Playthings for the wind's playtime; Jonghyun/Taemin
Title: Playthings for the wind's playtime
Pairing: Jonghyun/Taemin
Rating: PG
Word count: 553 words
Prompt: #1: Taemin/Jonghyun; "To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god." - Jorge Luis Borges
Jonghyun thinks: it's things like rubbing lotion on Taemin's back when he's been burnt by the sun. Running his fingers through his hair when they sit idle on the couch, looking at the television without really watching it. An anchorwoman says something in Thai. An image of a crocodile farm. A mosaic-ed headless guy. Over here, midway across the world, every word, every feeling is implied at best.
It's Taemin's voicemail when he doesn't pick up the phone.
Thailand, he thinks, is a good a place as any to let Taemin pillow his head against his shoulder. The way Taemin's eyelashes lie in contrast to his white skin when he closes his eyes. The way the humid Bangkok air floods Taemin's lungs. He reaches for his inhaler. Jonghyun jokingly asks him if there's drugs in there.
"It's my asthma," Taemin says. There's no drugs, of course. Of course. He was just kidding.
Three days since they've lost sight of their managers. Since they've misjudged their familiarity with the dirt paved streets of the city. They've been buying cheap t-shirts and flowery shorts by way of Kibum's self-imposed authority. Jonghyun's thighs are a lovely clash of orange and lime green polyblend. Taemin's, a shock of pink.
Kibum buys baby socks with lace and hearts as coasters for their sodas bought of carts.
They could be in a four star hotel with clean bathrooms and room service at their fingertips, cameras within millimeters of their faces when they so much as exhale. They've got their managers cell phone number memorised. Jonghyun had composed a jingle to help them all remember, Jinki especially. Taemin hums the melody, stretching his arms out in front of him, setting the inhaler on the coffee table. Exchanging it for his soda.
But the city is a seductress, sucking them into cheap hostels with friendly reception and salted peanut packets. Yellow shower curtains and cold bath water.
"We're probably on milk cartons by now," Taemin jokes to Minho who's lying on the ground, appreciating the relative coolness of the tiles. "Think Manager Hyung can write Thai?"
"Translator," Minho says. They all know that. There'd been a translator hung to the bumper of their van the entire trip.
"Gimme some," Minho says getting up, ripping Taemin's soda from his hands, the condensation trailing the length of his forearm. He drains the vestiges of Taemin's thirst dredged at the bottom of the glass bottle, sedimentation peppering the bottle neck.
Jinki is away in the bathroom shared by this level of occupants. Then Minho is making a move to join him in the corridor, leaving the empty soda bottle on the floor by the door. Kibum is out, possibly buying illicit cigarettes. More baby socks.
They're running out of money, a repetitive augury to call the manager.
Taemin shifts and somehow the both of them are sprawled horizontally on the couch, legs knitting together like velcro. Jonghyun thinks they're about to fall asleep like this.
When they do, sudden rain pelts around the building, leaving the rest of their members stranded outside. Walls crumple like paper around them. All they can hear is raindrops against scratched acrylic windows and locals scrambling to get shelter in the hostel lobby.
Their lips meet accidentally between breaths, cosmic collisions accentuated with the slow movement of the stars.
Pairing: Jonghyun/Taemin
Rating: PG
Word count: 553 words
Prompt: #1: Taemin/Jonghyun; "To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god." - Jorge Luis Borges
Jonghyun thinks: it's things like rubbing lotion on Taemin's back when he's been burnt by the sun. Running his fingers through his hair when they sit idle on the couch, looking at the television without really watching it. An anchorwoman says something in Thai. An image of a crocodile farm. A mosaic-ed headless guy. Over here, midway across the world, every word, every feeling is implied at best.
It's Taemin's voicemail when he doesn't pick up the phone.
Thailand, he thinks, is a good a place as any to let Taemin pillow his head against his shoulder. The way Taemin's eyelashes lie in contrast to his white skin when he closes his eyes. The way the humid Bangkok air floods Taemin's lungs. He reaches for his inhaler. Jonghyun jokingly asks him if there's drugs in there.
"It's my asthma," Taemin says. There's no drugs, of course. Of course. He was just kidding.
Three days since they've lost sight of their managers. Since they've misjudged their familiarity with the dirt paved streets of the city. They've been buying cheap t-shirts and flowery shorts by way of Kibum's self-imposed authority. Jonghyun's thighs are a lovely clash of orange and lime green polyblend. Taemin's, a shock of pink.
Kibum buys baby socks with lace and hearts as coasters for their sodas bought of carts.
They could be in a four star hotel with clean bathrooms and room service at their fingertips, cameras within millimeters of their faces when they so much as exhale. They've got their managers cell phone number memorised. Jonghyun had composed a jingle to help them all remember, Jinki especially. Taemin hums the melody, stretching his arms out in front of him, setting the inhaler on the coffee table. Exchanging it for his soda.
But the city is a seductress, sucking them into cheap hostels with friendly reception and salted peanut packets. Yellow shower curtains and cold bath water.
"We're probably on milk cartons by now," Taemin jokes to Minho who's lying on the ground, appreciating the relative coolness of the tiles. "Think Manager Hyung can write Thai?"
"Translator," Minho says. They all know that. There'd been a translator hung to the bumper of their van the entire trip.
"Gimme some," Minho says getting up, ripping Taemin's soda from his hands, the condensation trailing the length of his forearm. He drains the vestiges of Taemin's thirst dredged at the bottom of the glass bottle, sedimentation peppering the bottle neck.
Jinki is away in the bathroom shared by this level of occupants. Then Minho is making a move to join him in the corridor, leaving the empty soda bottle on the floor by the door. Kibum is out, possibly buying illicit cigarettes. More baby socks.
They're running out of money, a repetitive augury to call the manager.
Taemin shifts and somehow the both of them are sprawled horizontally on the couch, legs knitting together like velcro. Jonghyun thinks they're about to fall asleep like this.
When they do, sudden rain pelts around the building, leaving the rest of their members stranded outside. Walls crumple like paper around them. All they can hear is raindrops against scratched acrylic windows and locals scrambling to get shelter in the hostel lobby.
Their lips meet accidentally between breaths, cosmic collisions accentuated with the slow movement of the stars.