Elegy of The Brokenhearted; PG-13; Taemin/Minho
Elegy of The Brokenhearted
Minho/Taemin; PG-13; ~1,400w
There’s no goodbye, either. There’s never a goodbye. That’s good, Minho thinks, because some words are better unsaid.
A/N: LMFAO WHAT IS THIS. THIS IS CRAP, I’M TELLING YOU. it’s been months since i last wrote, and i just. i can’t with this. I’M NEVER WRITING 2MIN AGAIN I’M DONE WITH THIS SOBS.
Some words are better unsaid. Some are unnecessary, some are trivial, some are a waste of time.
Most of them are painful.
Words like, “We can no longer be together,” for example, Minho thinks, hurt too much to be said. To be directed at him. By Taemin.
“Okay,” he says, because, well, what is he supposed to say, exactly? It’s not like he can cry at him, begging him for not letting go, pleading to him to make a little bit of effort to keep them together. Not again. Thrice.
No. Enough is enough, and so he says, again (mostly to himself), “Yeah.”
And that’s that. No sugar-coated words, no tearful hug, no apology for that or this mistakes they made during the three years of their relationship. No nothing.
There’s no goodbye, either. There’s never a goodbye. That’s good, Minho thinks, because some words are better unsaid.
“Oh, hey,” Jonghyun says, “you look like shit.”
Minho groans, throwing a pillow at him. “Shut up.”
“Just saying,” the other says, his voice muffled by the wall that separates the living room and his bedroom, “in case you think you look badass with that sunken shadow beneath your eyes. Trust me, you don’t.”
“Why don’t you just leave me alone and disappear forever,” he moans to his blanket, and he can already picture the way Jonghyun’s brows furrow with hurt.
A-ha. There’s the fake pout. “You’re so mean, dude.”
“Key is not here,” he says.
“Why do you think I’m looking for Key,” Jonghyun immediately snaps, “I’m not.”
“Oh,” he yawns.
Minho feels something hits the back of his head. Maybe a magazine. “That’s rude, little shit.”
He hums. It’s funny, considering there’s a head difference between their height.
“Seriously,” he hears Jonghyun sighs in defeat, “how can Taemin bear to be with you is beyond my mind.”
A thud. Ouch. It is very painful, like a hit on the stomach; a icy cold water being thrown on his head. Piercing. “He can’t,” he answers dozily, though there’s something burning at the back of his eyes that keeps him from falling asleep again.
“Again?” Jonghyun says, and it stays in his mind like a plague.
He thinks it’s stupid, the way Jinki tries to bring his mood up. He has repeated thirty four times (yes, he counts it) that he is fine, yet the older keeps putting free cakes on his table. (“The coffee’s on me, too.”)
“At this rate,” Taemin says to the purple smear on the plate, trace of blueberry, “you’re going to be broke, and Jessica-noona is going to slaughter me.”
“Ah,” Jinki says, rather shyly, “it’s fine. She won’t mind.”
Taemin smiles at this, because Jinki must be blind if he can’t see the annoyed look she throws at him, the burdening step brother of his fiancée. Either that, or he’s trying to fool himself.
Like yourself?
“This cake is really good,” he licks the spoon, “you’ve improved greatly, Hyung.”
Jinki chuckles, his eyes not leaving the forks he’s wiping. There’s a stretched silence, not comfortable but not awkward, lingering above them like a thick fog. A little bit suffocating, but it’s not something that he’s not used to.
“Yesterday,” Jinki suddenly starts, and Taemin doesn’t like the look he has in his eyes, “Minho came.”
Oh. He sees that coming, of course, what’s with the treats and all. “Oh,” he says.
“He looked tired,” Jinki casually states.
Taemin sips his coffee, “Maybe he’s relieved.”
Jinki throws him a disapproving look. “You know it’s not true.”
“You know exactly that it’s true.”
Silence again. This time, it makes Taemin wants to throw up.
“I’m done,” he finally says, standing up as he slams a bill of fifty on the table. Whatever. “These are nice, Hyung. Thanks.”
“Taemin,” Jinki says, and Taemin waves his hand, closes the glass door behind him with the bell rings above him.
Kibum’s first reaction when he sees Minho’s figure in front of the television in the dark apartment is blinking. And then, “Do I want to know?”
“Shut up,” Minho throws the remote at him.
“You can talk about it, you know,” Kibum flops down beside him, a cup of yoghurt in his hand. “Sometimes, it can make you feel better.”
“Sometimes,” Minho repeats, snatches the cup from his hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Kibum doesn’t look annoyed. “Of course.”
“Of course.”
They sit in silence, the laughter from the television the only one filling the empty living room. It reminds Minho of how weak he is, how weak they are, how-just. It reminds him why it hurts.
Kibum doesn’t say anything when he hears sniffing sounds. Sobbing. He simply rests his head against Minho’s shoulder, a hand comes up to sooth his hair. Minho wants to believe that the salty against his tongue is from the yoghurt (maybe expired) and not from his own tears or snots. He sobs until he is dizzy, he cries until the cup in his hand crushed like paper crust.
Like his believe in love. Bit by bit. Funny.
You know, that weird feeling when you realize that you forgot how he smells? How his eyelashes flutter when he’s amused? How his mouth crooked when he tries to hold his laughter? How he scratches the back of his neck when he is lying? How he presses his lips against your temple if he thinks you’re trying too hard?
It’s terrifying. How easy it slips between your fingers, how easy it evaporates like the morning dews. Taemin closes his eyes, trying to lock them up, but for what, he doesn’t know.
(Just don’t go.)
“Good,” Kibum says, with a smile, “you don’t deserve him anyway.”
He can see Jonghyun kicks his shin under the table, but Taemin thinks there’s nothing but truth in Kibum’s words.
“You’re all stupid,” Kibum says, and though Jinki looks like he wants to protest, he doesn’t say anything. Time moves, Jonghyun shakes his head, Kibum drinks his tea, Minho wants to throw his glass of water to the other side of the room. Jinki pats his shoulder and takes away his glass, just in case.
It’s been three months. It’s amazing when you realize how three months doesn’t change anything, changes everything, when you’ve never seen the other person at all. Every memories burnt at the back of your head, it feels like a dream, because it’s too perfectly the same, it’s way, way different.
“Hello,” Taemin smiles, and it’s still bright. It still hurts.
“Yeah,” Minho smiles back, “yeah, hello.”
They can feel Jinki’s gaze pierces their temples. Too sharp, too obvious.
Taemin is the first one to break; he laughs. “They are worried shit.”
“Ha,” Minho says, though he doesn’t think it’s funny. Taemin lifts his eyes, meeting, and he doesn’t look uncomfortable. Doesn’t look like he feels anything, actually, and it kinds of make him feel at ease.
“You’ve lost weight,” he says.
Of course I do, he says in his mind, I don’t have you to force me to go to those fattening fast food restaurants, those dessert cafes. Of course I do, most of the time I usually used to eat are used to think of you. “Really?”
Taemin nods. “And grow your hair.”
Stop this. Stop looking. “Yeah, Kibum has been complaining about this.”
“He always complains about everything,” Taemin chuckles.
“He does,” Minho plays along, faking, staging, “but I guess it’s all for our best. He’s always like that, anyway.”
A smile is thrown. Is that how you want it? “Hm.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“I have a lecture in three minutes,” Minho suddenly says, apologetically, “I need to run now.”
“Oh, sure,” Taemin nods, finishes his coffee in one gulp.
One is standing up, the other sitting down. “Eh, bye.”
“Okay,” Taemin says, and stops. Hesitating, before he says, “See you?”
No. “Yeah,” Minho takes all his belongings from the seat between them, “see you.”
Some words are better unsaid. Some are unnecessary, some are trivial, some are a waste of time.
Most of them are painful.
“I’ve hated you,” Minho says, pants, “I want to hate you.”
Taemin swallows those words, burning against his throat. His arms feel sweaty against Minho’s neck, feel heavy. Out of place, maybe, but he doesn’t let go.
(Don’t go.)
“I know,” he breathes, and Minho’s coherency leaves his mind. “Hate me.”
“I want to.”
“I know.”
“Help me to hate you,” Minho carves along his jawline, painful and hard and harsh, “I can’t hate you.”
(Not anymore.)
“I know.”
Third time lucky?
Minho/Taemin; PG-13; ~1,400w
There’s no goodbye, either. There’s never a goodbye. That’s good, Minho thinks, because some words are better unsaid.
A/N: LMFAO WHAT IS THIS. THIS IS CRAP, I’M TELLING YOU. it’s been months since i last wrote, and i just. i can’t with this. I’M NEVER WRITING 2MIN AGAIN I’M DONE WITH THIS SOBS.
Some words are better unsaid. Some are unnecessary, some are trivial, some are a waste of time.
Most of them are painful.
Words like, “We can no longer be together,” for example, Minho thinks, hurt too much to be said. To be directed at him. By Taemin.
“Okay,” he says, because, well, what is he supposed to say, exactly? It’s not like he can cry at him, begging him for not letting go, pleading to him to make a little bit of effort to keep them together. Not again. Thrice.
No. Enough is enough, and so he says, again (mostly to himself), “Yeah.”
And that’s that. No sugar-coated words, no tearful hug, no apology for that or this mistakes they made during the three years of their relationship. No nothing.
There’s no goodbye, either. There’s never a goodbye. That’s good, Minho thinks, because some words are better unsaid.
“Oh, hey,” Jonghyun says, “you look like shit.”
Minho groans, throwing a pillow at him. “Shut up.”
“Just saying,” the other says, his voice muffled by the wall that separates the living room and his bedroom, “in case you think you look badass with that sunken shadow beneath your eyes. Trust me, you don’t.”
“Why don’t you just leave me alone and disappear forever,” he moans to his blanket, and he can already picture the way Jonghyun’s brows furrow with hurt.
A-ha. There’s the fake pout. “You’re so mean, dude.”
“Key is not here,” he says.
“Why do you think I’m looking for Key,” Jonghyun immediately snaps, “I’m not.”
“Oh,” he yawns.
Minho feels something hits the back of his head. Maybe a magazine. “That’s rude, little shit.”
He hums. It’s funny, considering there’s a head difference between their height.
“Seriously,” he hears Jonghyun sighs in defeat, “how can Taemin bear to be with you is beyond my mind.”
A thud. Ouch. It is very painful, like a hit on the stomach; a icy cold water being thrown on his head. Piercing. “He can’t,” he answers dozily, though there’s something burning at the back of his eyes that keeps him from falling asleep again.
“Again?” Jonghyun says, and it stays in his mind like a plague.
He thinks it’s stupid, the way Jinki tries to bring his mood up. He has repeated thirty four times (yes, he counts it) that he is fine, yet the older keeps putting free cakes on his table. (“The coffee’s on me, too.”)
“At this rate,” Taemin says to the purple smear on the plate, trace of blueberry, “you’re going to be broke, and Jessica-noona is going to slaughter me.”
“Ah,” Jinki says, rather shyly, “it’s fine. She won’t mind.”
Taemin smiles at this, because Jinki must be blind if he can’t see the annoyed look she throws at him, the burdening step brother of his fiancée. Either that, or he’s trying to fool himself.
Like yourself?
“This cake is really good,” he licks the spoon, “you’ve improved greatly, Hyung.”
Jinki chuckles, his eyes not leaving the forks he’s wiping. There’s a stretched silence, not comfortable but not awkward, lingering above them like a thick fog. A little bit suffocating, but it’s not something that he’s not used to.
“Yesterday,” Jinki suddenly starts, and Taemin doesn’t like the look he has in his eyes, “Minho came.”
Oh. He sees that coming, of course, what’s with the treats and all. “Oh,” he says.
“He looked tired,” Jinki casually states.
Taemin sips his coffee, “Maybe he’s relieved.”
Jinki throws him a disapproving look. “You know it’s not true.”
“You know exactly that it’s true.”
Silence again. This time, it makes Taemin wants to throw up.
“I’m done,” he finally says, standing up as he slams a bill of fifty on the table. Whatever. “These are nice, Hyung. Thanks.”
“Taemin,” Jinki says, and Taemin waves his hand, closes the glass door behind him with the bell rings above him.
Kibum’s first reaction when he sees Minho’s figure in front of the television in the dark apartment is blinking. And then, “Do I want to know?”
“Shut up,” Minho throws the remote at him.
“You can talk about it, you know,” Kibum flops down beside him, a cup of yoghurt in his hand. “Sometimes, it can make you feel better.”
“Sometimes,” Minho repeats, snatches the cup from his hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Kibum doesn’t look annoyed. “Of course.”
“Of course.”
They sit in silence, the laughter from the television the only one filling the empty living room. It reminds Minho of how weak he is, how weak they are, how-just. It reminds him why it hurts.
Kibum doesn’t say anything when he hears sniffing sounds. Sobbing. He simply rests his head against Minho’s shoulder, a hand comes up to sooth his hair. Minho wants to believe that the salty against his tongue is from the yoghurt (maybe expired) and not from his own tears or snots. He sobs until he is dizzy, he cries until the cup in his hand crushed like paper crust.
Like his believe in love. Bit by bit. Funny.
You know, that weird feeling when you realize that you forgot how he smells? How his eyelashes flutter when he’s amused? How his mouth crooked when he tries to hold his laughter? How he scratches the back of his neck when he is lying? How he presses his lips against your temple if he thinks you’re trying too hard?
It’s terrifying. How easy it slips between your fingers, how easy it evaporates like the morning dews. Taemin closes his eyes, trying to lock them up, but for what, he doesn’t know.
(Just don’t go.)
“Good,” Kibum says, with a smile, “you don’t deserve him anyway.”
He can see Jonghyun kicks his shin under the table, but Taemin thinks there’s nothing but truth in Kibum’s words.
“You’re all stupid,” Kibum says, and though Jinki looks like he wants to protest, he doesn’t say anything. Time moves, Jonghyun shakes his head, Kibum drinks his tea, Minho wants to throw his glass of water to the other side of the room. Jinki pats his shoulder and takes away his glass, just in case.
It’s been three months. It’s amazing when you realize how three months doesn’t change anything, changes everything, when you’ve never seen the other person at all. Every memories burnt at the back of your head, it feels like a dream, because it’s too perfectly the same, it’s way, way different.
“Hello,” Taemin smiles, and it’s still bright. It still hurts.
“Yeah,” Minho smiles back, “yeah, hello.”
They can feel Jinki’s gaze pierces their temples. Too sharp, too obvious.
Taemin is the first one to break; he laughs. “They are worried shit.”
“Ha,” Minho says, though he doesn’t think it’s funny. Taemin lifts his eyes, meeting, and he doesn’t look uncomfortable. Doesn’t look like he feels anything, actually, and it kinds of make him feel at ease.
“You’ve lost weight,” he says.
Of course I do, he says in his mind, I don’t have you to force me to go to those fattening fast food restaurants, those dessert cafes. Of course I do, most of the time I usually used to eat are used to think of you. “Really?”
Taemin nods. “And grow your hair.”
Stop this. Stop looking. “Yeah, Kibum has been complaining about this.”
“He always complains about everything,” Taemin chuckles.
“He does,” Minho plays along, faking, staging, “but I guess it’s all for our best. He’s always like that, anyway.”
A smile is thrown. Is that how you want it? “Hm.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“I have a lecture in three minutes,” Minho suddenly says, apologetically, “I need to run now.”
“Oh, sure,” Taemin nods, finishes his coffee in one gulp.
One is standing up, the other sitting down. “Eh, bye.”
“Okay,” Taemin says, and stops. Hesitating, before he says, “See you?”
No. “Yeah,” Minho takes all his belongings from the seat between them, “see you.”
Some words are better unsaid. Some are unnecessary, some are trivial, some are a waste of time.
Most of them are painful.
“I’ve hated you,” Minho says, pants, “I want to hate you.”
Taemin swallows those words, burning against his throat. His arms feel sweaty against Minho’s neck, feel heavy. Out of place, maybe, but he doesn’t let go.
(Don’t go.)
“I know,” he breathes, and Minho’s coherency leaves his mind. “Hate me.”
“I want to.”
“I know.”
“Help me to hate you,” Minho carves along his jawline, painful and hard and harsh, “I can’t hate you.”
(Not anymore.)
“I know.”
Third time lucky?