“why?” wary, jae’s gaze sharpens and he straightens, remnants of his previous bout of playfulness replaced by the tiniest measure of alarm. the wolf in him stirs, sensing danger. “she say somethin’?” 

it takes everything in iseul not to snap.

because it’s jae, and that should be enough reason to. fucked up, right? they say only the ones you love can hurt you the most. time and time again, that’s proven true. from ex-girlfriends to best friends—iseul stares hard at jae but doesn’t glare. glaring means letting anger win, nursing the boil and broil of hatred. he can’t hate jae. it’s impossible. so it’s relief on his end when jae backs away, somewhat lost, confused, dim. iseul reads the blankness in his eyes, can practically reach his fingers into the hollowness and pluck out the memory himself.

but it hits jae, anyway.

and it better.

iseul finds himself more mad, but he doesn’t want to be. the stifling sensation of a pulsing head, galloping heart is awful—brutal. makes him wince, jaw clench and throat bob once then twice. down his throat, he tastes the bitter followed by the sour. if he bites down hard enough on his tongue to prevent from lashing out, he might taste blood soon.

again, it’s jae, and iseul refuses to wreck their friendship more. but it begs the question: are they even friends? more than anyone, iseul trusted jae. training together, hoping they’d debut together. the walks to the stations when iseul returned home to busan, the shadows of a smile—a real smile iseul witnessed on jae once and decided he wanted to see more, wanted to be the reason once. the early morning hellos and late night goodbyes. the years worth of trust and love eating him up, hurting him more.

jae isn’t making it easy to not hate him, to not shove him against the wall and bare teeth, warning him to never touch sophia again. iseul knows jae won’t—hopes he won’t. through the bad, he still sees the good. through it all, jae is still his friend. but he can’t stand him right. for the sake of their friendship, turning away is better, right. losing jae is losing his longest love—no, iseul can’t afford that.

even if it’s sophia. sophia who means more to iseul than anyone. a battle of love rages within, and he’s consumed in the bloodbath. that frustrates him. that paints indignation as red on a pale face. so it’s easy for jae to get a reaction. unfairly so. because the more jae speaks, distant and detached, the more pissed iseul gets.

“don’t remember much.” iseul bites back, holds back from breaking. not down but letting the temper win, letting it out to roam free. attack free. his eyebrows come straight down, jaw flexing and ears singing. “you remembered plenty last night. she didn’t even have to tell me. you did. even boasted to me about it.” then the word reply on tape. he hears the static amidst how sweet it was. furious, iseul shuts his eyes and just... the longer he sees jae, the more his fists continue to ache. he breathes. has to or else he’ll combust. that’s not a pretty picture; that’s not iseul.

Setting her phone down on the coffee table, Taehee shifted around on her couch, pulling her legs back towards her and wrapping them with her arms, hugging them against her chest as she closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears but, to no avail.

sns to taehee : i’ll be right there

straight to the point.

no time to beat around the bush.

iseul isn’t a runner, but he sprints to taehee’s place, ignoring the blaze in his lungs and the inferno in his calves; he runs without stopping, without taking a breather, without anything else on his mind but to get to taehee fast. fortunately, idols live within walking distance of one another. fortunately, but he feels too far, feels like he’s using valuable minutes to get there.

he doesn’t burst through the doors. he enters carefully, breathing hard. face red and sweat above his brow, iseul is quiet as he walks. “taehee noona?” he calls not loud but soft, afraid if he makes too much noise something will break. that taehee will shatter more.

he saw the backlash she’s receiving. saw the threatening messages. saw everything so demeaning and heartless, iseul thinks of covering her eyes with his own two hands to at least shield her from a couple. in that regard, he’s too late. inevitably, so. but it doesn’t mean he’s not going to be there for her. iseul will always, always have taehee’s back.

through thick and thin.

curled on the couch is where iseul finds her. he bends, not sitting next to her but crouching before her with a light hand on her knee. “noona, i’m here. i’m here,” he has to repeat in case she doesn’t hear, in case she doesn’t believe because the comments are louder.

“do you want anything? water, warm milk, tea?” he considers asking how she’s doing, but iseul witnesses the answer in the way she holds herself, trembling. it breaks his heart to see someone he cares about hurting so much. for the first time, he beats angry but is quickly and effectively erased when he’s meant to do his best to console her, comfort her, not be angry at the shameful people leaving such nasty comments. he just can’t help it.

She wandered from room to room. Karaoke wasn’t her thing. She shied away from the pools, too. It should’ve been no surprise that Mijung managed to find herself drawn to the dance floor. That she knew how to do without thought. She placed her finished drink on the tray of a nearby server and, finally, joined in the festivities. Mijung let the music take over, let her mind go blank. She followed the beat and it set her free. There, surrounded by strangers and stars alike, Mijung smiled for the first time all night. She didn’t even have the care to regret that she hadn’t started dancing earlier. Instead, Mijung simply enjoyed herself in the moment.

iseul considers the safest area of the party is the dance floor. why? no reason. more people. too many people in the same place bounds to draw witnesses just in case. he’s paranoid. has been since the scandal. and rightfully so. not that he’s going to do anything stupid. he’ll keep to himself. has to because laying low is better than anything else. even chatting with others. he might get photographed. things might get blown out of proportion. yeah, no. that’s not going to happen. no on his watch.

so, he’s there dancing. he lost sophia and jae ages ago. can’t seem to find taekyoon or jingyi either, but it’s fine. they must be busy. must be having fun or so he hopes because he doesn’t want any of them in hot water. call iseul overly sensitive. he purposefully avoids anyone that might bring with them too much unwanted attention. rest assured, they said, nothing bad is goign to happen, but he has a sick feeling in his gut. and iseul puts blind trust in it. he treks carefully, cautiously, on the look out and prowl for something to go wrong. and at this point, if something does, he attracted it to him. all that law of the universe mumbo-jumbo he also has faith in. 

think positively and nothing bad should happen.

iseul doesn’t think running into mijung is bad, per say. but there is a time and place for everything, and he feels this is a little out of sorts. that bumping into her on the dance floor after avoiding her post-scandal isn’t the most appropriate because what he is supposed to say when music a little too loud, and he’s a talker, wants to ask how she’s been and if she’s enjoying her. you know, catching up and apologizing for not being around. 

it was all due to wanting to protect her from rumours. she’s a trainee and to be seen with him won’t look good on her reputation. the last iseul wants to do is tarnish that. however, it’s been months, and he misses his good friend. 

“i forget how cold it gets at night.” small talk was safe, right? they could do that, right? one look at him caused a flood of memories to return, even fond winter ones where she found herself wrapped up in his coat with him. “how are you? i saw your performance. that throwback was fun.”

too much of anything breaks him.

the attention. the stares. the conversations behind hands, but iseul can see their eyes. see how they flicker to him, scrutinize him, judge him. they peg him a label. they peg him the star he’s name after: sirius. all detrimental and no good. all scandal. venomous and poisonous. beyond the image of shoulders too wide, a smile too crooked, no one sees the shadow of a boy lost and seeking. they only see scandal, pictures of him in bed with a woman. after years of trying to prove him, make something out of his nothing, he is still good for nothing.

elbows propped on the railing, iseul stares at the city below his feet. the red and white of cars going home, escaping home, looking for home. he sees the lights of buildings and pretends they’re stars because that’s far more beautiful and romantic. he’s into that—the romantic tragedy while strawberry scented smoke flits from cracked lips that have been sitting far too straight. they curve around the mouth of a small vape in he can easily hide in a pocket, lets the warm and grit of smoke burn at the back of his throat before exhaling—exhaling everything negative with it. doesn’t work, but he feels a bit better. or maybe he’s becoming numb in the cold.

then she shows up, and iseul feels everything all over again. the fall of their relationship, his heart ripped from his chest: broken, scarred, carnage. and his gut instinct is to go. to run away, far, but the world is too small; their world is even smaller. he takes one last puff, not directly staring because it hurts. ellie’s beauty is painful. a reminder of the laughs they shared. of the nights she’s tucked under his arm. of the stolen kisses and hugs where he doesn’t want to let go. (he let go.)

she’s right, it’s cold. and he almost offers her the coat he’s wearing. he can’t now, and that stings as badly as any cut but worse. it seeps through bone and ripples until his arms feel barren, and his hands clench because there is nothing he can do about it. her voice is familiar and foreigner. a ghostly yesterday. iseul still likes it, and he hates the fact that he does. he still loves her, and... he hates the fact that he does.

so, as much as it pains him, iseul turns away for a beat and considers not making chatter. not giving in to old habits die hard. he still sees her from the corner of his eye. still admires her. still gulps the butterflies down and ignores the hiccup of his pulse. why now? why now when he’s on the verge of forgetting. of letting that part of iseul go. the part that cares, that always cares regardless.

she scowls, and she kicks him beneath the table, drives her foot into his shin. “so like the upshot is, as previously stated, i’m a shitty friend. which is not new, but if you’d happened to miss that at any point, you might wanna take it under advisement.” she squints, glances furtively around the room as if seeking an escape route.. “can we get some soju?”

he choose to laugh because it’s like breathing, but it sounds more alive. more like he actually extorted energy somewhere instead of just sitting blankly, looking as pretty as he can get, which isn’t saying much. iseul has his cheek in an upturned palm, looking interested, intrigued, piqued as well as amused.

which he realizes is wrong, but he crossed the thin line ages ago. stopped caring almost as long. details.

but he still has... whatever is left of his repertoire to consider. so, he keeps his voice purposefully low so no one can hear. can’t have that. can’t risk that even if he wants to burst out to laughter, mocking, patronizing. he keeps it to himself because he and jowi are friends, and as friends, he shouldn’t be so i told you but more understanding.

his shoulders are broad enough to cry on. confide in. iseul knows jowi isn’t exactly about that. and her actually detailing what happened is as startling as it is mind-fucking. yet he is chuckling like everything isn’t a big deal. maybe it’s to ease her, to calm her down before memories can agitate. can ghost a finger over that metaphorical trigger. so, iseul does what he can to snatch it away.

tries to.

“see, was that so hard? coming face to face with your problems instead of running from them...” see: tries to. iseul pulls a face, realizes the error in his speech and shakes his head. “doesn’t saying it out loud help, i don’t know, alleviate the shitty feeling?” he pretends to breathe through his nose a little easier, motioning air in while smiling hopefully... or impishly (and a rad wistful somewhere in the cracks). he can’t decide which suits best, so it’s kinda an odd blend of many things.

“but yeah, her slapping you was out of line.” and he’s not saying that because he punched jae for similar-ish reasons. nope, not at all. this isn’t even about him. sitting back, iseul drums fingers on the table, ignores the shiner on his knuckles and coughs awkwardly. “this is why talking things out always works. maybe... honesty is the best policy. you only said what was on your mind. if it makes you feel any better, it may have been inappropriate to spring it on her but someone had to sooner or later. you did a good deed. congrats!”

“hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” no judgment, no inflection. hits him with the brutal truth. “jealousy can turn a woman wretched and hateful and lashing out is a coping mechanism when someone feels wronged. you’re famous–a public figure. your reputation is expensive, but flimsy. paper thin. she probably understands that better than you. knows how to stab you where it would hurt the most. almost like a warped ‘if i’m suffering, you have to suffer too!’ mindset.” her hand comes down soft against his wrist, thumb grazing a fluttering pulse. “it’s always the moment when you least expect it that a snake will strike. the question now is: what else does she know about you that can be incriminating? what other ammunition does she have?” what will you do, seul? how will you fight against a woman who has nothing else to lose?

iseul takes her words how they are: brutally honest but gently sophia.

and he feels everything almost all at once. the devastation, the fall from grace and the crash landing that burnt skin and image, wrecking an accumulation of years upon years of sheer perseverance, of sheer survival. the fear, the shadows that manifest during dark times, that approach undetected and pounce without warning, clawing, gnawing, dragging him where no one can save him, no one can see him. the agony of betrayal, the faces of every friend he’a ever made and the red x’s he smears over each one just in case... just in case they have something. just in case they want to destroy him, flay him little by little or all at once.

pain is all the same; it hurts.

with sophia, he feels a little less. feels his heart breaking diluted and dull and swears it beats once or twice. but the tears, they continue. they roll down cheeks from eyes so wistful, he can’t look up. lacks the bravery to. doesn’t have the strength to look sophia dead on and see himself. see the sympathy. see the wounds he knows he’s reopening for her.

knees to his chest, iseul lets himself break to pieces with every fallen tear. cries until he can no longer. until it becomes too hard to breathe, and he has a punishing headache. misery loves company. he can’t rid himself of the throb in his chest, the lump in his throat, the thump, thump, thumping in his forehead until it spreads to his temples, then crown and everywhere else. but iseul thinks the physical pain is easier to handle, to tolerate.

it washes away the emotions wanting to burst free but can’t because they are iseul’s to feel. no one else’s.

especially not sophia’s. but he knows she’s experiencing it. reliving it. he’s sorry. wants to say so but every open of his lips are unintelligent drawls, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. he can hear her say not to apologize, anyway.

her words are a bible he memorizes every night.

he let the silence fall in between them, hands steadily petting the smooth fur under his fingertips. “you don’t have to agree, i can literally haul my ass back to the dorm and face everything like a man.” he should be doing that anyway.

iseul sees the murky waters in jingyi’s eyes. notices the melancholy that he, himself, is all too familiar with. he wants to ask if he’s okay, if everything is all right, but the answer is staring back at him. he doesn’t want to pry either, to make jingyi feel uncomfortable when he should be feeling fine. or at least a little bit okay. comforting others, iseul isn’t too good at that, anyway. his thoughts come out more all over the place than actual sincere advice. all he can offer is his place to jingyi and hopes that it can help somewhere. anywhere.

smiling softly, he shakes his head, “don’t apologize. you’re welcome here anytime. always.” and that’s the truth. he isn’t saying that because jingyi’s already there, and he doesn’t have the guts to kick him out. he’ll never do that. nope. all of iseul’s friends, especially his closest ones, are always welcome with open arms. as selfish as this may sound, iseul likes the company, too. what do they call it: misery loves company, but that’s a heartless thing to think when he goes for the grocery bags only to stop and stand back up as jingyi confesses why. it’s not that he didn’t want to know, per say, but iseul wanted jingyi to say it on his own accord. when he’s ready.

guess it’s now. and he isn’t prepared for this. for what he hears. iseul thought everything was okay between jingyi and aroon. the shock wears off to concern quickly as he listens intently, feeling the words, the pain that comes between the lines and the all too familiar ache in his chest.

“you look like shit.” it comes out tactless. borne out of a less than five second observation jae makes off-hand when he draws up in front of him, heels rocking when he recognizes another ghost lurking about. “didn’t see you around much. must’ve been hiding. or were you avoiding me? or…” he sidles up close, slings an arm around iseul’s shoulders and whispers like he’s got some sacred secret he’s about to share. “were you preoccupied, hm? had fun last night at the party, did ya? ” it’s casual–easy–how much cheekiness he can interject into his words. the subtle callousness can be played off easily enough in the way he nudges an elbow into iseul’s ribs, eyes creasing in amusement, a soft chuckle puffing out of his lips. “who was the lucky girl? or guy? not judgin’.”

he hates the fact he’s always at the company. always. there isn’t a day iseul isn’t there unless POIZN miraculously has schedules lined up that keeps them away from what he fondly refers to as azkaban. all the same, really. similarities are uncanny. dementors engulfing happiness and the inevitable souls isn’t any different from managers or executives draining you shriveled and dry. but that’s mean, the comparison. and yet, iseul doesn’t care. walks into the building with a head hung low and an all too large hoodie covering a fringe that falls over his eyes. under, his eyes are dark and the circles are purple, full of fatigue and a night of tossing and turning. behind closed eyelids all he saw was... that.

now, in front of him, all he saw is jae. he’s taken a back, fist uncharacteristically balling. his knuckles ache sore, like he punched a wall. then he spots the bruise on jae’s mouth. a perfect fit. he grimaces. trust jae to always be forward, blunt, inconsiderately so.

“look who’s talking,” iseul grumbles, bites out and arches a brow that no one can see. but it’s there, on the verge of angry. confrontations don’t sit well with him. he isn’t the type to get mad and start an argument. he usually sits back and waits for things to mellow and subside. so he tries to do so, tries to ignore the fact jae is an asshole, and he wants to punch him again.

and as iseul tries to retreat, the idiot gets too close... like they’re fucking friends or something. it takes everything in iseul not to shove him away. people are around. can’t have another scandal. think of the disappointment and rage when POIZN is once again launched into the negative light. not when things seem to be finally turning around. iseul won’t have anyone wreck it. especially not someone he once thought to be his greatest friend. things change, but jae has always been too hard to handle. him and noah, iseul was warned repeatedly to stay away from them, but he stuck by because he trusted them—trusted jae.

now... he thinks he should have listened.

“or, actually, forget that for a moment. first of all, how are you?”

there is something frightening about being home alone. not the ghosts that lurk in hall closets nor the monsters living under beds but the thoughts within his own head. those scare iseul. scare him so much, he can’t stay where everything is quiet, where everything can remind him of what’s happening, of how badly he fucked up. so, he jumps at any chance he gets to avoid being cooped in his condo. when sungyeol’s text flies in, a different alert to seperate from everyone else’s, iseul grabs whatever he can and races out the door in a heartbeat, faster than he can message his manager about his whereabouts. can’t have 99 worry. can’t have them freak out like they did x amount of days ago. nor can iseul blame them; it came as a shock to everyone.

the pictures, the articles, the news reports. he was driving when it happened. had to pull over when his phone blew up. ring after ring. beep after beep. link after link. he remembers almost passing out, almost vomiting the dakgalbi he had at jae’s place. everything else after is a vague blur of shouting, of management pacing, of him just sitting there and taking the brunt of it all. it’s his scandal. it’s him photographed. so he gets all the anger.

gets all the remarks and questions of his well-being mixed in. most of the time, it’s from friends. so, iseul isn’t too fazed when sungyeol prefixes him with that question. and yet, nothing but bated breath exits a slack jaw. iseul stands in the studio, on the edge of breaking down or breaking to a grin; gotta fake it to make it.

but around sungyeol, someone he considers family, he knows he doesn’t have to lie or sugarcoat. he knows he can be honest. knows he can sob about it, mucus dripping from his nose and everything. he doesn’t because he can’t. because he’s done so for x amount of days, and he’s dried up.

he dissolves space between them and shrugs his shoulders halfheartedly. they settle uneven. “i don’t... know.” and he’s actually embarrassed over his response. over how unhelpful it is. how it barely answers sungyeol at all. “i’m not really used to this. to being the talk of the town. it’s kinda... weird. or... i’m weird because i should still be devastated, but i’m not. at least not right now. what are the stages of grief again? denial? sometimes i can’t believe that i’m the one in those pictures, and i’m the one facing all the backlash.” scratching at his nape, iseul goes off tangent as he tries to decipher the calamity that is his current situation.

( ... )

sunjae opened his mouth, just about ready to apologize like the nice boy he was, but he paused when he actually recognized who he had just bumped into. “oh!” surprise flickered across hs features for a moment as he looked at the older, “what are you doing here?” maybe a little rude, but he was curious and curiosity always came before being polite.

iseul wears fatigue in designer bags under his eyes. it looks awful on him, but he disregards beauty sleep for waking hours, which isn’t the most sound of ideas. thoughts are a civilized mess; he can function, but the question is, can he function well? the answer is in how underdressed he is in nothing but a sponsored champion sweatshirt from ages ago, adidas joggers and untied boots. every step on the lace is a startle, an almost guaranteed plummet, but iseul walks slow enough that it gives him time to compose himself, shaking it off under a bucket hat freyed around the edges. there is sentiment in old clothing that he cannot part easily with. a sense of familiarity in a rapidly changing world. he blinked, and it’s winter.

he blinked, and he almost crashed into someone.

on a crowded sidewalk of everyone going everywhere at once, iseul can’t react in time to swerve. so he simply puts he brakes on his feet. he can hear the mental screech of tires, and his teeth grit, expecting a head on collision. it never comes. relief releases in a sigh dancing under the tip of his nose, smoky but cold.

he blinks again, and he’s seeing two.

“ah, hey.” iseul lifts a hand in a poor attempt at a wave. his arm kinda freezes there, just like his smile. he can’t tell from which sunjae the voice came from. he can’t tell them apart and that bothers him—why are there two of sunjae, anyway? he points, makes a confused grimace and continues to flicker eyes at both. is this lack of sleep pinning a penalty on him? is this him slowly spiraling out of his mind after a traumatic year? no, it can’t be. iseul pinches his back, retrieves his lost soul and fluttering logic.

two people who look alike must mean one thing—identical twins, of course. how did he not see it sooner.

too busy blinking, probably.

( ... )

so when she saw him approaching as honey awaited their time to go on stage, eunbyul turned away, hoping that would deter iseul. she pulled at the hem of her shorts, frowning slightly as she tried to look busy. tried being the keyword – exactly how was she supposed to look busy when she really wasn’t doing anything ? but staring up at the screen, watching one of the other groups perform, eunbyul hoped that iseul would just pass her by.

for the first time in a while, he’s nervous. actually, no. iseul stands corrected.

since the scandal, he’s been an anxious wreck. every flash of camera strikes a trigger: a gallop in his heart and a pull on his throat. sweat beads under the heat of the spotlight. of the media’s eyes on him, prowling for a mistake. if he can avoid the red carpet, he will, but that isn’t the direction the company wants him to take. what iseul needs is image maintenance. a heavy dose of it. a last resort to fix the mar in his record—on POIZN’s long list of errors. he doesn’t want to think about the backlash they face on the daily, but at an awards show, it’s hard not to.

POIZN is nominated. his song is nominated. iseul should be thrilled. keyword: thrilled. he isn’t. he wears a hole in the dressing room floor pacing, chewing on the dead skin around his nails. a nasty habit. he sweats through the layers of a black button-down and long jacket. stylists warn him: he’ll ruin his hair, he’ll ruin his make-up. heeds fall on deaf ears as iseul takes a ply of tissue and dabs it on a glistening forehead. it doesn’t work. it crumbles on his fingertips, and iseul excuses himself for the washroom. there is an uprising of something foul in the deep pits of his stomach. something he can no longer tamp down by pressing his arm to his gut.

so strides hurriedly backstage, zipping through corridors but not once forgetting to bow and greet everyone he passes. he wants to vomit, but respect is priority especially when he’s expected to be on everyone’s good side. somewhere, he hears noah snickering for adopting such a people-pleaser persona no one believes true, anyway. while sophia reassures he’s doing just fine, and people love him, which he doesn’t believe true.

despite the nausea and discomfort, iseul battles the cacophony and wields a smile as both a sword and shield. dons it like armour until he’s somewhere safer. until he’s with people he can trust or grow to. from where he stands, iseul doesn’t spot jueun and holler her name, but he sees eunbyul, and he approaches in behaved strides of straight shoulders and a slight bend at his middle. they’re an awkward match. iseul doesn’t quite know how to come about eunbyul. how to speak to her, but he does, anyway. comes across a little aggressively friendship on most occasions. tonight, though, he settles for reserved, a testament to the twist of his gut.