辻斬り - 危ない

   nimble fingers work to divest a lifeless body of its possessions, a mental checklist gone through as each item is pulled and shoved into a backpack worn with age and use. wallet, ID and cash, keys to home and a car, anything of value. a knockoff gold watch and a pendant of a cross garnished in glittering stones are the only two items worth taking, haphazardly taken by shaking hands. a cough startles the teenager straddling the body, round eyes flickering up to the source of the sound, trailing a deep burgundy running from the other boy’s cracked lips. moments pass where the one on top seems frozen, hands paused in slinging the backpack over a shoulder.

   does your mind ever wander ?

   fallen leaves crunch as one, two, three other teenagers rush past in chase of other prey-- the fallen’s allies. two spare a glance and one ‘whoop’s so loud it echos off of the trees, hoisting himself up to jump over a fallen log excitedly, firing a shot into the barren canopy from a little black handgun. in moments they’ve disappeared further into the forest, leaving taemin with his catch who is now spitting up blood in gut-wrenching gurgles that make him want to vomit. quickly, he finds the gun lodged in his waistband, pushing on the body to stand and back away, shooting a hole in their head with precision no one should exhibit at this age. the crack is deafening, but the silence afterwards is even more so as the assailant stands with both hands wrapped carefully around the magazine of the weapon.

   I don’t know why you thought I ever loved you ,    you’re a game to me -- and I’ll always win .

   thunder rumbles in the distance, a flurry of gunshots in an encounter farther than taemin can see. one gang boy down won’t be enough to satisfy the boss, so with the backpack snug and the scene before him something from an r-rated movie, dirty sneakers crumple over leaves as he takes off. the hunt is a rush, and prey more intelligent than deer proves for a much more interesting sport.

   is of the day the pair he’d thought inseparable had done just that - split on bad terms with two distraught boys stumbling over feelings. the soft fluffy haired one stayed home, the more rough around the edges one had sought refuge in taemin’s apartment.

   then in taemin’s arms.

   then under taemin’s hands, which worked appreciatively to soothe each aching inch of his body and to quell the uneasiness in his mind. with skilled touches and heated praise the other melts into a softer, less worked up version of himself where he can enjoy the closeness of another human so soon after a breakup. he gets to try everything-- everything the other boy had repressed during his relationship, when he’d fought every urge to give himself up to the one who’s domineering core brings him to his knees. so he falls into taemin’s rhythm and lets himself be taken over and over , and over again until he’s too tired to feel the pain of loss.

   the nicotine afterwards helps, too. the way fingertips caress bare thighs and hoodie-covered arms sends shivers of both adoration and anticipation through the two of them, as half-lidded eyes watch cigarette smoke bleed into the autumn atmosphere on a wooden patio.

   night two,

   is much the same, but with far more teasing, knowing glances.

   nights pass so much quicker, between drunken giggles and genuine caresses.

   that’s why he’s alone in this adventure of contemplating words and phrases and how they make sense together. they seem too long and descriptive to be necessary, surely, but once they click in his mind it’s like a surge of color and awe as the picture paints itself behind exhausted eyelids. he thinks maybe he gets why people read— then stumbles upon another set of words that do no more than aggravate him.

   he’s only doing this because the cover of the book has gold foil in the shape of leaves, pretty green vine wrapping along the spine and corners. it’s eye-catching and shiny and reminds him of someone just out of reach.. and that’s all the hitman needed to snatch it right up. after half an hour of this escapade, he’s made it into the teens of pages and grown a permanent furrow between his brows in concentration.

   a certain word trips him up and as he says it out loud, he still can’t pinpoint what it means. his phone and google only prove to baffle him further until finally he’s snarling as if the page can instead read him. a mild tantrum ensues and causes a surrender in attempts to continue on, a huff marking the end of his patience as the book lands flat on the coffee table.

   it’s times like this he really misses you.

        --{ ° } it’s in the way this teeth flash white in the dark of the alleyway. it’s how the glint in his eye is a spark of electricity that ignites a blaze with just a glance back. it’s that all of this, all the red staining pretty little hands is for taemin, it’s how the turmoil curls hot under the shifter’s skin for no reason other than the fact his other half is injured.

   he doesn’t care by who. it matters not when, or how, only that taemin’s spike in adrenaline and jarring pain through his torso had set the power hungry kitten on alert. their bond is a silent system where one feels the other, where thoughts are merely that -- a thought, but somehow both already know of it. there’s a knife is embedded deep into the hitman’s side, textured aluminum of the handle jutting out awkwardly, shaking hands hovering as though touching it could only delve it deeper. he stumbles back, world blurring around him, senses cutting out in time to dim the pleas of the one now being hunted.

   ridley likes to play with his prey, however when taemin stumbles back onto his ass, catching himself roughly with his palms, it distracts him long enough the other guy messily gets to his feet to attempt a bolt in the opposite direction. stumbling shoes make it no further than a foot, of course, powerful hands curling tight in mussed clothing to shove the human back onto the ground.

   Ridley, it’s a plea, a quiet thought ( but not his ) in the back of the shifter’s head.. taemin never needs to finish his words, and it’s not as though he’s actively thinking right now, anyway, it more a jumbled mess of slurs and curses that exude the searing pain he’s becoming engulfed in. and the savior doesn’t falter, no hesitance in the smooth action of kicking the guy’s head in, hunching over just to greedily snatch his jugular and ensure death-- ensure Hell, for what he’s done to the one slipping along the line of consciousness a foot away.

   then suddenly, taemin is no longer alone, scuffling footsteps approaching as the streetlights blur and he can make out the familiar shape of a boy kneeling, checking him over before hoisting his nearly lifeless body up. ridley is strong- eyes determined, jaw set, swift movements carrying them some place taemin mumbles beneath his breath.

   it’s in the way his arms feel so secure, how the rumble of a foreign language is somehow so familiar. it’s how their weight shifts purposefully so taemin’s listless head tucks into ridley’s shoulder as they walk. it’s that all of this pulls a strained string of words from taemin’s mouth before the world turns black-- three slurred syllables igniting wildfires, burning the edges of sanity.

        --{ ° } it’s like a second home. the bustle of the city in the early morning, a square where the crosswalks not only connect parallel sidewalks, but the white lines tack across the road diagonally as well, hinting at just how many people pass through this place in one day. Japan feels comfortable and the dancer blends in easily, his demeanor adapted well per his history cluttered with visiting the country. even fluent in the language, there isn’t much taemin can’t do here. it’s why he’s up this early, traveling to the inner city to attend a fashion show- not the absolute most famous in Tokyo, but still an eye catching event with top creators and a few he’s keen to befriend or.. suck up to.

   hours later he’s form fitted into pants that hug his thighs just right and a sweater with impeccable stitching, glasses with thin rims and silver detailing, stark black hair a perfectly mussed mess atop his head. as he walks, he’s careful not to scuff the boots provided to him-- they’re worth several hundred dollars at least, the little buckles and chains evidence of unblemished workmanship. the attitude he carries matches the garments: his chin tilted upwards, eyes sharp and lids lightly dusted in dark powder, the way he carries himself in each stride proves reigning.

   oh, he knows how to please the cameras, too. this is something like a red carpet, where he’s donning a particular set from a fashion line that didn’t quite make the cut for the main stage, posing nonchalantly with a few other personable models as the creator answers each question the interviewer tosses their way. it’s right after this that taemin’s retreating backstage, and he’s meeting a woman sporting her own distinct look and, he knows she’s here to promote at the main event. it’s not for selfish reasons he approaches, this time, and he doesn’t feel intrusive because it doesn’t seem that she has anything too important going on at the moment. the gleam in her eyes shows a subtle dominance he’s more than drawn to- he knows the look of near royalty when he sees it, and he’s thankful he’d taken the time to look over the guest and creator list beforehand.

socializing after work had never been appealing to seulgi. she was always rushing around, having to balance her normal life - if you’d like to call it that - and the life she lead at night, causing her to have little time or will to be mingling with other criminals. however, that particular night, she indulged. she had finished off one of the biggest hits she had been called to do, and with that, came a lot of praise, pats on the back, and hopefully a raise. as she grew older, she didn’t earn as much as a dancer, and seulgi had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle she wasn’t ready to give up yet. 

with a glass filled with jack and coke, sipping it occasionally, she smiled at the praises and tossed a few jokes. it was good to let her hair down for a moment, and she had noticed she knew a lot of the faces that frequented the bar. so, really, she was at home. 

she had noticed the other walking closer, and there was something familiar about him. of course, seulgi knew a lot of people and had stumbled upon many, but she couldn’t pinpoint where exactly she knew him from. even so, she offered a smile. “it appears so, oddly enough. nice to meet you, tsu. you can call me violet.” she could never use her real name, for obvious reasons, so she went with her favourite flower. “i don’t usually come here, but have i seen you somewhere else, perhaps?”

        –{ ° } he’s keen to notice each lilt of her lips, the flawless way her hair cascades over one of her shoulders, the smile accompanying the tone in her words. it’s not necessarily a front, he determines, she seems a little more genuine than many women in this field. what he doesn’t know is that he’s heard of her before-- she’s in his line of work- competition, even. but in this community details like names, numbers, hits all seem to dissipate before anyone can leave a trail. everyone is at least smart enough to agree not to share much, because they’re all illegal in some way and won’t hesitate to react if someone’s outed.

   so, without knowing she’s his competition, he gives her a warm smile back, but the glimmer in his eyes tips that he’s not so sweet underneath. violet. a pretty name for a pretty girl- he’s always a flirt, always ready to get on a woman’s good side, but what she asks has him blinking in confusion. taemin thought maybe he’s recognized her-- not from this line of work, but somewhere in the past, maybe. it takes a moment of thought before he’s clicking his tongue and sitting up straight, wheels in his brain turning.

tagged by: @moonsseas​ tagging: whoever wants to do it !​

kibum looks at himself in the mirror, watching the difference of how his pose ended to the one shown by the younger male. to unknowing eyes, it may be an exact replica, but he knows better. the smoothness taemin has is something he hasn’t felt in a while. it is also the main reason why he prefers to deliver songs with meaning rather than summer bops. he cannot fool his heart though. the choreography is fluid, sticks to every single note, creates a wave of anticipation even as he is the one who performs and knows what will come next.

he should be proud of the discovery of his manager –in a way, he is, but he is also bothered by the evidence of his own shortcomings. he wonders if perhaps that sense of rhythm got lost somewhere between 24 and 26, if any of it has to do with his own heartbreak and unwillingness to get attached to people and all of which never lasts. hazel eyes shift to the younger man and he can’t help but ask himself if he is on the verge of losing it as well.

time progresses between rolls of hips, dance steps that break in smooth sequences of rhythm that the singer understands yet can’t bring into completion as they end each repetition. finding himself wanting is getting on his nerves, pressing at the tendrils of smoke that continue to pour out of corners that ought to remain sealed even if they have been burning for years now. beads of perspiration gather in his temples and neck and while he clears them with his towel, his heart thuds hard against his chest.

the freshness of simple water is welcomed as he gets lost in memories of a time he hopes that never returns. a part of him wonders if the young dancer caught onto this thread of heartbreak in a song meant to be chanted and repeated to exhaustion during the summer high, but the thought is expelled as soon as it hits him. it doesn’t matter if he did, it doesn’t change that their talents are so mismatched right now.   

his attention snaps back to the present as his question reaches his ears. kibum looks down, noticing the younger man is now on the floor, looking way younger than he already is. somehow though, he gets a sense of unease coming from such a harmless pose. like there is something there not meeting his sight, a monster awaiting behind clear, innocent-looking eyes framed with thick eyelashes. the singer stays a meter away from the younger male and sits with his legs folded. ❝ i’m not an idol, ❞ he snorts, sharp eyes bright with amusement. ❝ not like that. ❞

❝ it depends on the day, ❞ he answers, rolling his head from one side to the other in an attempt to ease the muscles of his shoulders. eyelids flutter shut as some relaxation seeps in and he knows then tomorrow will be a feat to move into if the aching in his limbs is any indication. ❝ from thursday to sunday, it’s time to socialize. from monday to tuesday, i cultivate my spirit, and on wednesdays i stay down and think about life, ❞ he kids, voice adopting a fake sweetness that dissolves into a chuckle. ❝ mostly, i stay home watching things. i’m not supposed to be out there creating havoc anymore, you know? so that limits the options of what i enjoy doing. ❞ 

he stretches up his arms and stops until he feels a satisfying crack. tawny orbs turn back to the younger male on the opposite end. taemin is still a temptation, one he shouldn’t be thinking about, but really, all of this was doomed to fail the moment he put a foot in this studio. he hates to lack what the other has, adores already the way sweet features turn into an untameable expression when music fills his veins and he glides across the expanse of wood like this is his territory and kibum is just an inconsequential new attribute in the room. for sure, maria had to know where he is going to go next, it could also be a test, one both of them know the results of already.  

❝ what about you? are you all about work and no fun? ❞ he tilts his head as lips stretch into a lazy smile, a practiced motion to calculate the level of interest. 

        –{ ° } kibum claims he’s not an idol, though every aspect he’s presented to taemin leaves the older with his mind already made up, as there’s no logical word but.. idol to describe this kid. it’s not.. always bad to be under that descriptor, but the general assumptions in taemin’s group of friends aren’t too kind. it’s hard to like kibum’s kind when people with just as much talent slave away their lives to never reach a following as big as theirs. but, maybe kibum isn’t an idol. maybe he can prove it to taemin. the black haired boy just shrugs in response, mimicking the amusement he’s given.

   his first thought is that kibum’s life is way too planned. taemin, the king of spontaneity, scrunches his nose as the boy explains his life day by day- lays out an entire week as if he already knows how it’s going to unfold. and, “ cultivate your spirit ? ” he’s not so sure he understands, and, with the weird way he’d said it, his mind is only skipping to weird psychic things. the image of kibum surrounded in witchy candles and different colored stones makes him laugh-- he probably means something more along the lines of spending time alone, doing things he loves to recoup from a weekend of socialization.

   “ yeah . ” he gets it-- it’s part of why he could never get into the sort of thing kibum does. partly that he couldn’t live his life as he wanted ( he’s a reckless boy without his heart on his sleeve ), that he couldn’t uphold his second job, and that the stereotypes would follow him every step of the way. he prefers it down here, on the first story of the little dance studio, working the hours away on his own time. “ I think you should do whatever you want , anyway . ” horrible advice, but it’s his truth.

   with taemin, anyone on the streets is fair game. he’ll approach a cute girl with a glimmer in his eyes and a stride in his step with ambitions that end with him sated and dazed at the end of the night. when it comes to work, he’s a professional-- sure, he’s played with a few of his clients before-- but it always starts out innocent until they fall for him- either to their knees or with hearts for eyes. so, he’s not going into this with a selfish end goal in mind. but if kibum keeps looking at him all adoring like that, he might just let himself slip.

   his legs stretch out, little shoe covered feet flexing, then as he slumps against the mirror and slides his butt down on the floor a bit he relaxes, giving a half smile in return, picking at a piece of lint on his sweatpants. his gaze flickers up as he speaks, tongue running over the plush of his lower lip when he pauses after the first sentence.

   “ yeah , I work a lot . I tutor some kids in Japanese ‘bout once a week . my roommates keep me busy too -- I have two of ‘em . ” plus, his second job exhausts him every other week, but he won’t mention that. “ taemin pauses, trying to think of more things he does but.. it’s usually a spur of the moment decision. “ I go clubbing sometimes , ” the dancer idly rubs his index finger to his bottom lip, eyes squinting slightly, “ my favorite bars are all in Gangnam and Itaewon , and I live here in Hongdae and-- ah , those are all party cities , huh ? ”

   he beams a bright grin paired with a cackling laugh, because that probably says it all for taemin, that he hangs out mostly in those parts of Seoul.

   with blanket strewn over sunken shoulders, two boys lay quiet in the dead of night, drenched in silence yet engulfed in the familiarity of one another. the night grows dreary, accustomed to the dark of one’s heart and the innocence of another’s, moon inevitably rising to soothe the bleakness away from the pair-- bask them in the dim light of the night peering through the shades, to them atop the mattress sharing hushed whispers.

   boy , i hold you near ,    your sobs are soft ,    your eyes as well ,

   the older presses near, closes any space between the two, diminishing that space that threatens their proximity-- assures one the man is near, is here. hazel eyes show bleary in this lighting, in the twinkle of the moon persuading sincerity. it’s there, it’s true- he means those muttered words, merely a breath against a shifter’s lips, a broken promise he means well to keep. he proves genuine to only him, time and time again.

   a puff or two ,    the world’s ablaze ,    three or four ,    it smothers out ,

   “ i’m here . ” but a mere promise of servitude, an admittance of loyalty, hardly broken per a killer’s normal standards. a promise made and a promise kept, to be validated much later amidst a selfless act hardly thought upon -- for this boy, he’d rule the word. wear the crown a million years to serve him happy, present any key to any door and assure security.

Your Result: Cerulean

Key words: fun, youthful, exciting.

   For you, love is fun, bright, and exciting! When you're in love, you feel young and on top of the world. You'd much rather a trip to the beach or an amusement park than a regular old dinner date, and you're likely to want to travel to exciting places with the people you love the most. Your ideal lover is someone who can keep up with you and knows how to have an exciting time. Best matched with: Cerulean, Canary, Fern

kibum tilts his head as he regards the young dancer. this denial of keeping up with his talent is a lie. it has to be because maria said she had seen the choreography and it was outstanding. she doesn’t give compliments if she doesn’t mean them, even less if she knows all that work wouldn’t suit him in the slightest. to make a choreography, surely the dancer should have seen something, didn’t he? and yet, here he is, lying to him straight in the face. how interesting.

❝ sounds fair, ❞ he expresses, eyes bright with a sort of unabashed curiosity. ❝ if it sucks, then maybe i will be able to convince them about bringing a piano to the scenario. ❞ it’s a well-aimed jab, enough amount of teasing and viciousness tangled to a sweet tone of innocence. regardless, he does as the other says. he moves to the corner of the studio, back to the wall, assuming that the younger male will show him first what he has rather than making him see while teaching him.  

❝ oh– i thought you were a show-don’t-tell-kind of guy, ❞ kibum moves to stand a meter from the younger male, sharp eyes looking at him through the mirror. ❝ should i take it you did like the song? ❞ he’s interested. someone with those honed abilities people in the industry talked about carried some merit after all. the singer does wonder too how much of it he has actually gotten, if they will see eye-to-eye, like people assume it always happens to people who talk through music.

 ❝ you thought of the camera angles as well? ❞ now he is impressed. that’s mostly something that is produced after the choreography is mastered. a heated look here, a pose there, a perfect stroll towards the camera, and it’s done. ❝ fine, pretty boy, show me what you’ve got. but i will watch first, will make questions then, and once that’s cleared, i will follow into your rhythm. ❞

it’s bad. that he is giving orders and stepping back to observe. it means he is intrigued, means that his curiosity is not just curiosity anymore. but then, could things have been different? the young dancer is his type. gorgeous mouth, long lashes defining sparkling bright eyes, sweet features that give him a feminine air and it contrasts so well with broad shoulders and a beautiful physique. but then, he did promise he would behave for this album. he’s reaching a different height now, he’s meant to ride off the recklessness of youth, step down and let people into his true self. 

it is a bunch of marketing bullshit if you ask him, but this is the path he chose. so he keeps his bad intentions and hands to himself and limits to watch what the mirror tells him about the other’s creation. attentive eyes follow fluid motions of hands that express so much on their own. he repairs on the rolling of hips, on the suggestive gestures of a body that was born to dance. some part of him is hit with a strike of inferiority he hasn’t felt in years, if ever and he hates it. hates him.

but he keeps watching, enraptured; all too knowing that this little young man is reaching to him without even meaning to. it should be scary, that he can feel such a pull for someone who is this talented. but this act of attraction only ends up in one way and he doesn’t want to break another pretty thing until his heart bleeds. ❝ it’s good, ❞ he admits, the corners of his lips twitching in an honest smile that hurts. ❝ i think it’s clear to me so, will give it a go. ❞

he does that and does not think of much else. focuses on the meaning, lets go of his armor for a moment, cuts the air in a perfect mimic of what the dancer has done. but it lacks one thing.

        –{ ° } it’s not that Taemin hasn’t studied the singer, it’s that Taemin doesn’t keep up well with idol appearances and releases.. he doesn’t find himself captured by any artist long enough to not switch the channel. when hired to coach an idol, though, Taemin spends his lounging time catching up on their tastes, styles, and career in order to best suit the work to them. because even as much as he complains about his overtime at the studio, he’d never set someone with passion up to fail. everything had to be impeccable. this is why each move of this choreography tailors to the rhythm of the song provided and the way Kibum’s sharp eyes always glance to the camera, even in those slower songs- his gaze is piercing, and Taemin would say the kid’s got some talent. maybe not to his face, though.

   “ tch . ” the dancer sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips quirked in a smile, “ no piano , then . ” Kibum knows the work he’s written won’t ‘suck’, so the mild insult doesn’t quarrel anything within him enough to respond any further. it’s easy to meet the man’s eye contact through the mirror- and though he’s being given a firm staredown, Taemin replies with a giddy smile that compliments the messy-on-purpose black hair atop his head, seemingly no threat. he’ll confront this all as if he isn’t one, but there’s a subtle way in which he holds his dominance that isn’t.. necessarily on purpose.

   “ it’s a good song -- yeah , better than some I’ve heard . I really like a song that makes me wanna dance . ” there’s a playful wink, because obviously that’s his answer.. he’s a dancer. “ sure , yeah , of course . ” he thinks about.. everything that goes into production. with dance, it’s not just his hobby, it’s something he’s poured his life into and has excelled at only because of that. his work is only ever to be perfect.

   when given the go-ahead, Taemin presses the play button on the phone screen, doing a little run-walk to get centered on the hardwood. the way he moves seemingly brings the drop in bass and little nuances in the rhythm to life, each one accentuated with an apt movement- a fluid roll of his body, a flick of the wrist, a look forward from under dark bangs. there are a few technically difficult moves in the piece ( a pencil turn here , a hint of floorwork and a switchup of the center of balance there ) but nothing too over the edge.

   the focus he’s created is on the way the music affects the one dancing, translating the mood of the song into a way the audience can better understand- he knows the choreography will look good on Kibum and please his fans. when Taemin’s done, he holds that last pose, arms crossed loosely, one hand up by his shoulder with relaxed fingers, the back of his index finger lightly touching the curve of his jaw.

   with a bite to his lip, Taemin relaxes and shakes both hands out, getting the jitters out of his system to loosen up his shoulders. the dancer makes eye contact again, bowing his head just slightly to say thank you, but by the time he’s looking back up, he catches the flicker of something in the other’s gaze that has him puzzled for a split second. he shakes it off with an excuse of drinking a healthy gulp of water, taking in the look of the boy when he’s not paying him attention. he’s got the body of an idol, so it’s nothing new-- his type, of course- but his hair and the curve of his jaw, the high cheekbones and fox-like eyes have his eyes hesitating from looking away even as Kibum meets eye contact.

   clearing his throat, Taemin smiles off in another direction, resuming work. while he’s teaching, he’s nothing but professional, sticking to helping the boy get the moves just right. it’s only when they’re taking a break that he’s slouching against the mirror, sitting with legs parted and stretched straight out on the ground that he loses that professional aura, watching the water swirl in the bottle before piping up,

the day nears. kibum’s new album will hit the stores soon. live shows will be attended, tours will be held, variety shows’ appearances will follow, and with it, days with little to no sleep, diets, and stylists following his every step. all the gears will be tuned in so the public is dazzled, so no one will notice the mess he has inside. 

it is how it is. people care about the things they can relate to. kibum’s songs are a window to heartache, to longings impossible to fulfill. they are inscriptions anyone can follow, but the place where the magic comes from? those are the planes of privilege no one wants to look at if they can’t have it. lips purse as he looks up at the building ahead. ❝ be nice to the choreographer. we are against the clock and the program he showed me for your comeback performance is gorgeous. we want him in, ❞ maria, his manager, says while she keeps typing on her phone.

so he sighs, dramatic as always, as he climbs his way up to where the infamous young choreographer is waiting for him. the interior is not like what he pictured it to be. it’s simple. a simple dance studio with no room for distractions or anything else that doesn’t have anything to do with dancing. the choreographer looks younger than him –probably is, with atrocious manners, gorgeous lips, and an even more beautiful body line. 

and yet– yet he asks what he ought to already know. it’s a disappointment –a fake one, because if this man doesn’t know much about kibum, then that makes the singer intrigued. he’s in every tabloid, his name is uttered with either adoration or dislike whenever he is about to bring a new album, and this man will make the choreography for his comeback and he doesn’t know if he is good at dancing. it’s both a nightmare and a joke. 

kibum leaves his things on the side, a simple black backpack with the essentials. tight black jeans adjust to his legs to perfection while he wears a moschino red sweatshirt. ❝ have you not seen me in tv? ❞ he quirks an eyebrow, taking a few steps towards the dancer. ❝ people say, and i quote, that ‘ i’m almighty ’ . ❞ he grins, the tone of his voice feigning the humbleness he forgot somewhere between the start of his career and his first heartbreak. ❝ it’s a lot of exaggeration from the press, i guess, so you could say i’m not that bad after six years of performing. this album though is uncharted territory. it’s about vulnerability and no one in the company knew what to do with it for a live performance. i suggested live piano, but they said that would not be attractive enough so here we are, ❞ kibum crosses his arms against his chest. ❝ what are your ideas? ❞

        –{ ° } the studio room is modest, but well kept. the three walls not covered in mirror are painted red, giving the room life and an indescribable aura that keeps the inhabitants on their toes. looking towards the mirrors, there are cubby spaces along the left-hand wall, though only the spare pair of shoes or lunch box fill every other space. Taemin is by the sound cart and bulky open backpack on the opposite side, the dancer now standing and looking a little more presentable than when previously shoveling food into his mouth. he’s got his attention on the bright little cellphone in his hands before looking up to question the new boy.

   it’s not that Taemin doesn’t know if Kibum can dance, it’s that he’s already written the choreography and needs to know a bit about the singer from his own mouth. he could sit back and test him, read him psychologically until he figured him out, but that’s a little too much effort for a work colleague. he knows enough to have high hopes that Kibum isn’t the typical famous type, that he’s got a real side to him that likes the dark-- he knows he’s had a few run ins with drugs, alcohol- generally something very seriously taken in Korea, but still dares to show his face in producing new art. he likes that about him, it’s why he doesn’t automatically assume the man is merely idol material. however, the first thing from those plump little kitten lips of his has Taemin’s assumptions as dead as they should’ve been upon creation. oh boy.

   “ you’re almighty , huh ? ” his tone isn’t as condescending as it is amused, a glimmer in his eyes reflecting the emotion. trying to keep any attitude towards the singer arcane, Taemin clears his throat to muffle a laugh, because the more he keeps talking, the easier it is to determine his personality or.. the lack thereof, merely a clone of the music industry sitting on his counterfeit high horse, made to believe the world’s in love with the way his hips sway and voice croons. in all actuality, most performers that have made it big and come in here treat him as lesser, toss out the question of, ‘ you’re in the industry , how is it possible you haven’t heard of me ? ’  where Taemin responds, “ no , I’m sorry , don’t really keep up with TV . ” and that’s how he’s shutting Kibum down already. no, not everyone has heard of you, pretty boy.

   “ I already wrote the choreography , but one thing I do with my clients is I tailor it to them . ” he gives a smile, leaning against the sound cart, holding eye contact, though not being overbearing about it, “ so I’ll go ahead ‘n show you what I’ve got , and you can give me your opinion , ‘n as I teach you , I’ll change things to help it fit you as an artist . ” he clicks his tongue, giving a bit of a sad look, “ if you can convince them , I can choreograph you some grand piano stuff . I love incorporating pianos into my work . ” Taemin hums, then catches himself-- “ both playing ‘em and getting up on top of ‘em . ” and with a laugh, that’s enough of that-- he stands up straight with a little grin,

        --{ ° } it’s his eleven o’clock that he dreads, because by mid-morning the day starts to drag into tens of minutes instead of hours passing by in repetition. his next appointment is someone new to him- and it’s not that he doesn’t like meeting new people, it’s that they never seem to stick around long. having such a time set up also means he’s more than likely going to delve into his lunch hour. at ten to eleven though, a boy with strikingly similar features to Taemin flounces on into the studio with a rubbermaid container of warm food and a nice big spoon so the dancer can pack his cheeks full despite his toothy grin.

   his spirit lifts tenfold after the visit, boy coddled in a layer of soft cotton sweater on his mind as he shovels the food into his mouth, sat criss-cross on the hardwood floor. he first notices the intruder by the movement caught in the mirror, the vast expanse of it covering an entire wall opposite the entryway. this must be his new kid.

   “ kibum . ” the bite he’s taken is swallowed to make room for the words, minding his manners for once, offering a smile from where he’s sat. he’s heard about the man once or twice- might’ve worked with someone else that choreographs here, but truth be told he can’t remember the circumstances. the only reason he’s got more information on Kibum is some dutiful research-- clicking around the internet. it came fruitful. music, scandals- the tabloids love to hate him- Taemin thinks he’s made quite a name for himself. of course, as a renowned artist. he cocks a smirk with a bow, “ I’m Taemin . ” and digs into his food again, motioning the boy over to him.

   after this bite, he convinces himself he’s had enough, sealing the container back up and wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, getting to his feet. soft black sweatpants, a loose black t-shirt that shows the curves of his collarbones, and streakfree sneakers as if they’ve barely been touched. turning his attention to his phone, he navigates to the music he’s been sent to choreograph for, rubbing an index finger over his lower lip as he thinks, then glances up with a smile,