thrive

so after she said her ‘hellos’ and ‘good afternoons’ to the staff in the office, sooyeon made herself comfortable in one of the empty practice rooms and took out her heavily highlighted and dog-eared copy of: moonlight drawn by the clouds - episode twelve. an episode in which the lead couple gets romantically caught in the rain and exchange words that could be construed in too many different ways. honestly, she hadn’t planned on making sanha uncomfortable, but it sure seems like the universe had other plans.

     it’s not that sanha’s whipped---like, not at all, he can say no if he wants to. it’s just that he doesn’t want to. no matter how much he complains and huffs and sulks, deep inside of him the snot nosed fifteen year old head over heels in love with im sooyeon still lives on. so---maybe slightly whipped, in an abstract, painfully embarrassing sense. either way, when he gets a text from sooyeon, asking him to head down to 99, keep her company, he doesn’t have to think it over much at all before sending back a quick ‘sure’  and roll himself out of bed. 

     sooyeon has been a constant in sanha’s idol life since the very beginning; their happenchance friendship one of his oldest in seoul, as surprising as it still is to think back on. she was one of the reasons he auditioned at 99 in the first place, the promise of seeing an idol he biased convincing him and his friends to give it a shot, her face emblazoned on the poster and calling to him and his weak teenage soul. the fact that he may not be here right now, may not be imperial’s sanha, if it weren’t for heaven is something he thinks over often, late at night in the comfort of his bed when insecurities sneak up around his throat to strangle him, make him question how he landed in this life. he wonders if sooyeon knows, of how much he’s indebted to her, of how grateful he is beyond the silly, little crush that plagues him. 

“do you not enjoy scary movies?”

     wrinkling his nose, sanha leans away from where he was looking at jingyi’s phone, kicking his feet out in front of him and trying to figure out how to make himself not look like a coward. to say he ‘didn’t like scary things’ would probably---definitely---be an understatement. halloween was good for the tricks, for the treats, and definitely not for the creepy crawlies. he gets a spine shuddering flashback to his childhood, the looming haunted houses he was forced into with his friends, all of them laughing and obnoxious, only to end their nights with screams. at least their hoarse throats led to aunties doting on him, warm tea and honey spoon fed to him. few days let sanha live in such luxury. 

     it’s logic, he says, whenever questioned---teased. why would he want to be confronted with things that are terrifying---demons and ghouls and... fucking serial killers? that’s just not smart. people that enjoyed that feeling were freaks, in his mind, chasing the thrill of a heart attack of all things. jingyi was apparently one of those said freaks, though he figures maybe he shouldn’t say that aloud. still, sanha can’t keep the squint off his face, sniffs at jingyi’s commentary, completely unbothered. “the makeup definitely gave him goosebumps too,” he says, defensive, “that’s why she’s scary! too realistic.” 

"sanha,” jaewon calls just as he throws an arm around his shoulder, little care for whoever the boy is talking tot. they can wait, he’s sure of it. “didn’t know you were around,” he smiles at his friend, a little too close for comfort but that’s just jaewon’s way of being friendly, has always been, “how you doing? you going on stage right now? let’s go get a smoke,” and he starts dragging him, without even waiting for an answer. sanha will go with him, that he knows.

     promotions coming to a close was always a little bittersweet. one one hand, there was the sweet promise of rest, blissful after weeks upon weeks of high pressure weighing them down. on the other, it also means an impending stand-still. weeks, maybe months, of barely a schedule. being thrown to the wayside to do as they want, only to have their leashes yanked when they stray too far. somehow freedom became conditional, especially under 99. granted, that could just be sanha’s bias, a lack of knowledge of what it’s truly like under any of the other industry names. 

     in this moment, being reamed by his manager in hushed tones that somehow still manage to sound like a yell, it doesn’t seem that way. he was late, coming back from an audition---hadn’t missed anything. was there with the rest of the group in the morning. did well during the run-through. but he was “late” and his manager was stressed, so he was forced to take the role of a punching bag. at least he had experience. 

     jaewon swooping in his a blessing, though also an absolute shock. he hadn’t realized that the older man would be here, didn’t really pay attention to the lineup of the show at all. “what---” is all he can really offer being he’s being pulled away, his manager’s face going slowly red. maybe he could have, should have, fought a little harder, explained that now might not be the best time, but sanha’s pissed, doesn’t care, goes willingly, even. it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong---he’s following a sunbae’s lead, being respectful. if anything, he’ll just be yelled at more. nothing spectacularly out of the ordinary. 

but when she has no time to go back and visit them, she finds solace in friends, in people who she surrounds with at work. and now she’s here with sanha, although most of the time he has only been a nuisance, although very endearingly, like disrupting her precious me time up here, even worse with an embarrassing photo of her probably trying way too hard to get a good shot of the rooftop garden. there is an unimpressed look as she takes a look at the photo, pretends to frown. “god, you have really mad photography skills right there.” sarcasm dripping from her tone as she gives sanha a fake smile. “how do you make me look cute in that position?” 

     turning the phone back to himself, sanha raises a brown in disbelief, though there’s a smile playing at his lips, absolutely joking in his intent. “you think you look cute?” sanha waves it back in yujin’s face, before taking a closer look with a wrinkled nose. flipping through slowly, he zooms in on the face of utter concentration in one of the pictures he’s taken of her. “hmm,” he hums, taking a slow swig of his beer, “nope, i don’t see it. i’m halfway to drunk and this still is not cute.” sanha grins up at her, pats the grass beside him in invitation, nudges the six pack as further incentive and half-assed apology for the teasing. “trust me, i would know,” he laughs, pokes a finger into his own cheek. it’s ridiculous and obnoxious, so it’s perfect, of course. “i’m the cutest.” 

     snorting, sanha lays back, stretching his legs out and wiggling his toes. he’d tossed his shoes off somewhere to the side, pretending he was at some park rather than a posh hotel where security guards were probably watching him to make sure he didn’t fuck something up. no one’s come to yell at him just yet, though, so he thinks he’s in the clear. nothing wrong with having a drink and sitting all by your lonesome after all. 

He returned the playful punch that was placed on his shoulder, although his punch held a little bit more power behind it. It was difficult to hold back when he hit someone, but he did his best not to really harm the small male. “I know a lot,” he rebutted, rolling his eyes, but continued to follow him towards the room. When they stepped inside he took a moment to glance around, taking in his surroundings  It looked like the room was in the process of being emptied out, which made Taekjo feel a little bit better about being in it. He didn’t move when the other placed his hands on his shoulders, eyebrows raising at his words. “I didn’t know you held so much power at Pro. J,” he murmured, before smiling back at him. “If you do get me in trouble, just know that I’m going to kick your ass.”

     waving him off with a flippant hand, sanha goes to throw himself down on one of the long couches, rooting around for the remote so they can monitor performances. “you know so much and yet you don’t know that i have fans everywhere?” sanha asks, cocky but definitely lighthearted. it’s mostly a joke. imperial might not be the most popular guys around but they do decent for themselves and the fans that do love them... really, really love them. it strokes his ego enough as it is, the fact that they don’t have the biggest fandom is probably the universe keeping him in check. 

     “i know some noonas on pro. j’s staff,” sanha shrugs, “i could probably get them to be nice to you.” he wrinkles his nose, pats the cushion beside him so taekjo will join him, not really comprehending the bright lights and shiny outfits projected on the screen very much as he watches. “you know staffs love me,” he gives a cheeky grin, “i’m just too charming---and i help them clean up sometimes. advice for you, taekjo-ah.” 

     sighing sagely, sanha reaches over to pat the top of taekjo’s head, eyes twinkling. “i can’t believe i do so much for you and yet, and yet! you’re here threatening to kick my ass,” he scoffs, shakes his head at taekjo. “first of all, i’m faster than you so i’d just run away---” because he’d never beat taekjo in a fight, the older boy always grabbing him up in a hold easily, even when they were kids. sanha always said he lets taekjo win, that he’s just holding back, but they all know it’s a joke, a long-running one that sanha won’t ever let go of. “second of all---” he pauses, thinks. “there is no second of all, be nice to me hyung, i deserve it,” sanha whines, “i’m saving you from boredom.” 

“i just wanted to be perfect.” aroon whispers, too embarrassed to look at sanha. “and thought it was a flaw.” he sighs, brushes his hand through his hair. “i’m scared.” aroon admits, looking at sanha. he blinks a little and tries not to cry, at least for now.

     the apology takes sanha completely by surprise, leaves him dumbfounded, shoulders slumping as he blinks owlishly at aroon. blank in the face of his distress. it’s a long moment but the shine of aroon’s eyes makes him snap out of it soon enough, the shock fading into fondness, worry---not so suffocating now, but an ever-present thrum, a background song put on loop. he leans over, knocks their knees together, an obvious show of camaraderie, solid contact felt through the layers of fabric. “hey,” sanha says, shakes his head, wants aroon to know this is serious. that he’s serious when he says, “it’s okay.”

     and it is---okay. the frustration, the built up animosity, all of it fades away so simply. all he wanted was that apology, that remorse; to know he wasn’t so repulsive, fundamentally. regardless of what stage of coming out you’re at, that validation, it means something. it means a lot. so it’s okay---for sanha. it’s okay, and now he wants to make it okay for aroon too. 

     for all his talk of not being nurturing, of not knowing how to be, his inability, it’s easy to reach up, lay a hand on the back of aroon’s head, run comforting fingers through the short hairs at the back of his neck. reassuring, familial, supportive. sanha’s in his corner, he hopes he can pour that into a touch, can convey that with words he doesn’t know how to form properly. it’s a strange position to be in, with this situation, not one he has a terribly large amount of experience with; he’s afraid he’s fumbling too much, screwing it up more than it is already. he takes a deep breath, mirrors the one aroon had taken to center himself, invisible hands giving him strength, pushing his shoulders up. 

“i kind of really do?” her nose scrunched up, almost feeling bad for complaining enough for them to add a detour in their schedule. “oh!” and just like that, all of that remorse vanished. “we should find one of those american chinese restaurants that are always on television – i want rice in one of those cute little white boxes.”

     the pout on sanha’s face only grows bigger, affronted at the accusations. he yelps a tiny ow, rubbing his shin with a whine, muttering about how he definitely did not deserve that. he pulls his legs back, folding them up onto the seat, like a heathen but it’s the most natural position for him, an automatic movement that he’s never been able to stop. even if he is in public. “i would never pretend,” he says, sniffing, tipping his chin up to both figuratively and literally look down his nose at her. “it’s called acting. i know i have a lot to teach you but please, myungeun-ah, keep up,” sanha grins at her, flicking a straw wrapper at her---misses by a mile.

     “i was just saying i missed---oh whatever,” sanha pitches his voice up, mocking her as he repeats her words back at her. “isn’t that the definition of corny!” he squints at her over the top of his sunglasses, playful and easy. “this is slander, just because you’re embarrassed, too.” sanha didn’t mind, really. was willingly a cheeseball on certain occasions, even if he pretended to hate every second of it. but now it was a matter of pride, even in jokes, and sanha couldn’t just lay down and roll over. “madam cheese-a-lot,” he throws at her, huffy but a giggle in the sound of the words. 

“it’s none of your fucking business, hyung,” junho spits it right back to him, “what’s with all the questions, anyway? for someone who can’t stand my guts, you sure love weasling your way into everyone else’s personal lives.” he chuckles out of pity, throwing in one afterthought that certainly doesn’t make the situation between them any better, but it feels damn good to say out loud. “no wonder you were never tall — can’t be a rat if you’re tall.” he leans in then, so close that their noses almost touch. he’s practically whispering. “it’s no wonder they’re at the bottom of the food chain: just. like. you.”

     the anger reflected back on him has his shoulders stiffening but the insults junho throws at him make him laugh---proper and real---right in his face. it’s a joke, junho’s a joke. at the very least, he is in the way he’s approaching sanha; the way he must think sanha’s still a child. the hyung that would carry junho home on his back, when they were young enough to be bothered by scraped knees. or maybe the one in frustrated puberty, junho shooting up passed him, refusing to buy him ice cream when junho teased him too much. stuck in the past, oblivious as always. stupid, sanha’s mind bites, stupid and uncaring, as always. he’d wondered, so often, how forgettable he must have been to junho; how meaningless the space sanha took up in his life must have been. 

     the smile left over on sanha’s face quickly goes stale. the realization that junho really doesn’t understand him at all, not anymore, sobering him up more than anything else, ice cold and trickling down his scalp. tendrils of memories snaking around his throat until they threaten to choke him, suffocate him on bitter nostalgia. sanha squares his shoulders, refuses the clench of his stomach, denial a strong drug, a better shield than any else. if junho wants to keep this surface level, doesn’t care to look past easy jabs---sanha can do that too. it’s easy now, however sad that may be. short jokes weren’t strangers to him, years long the butt of the joke. his one imperfection; his biggest flaw---if netizen comments were to be taken as gospel, if the joking of variety hosts intent on biting and raising ratings was to determine his worth. 

     he thinks, if junho had just been a few years earlier with those remarks, maybe it would have cut deeper. maybe the wounds would have scarred like the ones from their youth. the ones that ran deeper, that the other boy had given him, himself. 

     “if you’re not worried, then walk away,” sanha says, roots his feet to the ground, a solid mass more than capable of handling his own, hardened by those crueler than junho could ever hope to be; body and soul weathered by time until he was forced to take the shape of a mountain cliff. “if i’m at the bottom of the food chain, why are you bothering?” he shakes his head, mock pity, disappointment, rolling his eyes in distaste. submission has never sat well with him, goes against his make up, and every inch of him stands in defiance. his hand comes up to meet junho’s chest, rests flat---the span of his fingers smaller but his palm thick and heavy in weight and intent. “better a rat than a coward though, hm? aren’t you the runaway, junho-yah? so good at turning tail and leaving. so why don’t you leave?” he shoves junho backward, wants his breathing room back, watches him go with satisfaction only to meet him again, toe to toe, to shove a second time, harder. “go and come back when you’ve accomplished something with your life.”

“yeah, but,” rice. “it doesn’t feel like a meal – i’m full, but not satisfied, you know?” it was myungeun’s first time out of a country that didn’t have rice at every meal (and to think of it, she realized that this might have been one of the few times where she went to a restaurant and wasn’t offered rice, or where rice wasn’t on the menu). culture shock? maybe. missing home already? possibly.

     blood rushes right back to his face, hot on his cheeks, under the collar. sanha clears his throat, hates that uncomfortable feeling of needles against his skin, only getting worse when he’s embarrassed at being embarrassed. this was probably his worst quality, the thing that makes him shut down most often; he fights down the reflex, though. determined not to be a dick. for once. instead, he just groans, huffs like a child, cheeks puffing up and an obvious pout overtaking his face as he reaches his legs out, kicks against myungeun’s ankle lightly, playful. 

     “shut up,” he all but whines, grabbing for his sunglasses again, shoving them onto his face, pushing them up his nose bridge---much less prominent without the shield of makeup. he covers his face with a hand, hating himself and this entire conversation a bit, but loving it at the same time. there aren’t many people that sanha can be so easy with, so casual and comfortable, uncaring of how he’s presenting himself. myungeun taking jabs at him, teasing and laughing like that, it doesn’t put his guards up---he’s happy, enjoys it even. his resistance is all in jest and he hopes she knows that, stays as open with him as he’s being with her. “sue me for being a nice guy!” he says, sniffing at her, petulant. “you’re the one that started being corny.” 

“At any rate, I’m sure you didn’t mean all of that, so as bartenders are known to famously say…” He reached across the table to seize the half empty glass of alcohol from the other’s possession. “We should probably cut you off.”

     rolling his eyes, sanha leans forward, across to firmly grip the glass stolen from him, sliding it back to himself in a harsh movement, dragging against the tabletop. his fingers tap against the rim, partly in contemplation, not bothering to stop the descent of his body, chin resting comfortably on his forearm. blinking up at seojin, he smiles slowly, all teeth and sharpness. “i think i’ll decide for myself, hoobae dearest,” sanha says, the words rolling off the tongue, the sarcasm caught in seojin’s voice only slightly amplified. playing the perfect idol is a familiar role, no matter his state; many long company dinners, post-filming celebrations making sure of it. it’s the condescension, the show of control that the other man gives that puts him on edge more than anything else. being told what to do brings back uncomfortable memories, makes his skin crawl. subservience doesn’t suit him, never has. he breathes slowly through his nose, upset with the fact that he’s coming back to himself, takes a slow sip. “but it’s nice that you’re so familiar with bar tending,” he gestures to seojin with his glass. “plan b’s are important, yadda yadda. it’s hard for those that don’t fit in, here.” 

     there’s an uncomfortable truth to the words. for many months, sanha was that outcast, jagged edges that couldn’t fit into any shapes, before he beat it out of himself; forced it out of others as well. seojin, with the lack of knowledge, with the blasé attitude, is the sore thumb. as pretty as he may be, whatever talent lingers beneath his surface, right now he’s that unfamiliar shape to sanha.

she does understand his next few words, though, and prompted by his questions woori starts craning her neck to look around and get a sense of where she’d stumbled into. “to be honest, i really don’t know. i came up here looking for a place to smoke, but…” she shrugs. “i’m kind of not in the mood for it anymore. plus i can’t find a way to get outside without walking out the actual front door. so,” she gestures in the air around her, “i’m here. wanna go get shitfaced instead?”

    blinking, sanha muddles over woori's quick yes. settling for it when his brain can't seem to untangle the winds and twists of their conversation---despite being barely a conversation. he reels back when woori sways just a little, laughing, pulling his weight back and pulling her in. taking it upon himself to half-carry her as he aimlessly leads them down the hallway. it's probably a good thing woori found him, honestly---neither of them fit to be alone at the moment. and keeping each other occupied had become a bit of a specialty; a marketable skill, what with woori being such a wild child, sanha would tease.

    "i'm pretty sure there's no way to get outside here, anyway," he offers, eyeing a window at the other end of the hall. "i don't advise jumping." squinting at her, he pulls an expression of deep though, rubs at his chin, tilts his head. "i mean if you want to though," he raises his brows, "i won't stop you." a fit of giggles bursting out of his mouth right after, eyes crinkling into tiny moons. their relationship is one of easy comfort---the kind you'd build from years and years of companionship. they clicked right away, their time much shorter than that, though. maybe, it was because woori was so free---sanha forgot about being who he'd turned himself into and was just... himself. didn't have to think about it, didn't have to worry about his image, just was. it felt safe, being around woori.

he turns to look at sanha, takes another sip of his drink to find courage to speak. “i was talking to someone.” he begins, still uncertain of how to speak, of how much he should tell. “and i kept drinking, because it was a sunbae, and i think i got too buzzed? i don’t know, i was drinking too much and we got closer so i leaned and kissed-” aroon stops, takes a deep breath. “him. i kissed him.” there, he said it, he can’t take it back now. “and he laughed at me. i didn’t, i don’t, i’m not like that.” he knows sanha will understand what he means by not like that, though aroon knows he is lying. they both do.

    the urgency leaves sanha quickly, like the ebb of the tide with the waning of the moon, leaving his shores washed; soft and pliable. easily giving under the weight of aroon's stare, where otherwise, he would have burned with fury, righteous and indignant. instead, he sighs, feels his own shoulders slump, twists his lips in a wry smile.

    "well," sanha says, searches for the right words---of which there are none; how can there be? "everyone makes mistakes sometimes, right?" he says it with a laugh but even still, his stomach clenches in discomfort. he's sure it must show. but he's been in this situation. is familiar enough with it to know that any other approach, now when aroon is so resistant, so seemingly repulsed, would just push them away. again. contention that can't be breached.

    if he's honest, sanha's surprised this hasn't happened earlier. aroon like a volcano set to erupt, feigning dormancy. sanha shakes his head, reaches over to pat aroon's shoulder in sympathy. forces himself into aroon's shoes, into understanding just how traumatic that must have been. "listen, so what! you kissed someone," he shrugs, smiles, tries to instill some confidence in him that it's not a big deal (it might be a big deal). "look around, literally everyone is accidentally kissing. blame the alcohol. and fuck that guy for laughing at you---really, i'll fight him."