To Give and To Take
Title: To Give and To Take
Rating: PG 13
Pairing: 2min (shockingly enough /end sarcasm)
Summary: Taemin worries, Minho is always there.
‘I worry sometimes.’
‘Why?’ Taemin can’t see Minho in the dark; light from the street lights reaches far enough to brush against the high of Minho's forehead and cheeks, but his voice is close and it reassures him, the depth and reassurance of his voice making him feel secure like he is cradled in soft blankets, engulfing him in its warmness.
‘Because.’ Taemin hesitates, and he isn't sure how to phrase how he feels; he wonders if it is only him who feels like this, and is partially afraid that Minho won’t understand.
‘You can tell me, Taemin-ah,’ and he senses, rather than sees Minho turning on his side to prop his chin up on a raised arm, looking at him even if he isn’t able to see him.
He looks up at the night sky, and he knows then how small he is compared to the rest of the world, how insignificant he is. Thousands of stars are scattered, winking and glimmering, some so small and seeming to shine and then disappear and he is not sure whether or not they are really there or if his eyes are deceiving him. They are even smaller in contrast to the waxing crescent moon, and he is certain that all of the stars could fit onto the curved surface.
He knows that what he does in his life will not be spectacular, not likely to become president of his country or make a miraculous scientific discovery that would cure cancer. His life will not affect the world in any way, because in contrast to the billions of people in the world, only a handful of people know him, rather like picking 3 single grains of sand from a beach.
Instead, he rather anticipates going to university, living off instant ramen and only having enough money for an occasional treat of freshly brewed coffee. He wants to get away from under his parents’ eyes, go out maybe even on a weekday and get so drunk that he won’t be able to remember what happened the next day. Learn from all the mistakes he’s going to make, and then be able to carry on in life.
But sometimes, he can feel so alone in this world. And he wonders, what is the point? This life, where his existence is irrelevant? Because the world is large sometimes that it scares him to think of all those people and knowing that all of them are doing something right now, and sometimes he worries that he can’t feel.
It sounds stupid, he knows, but every day passes by too quickly, and he worries that he’s taking life for granted, unable to appreciate everything in life. He read somewhere that only 5% of the brain is ever used, and he wonders if it is the same for all his senses. Because after all, he can’t feel everything, his skin isn’t sensitive enough to feel every molecule that passes under his fingertips, nor can he feel every particle of air that bounces off him. And it worries him sometimes that maybe the silkiness of his own hair is imagined by himself, and he can only differentiate between varying degrees of warm and cold. He wishes sometime for hypersensitivity, and maybe this is part of the reason he always has something under the pads of his fingertips; whether it be the wall he’s walking beside, bed sheets underneath his body or quite simply a pencil or stick to turn over and over in his hand.
‘Taemin?’ Minho’s fingers brushes over his forearm, and it troubles him that he can’t visualize where exactly his hand had been, and he tries his best to remember the sensation of skin to skin contact. But it leaves him wondering why he isn’t able to feel the imprint of Minho’s fingerprints whenever he touches him, what the exact temperature Minho’s skin is.
Sometimes, Taemin wishes for more.
‘Minho, I don’t know what to do anymore.’
Minho stays silent, caressing Taemin’s arm with gentle brushes to let him know that he’s there. Just to listen, that he’ll always be there whenever Taemin needs him.
‘What is this, Minho? What am I supposed to do? There’s so many things that I’m expected to fulfil, but I don’t know if I’m good enough.’ His voice breaks, ending with a soft sigh.
‘I have nothing planned for life. We’re going to university next year, but I’m not even sure if I’ve picked the right course or not? What if I don’t like it? What if I can’t do it? Even with a degree, we’re not guaranteed to get a job.’
He drifts off, lips pursing as he contemplates the future before him. Would he really do what everyone else around him has done? Get a job, get married, have kids and then retire? For once, he doesn’t mind the thought of this; the simplicity and normality that this role of being a husband would give him.
‘Minho,’ he sighs. He turns to meet his eyes, immediately drawn and getting lost in their depth. He feels secure when Minho’s eyes are on him, like nothing would be able to harm him when they were trapped in their own world. It was during these few seconds when Minho’s eyes probed deeper that he was able to breathe properly, take deep gulps of the fresh sea air that hit the back of his throat and feel his lungs being cleansed, the weight inside being carried away with the breeze.
‘I’m tired, Minho.’ And Minho knows that he doesn’t mean the tired that can simply be solved with a deep sleep. It’s rather the tired that brings a weariness to his very soul, that makes him doubt what he is doing and every motive of every person that comes near to him. It’s the being lost, not knowing what he feels exactly, because nothing can describe this. This feeling of emptiness inside of him, that nothing seems to fill. He doesn’t think he is able to laugh anymore, and when he wants to cry, no tears can come to his dry eyes. It’s the years of him willing himself not to cry in front of classmates and forcing them from the back of his eyes that has led to him not being able to force them back up, he realises, and when he wants to cry his body only racks in heaving sobs that hurt his throat, deep shudders that shakes his whole body.
He’s tired of pretending, of all these people around him and wishes that he can escape from it all.
What is living, when he is not happy?
He closes his eyes shut, because he cannot bear Minho’s eyes any longer, feels that if he stares any longer he will break his resolve of the promise he has made to himself.
All he wants is someone to listen, to understand him, and he relaxes when he feels Minho’s arms pull around him to his chest, cradling him so tight that his face is trapped to Minho’s neck and his cheek rests uncomfortably on his protruding collarbone, but he is happy now. He relaxes with a sigh that takes away all the tension in his body, and melts against Minho, wriggling closer if it is even possible to seek warmth.
‘Shh,’ he hears Minho say, and he's secure in his arms, long fingers gently trailing up and down the top of his arm in idle strokes, the other hand resting on the small of his back. He feels a genuine smile make his way across his lips, because Minho is now the only one that can make him smile. He is the only one that Taemin doesn’t have to pretend around, because Minho is always solid and there and never changing, a constant in his life, and that's what he needs the most.
'You always make me feel better,’ he confesses, because he tells Minho nearly everything.
There’s a thumb against the high of his cheek, and his eyelids flutter open to take in the face above him, only dimly illuminated by the moonlight and the lanterns dancing on a wire string metres away from them. Minho’s eyes are contemplative, like he’s making up his mind whether or not it’s best to do something.
‘I can make you feel even better,’ he murmurs, and it’s low and deep in Taemin’s ear, gravelly and dragging, so close that it’s loud even though his voice is nearly a whisper.
He closes his eyes to take in Minho's voice and sighs in contentment, content in the moment where it's only them in their own little world, the sea far but still within reach to hear the waves crashing. Minho's body shifts a little from underneath him, and he frowns against this but lets him rearrange his pliant body so there's a little space between them, and Minho slides his arm beneath Taemin's neck to cradle his head.
There's pressure on Taemin's lips, soft and achingly gentle. He opens his eyes, shocked and raises his fingers to his lips, wondering if that tingle left behind is real, whether or not he just imagined the wind or if he'd gone too long without lip balm or something. But Minho's hovering above him, his other arm bracing himself firmly on the other side of Taemin's body, effectively trapping him with no means of escape.
Their eyes meet, Taemin's eyes wondering, Minho's reassuring and before he can say anything Minho swoops down again, and this time his eyes close instinctively, savouring this kiss, this moment. His lips part a little when
Minho gives a suck to his bottom lip, teeth grazing over the soft fleshy inside and Taemin reaches out tentatively, meeting and giving back, before Minho end with a nip to his reddened mouth and he gives a small huff of breath, feels the cool air over his moistened lip.
Minho's right, he does feel better.
A lot better.
A little dizzy to the head, maybe, and he's sure that if he was standing his knees might possibly be like jelly, but it doesn't stop that warmth spreading in his chest.
He laughs breathlessly, and all Minho does is grin in response and snake an arm around his waist, pulling him close to rest his chin on the top of his head.
A/N: I'm so sorry that I haven't been posting much at all, because I thought that once I started school I would get settled into a routine and be able to write more but noooo~ Yep, school's a lot more than I expected it to be and I often come home exahusted and not wanting to do /anything/. Anyway, thank you for reading~ and I'll try to write more.
Rating: PG 13
Pairing: 2min (shockingly enough /end sarcasm)
Summary: Taemin worries, Minho is always there.
‘I worry sometimes.’
‘Why?’ Taemin can’t see Minho in the dark; light from the street lights reaches far enough to brush against the high of Minho's forehead and cheeks, but his voice is close and it reassures him, the depth and reassurance of his voice making him feel secure like he is cradled in soft blankets, engulfing him in its warmness.
‘Because.’ Taemin hesitates, and he isn't sure how to phrase how he feels; he wonders if it is only him who feels like this, and is partially afraid that Minho won’t understand.
‘You can tell me, Taemin-ah,’ and he senses, rather than sees Minho turning on his side to prop his chin up on a raised arm, looking at him even if he isn’t able to see him.
He looks up at the night sky, and he knows then how small he is compared to the rest of the world, how insignificant he is. Thousands of stars are scattered, winking and glimmering, some so small and seeming to shine and then disappear and he is not sure whether or not they are really there or if his eyes are deceiving him. They are even smaller in contrast to the waxing crescent moon, and he is certain that all of the stars could fit onto the curved surface.
He knows that what he does in his life will not be spectacular, not likely to become president of his country or make a miraculous scientific discovery that would cure cancer. His life will not affect the world in any way, because in contrast to the billions of people in the world, only a handful of people know him, rather like picking 3 single grains of sand from a beach.
Instead, he rather anticipates going to university, living off instant ramen and only having enough money for an occasional treat of freshly brewed coffee. He wants to get away from under his parents’ eyes, go out maybe even on a weekday and get so drunk that he won’t be able to remember what happened the next day. Learn from all the mistakes he’s going to make, and then be able to carry on in life.
But sometimes, he can feel so alone in this world. And he wonders, what is the point? This life, where his existence is irrelevant? Because the world is large sometimes that it scares him to think of all those people and knowing that all of them are doing something right now, and sometimes he worries that he can’t feel.
It sounds stupid, he knows, but every day passes by too quickly, and he worries that he’s taking life for granted, unable to appreciate everything in life. He read somewhere that only 5% of the brain is ever used, and he wonders if it is the same for all his senses. Because after all, he can’t feel everything, his skin isn’t sensitive enough to feel every molecule that passes under his fingertips, nor can he feel every particle of air that bounces off him. And it worries him sometimes that maybe the silkiness of his own hair is imagined by himself, and he can only differentiate between varying degrees of warm and cold. He wishes sometime for hypersensitivity, and maybe this is part of the reason he always has something under the pads of his fingertips; whether it be the wall he’s walking beside, bed sheets underneath his body or quite simply a pencil or stick to turn over and over in his hand.
‘Taemin?’ Minho’s fingers brushes over his forearm, and it troubles him that he can’t visualize where exactly his hand had been, and he tries his best to remember the sensation of skin to skin contact. But it leaves him wondering why he isn’t able to feel the imprint of Minho’s fingerprints whenever he touches him, what the exact temperature Minho’s skin is.
Sometimes, Taemin wishes for more.
‘Minho, I don’t know what to do anymore.’
Minho stays silent, caressing Taemin’s arm with gentle brushes to let him know that he’s there. Just to listen, that he’ll always be there whenever Taemin needs him.
‘What is this, Minho? What am I supposed to do? There’s so many things that I’m expected to fulfil, but I don’t know if I’m good enough.’ His voice breaks, ending with a soft sigh.
‘I have nothing planned for life. We’re going to university next year, but I’m not even sure if I’ve picked the right course or not? What if I don’t like it? What if I can’t do it? Even with a degree, we’re not guaranteed to get a job.’
He drifts off, lips pursing as he contemplates the future before him. Would he really do what everyone else around him has done? Get a job, get married, have kids and then retire? For once, he doesn’t mind the thought of this; the simplicity and normality that this role of being a husband would give him.
‘Minho,’ he sighs. He turns to meet his eyes, immediately drawn and getting lost in their depth. He feels secure when Minho’s eyes are on him, like nothing would be able to harm him when they were trapped in their own world. It was during these few seconds when Minho’s eyes probed deeper that he was able to breathe properly, take deep gulps of the fresh sea air that hit the back of his throat and feel his lungs being cleansed, the weight inside being carried away with the breeze.
‘I’m tired, Minho.’ And Minho knows that he doesn’t mean the tired that can simply be solved with a deep sleep. It’s rather the tired that brings a weariness to his very soul, that makes him doubt what he is doing and every motive of every person that comes near to him. It’s the being lost, not knowing what he feels exactly, because nothing can describe this. This feeling of emptiness inside of him, that nothing seems to fill. He doesn’t think he is able to laugh anymore, and when he wants to cry, no tears can come to his dry eyes. It’s the years of him willing himself not to cry in front of classmates and forcing them from the back of his eyes that has led to him not being able to force them back up, he realises, and when he wants to cry his body only racks in heaving sobs that hurt his throat, deep shudders that shakes his whole body.
He’s tired of pretending, of all these people around him and wishes that he can escape from it all.
What is living, when he is not happy?
He closes his eyes shut, because he cannot bear Minho’s eyes any longer, feels that if he stares any longer he will break his resolve of the promise he has made to himself.
All he wants is someone to listen, to understand him, and he relaxes when he feels Minho’s arms pull around him to his chest, cradling him so tight that his face is trapped to Minho’s neck and his cheek rests uncomfortably on his protruding collarbone, but he is happy now. He relaxes with a sigh that takes away all the tension in his body, and melts against Minho, wriggling closer if it is even possible to seek warmth.
‘Shh,’ he hears Minho say, and he's secure in his arms, long fingers gently trailing up and down the top of his arm in idle strokes, the other hand resting on the small of his back. He feels a genuine smile make his way across his lips, because Minho is now the only one that can make him smile. He is the only one that Taemin doesn’t have to pretend around, because Minho is always solid and there and never changing, a constant in his life, and that's what he needs the most.
'You always make me feel better,’ he confesses, because he tells Minho nearly everything.
There’s a thumb against the high of his cheek, and his eyelids flutter open to take in the face above him, only dimly illuminated by the moonlight and the lanterns dancing on a wire string metres away from them. Minho’s eyes are contemplative, like he’s making up his mind whether or not it’s best to do something.
‘I can make you feel even better,’ he murmurs, and it’s low and deep in Taemin’s ear, gravelly and dragging, so close that it’s loud even though his voice is nearly a whisper.
He closes his eyes to take in Minho's voice and sighs in contentment, content in the moment where it's only them in their own little world, the sea far but still within reach to hear the waves crashing. Minho's body shifts a little from underneath him, and he frowns against this but lets him rearrange his pliant body so there's a little space between them, and Minho slides his arm beneath Taemin's neck to cradle his head.
There's pressure on Taemin's lips, soft and achingly gentle. He opens his eyes, shocked and raises his fingers to his lips, wondering if that tingle left behind is real, whether or not he just imagined the wind or if he'd gone too long without lip balm or something. But Minho's hovering above him, his other arm bracing himself firmly on the other side of Taemin's body, effectively trapping him with no means of escape.
Their eyes meet, Taemin's eyes wondering, Minho's reassuring and before he can say anything Minho swoops down again, and this time his eyes close instinctively, savouring this kiss, this moment. His lips part a little when
Minho gives a suck to his bottom lip, teeth grazing over the soft fleshy inside and Taemin reaches out tentatively, meeting and giving back, before Minho end with a nip to his reddened mouth and he gives a small huff of breath, feels the cool air over his moistened lip.
Minho's right, he does feel better.
A lot better.
A little dizzy to the head, maybe, and he's sure that if he was standing his knees might possibly be like jelly, but it doesn't stop that warmth spreading in his chest.
He laughs breathlessly, and all Minho does is grin in response and snake an arm around his waist, pulling him close to rest his chin on the top of his head.
A/N: I'm so sorry that I haven't been posting much at all, because I thought that once I started school I would get settled into a routine and be able to write more but noooo~ Yep, school's a lot more than I expected it to be and I often come home exahusted and not wanting to do /anything/. Anyway, thank you for reading~ and I'll try to write more.