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█ ✫ INSIDE OUT ··· ( ch 6 of ? )
█ pairing: jongkey, minkey
█ rating: PG (NC-17 Over-all)
█ genre: drama - romance
✫ ··· chapter index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
✫ ··· author's note:
This chapter took a lot longer to come out than I was intending. School has been pretty demanding lately, and is only going to get busier as time goes on. I'm still going to be writing when I can, but updates are probably going to be as slow, if not more-so than this one was. Please be patient with me! Also, I apologize again for any helter-skelter feeling this chapter may have. I normally write in large chunks, but writing paragraph by paragraph whenever I had the change may mean it isn't as cohesive as I like.
By the time the stairway changes from scrubbed old laminate to slotted, rusted steel, Key's legs are burning. He pays them no mind, can't bring himself to do so much as acknowledge them as his eyes sting and overflow, tears searing bitter pathways down the curves of his face. His entire weight slams against the heavy metal door as he wrestles with the handle, and when it swings open it flings him cruelly at the rough concrete surface of the roof. Through some miracle or another he manages to remain relatively upright, but he scrapes a palm against the ground, tearing the soft skin and embedding black and brown flecks of God-knows-what in the heel of his hand. It should sting like hell, but he doesn't even register it's happened, let alone feel it.
Normally Key heads straight for the edge of the roof; maybe to let his arms dangle over the railing a while, lean his weight on it and wonder what it feels like to just fall, to tumble over the other side and let gravity have its way. On any other day he sometimes gives an experimental lurch in the direction of the ground, his grip white-knuckled against the flaking paint of the rail, and instantly decides falling isn't for him. A blink or two would cast the thought from his mind, and replace it with a wish for coffee. Today, he stumbles around the back of the staircase access, pressing his shoulder blades against the unforgiving tooth of the stucco walls and ignoring the way they scrape through the thin layer of his shirt as he slips down to the ground, knees bundled beneath him.
He has known for a long time that nothing good could ever come from loving Jonghyun, but he has foolishly insisted on doing it anyhow. Left with his head telling him I told you so, he gathers as much of himself as he can, but he is scattered on the wind, the pieces carried out of reach. What few fragments he manages to collect he stuffs back into his chest, but the gaping emptiness he feels is overwhelming. It's almost as if he can hear his breath rattle in the newly vacant cavity he once reserved solely for Jonghyun's smile, or the tone of his voice when he called his name - his real name.
Key draws his knees up into his eye sockets, pressing the rise of his kneecaps into his brow ridge as he attempts to physically block off the flow of his tears. It's useless. So be it; he gives up, gives in, lets his chest heave and gasps for air as he sobs, the sound dry and violent in the silence around him. He clenches his teeth as he cries, chokes on what he he inhales, and the taste of salt against his tongue only makes him cry harder.
He sucks in as much air as he can but before it can grace his airways it's gone, crushed and displaced by another racking sob. Light-headed, barely breathing through his tears, he coughs harshly in an attempt to fill his lungs, and fails. Try as he might he is unable to stop, and he wonders if it's possible to asphyxiate like this. He can't decide if he cares either way.
Lost in this possibility, Key cries out weakly, startled when someone tugs him into an unexpected, strong-armed embrace. A tell-tale scent fills his nose - one of loose earth, something akin to cinnamon, and a spice he has no name for. It pushes any thoughts of Jonghyun from his mind and replaces them with the memory of standing hand-in-hand on this very rooftop, looking out at the city as if it shone in the darkness for them alone, snowflakes falling around them like stars. The memory fades and fizzles like smoke, replaced with the phantom tingle of fabricated open-mouthed kisses and too-hot fingers. He sobs with renewed vigour; he doesn't want to think like this right now. It hurts too much.
“Minho,” he pleads, voice hoarse and strained as he tries to push himself out of the other's grasp, “Please, d-don't.” When the only response he receives is a tightening of the arms around him he struggles harder, but Minho traps him firmly against his chest with seemingly no effort at all.
“I'm not letting you go.” Minho's words come out in a rushed whisper. The intensity of the sound startles the boy in his arms, but Minho only tightens his grip as he speaks. “I'll never let go. I'm right here. I always will be.” Key just sobs harder. Minho holds him until he sags against his chest, arms limp at his sides - too tired, too exhausted to resist.
The knees of his sweatpants are soaked to his skin from the puddle he's kneeling in, but he doesn't care; his main concern is the boy in his arms. A few minutes pass. The other boy is no longer heaving and gasping for air, but still his tears show no signs of stopping. There is a tell-tale blooming dampness on his shoulder, where Key has buried his face.
A part of him wishes that Key would cling to him in desperation, chanting his name and begging for Minho to help him forget. It's selfish, a horrible thought, and Minho pushes it from his mind with vehemence. He concentrates instead on the rise of Key's chest against his own, counting the seconds between breaths as he lets Key cry himself out at his own pace. As the minutes tick by, the hand cradling the back of Key head moves absently, stroking his hair.
After an eternity - or possibly not, neither of them is really keeping track - Key takes a deep, shaky breath against Minho's tear-sodden shirt. Hesitantly, Minho loosens his hold on the other boy, waiting for the inevitable moment when Key draws back. What he doesn't expect are tentative fingers clutching his shirt at the waist, barely brushing the skin beneath, or the way Key shifts his face away from the damp circle he's created to higher, drier ground. Apparently he is so surprised by this that there is something in his body language that makes Key laugh - short and clipped, slightly raw, but a chuckle nonetheless - and rub the bridge of his nose gently against Minho's collarbone.
“Sorry,” he croaks softly, “I just... God, I'm so pathetic.” Key chuckles dryly at himself. He sits back slightly on his toes, finally finding it in him to observe his scraped palm. It isn't really bleeding, just a few pinpricks of red , but it's an angry sort of pink where the layers have been reduced by force and friction. Untangling his fingers from the fabric at Minho's hip, he flicks a few bits of dirt from the ragged skin with his fingernails, eyebrows twitching in discomfort, but it doesn't hurt. Not really. Not enough to register as it should.
Without warning his hand is snatched from his grasp. Before he can utter a word of protest Minho presses dry lips to the heel, just above the wrist, where the damage is worst. If Key's cheeks hadn't already been scarlet and splotchy from crying, he'd have no way to conceal his flush of embarrassment. He tugs at his hand in an attempt to free it, uttering a weak protest in the form of an airless, stuttering, “H-hey!”
“You aren't pathetic.” Minho's voice should be a whisper - it's the appropriate volume, at least - but it isn't describable as such. It's rough and insistent, and though there is no sharpness there is a strength behind it, a physical presence to the sound that Key can do nothing but bend to. As Minho speaks his breath tickles the palm of his captured hand, and a gentle, clinging shudder rolls down between his shoulder blades at the sensation. Their eyes meet and lock as the words hang between them, and the intensity and conviction of Minho's gaze causes Key to shrink back slightly; not in intimidation, but in dumbstruck reverence. “You're not.”
Key has no retort for this, no smart remark. His tongue is like cotton in his mouth, making it impossible to form the syllables required for either. All he can manage to do is stare at Minho, disbelieving but unable to argue against the fortitude the other boy is displaying for the sentiment. Minho sees doubt reflected clear as daylight in Key's swollen, red-rimmed eyes; he wants nothing more than to wipe it away, collected with the last few tears lingering against his waterline and cast them both over the edge of the building with a flick of his wrist, never to darken Key's smiles again. For now, though, he will settle for being Key's shoulder. Right now, it's one he can cry on; in the foreseeable future, it can be one he leans on.
Brushing a bit of dirt from the knees of his sweatpants, he disentangles the two of them, offering Key a hand up, and a smile. Key regards the appendage only for a moment before curling their fingers together, his legs shaky as he uses Minho's strength to pull himself upright.
“Come on,” Minho says, throwing a platonic arm around Key's shoulders and steering him towards the stairwell, “I'll make you some coffee.”
Key still feels like his lungs are made of rice paper. His throat is raw, his eyes burn like hell, and he needs to blow his nose rather badly. It finally dawns on him that his pants are saturated in stagnant roof water, and his palm is finally starting to sting like a bitch. It also registers that he's shivering slightly, having sprinted from the dorm in only a t-shirt, jeans and a pair of canvas slip-ons. So right now, coffee sounds heavenly. He nods mutely, not yet trusting himself with words, and allows Minho to guide him back to the dorms.
If Minho minds the hesitant fingers Key has once again woven into the hem of his shirt, he makes no effort to dislodge them.
··· ✫ ···
Even though Key builds himself up for it, the next time he sees Jonghyun is anticlimactic, almost disappointingly so. Their pre-assembled façade returns, settling back into place in so seamless a fashion that Key himself almost wonders if their explosive meeting was a figment of his own troubled imagination. Then he catches Jonghyun's eyes on him and the memory of it ploughs him over like an eighteen-wheeler, and he remembers all too well. He does his best not to let it phase him, not to let the tremble in his hands show when it does, and he's pretty sure he's successful. Relatively certain. Moderately positive. He's probably fucked, to be honest, but he's trying.
The awkward air that has been threatening to solidify between the two of them since November is now doing too good a job of being obvious. While in the public eye they manage a patchwork mockery of the camaraderie they once shared so naturally between them; sometimes, Key even catches himself forgetting he's supposed to be livid with him. In the privacy of their dorm room, however, it is obvious to all parties - management included - that there is something wrong. Key finds himself being pulled aside more than once in the next week by various staffers, and does his best to let the hushed urging for him to get his shit together and work it out roll cleanly off of his shoulders. He is not apologizing for anything, nor is he feeling ready or willing to accept such a thing from Jonghyun. Still smarting from the obvious disregard for his own feelings, Key is content to allow Jonghyun to marinate in his own stupidity for the time being, until he has crammed his point through the countless styling products that hold the shorter man's hair aloft in an effort to make him seem taller.
Minho has become his shadow, and Key is all at once grateful and guilty for his constant presence. His true intentions for venturing to his and Jonghyun's room are still grating at his subconscious, but Key is back to being selfish, and he knows it. If he pours himself out to Minho as he had intended it may drive him away, and Key is unwilling to take that chance. He is slowly becoming dependant on the warm, level hand he often feels on his shoulder, always gone before he can turn around, but lingering in the way his skin prickles with the memory - the knowledge that it has been there.
Despite his hesitance, Key isn't stupid. He knows full well that the conversation will have to happen eventually, but he knows from the way his emotions sway so forcefully every time his eyes accidentally meet Jonghyun's that he is not ready to do this on his own. So he waits, and he dreams, and he feels like a prisoner in his own head as it screams at him to move in two completely opposite directions. He does the best he can to comply; he holds his ground, unmoving despite the chaos in his ears, and prays blindly for anything the universe can spare him.
··· ✫ ···
When he awakes one morning to find a single yellow rose beside him on his pillow, he cards the hair from his forehead as he attempts to remember the meanings associated with the colour, and ultimately scoffs. Friendship and new beginnings, indeed. Key is not going to let Jonghyun charm his way out of this one; he cracks open his neglected paints, finds his ultramarine acrylic, and paints the offending foliage blue with thick, careless strokes. After giving it a few minutes to dry, changing out of his pyjamas in the meantime, he grabs a roll of clear tape and fastens the rose to the outside of the bedroom door with it.
Smirking in satisfaction at his handiwork, Key moves directly to the kitchen to make himself a coffee, ignoring Onew's inquisitive expression as he passes. He hums to himself, the tune bright but slightly bitter in his mouth.
Unlikely.
··· ✫ ···
As he himself will admit, Taemin is a lot of things, not all of them positive. He has his bratty, selfish side; he sometimes finds it hard to have patience, finds himself so short on the stuff that he is snippy and curt to the people he is closest to. Despite this he is quick to apologize, always sincere, and the people he loves are equally as forgiving of his scattered transgressions. Not one to be coddled as often as he once allowed, Taemin is independent in every sense of the word. He constantly works himself to the bone, down to the sinew and willpower that hold him together, because he knows that it is the only way to succeed as wholly as he wants to - needs to. He is growing up quickly, according to all of the coordinators who fuss around his broadening shoulders, stretching spine and ever-changing hair. Perhaps they should know best, seeing how he has spent a large chunk of his boyhood under their care.
No one should know this better than the other four other members of the group, though. As the youngest he is automatically afforded a place under each of their wings, and he owes the person he is today to their gentle teasing, their brotherly affections, and their ability to chastise him when he needs it most without sugar-coating the truth. He considers them a branch on his family tree, strong and sturdy and steadfast. His brothers; his friends. They're a part of his life now, and will remain so forever.
It's really no wonder, then, that he finds the growing fracture between Key and Jonghyun particularly upsetting. He watches from the sidelines, tongue held firmly between his teeth, hoping the wind subsides from Key's sails and they finally start talking normally again. Days pass by with Key steadfastly giving Jonghyun the cold shoulder, and by the time the tenth day rolls around, the entire dorm is tense. Key has never managed to stay angry at Jonghyun for this long. The shorter man is pulling out every trick he's got, but to no avail. Whatever Jonghyun did, Taemin thinks to himself, it is unlikely he'll ever repeat it; if Key ever stays in the same room with him long enough to give him the chance to, that is.
On day twelve, he awakes in the middle of the night after a troubling, clouded dream about rooftops and peeling bark. It scares him in ways he hasn't been since he was seven, when the shadowed corners of his bedroom held faces that blinked at him in the darkness, even though he doesn't understand the imagery. Shucking off his covers, Taemin drags himself to the bathroom to splash a bit of cold water over his sweaty face, an attempt to drive the last few clinging scraps of his nightmare from his head. On his return to the warmth of his bed, however, a sound from the living room brushes against his eardrums, and he pauses. Sniffling - like someone crying, or trying rather valiantly not to.
Cautiously, his thoughts still foggy with sleep, he creeps down the short hallway to their living space, and pokes his head around the corner. Squinting in the darkness, he makes out the shape of someone on the couch across from the television set, curled in on themselves and shuddering with unsuccessfully restrained sobs. Taemin's heart squeezes painfully in his chest, words dissolving on the tip of his tongue at the sight of one of his hyungs in the midst of an emotional breakdown.
Whoever it is has yet to become aware of his presence; he uses this to his advantage, padding as quietly as he can in his sleep-drunk state over to the small table lamp next to the television set and flicking it on.
A feeble orange light casts fuzzy-edged shadows over the objects in the room. The sudden lack of complete blackness startles the occupant of the couch, his head flying upwards with a terrified, cornered gasp. Key's face is puffy and red, and his normally immaculate hair is as dishevelled as Taemin has ever seen it - he's apparently been clutching the strands in his fingers as he fights not to cry, and loses. The hands that hold his knees to his chest are white-knuckled with the strength of his grip, and the collar of his shirt is dark with tears beneath his throat. It's obvious that he has been at this for a while, sequestering himself in the living room to avoid detection, and to keep from disturbing his slumbering bandmates.
“T-Taemin,” Key stutters, his voice a harsh croak between them as he trembles, “This isn't - I'm sorry, I - ”
The excuses Key is attempting to pull wildly from the air around him become useless, as Taemin closes the distance between them in two long strides. The youngest throws himself on the couch beside him, tugging him tightly into a bony-armed hug. Startled by the sudden embrace, Key freezes for a moment, but relaxes almost instantly. This is the same awkward little boy who once blinked like a strobe light when he was nervous. The one who still gets a little shy about every atom of attention he gets from fans, but is at the age where he revels in it. The one who used to beg Key to make him noodles, or watch a movie with him, throwing on his best pout because he knew it meant his hyung would be incapable of denying him.
Key sobs with renewed vigour into Taemin's knobby shoulder, clutching desperately at the boy's sleep shirt as he bites his lips to keep himself at a reduced volume. His entire body shakes with the force of it, but Taemin's hands are rubbing little circles along his shoulders, like Key used to do for him before bed when he was homesick or missed his family, and that makes it a little easier to breathe.
“Oh, hyung,” Taemin's voice flutters small and tight in his ears, and those stick-thin arms tighten around him like he's a kite threatening to be carried away on the wind, “It's okay. You're okay. Jonghyun-hyung is just stupid, that's all.” At the mention of Jonghyun, Key hiccups and sobs a little harder, and Taemin has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from swearing at his own lack of tact. Before he can apologize, though, Key is sniffing hard, trying to find it in himself to speak.
“It's not even him,” he manages, his vocal chords protesting even as he continues, “It's - oh, God, Taemin, I don't know what to do. I just d-don't, and I'm terrified I'm doing this all wrong.”
Now that Key is holding the reins against his tears, Taemin leans back a bit so he can squint at Key's half-shadowed face in the near darkness. “What do you mean, hyung?” He asks, confused. If this isn't about Jonghyun, then what's it about? Key sniffs again, still brushing tears from his cheeks. Taemin can feel his shoulders tense beneath his hands, as if Key is steeling himself for something, and only grows more and more perplexed.
“I - ” Key's voice cracks, and he pauses to clear his throat, “It's so messed up, in my head. I'm so messed up, Taemin. I don't really know how to say this without making you hate me.”
“I could never hate you, hyung.” Taemin keeps his words level and reassuring, rubbing Key's arms in what he hopes is a comforting way. It feels a little awkward, since he's supposed to be the youngest, but right now he doesn't think it should matter - Key needs him, and Taemin isn't about to leave him behind. “Just tell me. Getting it all out will feel better. Isn't that what you tell me all the time?” Key's only immediate response is a wet little sniffle, and a shaky sigh. Taemin just keeps his palms flat across Key's upper arms, dragging them back and forth in slow, warming ovals.
“J-Jjong and I...” Sniffling again, Key shakes his head firmly, spurring himself to continue. Taemin sets his face in an open and caring expression and is Hell-bent to keep it that way, no matter what comes out of his hyung's mouth. Key, however, is choosing his words carefully, searching through his brain for synonyms at a rapid pace; there are some things he doesn't want the maknae to know, even if he needs to say them out loud.
“We... Did something really stupid. We wrecked everything - our entire friendship - over something that we should've thought through. I should've thought about it, before I even... Anyhow, it's done, and I've been trying to keep it together ever since. But Jjong - he's not helping, at all. He keeps stirring shit up, and making it hurt all over again, just when I think I'm over the worst of it. He said something so... Thoughtless last week. I don't think he meant it, but that's what hurts the most - that he can say it to my face, and not mean it at all. That's why I've been ignoring him.”
“But you said this wasn't about Jonghyun-hyung,” He's thinking aloud, but Key just shakes his head and surges forward.
“It isn't, but he's where it all started. After... After we messed up, Minho noticed that I wasn't myself. Through all of this shit with Jjong, he's just - been there. He doesn't judge me, or what I say, or what I do. He lets me cry over nothing; he brings me coffee because he's not sure how else to cheer me up, and I don't know if he knows it or not, but it works. It works way better than it should, if you think about it; I mean, its just coffee. But it's... It's because he's the one doing it. I see that now. But it makes everything worse, because I always go back to Jonghyun one way or another, and I leave Minho behind. He's so important to me, but I just keep hurting him, Taemin. I've hurt him so many times, but he's still there when I need him afterwards, like he always is, and I feel so horrible because sometimes I can see it in his eyes - just how badly he's suffering. I'm no better than Jonghyun. I'm doing the same thing to Minho that he's been doing to me, and I hate it.”
Silence grows between them as Taemin tries to process the cryptic information Key has shared with him. He's decoding it as Key turns around, grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table, and blows his nose as quietly as he can. After a few minutes of Key looking anywhere but Taemin, the youngest finally speaks again.
“Hyung... That stupid thing, that you and Jonghyun-hyung did. Did... Did you s-sleep with him?” Key looks at him like he's just skinned a cat in front of him, but Taemin does his best not to let his own words colour his cheeks with embarrassment. When Key's expression falters, falls completely as he slowly nods and tears well up in his eyes, Taemin lets out a heavy, loaded sigh. “It was because of Sekyung, wasn't it?”
“T-Taemin - ”
“Don't worry, hyung, I don't think badly of you for it - I don't hate you. It was... Sort of obvious to me, how you felt about Jonghyun-hyung. I just didn't think you'd do... That.” Key swipes fresh tears from his lashes, almost angry at their presence. Taemin just rubs his knee in an effort to help keep him grounded. “I wondered why Minho-hyung always disappeared whenever you did. Where do you two go? I've been pretty curious where you keep sneaking off to, to be honest.”
“Just the roof,” Key says, wiping his tear-damp hands on his sweatpants, “He followed me up one day, when I couldn't be in the dorm any more, and... He's come up with me almost every time since. It's gotten to the point where, sometimes, I don't go up there to be alone... I go up there because I know he'll come with me.” Key laughs a little, dry and humourless - he's never admitted any of this to himself before, let alone out loud, or to someone else.
“And, Minho-hyung... Do you love him?”
“I've been asking myself the same question, Taeminnie. So many times. Half the time I think I do, but the rest of the time I'm letting the things Jonghyun does, or doesn't do make my decisions for me. How can I love Minho if I let someone else control the way I feel?”
“Maybe...” Brows furrowed, Taemin thinks hard about what to say, and how to say it. Key waits silently, finally all cried-out, but there’s still a tightness in his chest he just can't seem to shake off. “Maybe it's not that you let Jonghyun-hyung make you feel a certain way. Maybe you're just scared to love Minho-hyung, because you don't feel like you deserve to, and having Jonghyun-hyung be such a jerk to you is just a way for you to justify being afraid. Because you think you're like him... But you're not. If you were then Minho-hyung would treat you differently, but he just wants you to be happy, even if it hurts him. Can't that be enough?”
Taemin tries hard not to laugh at the expression on Key's face, but allows himself a small smile. His hyung's mouth is agape, eyes wide. If this were anyone else, Taemin would be worried about overstepping his bounds, but he knows just how much Key is willing to let him get away with. Besides, he needs this, even if Taemin is the last person anyone would've expected to deliver it.
The shock eventually fades from Key's features, but he still looks rather dumbfounded as he muddles over the validity of this sudden insight. Taemin definitely has a point, but Key is still sloshing through the slush of second-guessed feelings, unable to really make sense of anything. He figures the most important aspect, though, is that he wants Taemin to be right; he wants it to be okay that he feels more for Minho than he deserves to. Still uncertain, Key hopes that wanting something to be true will be enough to get the mess he's made of himself back in some semblance of order. He can start, he thinks, by talking to Minho tomorrow. They both have fairly full schedules - Key winces slightly as he catches the time on the television receiver, and realizes he can maybe get two or three hours of sleep if he goes to bed pretty much immediately - but they're meant to get home around the same time. A plan already slipping into form in his mind, Key just smiles and allows himself to be lead to their bedroom when Taemin takes his hand, saying they should both get back to bed if they actually want to sleep.
As he lays in bed, feeling his blankets warm as they soak up his body heat, Key wonders if he has enough courage left in him to do this right. Ideally, he'll be able to get his feelings across to Minho without having him feel obligated to do anything about them; he also owes him the largest, most heartfelt apology and thanks, and he's still not certain exactly how to go about it all. His mind is still buzzing with scenarios when Taemin's hand tugs on the corner of his comforter from the bunk below. Turning his face over the side, he sees the question in Taemin's eyes, and smiles, reflecting on just how many ways Taemin is offering him the exact same things he offered their youngest when he was still short and shy and unsure of the world. He wants to laugh at himself as he climbs down into the lower bunk, slipping under the covers as the youngest yawns. Taemin nuzzles his forehead into Key's collarbones, fists buried in his blankets as he curls around him and mutters something soft and sleepy. When Key successfully translates what he's said, he allows himself a chuckle at Taemin's cheek, hearing the phrase he always used to warn the maknae with when he felt him tug shyly at Key's bed covers and request what he now offered.
Just this once.
✫ ··· chapter seven