. He claps his thick hand on the young man’s back, oblivious to the small curse that follows it.
“Girls finally notices you, boy?” he asks lively, and Taemin retains a scowl.
“You know me better that that, Coach. They don’t even see me.”
“Well how could they? Ain’t nothing to see but a walking pile of rags.”
“Handcock was a bum too.”
“Handcock was also Will Smith. Who doesn’t even need to be Handcock to get the ladies’ attention, eh?” Taemin is elbowed a few excruciating times before the coach’s cackles die down and he folds his arms back to the helmeted featherweights in the ring before him. “So why’d you skip out on me yesterday, Lee? See a ghost?” He smirks.
Taemin scratches the back of his head, wrinkling his nose to stall off the color racing to his cheeks. “Nah, I just-
“Jonghyun asked me who you were. I told him he’d caught your eye, but I thought it was too early to tell him you were a fan just yet.”
“You wh-Coach are you serious?”
“What?” The burly man blows his whistle at the pair, signaling them to return to their respective corners. “Was I supposed to be chummier than that?” He lightly jogs off to one of the corners to mentor the obvious loser of the round. “He’s on the heavy bags again kid, go check ‘em out before he leaves. And hood off Lee!”
He stands there stunned, watching the coach with looks that could start a genocide until there’s a growled exhale and he’s loping off, violently shaking the hood off his damp head as a few curious souls slack in their exercises to ogle him.
But instead of directly heading over to the heavy bag section, Taemin prefers to climb the steel stairs to the open, upper level that looks over it. As he climbs, he fools himself into thinking he’s really not eagerly scouring the bags for a familiarly tanned, stumpy and slick instrument. Or rather, the musician that turns the bag into his instrument, what with how the deep, metrical pounds resonate throughout the gym.
In truth, Taemin hears him before he sees him once he’s reached the top of the platform, and wonders if this is going to be become a routine thing, locating the new guy by sound before sight.
Crossing his arms on the rail, Taemin peers over keen-eyed, awe coursing his veins. Jonghyun’s “performance” is directly hit with the dull gold of late afternoon raying through the industrial windows behind Taemin, enhancing the older man’s raw masculinity and prowess even more. His footwork hypnotizes Taemin, a tribal dance round ‘n round the large red bag Jonghyun keeps up so tirelessly, he makes it look too easy.
He’s amazing…
Only when Taemin notices that Jonghyun has headphones in this time, can’t stop bobbing his head to the jumping in Jonghyun basketball shorts, and unconsciously licks his lips way too often does he resister that he’s become more a creeper than an admirer…er, observer.
That he was the only one way up high-whereas a small crowd of guys were gathered below to survey the gym’s only middleweight champ with a membership…it proved his creeper label beyond a doubt.
Suddenly dizzy, Taemin sucks his teeth softly. Shaking his head to ward off the weird sizzling behind his eyes and shifting his hips to rid himself of the same sensation under his navel, he turns behind him. Spots a folding chair and goes to drag it to the edge of the platform. He spins it backwards and plops down with an attitude, unzipping the top of the light grey jacket to reveal a snatch of his white tank top prior to stuffing his hands in the cottony confines of the pockets.
Real gay, Taemin, really gay. You’re pushing it.
But as far as he was concerned, it was all noise for now. Jonghyun was kick-ass. Watching him, Taemin could accurately compare and contrast to what he saw on TV, unlike with the amateur blockheads Coach harbored under his wing. Not only did the “Duke” evoke power, he rang with passion. Killer were his motives, defined were his curves, dips and jabs. Something within him drove him to move beyond his years, as he couldn’t have been that much older than Taemin-a thought that altogether threw the teen for a loop.
Along with the echo of agreement with Coach’s musings: Good question, why was someone like Jonghyun in a neighborhood like this? Why had someone as fresh and fueled as this guy drifted from (supposedly) the most elite of universities to join the bottom feeders? No sense, absolutely none.
No sense for an undefeated boxing warrior.
“So that’s what Teacher Jung means by poetry in motion,” he mutters to himself absentmindedly, then glances in rapid succession to his left and right several times to see if anyone heard. Groaning at both empty spaces a moment later-he was alone up there, how could he forget?
Taemin whistles low with envy, training his eye back on the faraway Jonghyun, the rugged, tight jawed man bronze and gleaming in the sun. His back is to Taemin, syncopating muscles and bunching skin sucking the moisture from Taemin’s mouth for reasons he accepts, doesn’t understand, and dares not admit. God, it’s nearly intimate how fluidly this guy gives the bag his all. It eats up his every blow-blows that are aggressive yet fulfilling and nourishing.
He must’ve been knee-deep in pussy back home.
It’s a thought that surprises Taemin instantly. Mostly because it has more to do with Jonghyun pulling any girl he wants.
You could say it fucked with him royally, bringing that sizzling feeling back to his lower tummy. Sneering up his nose at the image of a fraternity-jacketed Jonghyun parading around with a hoard of giggling, statuesque beauties. Girls Taemin saw right through, didn’t necessary covet, and could almost care less about-like his beefing with Minho and company. Yeah they appreciated his good looks and popularity, but could they-would they- appreciate the magic behind his success? Who out of every one of them followed the intricate details of Jonghyun’s strength like Taemin did now? Who called themselves real fans-
“Whoa,” he blurts. Ears burning, Taemin wags his head and snorts incredulously. There’s a stunted exhale.
With all due respect, damn that Coach Hwang.
He pouts and rests his head on his folded arms. Continues to watch the object of his attention while the sun sinks lower and the rumbles in his stomach become irate.
Its infuriating and confusing (and he’s never had this problem), this inability to distinguish admiration from attraction when it comes to this person, this guy, but Taemin…can’t help it. He may have been the creeper damn near sitting in the rafters to ogle the middleweight celebrity, yet Taemin could safely convince himself that all of the fellow boxers in closer proximity of him were struggling too. He was sure they were just as thirsty as he was. Who wouldn’t be? How couldn’t they be more thirstier than he, in fact, since they were immersed in the thick, static atmosphere that had to be surrounding Jonghyun?
It was official. He was already, beyond a doubt, a raging hard on for Jonghyun. Sold for cheap and definitely not too thrilled about it.
Once the short hand reaches the four on the gym clock, Taemin coolly examines as Jonghyun quits the bag and saunters over to the nearest bench. He’s chugging Gatorade when some of the other guys approach him amiably, popping his back and playfully imitating his character on the bag. A character that, apparently, relaxes significantly if he’s not “in the kitchen” because Jonghyun is smiling and laughing as loosely as they are.
That smile especially. Flashing so carelessly, Taemin has the urge to cave it in for no reason. (Something Jonghyun could do to him before Taemin even thought about swinging.)
Yeah. Celebrity alright.
Fat chance he’ll ever be getting near him now.
Do I even hear myself right now? Taemin, get a fucking grip-
But his grip , its coated with Vaseline, and Taemin’s making a clanging, metallic scene as he scrambles from the chair the moment Jonghyun idly lifts his mirth-laden gaze up in Taemin’s direction.
Fuck, fuck!
And he’s tearing down the stairs, hood rammed back up on his head while his brain feeds him the awesome image of Jonghyun giving him a big fat wink.
All eyes are on the matchstick storming past everyone, even Jonghyun, then disappearing through the double entrance. Coach Hwang’s calls after him fall short on deaf ears. Guys cheer and laugh while others mumble amongst themselves about “that kid’s problem.”
But Jonghyun is the only one that stares after him the longest, his knowing smirk inching up to the side as he throws the duffle bag strap over his shoulder.
*****
Yet oddly, Taemin isn’t deterred from returning the next day.
Or the day after.
Or the following Monday…
Maybe a whole week of secretly gaping at the slippery-skinned hurricane on legs wasn’t a bad idea either.
Though he wished he had something to actually do (other than homework) to not make it seem so obvious he was coming to the gym for the sole reason of …watching Jonghyun.
The thought gave him shivers.
Which kind?
Even that wasn’t Taemin’s business to know.
Pretty much taking care of yourself, especially with no job, has the majority of downsides, so it wasn’t like he could stop by the nearest pawnshop and buy another iPod. Nor did he want to bring in manhwas like some nerd aka the kid he used to be when he was like, eleven.
Other than those options, he really couldn’t think of anything to bring in aside from himself.
So it was with a heavy heart and shielded eyes that Taemin strides into the gym at the end of the first week with a Rubix cube bulging from his jacket pocket. Jonghyun too focused on his pounding to notice, as usual, Taemin slips past the heavy bag area to climb the steps to his perch. As he pulls up the same rickety chair, he’s mulling over his good luck that Minho and his boys haven’t made any pit stops to harass him. So far all of the pussy-footing he’s been doing has paid off.
Miss me, motherfuckers? I bet you do.
But he’s always been a suspicious kind of guy, so Taemin halts his smug train of thought, not wanting to jinx all of his fortune.
There are more pressing matters at hand.
Er, well not to that degree but…
Slapping his hand to his forehead, the befuddled teen switches his senses to the heavy thud of gloves to sand. Contrary to what he thought, the habit of hearing Jonghyun before he could see him proved faulty because Jonghyun favored one particular bag-therefore making himself easier to spot as soon as Taemin arrived. Taemin figured he’d have to rely on the sound only if he were outside the gym door; no sound, no Jonghyun.
Which hadn’t happened yet, much to his bitter confession of relief.
Dude, when are you going in the ring? Blowing his lips in disappointment, Taemin sets his chin down on his arms. Why doesn’t Coach put you in the ring with Jinki? He was the best middleweight before you got here. Somebody has to challenge the throne. I need more proof than just all of the hot air people are blowing around about you.
Proof. What an inside joke. What more could be proven, with the mesmerized way Taemin watched him? He might as well have been raining down fan letters, shit to sign, and his favorite pairs of boxers to the broad chested prodigy.
The premature sadist in him just wanted to see Jonghyun own a couple of locals, that’s all it was. He just wanted a good ol fashioned bloody bang in the ring.
Unbeknownst to him, Taemin is deviously nodding in agreement with himself.
Practically too busy being a jackass that he doesn’t realize that the thunderous booms have stopped until its too late.
Frowning and blinking his eyes open to the peculiar emptiness, Taemin immediately locks his widening eyes with a pair of amused ones.
“Shit,” he gasps under his breath.
But…Jonghyun doesn’t promptly romp up the stairs to knock him out so that he sees constellations. He doesn’t challenge him or call him out on his peeping. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t say anything.
A charming brow quirks up at Taemin’s sheepish stare.
Then Jonghyun gives him a kind of smile where his lips are partially folded in, deliberately slides a glove off, and does a saluting wave.
The cheery light in the elder’s eyes coaxing the fanboy in Taemin to want to wave back timidly.
Its too bad that this isn’t an alternate universe, where he’d be minx-coat comfortable with doing that.
Nope. Not at all.
Since this is a crappy, margin drawn universe where Taemin imagines Minho pointing and guffawing at him.
And he has to rudely leave the friendly (sweaty) guy hanging, reluctantly pulling out the multiply solved Rubix cube and lowering his cherry-cheeked concentration to it.
Well, it was better than pulling another Cinderella.
Shrugging with another knowing, light-hearted grin, Jonghyun fastens the glove back on and resumes his routine.
*****
It is shortly after Taemin is caught that he makes up his mind to become a boxer. To be trained at the gym.
Cause what can he say? The Duke has inspired him.
Furthermore, it’s surely nothing to do with some sort of ploy to get to see Jonghyun in action without stumbling in the gym everyday like a stray. A-he cringes-rabid fan boy.
Taemin preferred to think of it more as an upper hand in a circle of injustice.
Also, he’d spoken too soon, as it turns out this lovely Thursday afternoon.
As a scowling Kyungsoo and Key sit up on the pavement rubbing their aching jaws, Minho pins Taemin by the neck on the wall.
“I don’t see you for two weeks and this is how it is? We meet and you’re empty handed?” The taller boy tsks in faux discontent. “What happened to gifts given among friends, Taebby Cat?”
“Set me down you tool,” the smaller boy spits. He cuts his eyes at Minho, then the rest of them. “I told you I don’t have anything.”
“Check him.”
They do, the more scorned of the six excessively jerking his pockets inside out. His shoes are removed, and one of the guys snickers, wriggling his hand down in Taemin’s boxers. Humiliation is on Joon though, or whatever his name is, since he’s the one always checking there with every raid summon Minho gives. The jostled teen rolls his eyes at him, wishing his dick had the infamous trait of a puffer fish.
“He’s clean.” Key announces, slapping the victim’s face lightly and standing back. He repeatedly tosses and catches the Rubix cube. “Nothing but this…what the fuck hyung, why are you still fondling his nuts you little fag?”
Joon snatches his hand out, coughing. “Nothing there either,” he reports. Key sniffs and yanks him back by the hood of his jacket.
“See? I ain’t got shit. Now let me go before I get warts.”
Minho curls his lip, slamming himself close so that his nicotine breath fumes around them. Taemin grimaces at the stench. “Next time we meet you better come baring gifts you little emo dipshit. Or I’m breaking you apart like warm bread. Get the picture?”
“Give me my fucking iPod back. And the cube.”
“The square wants his cube back. Ha!”
“Shut up Joon.”
The other boy’s mouth pops closed. Key shakes his head and Zelo sighs in disgust.
“I think I’ll keep it as collateral. You know. Until you give me what I want next time.” Minho simpers. “As for your iPod, I think it’s my best "purchase" yet. After I deleted all of the sissy music you had on there and filled it with my own.”
Taemin gaze seethes into Minho’s. He doesn’t reply. What would be the point? He’d already made a fool out of himself for asking for things to be returned to him when he knew damn well anything lost to Minho was lost forever.
Snorting victoriously, Minho lets the boy down.
The moment he does, the leader’s caught off guard when Taemin’s fist slams across his face in one swift move and he begins to book it down the street as fast as he can. Laughing at their enraged cries behind him though he cradles his kicked stomach.
If he could at least train to be half (okay realistically, an eighth or something) the boxer Jonghyun is, perhaps it would even the odds around here, if not give him the upper hand he aspired for himself in the first place.
Previous | Next
“Ahhh Lee, you’re back!”
Checking his back once more, Taemin finally creeps into the gym flushed and out of breath. Instinctively he scrambles to compose himself in front of the coach as to not look as pathetic as he was. He’d have to work on his “escape tactics” a little more if he planned on making a daily trek here unscathed.
Thank God it was the weekend tomorrow, so he could just take a back route from his apartment to the gym.
“Sup Coach,” he smiled through his exhaustion, slapping hands with the older man-who only had to take one close look at him and began chuckling. He claps his thick hand on the young man’s back, oblivious to the small curse that follows it.
“Girls finally notices you, boy?” he asks lively, and Taemin retains a scowl.
“You know me better that that, Coach. They don’t even see me.”
“Well how could they? Ain’t nothing to see but a walking pile of rags.”
“Handcock was a bum too.”
“Handcock was also Will Smith. Who doesn’t even need to be Handcock to get the ladies’ attention, eh?” Taemin is elbowed a few excruciating times before the coach’s cackles die down and he folds his arms back to the helmeted featherweights in the ring before him. “So why’d you skip out on me yesterday, Lee? See a ghost?” He smirks.
Taemin scratches the back of his head, wrinkling his nose to stall off the color racing to his cheeks. “Nah, I just-
“Jonghyun asked me who you were. I told him he’d caught your eye, but I thought it was too early to tell him you were a fan just yet.”
“You wh-Coach are you serious?”
“What?” The burly man blows his whistle at the pair, signaling them to return to their respective corners. “Was I supposed to be chummier than that?” He lightly jogs off to one of the corners to mentor the obvious loser of the round. “He’s on the heavy bags again kid, go check ‘em out before he leaves. And hood off Lee!”
He stands there stunned, watching the coach with looks that could start a genocide until there’s a growled exhale and he’s loping off, violently shaking the hood off his damp head as a few curious souls slack in their exercises to ogle him.
But instead of directly heading over to the heavy bag section, Taemin prefers to climb the steel stairs to the open, upper level that looks over it. As he climbs, he fools himself into thinking he’s really not eagerly scouring the bags for a familiarly tanned, stumpy and slick instrument. Or rather, the musician that turns the bag into his instrument, what with how the deep, metrical pounds resonate throughout the gym.
In truth, Taemin hears him before he sees him once he’s reached the top of the platform, and wonders if this is going to be become a routine thing, locating the new guy by sound before sight.
Crossing his arms on the rail, Taemin peers over keen-eyed, awe coursing his veins. Jonghyun’s “performance” is directly hit with the dull gold of late afternoon raying through the industrial windows behind Taemin, enhancing the older man’s raw masculinity and prowess even more. His footwork hypnotizes Taemin, a tribal dance round ‘n round the large red bag Jonghyun keeps up so tirelessly, he makes it look too easy.
He’s amazing…
Only when Taemin notices that Jonghyun has headphones in this time, can’t stop bobbing his head to the jumping in Jonghyun basketball shorts, and unconsciously licks his lips way too often does he resister that he’s become more a creeper than an admirer…er, observer.
That he was the only one way up high-whereas a small crowd of guys were gathered below to survey the gym’s only middleweight champ with a membership…it proved his creeper label beyond a doubt.
Suddenly dizzy, Taemin sucks his teeth softly. Shaking his head to ward off the weird sizzling behind his eyes and shifting his hips to rid himself of the same sensation under his navel, he turns behind him. Spots a folding chair and goes to drag it to the edge of the platform. He spins it backwards and plops down with an attitude, unzipping the top of the light grey jacket to reveal a snatch of his white tank top prior to stuffing his hands in the cottony confines of the pockets.
Real gay, Taemin, really gay. You’re pushing it.
But as far as he was concerned, it was all noise for now. Jonghyun was kick-ass. Watching him, Taemin could accurately compare and contrast to what he saw on TV, unlike with the amateur blockheads Coach harbored under his wing. Not only did the “Duke” evoke power, he rang with passion. Killer were his motives, defined were his curves, dips and jabs. Something within him drove him to move beyond his years, as he couldn’t have been that much older than Taemin-a thought that altogether threw the teen for a loop.
Along with the echo of agreement with Coach’s musings: Good question, why was someone like Jonghyun in a neighborhood like this? Why had someone as fresh and fueled as this guy drifted from (supposedly) the most elite of universities to join the bottom feeders? No sense, absolutely none.
No sense for an undefeated boxing warrior.
“So that’s what Teacher Jung means by poetry in motion,” he mutters to himself absentmindedly, then glances in rapid succession to his left and right several times to see if anyone heard. Groaning at both empty spaces a moment later-he was alone up there, how could he forget?
Taemin whistles low with envy, training his eye back on the faraway Jonghyun, the rugged, tight jawed man bronze and gleaming in the sun. His back is to Taemin, syncopating muscles and bunching skin sucking the moisture from Taemin’s mouth for reasons he accepts, doesn’t understand, and dares not admit. God, it’s nearly intimate how fluidly this guy gives the bag his all. It eats up his every blow-blows that are aggressive yet fulfilling and nourishing.
He must’ve been knee-deep in pussy back home.
It’s a thought that surprises Taemin instantly. Mostly because it has more to do with Jonghyun pulling any girl he wants.
You could say it fucked with him royally, bringing that sizzling feeling back to his lower tummy. Sneering up his nose at the image of a fraternity-jacketed Jonghyun parading around with a hoard of giggling, statuesque beauties. Girls Taemin saw right through, didn’t necessary covet, and could almost care less about-like his beefing with Minho and company. Yeah they appreciated his good looks and popularity, but could they-would they- appreciate the magic behind his success? Who out of every one of them followed the intricate details of Jonghyun’s strength like Taemin did now? Who called themselves real fans-
“Whoa,” he blurts. Ears burning, Taemin wags his head and snorts incredulously. There’s a stunted exhale.
With all due respect, damn that Coach Hwang.
He pouts and rests his head on his folded arms. Continues to watch the object of his attention while the sun sinks lower and the rumbles in his stomach become irate.
Its infuriating and confusing (and he’s never had this problem), this inability to distinguish admiration from attraction when it comes to this person, this guy, but Taemin…can’t help it. He may have been the creeper damn near sitting in the rafters to ogle the middleweight celebrity, yet Taemin could safely convince himself that all of the fellow boxers in closer proximity of him were struggling too. He was sure they were just as thirsty as he was. Who wouldn’t be? How couldn’t they be more thirstier than he, in fact, since they were immersed in the thick, static atmosphere that had to be surrounding Jonghyun?
It was official. He was already, beyond a doubt, a raging hard on for Jonghyun. Sold for cheap and definitely not too thrilled about it.
Once the short hand reaches the four on the gym clock, Taemin coolly examines as Jonghyun quits the bag and saunters over to the nearest bench. He’s chugging Gatorade when some of the other guys approach him amiably, popping his back and playfully imitating his character on the bag. A character that, apparently, relaxes significantly if he’s not “in the kitchen” because Jonghyun is smiling and laughing as loosely as they are.
That smile especially. Flashing so carelessly, Taemin has the urge to cave it in for no reason. (Something Jonghyun could do to him before Taemin even thought about swinging.)
Yeah. Celebrity alright.
Fat chance he’ll ever be getting near him now.
Do I even hear myself right now? Taemin, get a fucking grip-
But his grip , its coated with Vaseline, and Taemin’s making a clanging, metallic scene as he scrambles from the chair the moment Jonghyun idly lifts his mirth-laden gaze up in Taemin’s direction.
Fuck, fuck!
And he’s tearing down the stairs, hood rammed back up on his head while his brain feeds him the awesome image of Jonghyun giving him a big fat wink.
All eyes are on the matchstick storming past everyone, even Jonghyun, then disappearing through the double entrance. Coach Hwang’s calls after him fall short on deaf ears. Guys cheer and laugh while others mumble amongst themselves about “that kid’s problem.”
But Jonghyun is the only one that stares after him the longest, his knowing smirk inching up to the side as he throws the duffle bag strap over his shoulder.
*****
Yet oddly, Taemin isn’t deterred from returning the next day.
Or the day after.
Or the following Monday…
Maybe a whole week of secretly gaping at the slippery-skinned hurricane on legs wasn’t a bad idea either.
Though he wished he had something to actually do (other than homework) to not make it seem so obvious he was coming to the gym for the sole reason of …watching Jonghyun.
The thought gave him shivers.
Which kind?
Even that wasn’t Taemin’s business to know.
Pretty much taking care of yourself, especially with no job, has the majority of downsides, so it wasn’t like he could stop by the nearest pawnshop and buy another iPod. Nor did he want to bring in manhwas like some nerd aka the kid he used to be when he was like, eleven.
Other than those options, he really couldn’t think of anything to bring in aside from himself.
So it was with a heavy heart and shielded eyes that Taemin strides into the gym at the end of the first week with a Rubix cube bulging from his jacket pocket. Jonghyun too focused on his pounding to notice, as usual, Taemin slips past the heavy bag area to climb the steps to his perch. As he pulls up the same rickety chair, he’s mulling over his good luck that Minho and his boys haven’t made any pit stops to harass him. So far all of the pussy-footing he’s been doing has paid off.
Miss me, motherfuckers? I bet you do.
But he’s always been a suspicious kind of guy, so Taemin halts his smug train of thought, not wanting to jinx all of his fortune.
There are more pressing matters at hand.
Er, well not to that degree but…
Slapping his hand to his forehead, the befuddled teen switches his senses to the heavy thud of gloves to sand. Contrary to what he thought, the habit of hearing Jonghyun before he could see him proved faulty because Jonghyun favored one particular bag-therefore making himself easier to spot as soon as Taemin arrived. Taemin figured he’d have to rely on the sound only if he were outside the gym door; no sound, no Jonghyun.
Which hadn’t happened yet, much to his bitter confession of relief.
Dude, when are you going in the ring? Blowing his lips in disappointment, Taemin sets his chin down on his arms. Why doesn’t Coach put you in the ring with Jinki? He was the best middleweight before you got here. Somebody has to challenge the throne. I need more proof than just all of the hot air people are blowing around about you.
Proof. What an inside joke. What more could be proven, with the mesmerized way Taemin watched him? He might as well have been raining down fan letters, shit to sign, and his favorite pairs of boxers to the broad chested prodigy.
The premature sadist in him just wanted to see Jonghyun own a couple of locals, that’s all it was. He just wanted a good ol fashioned bloody bang in the ring.
Unbeknownst to him, Taemin is deviously nodding in agreement with himself.
Practically too busy being a jackass that he doesn’t realize that the thunderous booms have stopped until its too late.
Frowning and blinking his eyes open to the peculiar emptiness, Taemin immediately locks his widening eyes with a pair of amused ones.
“Shit,” he gasps under his breath.
But…Jonghyun doesn’t promptly romp up the stairs to knock him out so that he sees constellations. He doesn’t challenge him or call him out on his peeping. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t say anything.
A charming brow quirks up at Taemin’s sheepish stare.
Then Jonghyun gives him a kind of smile where his lips are partially folded in, deliberately slides a glove off, and does a saluting wave.
The cheery light in the elder’s eyes coaxing the fanboy in Taemin to want to wave back timidly.
Its too bad that this isn’t an alternate universe, where he’d be minx-coat comfortable with doing that.
Nope. Not at all.
Since this is a crappy, margin drawn universe where Taemin imagines Minho pointing and guffawing at him.
And he has to rudely leave the friendly (sweaty) guy hanging, reluctantly pulling out the multiply solved Rubix cube and lowering his cherry-cheeked concentration to it.
Well, it was better than pulling another Cinderella.
Shrugging with another knowing, light-hearted grin, Jonghyun fastens the glove back on and resumes his routine.
*****
It is shortly after Taemin is caught that he makes up his mind to become a boxer. To be trained at the gym.
Cause what can he say? The Duke has inspired him.
Furthermore, it’s surely nothing to do with some sort of ploy to get to see Jonghyun in action without stumbling in the gym everyday like a stray. A-he cringes-rabid fan boy.
Taemin preferred to think of it more as an upper hand in a circle of injustice.
Also, he’d spoken too soon, as it turns out this lovely Thursday afternoon.
As a scowling Kyungsoo and Key sit up on the pavement rubbing their aching jaws, Minho pins Taemin by the neck on the wall.
“I don’t see you for two weeks and this is how it is? We meet and you’re empty handed?” The taller boy tsks in faux discontent. “What happened to gifts given among friends, Taebby Cat?”
“Set me down you tool,” the smaller boy spits. He cuts his eyes at Minho, then the rest of them. “I told you I don’t have anything.”
“Check him.”
They do, the more scorned of the six excessively jerking his pockets inside out. His shoes are removed, and one of the guys snickers, wriggling his hand down in Taemin’s boxers. Humiliation is on Joon though, or whatever his name is, since he’s the one always checking there with every raid summon Minho gives. The jostled teen rolls his eyes at him, wishing his dick had the infamous trait of a puffer fish.
“He’s clean.” Key announces, slapping the victim’s face lightly and standing back. He repeatedly tosses and catches the Rubix cube. “Nothing but this…what the fuck hyung, why are you still fondling his nuts you little fag?”
Joon snatches his hand out, coughing. “Nothing there either,” he reports. Key sniffs and yanks him back by the hood of his jacket.
“See? I ain’t got shit. Now let me go before I get warts.”
Minho curls his lip, slamming himself close so that his nicotine breath fumes around them. Taemin grimaces at the stench. “Next time we meet you better come baring gifts you little emo dipshit. Or I’m breaking you apart like warm bread. Get the picture?”
“Give me my fucking iPod back. And the cube.”
“The square wants his cube back. Ha!”
“Shut up Joon.”
The other boy’s mouth pops closed. Key shakes his head and Zelo sighs in disgust.
“I think I’ll keep it as collateral. You know. Until you give me what I want next time.” Minho simpers. “As for your iPod, I think it’s my best "purchase" yet. After I deleted all of the sissy music you had on there and filled it with my own.”
Taemin gaze seethes into Minho’s. He doesn’t reply. What would be the point? He’d already made a fool out of himself for asking for things to be returned to him when he knew damn well anything lost to Minho was lost forever.
Snorting victoriously, Minho lets the boy down.
The moment he does, the leader’s caught off guard when Taemin’s fist slams across his face in one swift move and he begins to book it down the street as fast as he can. Laughing at their enraged cries behind him though he cradles his kicked stomach.
If he could at least train to be half (okay realistically, an eighth or something) the boxer Jonghyun is, perhaps it would even the odds around here, if not give him the upper hand he aspired for himself in the first place.
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