He wished for many things, a considerable amount; a concernable amount considering his young age. He was sixteen years old, although his face fooled many people into believing he was eleven, but not because he was unattractive (or so he liked to think).With the scorching cold ice whipping into his scrunched face, he wished only to feel protected and warm inside of Jongin’s sweet and loving arms. It was a certain feeling he proudly obtained, for in the few times he had been surrounded by his aurora, locked tightly, the adrenaline sent sunshine through his body and the remnants remained. Whilst imagining this certain sensation, as if he had a sixth sense, already he was half way to his small, yet welcoming home. He knew perfectly well where Jongin’s house was, and we give thanks to google maps. Too many times he wished, to add to his growing lists of wants which he classified as needs, to call his house his home.
It wasn’t as if Jongin wasn’t expecting him, Taemin would have never had the courage to march forth on his own accord. This we must understand, in order to grasp the emotionally unstable boy, who is currently trying to convince himself he isn’t homoual. It is also important, to ruminate over just how frightened and worried this young boy was, and compare this to his admirable determination to be reminded of Jongin’s complexion. The undyingly curious reader will begin to debate and ponder on just what this great reason was that had driven our fragile protagonist to his unrequited love’s house. He had stolen one of Jongin’s most prized shirts. Overly overwhelming pheromones can unknowingly cause the acts we fantasize of, or so he liked to tell himself.
As driven to see Jongin again as he was, he was equally as reluctant to return this diamond encrusted artifact he wore whenever he could and/or kept close to him. A few days before his descent to see this angel blessed god, he washed the tan and red plaid silky gem for after sleeping in every night, many wrinkles and creases formed much to his embarrassment. He unknowingly already reached Jongin’s worn down mat that had once read ‘welcome’ which now read ‘wome’. Now that he freed his mouth from his tight scarf, gasped for air, frantically fixed his blonde, short hair, and straightened his jeans, he was ready to endure the being that existed within his dreams.
If Jongin hadn’t already reassured him it was perfectly fine to let himself in, beaming with a phosphoresce grin to confirm it was alright, Taemin would have stood outside his door knocking until dawn. The first step inside seemed louder than it really was, meanwhile instant warmth and comfort filled his senses, and the aura of Jongin sealed his ecstasy. A faint whistle and talking muffled from the room parallel to him, and he figured that was where the personification of perfection was waiting for his. Taemin inhaled deeply and exhaled with a stream of butterflies in his lower and upper stomach, and caused his a tingeing headache. I’m in his HIS HOUSE.
It was, after all, a very nice house. He had seen it once before, when they, along with a few others, were chosen to be in chemistry groups together. Jongin had decided to work on the nomenclature project at his house, for it was, as he so proudly reminded them, “the most ideal place for any social or concentrated atmosphere”. This was, actually, exceptionally true. The motility carried a much higher and intimidating perspective than his memory attempted. Although it was very modern, it was also quite small. The smallest details and features of his crush’s residence were much more obtrusive, now that he was anticipating and dreading the sight of his only reason for being allowed the honor to stand there. The monotonous and creamy curtains draped over each window, and whispered softly with the winter’s breeze. Jongin’s wood flooring was incredibly shiny, and it glistened the room. Taemin was uncommonly thankful Jongin’s parents weren’t there; of course.
Our protagonist gulped and stepped around the left corner into the direction of the sound. In the center of the next room, half sitting, half laying on a dark leather sofa laid the god of . The seventeen year old ultimate pulchritude that breathed the same air as he, for the time being. Taemin almost melted into his shoes, while his head felt ten shades redder. The room was extremely dimmed, almost black; he did not even notice Jongin’s closed eyes and barely parted lips that so perfectly formed and reflected another. Jongin’s light blue v-neck shirt, voluminous, scrunched at the bottom, revealed some of his stomach. The light fabric overlapped itself and exposed Jongin’s biceps. The muffled sounds coming from the largely pixelated television were the glue to the comfortable yet unnerving mood.
