The Sun
Title: The Sun
Pairing: Minho/Taemin
Rating: PG
Prompt: “The Sun”, by Maroon 5. Left by an anon on tumblr.
--
It had happened so quickly; the car honk, the people screaming, the intense pain that was soon washed out by whiteness. When Minho’s eyes opened he was floating in the sky, looking down at his body, which was pinned between a car hood and a telephone pole.
He was dead.
But something felt wrong.
And he could do nothing but accept the fact.
--
He would walk the same path, every day, coming home from school. There was dirt under his fingernails, the heat was reflecting up off of the asphalt and creating rippling waves in the sunlight. And now, even though he was dead, he paused at that crosswalk and waited for cars to pass before he joined the people milling about. They couldn’t see him. They never would.
Minho didn’t ever go home, he didn’t go to a heaven, in fact he didn’t have any conscious recollection of what he was or where he was going until it was three in the afternoon and he walked that path home. He would never reach home. As soon as he crossed the street he couldn’t move any further, like there was an invisible force keeping him from proceeding onwards towards the neighborhood. He should have felt lonesome. He should have felt despair, maybe even anger that he couldn’t do anything else.
But he was just a lost soul, and he could only wander this set path every day, could only see the same people, business men and women with their children, students here and there.
They would never see him.
And something still felt wrong.
--
A young boy started to walk the same path home that Minho did. Minho was sitting on a bench, testing to see if he was only allowed to stay in this realm for an allotted time, or if he could just hang out forever and not have to worry about getting into that void that tossed him around until it was three p.m., whenever he crossed the street.
Maybe spirits weren’t supposed to go against the norm.
That’s when they get noticed, right?
The young boy sat on the bench, taking a break from the heat. Minho missed heat. He missed cold. He missed sweat rolling down the back of his neck, he missed bundling up in scarves and hats. The young boy wiped his forehead and stared up at the sky, and then his brows furrowed a bit as he glanced to his side, right into Minho’s eyes.
If Minho had a heart, it would have skipped a beat. Not because he had been seen, but because of this boy… this boy with honey-kissed locks, this boy with glittering eyes, this boy with such a sweet smile, had looked at him.
But eventually he realized the boy was looking through him, a concentrated expression on his features before he glanced around and then reached out to run his hand over the part of the bench Minho was sitting on; his fingers only came into contact with wood, smoothing over the surface, the boy biting his lip in thought.
Of course, Minho thought, and it was the first time he almost felt bitter.
This boy would never see him.
But things felt less wrong.
--
Minho found out that he could stay in this world as long as he avoided the spot where he was killed. He would sit on that bench, waiting for the boy, who always came and sat down for a break. Sometimes the boy had a snack, sometimes he had a beverage, sometimes he just sat back and people-watched.
Minho had finally glanced down at the boy’s bag, catching sight of his nametag.
Lee Taemin.
He attended the same high school Minho had.
The spirit licked his lips and felt that bitter sensation rising in the back of his throat, weighing him down in the pit of his stomach.
He didn’t know if there had been a service for his death, he didn’t know if his parents were even still living in his house, he didn’t know how his brother was faring. His family never came to this area, like it was plagued, like it was haunted.
It very well was.
Minho was just alone. He sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.
He saw Taemin jump a bit out of the corner of his eye, and when he glanced up, Taemin was once again looking directly at him. Unseeing, but sure.
The young boy bit his lower lip and felt at the spot Minho was sitting on, right where Minho’s thigh would be, as if to convince himself - he whipped his hand back, which had not even connected to the surface, and then stood, hauling his backpack over his shoulder and speed-walking in the direction of Minho’s house.
Maybe they had been neighbors.
Minho would never know.
--
Taemin didn’t sit at the bench for a week. He didn’t even walk in the area.
Minho didn’t think ghosts could feel sadness but oh, he was lamenting.
He stayed on that bench, always waiting, always lonely, always watching people continue on with their lives. One day he saw Taemin coming out of a café, though he was surrounded by friends. He was smiling, he was laughing, and when his eyes moved over to the bench Minho was sitting on the ghost saw a flicker of recognition spark through the boy’s eyes and if Minho had a heart, it would have skipped a beat.
Because the look Taemin gave the bench was a look that said he saw a person he knew.
The surrounding area of the bench was empty.
Only Minho sat on the wood.
Taemin continued with his friends, laughing less, and glancing at the bench over his shoulder as he walked further and further away.
Minho leaned back and tilted his head, staring directly at the sun, wishing its heat would touch his face just one more time.
--
“Excuse me, is someone sitting here?”
Of course Minho ignored the question. He didn’t know how long he’d been dead, he only had a concept of time, three-fifteen in the afternoon when Taemin would come sit by him but the youth hadn’t been around in two weeks. People couldn’t see him, didn’t talk to him, and he had no interest in anything. He wondered why God was toying with him like this, making him stay here on this stupid Earth when all he wanted to do was just stop existing.
There was no Heaven or Hell, he assumed.
But this surely felt like Hell.
“Excuse me?”
A tap on his shoulder made Minho start, sitting up and turning to see Taemin looking at him inquisitively, his hand raised and his eyes wide with curiosity. Minho blinked back in return. He couldn’t speak. Could he talk anymore? Did he still have that ability? This kid touched him. He talked to him. Could he always see him?
Minho finally shook his head, scooting over a bit.
Had he fallen asleep at the bus stop and dreamed the whole thing?
“Thank you,” Taemin said softly, sitting down with a small smile. “This is a good place to stop and take a rest from the heat, isn’t it?”
The boy’s voice was the most beautiful thing Minho had heard, living or dead. He stared at the boy, trying to put together the mystery of life and death and then just settled on a nod, as Taemin pointed up at the big oak tree that was shading them from the sun.
“The tree only covers this bench for twenty minutes during this time of day,” Taemin explained.
Minho knew; he’d been sitting on this bench for what felt like eons. He offered a small smile though, nodding again.
“Um…” Taemin fidgeted, his pretty fingers playing with the handle of his back pack. “This might be weird, but, do I know you?”
So many answers filtered through Minho’s head, so many good, beautiful answers, answers like ‘you sit next to me every day’, answers like ‘your hair has gotten darker, you should dye it again’, answers like ‘yes, we went to the same high school’.
Minho decided to shrug, averting his gaze, because he knew none of those answers were correct.
He could feel Taemin’s pout. He sighed, the exhalation soft but heady, and Taemin tensed up a bit, before he stood up and gave a polite bow.
“Um, sorry for bothering you. Have a nice day,” the student said, before hitching his bag over his shoulder and walking towards the direction of Minho’s home at a steady pace.
If the after life was confusing, Minho wondered why a healthy, living kid seemed to be so conflicted.
--
Taemin sat on the bench every day, after that. Some days he would talk to Minho, or at least try to engage him in conversation, and some days it was like Minho wasn’t even there at all.
But Minho wasn’t there.
He was in a completely different world and this kid that saw him occasionally was making Minho’s head thrum with questions. Questions that he never bothered to ask the boy, because he just never bothered talking.
“Even when you’re not here,” Taemin said one day, swinging his legs childishly, sitting on his hands, “it feels like you are.”
He wanted to say ‘that’s because I’m always here’, but he knew he didn’t need to say it. Taemin was a bright boy. He was catching on.
Minho let out a sigh.
He watched the goosebumps prickle on Taemin’s skin and he couldn’t help it - he reached out, skirting his fingers over the soft flesh of Taemin’s forearm, so euphoric with the feeling of skin on skin after such a long time. Taemin’s eyes hooded and he bit his lip, watching Minho’s fingers skate over his skin and elicit more goosebumps, and finally Taemin looked up to take in Minho’s big eyes and the way they were focused on his skin.
“You feel familiar,” Taemin said, searching Minho’s eyes once the spirit looked up into the student’s face.
Minho let out a soft smile, not sure if he was happy or sad with those words, but he just knew he needed to smile, because he was rewarded with Taemin’s own beautiful lips curling up pleasantly.
Taemin felt pretty familiar, too.
--
“Do you want to come over today?” Taemin asked, one leg pulled up on the bench and tucked under his opposite thigh.
Minho shook his head, looking apologetic.
Taemin looked rightfully disappointed, “Ah… Yeah, I guess it’s weird, we don’t really know each other…”
Minho’s head shaking became a bit more vigorous as he reached forward and put his hand on Taemin’s thigh. How could he communicate with this boy, how could he let Taemin know that he wanted to go to his house so very badly but couldn’t pass through that barrier?
The younger boy shifted, pulling his leg away from Minho’s icy touch.
“You’re always so cold…” the boy murmured, watching as Minho’s long fingers itched to stay in their place on Taemin’s thigh. “Are you anemic?”
Minho snorted, the first sound that Taemin had ever heard, as he chuckled lightly and shook his head. Taemin smiled and reached out, putting his hand on top of Minho’s, lacing their fingers together.
“It’s alright,” Taemin said. “Some day you’ll come over.”
Minho could only nod, the action holding the same amount of hope as Taemin’s voice.
--
He was pretty sure he couldn’t dream. One needed to be asleep to dream, right? But he could see Taemin lying with him, he could see his fingers mapping the smooth expanse of Taemin’s skin. He could see Taemin’s body shudder and he could see their lips meeting; he could see the teen’s body bow into his and he could feel the sticky sweet kisses that they shared, could taste the candy on Taemin’s breath.
He could feel Taemin, warm as the sun that kissed his honey locks, he could feel his breath and his hands and his legs wrapping around his waist.
They were like flashbacks to a locked up memory and when Minho stared up at the moon, he suddenly wished that the moon could provide heat, as well.
--
Minho was standing when Taemin came to him next, and Minho was smiling. Taemin returned the smile, though it was more of a questioning smile, because Minho didn’t smile terribly often, nor did he stand too often, either.
“Are we going somewhere?” Taemin asked.
Minho nodded and took Taemin’s hand, starting to lead them in the direction that Taemin always left in. Taemin seemed to have gotten the hint, lacing his warm fingers with Minho’s cold ones, tugging slightly to slow the spirit to a halt.
“We don’t have to,” Taemin said softly, his eyes looking far too understanding for a seventeen year old.
But the spirit gave a resolute nod and Taemin’s smile turned a bit shy, as he nodded, and they started towards the invisible wall that repeatedly kept Minho from leaving the area. His footsteps unconsciously slowed and Taemin glanced over at him, raising a brow, and Minho took a deep breath as they approached the crack in the pavement -
Minho stepped through to the other side and let out a breath, his body feeling light as Taemin giggled and kept tugging him along.
“I live close,” the teen said.
And he did, he lived three blocks away from Minho’s family’s house, in a tiny apartment complex with his mother and his older brother. When Minho entered the house it was normal and plain, and Taemin’s mother and brother greeted their youngest and Taemin didn’t introduce Minho, didn’t even acknowledge Minho was there as he unlaced their fingers and took off his shoes, heading to his bedroom.
Minho followed, and once they were inside, Taemin flopped down on his bed with a satisfied sigh.
The spirit sat on the edge, watching Taemin curiously. Did he know? How did he know? How did he get Minho to pass through the barrier?
“I brought you here because I wanted to thank you properly,” Taemin said, rolling over and reaching into his bedside table, pulling out a thin silver chain with a harp pendant dangling from it. He scooted to the edge of his bed and sat next to Minho, holding out the jewelry with a small smile.
Minho held his palm out and Taemin shook his head, reaching to gently clasp the necklace around Minho’s neck, the pendant resting against his collarbone.
“Thank you,” Taemin whispered, and when Minho finally found his voice to speak, he was whisked away into that black void of nothingness, of loneliness, without Taemin, and without the sun.
--
Three o’clock.
Minho sat on the bench under the sun, staring up at it through the fluffy white clouds that were lazily drifting by.
He felt strange, today. He had a vague sensation he would never see Taemin again.
He was apparently wrong.
He saw Taemin walking down the sidewalk, smiling and laughing and chattering away, and when Minho stood up to greet him, he froze, his eyes widening.
There he was, alive as the day he was born, walking along with Taemin, the live-Minho’s arm slung around the teen’s shoulder as they traipsed down the sidewalk, the heat of the sun beating down on their hair and pushing sweat down their brow.
Spirit Minho watched as they got to the crosswalk, as they both ignored him, and as the light turned red and the walk signal turned on. They were walking slowly, people bustling by to hurry to the other side, not wanting to stay on the reflective asphalt for too long.
The car horn was blaring, it cut through the hustle and bustle, it made people scatter - Taemin was in direct line of the speeding car, the car obviously having no time to stop after careening around the corner.
Spirit Minho didn’t even think twice before he shot forward and reconnected himself with his human counterpart, sucking in a last breath and pushing Taemin out of the way, the collision of the car and his body knocking the life out of him almost instantly as it spun and rammed into a telephone pole. Minho slumped over the hood, the present he had been holding in his hand for Taemin slipping out of his unfurling fingers and clanging to the pavement.
With dull eyes he watched the pendant hit the ground, he watched the chain glitter in the sunlight and as the warmth of the sun spilled over his dying body he smiled, even as Taemin ran up to him with tears streaming down his face, hands cupping Minho’s cheek to try and keep him awake.
“I love you…” he whispered out, and Taemin sobbed, shaking his head uselessly, choking the words out in return.
The warmth of the sun and the comfort of Taemin’s hands were the last thing Minho felt before he died, and this time, he felt like he had done it right.
Pairing: Minho/Taemin
Rating: PG
Prompt: “The Sun”, by Maroon 5. Left by an anon on tumblr.
--
It had happened so quickly; the car honk, the people screaming, the intense pain that was soon washed out by whiteness. When Minho’s eyes opened he was floating in the sky, looking down at his body, which was pinned between a car hood and a telephone pole.
He was dead.
But something felt wrong.
And he could do nothing but accept the fact.
--
He would walk the same path, every day, coming home from school. There was dirt under his fingernails, the heat was reflecting up off of the asphalt and creating rippling waves in the sunlight. And now, even though he was dead, he paused at that crosswalk and waited for cars to pass before he joined the people milling about. They couldn’t see him. They never would.
Minho didn’t ever go home, he didn’t go to a heaven, in fact he didn’t have any conscious recollection of what he was or where he was going until it was three in the afternoon and he walked that path home. He would never reach home. As soon as he crossed the street he couldn’t move any further, like there was an invisible force keeping him from proceeding onwards towards the neighborhood. He should have felt lonesome. He should have felt despair, maybe even anger that he couldn’t do anything else.
But he was just a lost soul, and he could only wander this set path every day, could only see the same people, business men and women with their children, students here and there.
They would never see him.
And something still felt wrong.
--
A young boy started to walk the same path home that Minho did. Minho was sitting on a bench, testing to see if he was only allowed to stay in this realm for an allotted time, or if he could just hang out forever and not have to worry about getting into that void that tossed him around until it was three p.m., whenever he crossed the street.
Maybe spirits weren’t supposed to go against the norm.
That’s when they get noticed, right?
The young boy sat on the bench, taking a break from the heat. Minho missed heat. He missed cold. He missed sweat rolling down the back of his neck, he missed bundling up in scarves and hats. The young boy wiped his forehead and stared up at the sky, and then his brows furrowed a bit as he glanced to his side, right into Minho’s eyes.
If Minho had a heart, it would have skipped a beat. Not because he had been seen, but because of this boy… this boy with honey-kissed locks, this boy with glittering eyes, this boy with such a sweet smile, had looked at him.
But eventually he realized the boy was looking through him, a concentrated expression on his features before he glanced around and then reached out to run his hand over the part of the bench Minho was sitting on; his fingers only came into contact with wood, smoothing over the surface, the boy biting his lip in thought.
Of course, Minho thought, and it was the first time he almost felt bitter.
This boy would never see him.
But things felt less wrong.
--
Minho found out that he could stay in this world as long as he avoided the spot where he was killed. He would sit on that bench, waiting for the boy, who always came and sat down for a break. Sometimes the boy had a snack, sometimes he had a beverage, sometimes he just sat back and people-watched.
Minho had finally glanced down at the boy’s bag, catching sight of his nametag.
Lee Taemin.
He attended the same high school Minho had.
The spirit licked his lips and felt that bitter sensation rising in the back of his throat, weighing him down in the pit of his stomach.
He didn’t know if there had been a service for his death, he didn’t know if his parents were even still living in his house, he didn’t know how his brother was faring. His family never came to this area, like it was plagued, like it was haunted.
It very well was.
Minho was just alone. He sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.
He saw Taemin jump a bit out of the corner of his eye, and when he glanced up, Taemin was once again looking directly at him. Unseeing, but sure.
The young boy bit his lower lip and felt at the spot Minho was sitting on, right where Minho’s thigh would be, as if to convince himself - he whipped his hand back, which had not even connected to the surface, and then stood, hauling his backpack over his shoulder and speed-walking in the direction of Minho’s house.
Maybe they had been neighbors.
Minho would never know.
--
Taemin didn’t sit at the bench for a week. He didn’t even walk in the area.
Minho didn’t think ghosts could feel sadness but oh, he was lamenting.
He stayed on that bench, always waiting, always lonely, always watching people continue on with their lives. One day he saw Taemin coming out of a café, though he was surrounded by friends. He was smiling, he was laughing, and when his eyes moved over to the bench Minho was sitting on the ghost saw a flicker of recognition spark through the boy’s eyes and if Minho had a heart, it would have skipped a beat.
Because the look Taemin gave the bench was a look that said he saw a person he knew.
The surrounding area of the bench was empty.
Only Minho sat on the wood.
Taemin continued with his friends, laughing less, and glancing at the bench over his shoulder as he walked further and further away.
Minho leaned back and tilted his head, staring directly at the sun, wishing its heat would touch his face just one more time.
--
“Excuse me, is someone sitting here?”
Of course Minho ignored the question. He didn’t know how long he’d been dead, he only had a concept of time, three-fifteen in the afternoon when Taemin would come sit by him but the youth hadn’t been around in two weeks. People couldn’t see him, didn’t talk to him, and he had no interest in anything. He wondered why God was toying with him like this, making him stay here on this stupid Earth when all he wanted to do was just stop existing.
There was no Heaven or Hell, he assumed.
But this surely felt like Hell.
“Excuse me?”
A tap on his shoulder made Minho start, sitting up and turning to see Taemin looking at him inquisitively, his hand raised and his eyes wide with curiosity. Minho blinked back in return. He couldn’t speak. Could he talk anymore? Did he still have that ability? This kid touched him. He talked to him. Could he always see him?
Minho finally shook his head, scooting over a bit.
Had he fallen asleep at the bus stop and dreamed the whole thing?
“Thank you,” Taemin said softly, sitting down with a small smile. “This is a good place to stop and take a rest from the heat, isn’t it?”
The boy’s voice was the most beautiful thing Minho had heard, living or dead. He stared at the boy, trying to put together the mystery of life and death and then just settled on a nod, as Taemin pointed up at the big oak tree that was shading them from the sun.
“The tree only covers this bench for twenty minutes during this time of day,” Taemin explained.
Minho knew; he’d been sitting on this bench for what felt like eons. He offered a small smile though, nodding again.
“Um…” Taemin fidgeted, his pretty fingers playing with the handle of his back pack. “This might be weird, but, do I know you?”
So many answers filtered through Minho’s head, so many good, beautiful answers, answers like ‘you sit next to me every day’, answers like ‘your hair has gotten darker, you should dye it again’, answers like ‘yes, we went to the same high school’.
Minho decided to shrug, averting his gaze, because he knew none of those answers were correct.
He could feel Taemin’s pout. He sighed, the exhalation soft but heady, and Taemin tensed up a bit, before he stood up and gave a polite bow.
“Um, sorry for bothering you. Have a nice day,” the student said, before hitching his bag over his shoulder and walking towards the direction of Minho’s home at a steady pace.
If the after life was confusing, Minho wondered why a healthy, living kid seemed to be so conflicted.
--
Taemin sat on the bench every day, after that. Some days he would talk to Minho, or at least try to engage him in conversation, and some days it was like Minho wasn’t even there at all.
But Minho wasn’t there.
He was in a completely different world and this kid that saw him occasionally was making Minho’s head thrum with questions. Questions that he never bothered to ask the boy, because he just never bothered talking.
“Even when you’re not here,” Taemin said one day, swinging his legs childishly, sitting on his hands, “it feels like you are.”
He wanted to say ‘that’s because I’m always here’, but he knew he didn’t need to say it. Taemin was a bright boy. He was catching on.
Minho let out a sigh.
He watched the goosebumps prickle on Taemin’s skin and he couldn’t help it - he reached out, skirting his fingers over the soft flesh of Taemin’s forearm, so euphoric with the feeling of skin on skin after such a long time. Taemin’s eyes hooded and he bit his lip, watching Minho’s fingers skate over his skin and elicit more goosebumps, and finally Taemin looked up to take in Minho’s big eyes and the way they were focused on his skin.
“You feel familiar,” Taemin said, searching Minho’s eyes once the spirit looked up into the student’s face.
Minho let out a soft smile, not sure if he was happy or sad with those words, but he just knew he needed to smile, because he was rewarded with Taemin’s own beautiful lips curling up pleasantly.
Taemin felt pretty familiar, too.
--
“Do you want to come over today?” Taemin asked, one leg pulled up on the bench and tucked under his opposite thigh.
Minho shook his head, looking apologetic.
Taemin looked rightfully disappointed, “Ah… Yeah, I guess it’s weird, we don’t really know each other…”
Minho’s head shaking became a bit more vigorous as he reached forward and put his hand on Taemin’s thigh. How could he communicate with this boy, how could he let Taemin know that he wanted to go to his house so very badly but couldn’t pass through that barrier?
The younger boy shifted, pulling his leg away from Minho’s icy touch.
“You’re always so cold…” the boy murmured, watching as Minho’s long fingers itched to stay in their place on Taemin’s thigh. “Are you anemic?”
Minho snorted, the first sound that Taemin had ever heard, as he chuckled lightly and shook his head. Taemin smiled and reached out, putting his hand on top of Minho’s, lacing their fingers together.
“It’s alright,” Taemin said. “Some day you’ll come over.”
Minho could only nod, the action holding the same amount of hope as Taemin’s voice.
--
He was pretty sure he couldn’t dream. One needed to be asleep to dream, right? But he could see Taemin lying with him, he could see his fingers mapping the smooth expanse of Taemin’s skin. He could see Taemin’s body shudder and he could see their lips meeting; he could see the teen’s body bow into his and he could feel the sticky sweet kisses that they shared, could taste the candy on Taemin’s breath.
He could feel Taemin, warm as the sun that kissed his honey locks, he could feel his breath and his hands and his legs wrapping around his waist.
They were like flashbacks to a locked up memory and when Minho stared up at the moon, he suddenly wished that the moon could provide heat, as well.
--
Minho was standing when Taemin came to him next, and Minho was smiling. Taemin returned the smile, though it was more of a questioning smile, because Minho didn’t smile terribly often, nor did he stand too often, either.
“Are we going somewhere?” Taemin asked.
Minho nodded and took Taemin’s hand, starting to lead them in the direction that Taemin always left in. Taemin seemed to have gotten the hint, lacing his warm fingers with Minho’s cold ones, tugging slightly to slow the spirit to a halt.
“We don’t have to,” Taemin said softly, his eyes looking far too understanding for a seventeen year old.
But the spirit gave a resolute nod and Taemin’s smile turned a bit shy, as he nodded, and they started towards the invisible wall that repeatedly kept Minho from leaving the area. His footsteps unconsciously slowed and Taemin glanced over at him, raising a brow, and Minho took a deep breath as they approached the crack in the pavement -
Minho stepped through to the other side and let out a breath, his body feeling light as Taemin giggled and kept tugging him along.
“I live close,” the teen said.
And he did, he lived three blocks away from Minho’s family’s house, in a tiny apartment complex with his mother and his older brother. When Minho entered the house it was normal and plain, and Taemin’s mother and brother greeted their youngest and Taemin didn’t introduce Minho, didn’t even acknowledge Minho was there as he unlaced their fingers and took off his shoes, heading to his bedroom.
Minho followed, and once they were inside, Taemin flopped down on his bed with a satisfied sigh.
The spirit sat on the edge, watching Taemin curiously. Did he know? How did he know? How did he get Minho to pass through the barrier?
“I brought you here because I wanted to thank you properly,” Taemin said, rolling over and reaching into his bedside table, pulling out a thin silver chain with a harp pendant dangling from it. He scooted to the edge of his bed and sat next to Minho, holding out the jewelry with a small smile.
Minho held his palm out and Taemin shook his head, reaching to gently clasp the necklace around Minho’s neck, the pendant resting against his collarbone.
“Thank you,” Taemin whispered, and when Minho finally found his voice to speak, he was whisked away into that black void of nothingness, of loneliness, without Taemin, and without the sun.
--
Three o’clock.
Minho sat on the bench under the sun, staring up at it through the fluffy white clouds that were lazily drifting by.
He felt strange, today. He had a vague sensation he would never see Taemin again.
He was apparently wrong.
He saw Taemin walking down the sidewalk, smiling and laughing and chattering away, and when Minho stood up to greet him, he froze, his eyes widening.
There he was, alive as the day he was born, walking along with Taemin, the live-Minho’s arm slung around the teen’s shoulder as they traipsed down the sidewalk, the heat of the sun beating down on their hair and pushing sweat down their brow.
Spirit Minho watched as they got to the crosswalk, as they both ignored him, and as the light turned red and the walk signal turned on. They were walking slowly, people bustling by to hurry to the other side, not wanting to stay on the reflective asphalt for too long.
The car horn was blaring, it cut through the hustle and bustle, it made people scatter - Taemin was in direct line of the speeding car, the car obviously having no time to stop after careening around the corner.
Spirit Minho didn’t even think twice before he shot forward and reconnected himself with his human counterpart, sucking in a last breath and pushing Taemin out of the way, the collision of the car and his body knocking the life out of him almost instantly as it spun and rammed into a telephone pole. Minho slumped over the hood, the present he had been holding in his hand for Taemin slipping out of his unfurling fingers and clanging to the pavement.
With dull eyes he watched the pendant hit the ground, he watched the chain glitter in the sunlight and as the warmth of the sun spilled over his dying body he smiled, even as Taemin ran up to him with tears streaming down his face, hands cupping Minho’s cheek to try and keep him awake.
“I love you…” he whispered out, and Taemin sobbed, shaking his head uselessly, choking the words out in return.
The warmth of the sun and the comfort of Taemin’s hands were the last thing Minho felt before he died, and this time, he felt like he had done it right.