respawn

it still feels weird, having a key to her own apartment. a place that’s hers, not borrowed or temporary or half-lived in. weird, but good. good in that quiet, unfamiliar way that makes her nervous if she thinks about it too long.

so she doesn’t. she thinks about the evening air instead. about how the rooftop view isn’t anything spectacular—mostly other rooftops, laundry lines, neon signs from a noraebang two blocks away—but still, it’s hers.

she hears the door creak behind her and doesn’t turn around. just offers a small glance over her shoulder and a smile that’s more tired than anything else.

“you always find your way to a rooftop anyway, figured i’d beat you to it for once.”

it’s not mean. it never is with him. her voice carries a teasing lilt, like a string she’s offering him to pull. like always.

she doesn’t know what they are—hasn’t dared try to name it. it’s slower than anything she’s ever felt before, but maybe that’s why she lets it happen. whatever’s between them, it moves like molasses, soft and clumsy, quiet as a secret. but it’s there.

she gestures with a slight nod to the spot next to her on the blanket she dragged up earlier, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed past her palms. she’s still in training clothes, hair pulled up, skin bare and warm with the day’s leftover heat. a half-drunk bottle of pocari sits nearby, condensation beading against the plastic.

"they didn’t kill me today," she says lightly, breaking the silence, "though i think my quads might just disown me tomorrow."

her fingers toy with the edge of the blanket. her shoulder brushes his for the first time, and when she doesn’t immediately move away, that’s its own kind of invitation. eventually, her head tips gently against him—hesitant at first, then more fully.

then again, he's not sure artist is the right word for him anymore. it could be that delta will, one way or another, take that from him too.

her smile is weary, but it's still a bigger smile than he manages. her presence has always been a comfort, but even she can't fight the fate that looms over his head like a boot over a bug. he can only hope it'll be quick. he knows it won't be.

wordlessly, he takes the spot on the blanket offered him, smelling freshly of the quick shower he took on his way out of the delta building, setting his own fifty-ounce water bottle next to her sports drink with a small clang that pierces the humid haze of a twilight summer like a paring knife.

he still can't find his words for some reason, but when he gets a whiff of her conditioner and feels the weight of her head on him, his shoulders relax in spite of themselves. but his throat tightens. he should be happier than he is in this moment, he is so lucky for it. but all he can think about is how quickly it might be taken away.

before he can stop himself, his hand reaches down to fiddle with a loose thread hanging from the cuff of the sleeve hiding half of her hand.

this has become their thing, rooftop confessions, unbridled expression while they hide together from the powers that would rather see them apart. the relationship between them has changed, maybe, but it is rooted in a friendship that has always felt safe. and he has to be honest with her, even if it'll ruin everything. she deserves that, and more.

but ren does tell him. “oh,” joomi breathes before he can stop himself. he wants to ask why, but he doesn’t want to force ren to relive whatever he just experienced. maybe he should know, though. maybe in knowing he’d be able to help more. joomi isn’t sure.

still, he takes steps toward ren and pulls him into a hug. it’s loose for now, so ren can escape if he wants.

“we’ll figure this out,” joomi mutters. and it is we. it is them, because he and ren are a unit at studio delta now. joomi doesn’t know what he would do without him. he doesn’t want to know.

he’d survive, he knows. he always survives, even when he doesn’t want to. he’d live with the loss and once again erase someone from his dream of debuting with his friends. it would be unfair, though. maybe it’s selfish of him, because this is about ren, really – but it’s not fair to joomi, either. it’s not fair that he gets loss after loss after loss.

they have three months, though. three months to make sure ren stays in delta. that’s surely enough time. it’ll have to be enough time.

it doesn't.

ren doesn't dare move from within the partial cocoon of joomi's embrace. he is afraid his legs will give out and he will crumble and whatever is left of his skeleton will simply disintegrate into the useless goo he feels like now. but the hug makes him want to cry even more, which he told himself he wouldn't do, not where delta can see him. the again, it seems like they can see him everywhere these days, so maybe there is no point in holding back.

except if he starts crying now, he's not sure he'll be able to stop, and he's quite certain that is not what his ceo meant when he mentioned the perfect idol.

joomi is so determined to fix it. of course he is. he's always been better at getting everyone's shit together, even when he shouldn't bother. ren can't help but wonder if his own predicament is another one of his best friend's hopeless cases.

"be better," he answers, as joomi slides his arms from around him. his voice comes out uncharacteristically dry, whispered, almost squeaking, like a hydraulic engine on its last legs. maybe there had been more to it than that, but that was what had stuck with him the most.

it doesn't.

ren doesn't dare move from within the partial cocoon of joomi's embrace. he is afraid his legs will give out and he will crumble and whatever is left of his skeleton will simply disintegrate into the useless goo he feels like now. but the hug makes him want to cry even more, which he told himself he wouldn't do, not where delta can see him. the again, it seems like they can see him everywhere these days, so maybe there is no point in holding back.

except if he starts crying now, he's not sure he'll be able to stop, and he's quite certain that is not what his ceo meant when he mentioned the perfect idol.

joomi is so determined to fix it. of course he is. he's always been better at getting everyone's shit together, even when he shouldn't bother. ren can't help but wonder if his own predicament is another one of his best friend's hopeless cases.

"be better," he answers, as joomi slides his arms from around him. his voice comes out uncharacteristically dry, whispered, almost squeaking, like a hydraulic engine on its last legs. maybe there had been more to it than that, but that was what had stuck with him the most.

it’s not until evening on your last day of your contract that anyone says anything about it. maybe you were starting to wonder what had happened, if they had forgotten about you or something. no, they hadn’t forgotten; after your last scheduled lesson of the day ends, the instructor pulls you aside and lets you know that you’re wanted in one of the offices.

the coach leaves you alone after escorting you to the door you’re supposed to be at, not giving anything away in his words or expression as he goes. when you enter the room, you’re met by a lawyer, jin youngho, a staff member who oversees the coaching staff, and yoon jihun himself.

you take a seat across from them in silence.

jihun’s facial expression is stern, exasperated even as he looks at you. he twirls his pen in his finger, allows you to sit in the silence for a good few moments before he finally speaks. “ren,” despite only calling out your name, the sharpness in his voice isn’t lost on you. “when we first signed you, we were truly looking forward to seeing the kind of idol you could become. but this last year, has quite honestly, been a disappointment.”

he realized, at some point, that two years had passed since their season of next gen, which meant ren’s contract must be expiring soon. on the day it happens, though, he doesn’t realize. even when ren is pulled away from their practice, he doesn’t recognize why.

he runs through the choreography they learned in dance lessons that day while he waits, unruffled.

when ren returns, it’s during a brief break to drink water. all he has to do is look at him to know something is terribly wrong. his face is blotchy and tear-stained, and he looks significantly more miserable and disheartened than usual. he catches the piece of paper in ren’s hand as he moves to shove it in his bag, and it clicks. his contract renewal.

joomi’s mind scrubs through the information in front of him quickly. ren looks devastated, but he has a contract. he’s trying to return to training like nothing happened, which means he wasn’t dropped from the company. so…“what happened?” he asks, seeing no reason to beat around the bush. his voice is soft – calming, hopefully.

“we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, i guess,” he adds, no matter how much he wants to know what’s going on. he mainly wants to help how he can. if that just means comforting ren over problems unknown to him, so be it.

his stomach turns again, despite its recently affected emptiness, at the thought of having to say what happened out loud. he shoves a piece of gum into his mouth, knocks back a painful gulp of water, stalls his time as if joomi might just let it go the way he claims he will. he won't, ren knows he won't, not if it's so apparent on his own face that something has gone terribly wrong.

he delays even looking at joomi too, because he'll see that soft, pitying look in his eyes, and the way it'll shift to despair when he learns the truth of the situation, and that'll make it real, and that reality will spread, and then there really will be no way to escape it.

he'll have to start saying his goodbyes now, lest he forget anyone along the way.

he doesn't respond to joomi's request to provide affection. ren knows he'll know what to do without hearing it out loud. he so often knows what ren needs before ren knows it himself. it's not fair to joomi, really. maybe he'll thrive more once he doesn't have to look after ren so closely anymore.

"I'm on probation," he finally utters, voice stilted and raspy, his gaze floating across the practice room floor, unseen.

he knows he is being excessively petty, self-destructive even, lingering on a rivalry that was, in theory, squashed several months ago. perhaps it would have remained that way if the playing field had actually been levelled, if there had been a handshake and a reconciliation somewhere in public, where the world could agree the only beef they'd share from now on would be on a tabletop grill at a local barbecue spot. but between the billboards and the senior monitoring and the targeted ads and the comments on his social media posts, ren cannot escape siwoo, or his now validated superiority complex. and it only serves to make his already frayed nerves resemble exposed live wires even more.

"you wouldn't get it," he adds, not nearly with as much ire as he tries, and fails, to fabricate when addressing sarang directly, "everybody likes you."

it's such a bizarre, almost indescribable feeling, being in such close proximity with someone he once, potentially, loved and now, potentially, loathes. he is usually so keen on quashing his own fatalism, but now he leans into it, even when making eye contact with sarang still causes that odd fluttering feeling in his chest.

he orders the same soju cocktail, only because he can't be bothered to think of anything else or to be seen doing something as invested as reading the menu. and anyway, something sweet will make it easier to get drunker faster, and he can stop thinking so hard about all the things that make him miserable. he hasn't figured out how to tell his therapist about this newfound coping mechanism just yet. someday, maybe.

sarang fills the space between them with verbiage, like he's so good at. ren lets his words hang somewhere in the middle, suspended in a limbo between being heard and being ignored. it's all honeyed compliments and permanent flirtation, the usual recipe for disaster that he coaxes up so easily from within.

but then he utters what sounds like a genuine apology, which causes ren to look up from where he let his gaze fall on the edge of sarang's shoulder, a glint in his eyes clearing away the fugue state that clouded them a moment before. his scowl doesn't melt away, but there is something behind it other than annoyance now, a thoughtfulness as he contemplates the motive behind sarang's words.

"did you mean it when you said i'm not 'ready to be loved?'"

little do they know though, he's just as flawed as they are, and that level of ignorance will have him put on a pedestal regardless of his struggles or imperfections. it's a cruel cycle if you think about it, but all he can do now is hold his head high and rise above. that's part of why he's here with ren right now. aside from any ulterior motive to keep him around, sarang thinks it would be good for them to remain some level of friends. they have a lot they can learn from one another, even if their romantic chemistry isn't always in line.

it's then when his apology is met with a question, one that takes him a little by surprise, but also reveals information that he didn't have before. he remembers the night they broke up, but he was in such a rare state of emotional intensity that his usually composed verbiage was overtaken by comments meant to cause harm. hurt people hurt people, as they say. clearly, this comment has lived with ren ever since that night and sarang feels terrible for adding to the voices that spiral within his ex's head. he knows there's plenty of them, and that basically all of them are unkind.

the server shows up to place their drinks down and once they retreat, sarang poises himself to speak once more; grateful for the few extra seconds to gather his thoughts, as well as the first big gulp to help ease the tension. "first of all, i'm sorry that i said that. in that moment especially, i was lacking better judgment and felt hurt by you, so i wanted to hurt you in return." admitting it causes the hair on his nape to stand tall, but he shakes it off as best he can. "i wish i would've had the mind to tell you that i wish it was easier for you to receive love, to see yourself how i, and everyone who loves you, sees you, even if it goes against everything that you believe about yourself."

and then comes the apology, a deluge of unexpected sincerity that takes ren's guard in its grasp and tosses it aside as if it wasn't made of ice and molten steel. how would ren's life have been different if he'd heard these grounded, caramelized words six months earlier? how would his adolescent soul have shaped itself around the knowledge that those poison darts had been hurled at him to wound, but without any truth behind them? he would never know, because regardless of the intent behind sarang's past cruelty, it left scars on him that refused to heal.

"you sounded like my sisters. like my dad. you sounded just like them. you want me to believe you didn't mean any of it, but it was all stuff I'd heard before."

the sickly tartness of sugared alcohol reaches his nose, and he wants to drink. how nice to look at that unnatural shade of pink is.

"and it worked."

His gaze flits from one shade of saccharine pink to another.

"you...hurt me." It doesn't feel like the didn't verbiage, too small for what it was, too lightweight. he was broken, shattered, obliterated, imploded. he was thoroughly convinced he would never experience, or deserve, anything like what he had with sarang and alex again.

"I accept your apology, I guess," he hears himself saying out loud, surprised at his own concession. his first swig is excessive, almost gluttinous, a downing of half of his glass to unclog the lump from his throat.

siwoo isn't too sure what exactly brings him here. the weather is a little insane, and it's the closest cafe he can find. he isn't a complete idiot though, and it isn't lost on him that it's a cat cafe of all things - but food is food, and he doesn't mind the company of a few cats.

sure, he could be spending his time practicing but he'd like to at least allocate one day ( just one day! ) to rest - not surrounded by his managers, or staff members, by the constant reminder that he has to work double, triple hard. cats always seemed to do whatever the fuck they wanted, maybe this wasn't a terrible place to start.

he enters the cafe, and it doesn't really come as a surprise to him when he hears a few gasps. he hadn't done much to conceal himself today. if anything he's learned that wearing a cap and a mask attracts more attention than not wearing anything at all.

thankfully, it isn't terribly crowded and he finds his way to the counter soon enough. just something refreshing, and maybe a sandwich if they have those on offer. his eyes peel away from the menu and then at the - huh?

it's true, he thinks to himself, as the reality of this cruel, ridiculous situation sinks in, god really does hate me.

the threat of his probation already looms heavily and horrifyingly over his head like the freshly sharpened blade of a guillotine. the last thing he needs is freshly debuted idol ryu siwoo gloating in his face because he's korea's shiny new sweetheart while ren is elbow deep in cat litter and espresso.

maybe siwoo didn't see him. maybe he can sneak away and make the new guy ring him up. maybe it'll be a favor for everyone; the new guy is probably a fan.

"ren?"

"shit," he utters to himself, accidentally.

"ren? is that you?"

"yeah," ren finally concedes, clearing his throat as he reluctantly straightens up, as if he wasn't just childishly hiding from his creative rival like the sad little lead of the worst disney channel original movie ever made, "sorry, there was, um." quick, think of something. anything.

"i dropped. something," brilliant. very convincing, "welcome in, or. something."

he hates this so much. he hates that he's running on three hours of sleep and showed up to work bare-faced and is wearing a café apron covered in silly little pins given to him by his two fans and three regulars and siwoo is here, looking tall and proud and picture perfect.

that, plus the harshness that cigarettes have on the complexion and teeth, are the sole reasons he hasn't picked up the habit himself, even if it's felt a bit tempting due to the stress he's been put under. like many his age, he could just reach for a vape with a saccharine sweet flavor, bubblegum or cotton candy or apple sugar or whatever, but the negative health and beauty effects still creep up regardless of how the vapors are inhaled.

known for his visuals, he'd rather be safe than sorry. if he's cursed to waste his prettiest years in the dungeons of sr media, then he's dead-set on making sure they never, ever falter. come hell or high water, he will be the most beautiful man that roams those hallways, forever. "don't worry though, i wouldn't subject you to that. i know better."

the cool night air embraces them, but despite the spring chill that nips at his cheekbones and nose, there's a very obvious heat that's emanating from ren. it could just be the warmth of his body after being trapped in the studio for way too many hours, but sarang doesn't think that that's so. it feels different than that, than how it used to. this fire paired with the ferocity of ren's words tells him that what burns beneath the other's skin is anger, and maybe he's insane for this, but he finds it enticing; sexy. there's a danger to it that he's attracted to, even if it makes no sense for him to be. it's just how it is.

"ren, don't sell yourself so short," sarang begins, treading carefully. "i don't think i've ever heard anything bad from you. that, and isn't your music being heard a good thing? like, even if it's not you who releases it, people are going to love what you create." is giving ren a pep talk a good call right now? he doesn't know, but he hopes that his ex can tell that there's truth to his statements and that he's not just gassing him up for no reason whatsoever. either way, they arrive at the bar and make their way inside; grabbing a table in the corner away from the majority of the crowd.

sitting parallel to him allows sarang to get a better look at ren's face, even in the moody lighting. he can see how tired he is, how his brows seem permanently furrowed, and his jaw holds most of his tension. there's part of him that longs to cup his face and give him a kiss to soften him, like in the past, but he knows that type of affection won't settle his emotions. if anything, it'll cause them to surge, and not in a good way, so he distracts himself with their conversation, sighing.

"when have you ever been easy on me, ren?" he laughs, then playfully rolls his eyes. "i think back then my feelings would get so hurt because... well, because of rather obvious reasons. i really just wanted to impress you, but i was in no shape to actually do so."

he knows he is being excessively petty, self-destructive even, lingering on a rivalry that was, in theory, squashed several months ago. perhaps it would have remained that way if the playing field had actually been levelled, if there had been a handshake and a reconciliation somewhere in public, where the world could agree the only beef they'd share from now on would be on a tabletop grill at a local barbecue spot. but between the billboards and the senior monitoring and the targeted ads and the comments on his social media posts, ren cannot escape siwoo, or his now validated superiority complex. and it only serves to make his already frayed nerves resemble exposed live wires even more.

"you wouldn't get it," he adds, not nearly with as much ire as he tries, and fails, to fabricate when addressing sarang directly, "everybody likes you."

it's such a bizarre, almost indescribable feeling, being in such close proximity with someone he once, potentially, loved and now, potentially, loathes. he is usually so keen on quashing his own fatalism, but now he leans into it, even when making eye contact with sarang still causes that odd fluttering feeling in his chest.

he orders the same soju cocktail, only because he can't be bothered to think of anything else or to be seen doing something as invested as reading the menu. and anyway, something sweet will make it easier to get drunker faster, and he can stop thinking so hard about all the things that make him miserable. he hasn't figured out how to tell his therapist about this newfound coping mechanism just yet. someday, maybe.

sarang fills the space between them with verbiage, like he's so good at. ren lets his words hang somewhere in the middle, suspended in a limbo between being heard and being ignored. it's all honeyed compliments and permanent flirtation, the usual recipe for disaster that he coaxes up so easily from within.

but then he utters what sounds like a genuine apology, which causes ren to look up from where he let his gaze fall on the edge of sarang's shoulder, a glint in his eyes clearing away the fugue state that clouded them a moment before. his scowl doesn't melt away, but there is something behind it other than annoyance now, a thoughtfulness as he contemplates the motive behind sarang's words.

"did you mean it when you said i'm not 'ready to be loved?'"

maybe it's selfish of him to continue making himself a presence in ren's life, a phantom sheathed in the shadows of his memory, only to reappear whenever ren is close to forgetting about him. sarang doesn't specifically time like that, but that seems to be the trend. it's like he has a sense for it, and out of fear of being eradicated from the caverns of his mind, he places himself right back into it—for better or for worse. it seems sinister. rather, it is sinister, depending who you ask, but in his own point-of-view, he just wonders if things will be different without alex around.

he and ren never had a lot of time to themselves during their tryst, and though sarang tried to push for more intimacy, they seldom fell into the same rhythm. he would slam on the gas pedal, and ren would pump the breaks; practicing restraint and responsibility as opposed to taking any risks. he won't lie, he found it excruciatingly boring at times, but there's a part of him that always knew that, if they had the time to really fall into step with each other, magic could be created.

ren always felt uncatchable. sarang knows why, to some degree, but it's made him curious about how things could have gone if they had more time alone. in a way, he hopes tonight will prove his theory to be accurate, but he's also trying not to get his hopes up too high. for all he knows, they could have a couple drinks, ren will remember the depth of his hatred, and then they'll never see each other again—becoming ghosts for real this time.

when ren accepts his invitation, albeit rather aggressively, sarang smiles; changing the expression on his 'stupid face' naturally. "i promise it'll be fun," he begins, reaching a hand out to grab onto ren's, but then stops himself; knowing that it would probably be too much too soon. "i don't wanna go to a club, per se, but i thought finding a shadowy bar we can find a corner table in would be nice. there's one not that far from here." he's become familiar with all of them after he started training. maybe a little too familiar, but he digresses.

pivoting on his feet, he begins to wander down the length of the empty hallway; ensuring that ren is still beside him along the way. "i see you're still devoting all your time to the studio. i feel like by the time either one of us debuts, you'll have, like, five albums put together with all of the music you write. maybe even more." sarang wonders if any of the songs ren's written are about him, but he doesn't ask. he knows his music is personal, and there's no way in hell he'll get any information about it now.

"believe it or not, i've been trying to get better at this whole music thing, too. it's more fun than i thought it'd be."

"as long as it's not one of those dives where everyone smokes inside," if he makes eye contact, it is cloudy and without feeling, virgo judgment and adolescent scorn painting dark browns the tragic gray of tombstones and fog, "i can't stand the smell."

sarang continues on as if oblivious to the facade of loathing ren is so meticulously painting over himself, a confident puppeteer indifferent to the fact that his sloppiest creation might be plotting his demise as he sleeps. even now, he is so powerful, and it makes the voice in ren's head shout pathetic at him even louder.

"that's assuming any of it is actually any good," he mutters in response about his own music, bitterness at his professional situation now battling for the forefront alongisde that which sarang's presence produces in him.

"for all i know, they'll sell it all to vybe and tell me to fuck off," he doesn't mean to be so candid with the very person he'd prefer to hide all of his vulnerabilities from, lest he find another golden opportunity to throw them back in his face when he decides ren is, once again, underperforming as a human being. but he hasn't had the chance to be so honest about his truest feelings about his music, about his worst fears and discarded aspirations. sure, being in sarang's presence for more than a few seconds is enough to turn his stomach with tumultuous emotion, but so is the thought of a certain vybe member getting his hands on one of ren's musical babies and making it his own.

and, after everything, sarang is bold enough to suggest ren assist him in a professional setting and critique his songs, as casually as proposing they discuss crypto over coffee or see the newest marvel movie or baseball.

nayoung wasn't going to say ren was being dramatic. she was thinking it, but she doesn't really have anything to say at all. she honestly can't relate to this. she has never been heartbroken – at least not by another person. she was heartbroken losing her dream, so maybe it's something like that.

"okay," is all she says in response, taking a sip of her own drink. does she need to say anything? she honestly doesn't like either of ren's ex boyfriends – or at least she pretends not to like alex – but she suspects bringing that up won't be particularly helpful. not that she cares that much about being helpful, but still.

she sort of brings it up, though. "honestly ren, neither of them are all that. i know alex was, or is, whatever, your best friend, but sarang is like..." she doesn't know how to explain this. nayoung absolutely does not understand the appeal of ren's former manic pixie dream boy. sarang, who won next gen without trying – who became a coach without trying – who coached without trying. he's charming, sure, but what is he beyond that? why is that enough for everyone to love him? how did alex and ren both fall victim to him when he's ultimately so useless? from nayoung's point of view, all sarang has ever one is butter them up and hurt them – especially alex. it's unfortunate that ren got wrapped up in all of their bullshit.

"nothing. like, he's charming. everyone loves him so there's probably some appeal in getting him to love you, but what even is he beyond charming and shallow as fuck? like...do you know how much alex cried about him to me? i had to babysit him at your next gen victory party because sarang fucked him over. and that was far from the first time. i'd honestly be surprised if it's the last time, too."

she realizes she's mostly just rambling now, but maybe it'll help ren somehow. who knows. she shrugs. "alex was a good friend to you, so i get that much. that makes enough sense to me. but..." she pauses. she can't formulate her thoughts into anything that makes sense aloud. she doesn't really mean to shit-talk ren's ex. she just wants to be honest.

"is-" he interrupts quickly, as if his haste might negate the thought entirely, only to second-guess the thought a fraction of a second later, deflating back to his newfound default state just as instantly, "i think. i hope. i don't know."

but she continues, in that mercilessly, brutally honest way that endeared her to him from the first time they played a competitive overwatch match together. in any other circumstances, it feels like something of a godsend, the voice of reason he needs to steer him out of his own dissociative fugues. he likes to joke that if he ever got to hear god's actual voice, he wouldn't be surprised if it sounded exactly like hers.

presently, however, every word stings him in a way it probably shouldn't. he will contemplate her reprimand over and over for the next several nights every time he sets his head down on his pillow to sleep, and eventually, he will learn to see the reason in them, might even learn to agree. but his wounds are too fresh, and his heart still cares for the person he should hate, and she is the salted lemon-scented hydrogen peroxide squeezed into fresh cuts to cleanse them of infection.

"what was sarang to you, other than alex's boyfriend who let you fuck him? what makes him so special?"

and that splash of cleansing truth hurts the most. it is one of the rare times ren's own internal monologue seems to align with nayoung's, but it's this fact that makes his stomach turn violently. how many times had he had to fight to quash this thought in his own mind, only for it to be tossed back over him like a bucket of ice water. he can't hide the way his brow wrinkles, or the way his jaw tenses; the way he glances down at his almost-empty cup, or the way his fingers cause deeper divots in its side.

no, goddammit, he is not going to cry in this stupid coffee shop.

sure, he can't show up to dance class and vocal instruction in haute couture, but that doesn't mean he has to look like a slob either. he's seen how the other male trainees show up sometimes, and well, let's just say he's seldom impressed by them. sometimes little-effort works, but it very much depends on the man and how he carries himself. most of these men could really learn a thing or two about how to amplify their presence more. in his opinion, anyway.

sarang's biggest asset here is his appearance. his beauty is what's carried him through each evaluation and workshop, and though he's doing his best to make improvements as far as musical talents are concerned, he gives that a backseat and focuses on his strengths. there's no way in hell that he's going to be given a 'main' title in the future group he's placed in, unless that 'main' title is main visual, so showing up with glowing skin, gorgeously coiffed hair, and clothing that hugs him in all the right places is how he proves his worth.

so, even though it's the end of his day, he spends time in the bathroom to ensure that he's leaving just as put-together as he arrived; restyling his hair, refreshing his complexion, resetting his clothes. it's saturday night, and though he isn't sure if his plans are going to work out, he still wants to go out somewhere. before he takes to the city though, he waits for ren to finish up in the studio, and when he finally exits, sarang presents himself; offering a smile, the air around them perfumed with his signature sweet, clean scent.

"waiting for you" is his response to ren's question. he takes a moment to register how different the other man is. he's taller, his face dons an sharpness that wasn't there before, and his overall aura has shifted, too. interesting. "i wanna go out for some drinks, and you're the one who always tells me that i shouldn't be drinking alone, so i thought i'd drag you along with me." with that, he smiles; paying attention to see if ren's gaze rakes over his body. his s-line curvature is impeccably highlighted in this silhouette he's wearing. okay, so there may have been an ulterior motive in preening himself before now. sue him.

if ren had still been stuck in the church his family had narrowly escaped, or if he had followed them to the one they called home now, or if they had all been born a few centuries earlier, sarang's end would have been imminent, on a flaming pyre lit by frightened, angry men in dark robes and starched collars. he recalls, against his own will, and with startling accuracy, what few passages he remembers from the crucible, tenth grade english class discussions of it tinted with the bias of growing up on the distant tip of the bible belt.

...i know how you clutched my back behind your house and sweated like a stallion whenever i came near...

how scandalous it had been then, read aloud among a throng of going-on-sixteens who still sat sheltered in their own respective bubbles. how familiar it felt now, as if sarang was actively speaking the words to him between every syllable he uttered aloud.

ren is still upset with him; he has clung to the quietly simmering anger that comes with heartbreak, an emotion that seems to well up inside him every time someone so much as mentions sarang (an unfortunate byproduct that lies therein, the fact that his name is love itself). but he can feel himself weakening to his pull already, to the known fact that sarang carefully curated his appearance for this moment, to the faint waft of his familiar fragrance, even from this minimally respectful distance. and under ire and resentment still sits desire, an undeniable longing he hasn't yet figured out how to shake.

it's true, he can't help the way his eyes flit down the modest length of sarang's form. his expression doesn't budge.

...i may think of you softly from time to time. but i’ll cut my hand before i ever reach for you again...

"fine," he concedes, almost icily, after a surreptitious glance down either end of the otherwise empty hallway. it is only one word, but he knows sarang will catch the layers behind it, the warnings, the only-because-if-something-happened-to-you-i'd-never-forgive-myselfs, the i-still-hate-yous, the i-miss-you-but-don't-let-it-go-to-your-heads.

...you loved me, john proctor, and whatever sin it is, you love me yet...

he reaches out, setting a hand on one of ren's shoulders and schools his expression into the most serious, stern expression he can muster. stevie's lips twitch, but he holds it together; he's got a point to make, damn it! "we're going to do great. you're going to do great! you know why?" stevie pauses for maybe half a second, before continuing. "i'm going to help you out! i feel like i'm starting to know this dance like the back of my hand."

stevie's face hardens then--or, as close as stevie's face can get to anything resembling hardening. ren cocks an eyebrow and has to purse his lips against a smile of his own, amused by the attempt.

"i appreciate that," ren responds, nodding as if in determination, and reaching up to rest one of his own hands on stevie's shoulder, "but you couldn't even say that with a straight face."

then he smiles too, because it's contagious, and because he is already starting to feel a little more at ease with the entire situation. if he does debut, he hopes it's alongside the company's shining beacon of a personality hire (the most talented personality hire anyone's ever seen, most likely). he isn't sure he'll keep sane otherwise, too vulnerable to succumbing to his nihilistic internal monologue to make it without him.

"nah," he answers, wrapping an arm around the other and ushering them a bit over. stevie might be small, but he comes armed with energy and persistence that would drive the most patient person insane. "if i did, i'd be over there. c'mon. don't you wanna spend time with me~" he sings, going more for annoying than guilt tripping.

you've been on next gen twice, he has to remind himself to counteract the bizarre wave of nervousness that comes over him at the thought of practicing (see: messing up, erring, stumbling, being anything less than perfect) in front of stevie, jay, joomi, a live who-knows-how-large holiday crowd. how is this any different?

he does want to spend time with stevie, which is the first thing the other man has said that ren wholeheartedly agrees with. in fact, if the world ended right now, a blur of zombie hordes or power grid shutdown, and he was stuck spending the rest of his post-apocalyptic life roaming the peninsula with stevie, it probably wouldn't be so bad.

but ren's other truth was that he was almost certain he would fare better in a zombie apocalypse than he would in this scenario.

< w. @renxbe >

stevie loves to dance, and he's more than happy they've been given a pretty fun choreography to work with. already a vertex fan, which has made the days of practice go by pretty seamlessly-- stevie's mood is pretty high. every year gets better he finds, and especially since becoming a trainee on top of all that healing, it's hard to knock his mood down. not even how busy training has been could get him down right now.

a lot has changed over the last few months during his time in studio delta. new people have come. some people have left. the vibes have been up and down along with the general holiday cheer and gloom it naturally brings. stevie's lucked out in the cheer department this time around, so he's been dead set on trying to spread it to the rest of the people around him.

he knows he is lacking, has regressed in his attempts to bulk up and tone up in a way that might help him not only dance better but look more like he belongs as a six in a small sea of nines and tens. it had taken him months to recover from his own breakup and return to a normal, consistent meal schedule, not to mention the extra inches of height that had only served to thin him out further, seemingly forgoing all of his hard work in the gym and replacing it with limbs he wasn't sure he knew how to do anything with.

he is moments away from suggesting they change the formations and leave him in the back until the high note at the end of the song when he feels a similarly lean shoulder bump into his own.

"oh-" ren feels the apology for taking up space dissolve from his lips when he's greeted with stevie's glowing grin and their native tongue.

"me?" he glances around the room, genuinely surprised at the prospect, and just as disarmed when his gaze lands back on stevie, who is now pouting mercilessly.

joomi is a little overwhelmed.

it's mostly in a good way, but he's feeling a similar in over his head that he did during his early days on next gen's first season. that ugly imposter syndrome rears its head, if only a little.

delta's staff just assigned them their parts for their performance at the christmas concert. joomi gets to introduce the group as a whole. he also starts the song, with a rap, and ends the song. not only that – but he shares the harmonized high note with ren.

part of joomi feels drastically unqualified for these responsibilities. part of him, however – and a far larger part than he expects – thinks, is there really anyone better for this? the delta and axis staff didn't seem to think so, so he figures he should trust their decisions, and trust in his own ability to perform well.

there is one problem: their instructors didn't assign who gets the lower and higher harmony between him and ren. one of them will get to hold out the note in a proper high note, and the other will just be there to compliment the moment. and they get to decide, apparently.

part of joomi wonders if the staff is aware ren occasionally has a weird inferiority complex with him. maybe this is a test to see if they can overcome it, and come to a compromise without any strange resentment, or anything similar.

of course joomi wants the high note. it would be a great accomplishment and showcase of his skills to open the song with a rap, sing the high note, and close the song. it's odd for him to want something that will garner him so much attention, but he's worked so hard for the past year. it's fine to want to show it off a little, isn't it?

at the same time, he doesn't want the performance to become the joomi show. he wants all of the other boys to shine too. and he also doesn't want to give ren more reason to envy him or resent him than he apparently already has.

ultimately the best thing to do is talk about it. he isn't sure how hard he'll push for his own desires, if at all – but they'll come to a decision one way or another.

"so, what do you think about the high note?" he asks ren, once they're given time to practice the song independently. "what do you want to do?"

it would take someone unfathomably dense, under these circumstances, not to recognize that where they exist in this holiday stage is a good indicator of what roles the company thinks they're most fit to adopt in the future. yes, that impression could change at any moment, for any reason, or for no reason at all. ren could wake up tomorrow to a notice that his contract has been terminated and his visa with it, and could find himself just as quickly on a plane back to salt lake city with nothing to his name but a duffle bag and a family that's currently pretending he's deceased.

but for now, he is zhou renyi, standout vocalist of the studio delta boys, preparing to cover one of vertex's most beloved viral hits as a way to keep his treacherous mind otherwise occupied during the dreaded holiday season.

what he has learned about himself in recent days is a lot, even if it isn't always readily apparent to outside observers. he knows he has to assert himself, when he can, and not shy away from the things he wants just because the little nagging voice in the back of his mind sometimes tries to convince him he doesn't deserve them. he knows he is not the worst dancer to exist in the world, and he knows he isn't completely unfortunate looking. he knows the only part of himself that he has as much faith in as his music production abilities is his singing voice. and he knows that one day he will stop comparing himself to his best friend in the company for the sake of his own, and joomi's sanity.

but today is not that day.

"i want it," he announces, uncharacteristically firm and professional, despite his being only in the presence of the man who has seen him at the worst of his breakdowns, pale and sunken in and pathetic and barely human.

"and the adlibs at the end too."

he flips through the lyric sheets and sheet music, scrutinizing the lines shrewdly and confidently, as if it is one of his own songs they are perusing.

@renxbe

admittedly, navigating around what has quickly become his new home is not as easy as jo made it out to be- he knew the route from his apartment to his sister's university, and the cafe she liked to stop in on the days that she spent the night after late night study sessions (and although esther says it's because he lives closer, jo swears it's because she won't admit that his decorating tastes are better), to a local store for necessities, and work.

and so far, there hasn't really been much else that jo has had need to locate; his (former? current? what are they?) best friend's 'work', which seemed a little too formal and yet incredibly fitting for being an entertainment trainee, and from the crash course in basically everything surrounding kpop that his sister gave him on the long trip over several months ago. no, jo definitely didn't know anything about it until he learned that the scrawny kid that used to get mistaken for another brother to him was on his way to fame, and he definitely hadn't thoroughly social media stalked him since finding out about some sort of america's got talent, south korea edition ren had been on.

and now, after dedicated research and self-assurances, jo now knows one of the best 'hidden gems' bars in his neighborhood- which feels like celebrating with one of the very few friends he already has, and something that ren might just need, judging by how stressed out he seemed nearly every time they talked.

it's been a long time though since they've actually hung out, and there's a small stone that's resting in the pit of jo's stomach as his fingers drum the bar's top anxiously. there's a lot of history shared between the two, and jo is both nervous and excited at the prospect of properly catching up, and it's nice to not have to bear the challenge of speaking straight korean for at least a few hours.

"why are you drinking boomer booze?" he slips into english as easily as he slips onto the stool next to his companion's, grateful to settle into his first language with no worries about tense or age gaps or formalities. it almost creates a cocoon within the popular establishment, protective and familiar, speaking not just the same language, but the same dialect with the same accent in a way that can only come from having grown up down the street from a conversation partner.

(sometimes it still haunts him, the unsettling, pale look on jo's face when he told him he'd gotten the contract overseas. they were only fourteen, maybe fifteen, and it should've been a day like any other, or as much of a normal day it could be for him to tell his childhood friend he'd be moving indefinitely to game professionally in a country where he barely spoke the language and knew not a single soul save for his coach and the teammates he'd met briefly over facetime. sure, jo's reaction wasn't unexpected for someone trying to congratulate their best friend on achieving the dream that would take them to the other side of the world. but ren still remembers thinking there was something else behind the encouraging smile, something that dulled the bright brown of his eyes in a way that made ren's stomach turn. he had a recurring nightmare for months after that: that'd he'd said goodbye to jo, on the way to the airport, then saw, in his rearview, his friend get mowed down by an eighteen-wheeler, or snatched up by a pterodactyl, or pulled into a gutter by long, shadow claws. sometimes he thinks he still sees hints of the nightmare behind jo's eyes, even now.)

"drink somaek, like a normal tourist." his tone is flat, humor dry, in the way it is when he is most comfortable joking around with whomever dares spar with him. he is grateful for that much, that no matter how much time they spend apart, the pair of them are always able to come back together as if no time has passed at all.

"here," he pulls jo's glass toward himself, adding cheekily, knowingly, "i'll finish this. you get something else for your unrefined middle american palate."

ren glances around only briefly, doesn't see anyone else he recognizes, and breathes a silent sigh of relief that no one here seems to recognize him, before turning his attention back to the other man.

"well, i grew like two inches; i lost all the weight i was supposed to convert into getting swole; and i was dumped twice. simultaneously. oh, also i'm supposed to be taking two different keratin supplements and avoiding empty carbs? so," he ironically raises the stolen beverage in a toast to his friend with a sardonic raise of his brows, "cheers to that."

he takes a long, generous swig of the berry wine, the dessert-sweet tang lingering on his tongue.