↻ .. REWIND !

taemin didn’t expect sungho to take kindly to the news of them rooming together, seemingly still pushing the agenda of them being enemies. it doesn’t surprise him, but it is vaguely disappointing, if not a little humorous, because it’s so clear to taemin it isn’t the case anymore. he doesn’t know when it changed. it still feels strange calling sungho a friend, but they aren’t enemies, at least in taemin’s eyes. he cares for sungho, and he wants the best for him. maybe the best word for them is allies– two likeminded people, just a little out of place in a world like this, trying to force themselves into holes they don’t belong in. taemin’s edges are no longer jagged, smoothed out by years of trying to force himself in until it finally worked. sungho, however, still has some meshing to do, and taemin hopes one day he won’t see everyone as an enemy. hopefully that day comes soon.

from taemin’s observations, the rooms were mostly the same, just different dimensions. taemin left the one that seemed like the best size to him to the others, and picked the one he liked second best. he assumed the unoccupied room (and beds) might eventually belong to other nsg members, worked into the group with the reveal of new units. 

he observes sungho too, and his reluctance, and he wonders what exactly sungho is leaving behind to be here. he wonders about his doubts, and the reasons why he’s still here after so many threats to leave, and if he can count on him to stay. maybe he should prepare himself for a debut without sungho in advance, should he get cold feet and finally put his money where his mouth is. it opens up a pit in his stomach, proof that he is not ready for that reality. instead, he’ll do what he always does: do his best to make this feel like home– everything in his power to make someone stay, and blame himself should he fail.

he’s glad to busy himself with unpacking, and he nods. “not quite ten years yet, i don’t think, but it’s getting close to ten years since i was a teenager, and we were pretty young, weren’t we?” it was funny how long they carried that dynamic over into their adult lives, like they didn’t really grow up at all. he laughs at sungho’s comment with another nod. with the way young taemin suffered, sungho putting him out of his misery might’ve been appreciated. “i would’ve just broken your nose and then felt bad,” taemin decides. “you would’ve killed me, though.”

he’s done unpacking too quickly, and shoves his suitcase somewhere at the back of the closet, vaguely aware of the fact that he might be making much use of it when they go overseas, touring– all of the traveling that comes with being an idol. that’ll be him. how strange. 

he sits down on his bed, and focuses his attention on sungho, despite his intention to give him space. instead, he decides to ask the question he’s been wondering from the start: “how are you holding up? with moving in?”

the room is a little smaller, but not suffocatingly so. it’s comfortable to sungho, who intends to use this space to hide, to be alone, to feel all the ugly things and maybe let them out where no one who doesn’t also feel them can see. if he can limit himself, his real self, to the confines of these walls, then maybe he can make it all the way. not just to debut, but whatever comes after that. fame or infamy, a successful career, retirement. it’s way too much to hope that he’ll get that far without any issue, but he wants to try. it’s not just his own name at stake anymore, and somehow he cares more about taemin’s dreams than his own.

he looks around, sees the bed with someone else’s things all over it, and drops his stuff by another one. he still doesn’t want to unpack; he still doesn’t want to process that this is all real. he flops onto the unmade bed instead, a soft oof escaping his lips as he stares up at the ceiling. it’d looks the same as home if he took his contacts out, he realizes. he wonders if that will help.

“i don’t know,” he still talks to taemin because there’s nothing else to do, nothing else he’s willing to do yet at least. “that time is just.. it was a long time ago even if it wasn’t ten years. i don’t think about it much anymore.” it’s been blurry for a while, details disappearing into the fog of his memory and only the emotions of the time sticking with him. he remembers the intensity, but it feels dulled now, whittled away by time. he’s not really the person he used to be. if he’s generous with himself, he’d say he’s better.

one laugh leaves him this time, not quite full or genuine, but entirely unexpected even to him. a smile that doesn’t last floats across his face, and sungho tries to imagine what his teenaged self really would have done if he knew he’d be rooming with taemin, debuting with taemin, in a matter of years. “you’re a wuss,” he half-teases, because he genuinely can’t think of a time where he’s felt bad for breaking someone’s nose. he knows it hurts, his own being broken a time or two before, but god it was always so satisfying in the moment. those days are long over. “you’re lucky i didn’t kill you. or anybody.”

how far from the truth that joke is they’ll never know. sungho doesn’t want to know.

everything quiets down when taemin questions him though. it’s gentle, sungho knows that he can tell taemin to fuck right off and that he’ll probably listen to him. but if experience tells him anything, it’s that talking to taemin sometimes helps him straighten his head out, helps him feel a little bit better when there’s no one else to talk to.

he tries to judge sungho’s wellbeing by the look on his face, which doesn’t help that much, considering sungho’s expression, at least with him, seems to be set in a permanent scowl most of the time. there’s probably always something with sungho, and he doesn’t know how to help with this– how to broach the topic of everything they’re leaving behind, and how to make any of it better. he wants to. part of him thinks he needs to piece together a course of action for this situation, for when the others arrive and when homesickness inevitably crops up within the next weeks. as their leader, he should be the one they rely on for these things. he wants to be the one they talk to.

it’s only now that he realizes how anxious he is, and how much he still doubts his ability. katie lee believes in his abilities, but it makes him even more frightened to fail and disappoint everything, now that he knows the instructors have trust placed in his leadership as well. he desperately hopes that isn’t misplaced, and wonders how to maintain the balance of his own stability and keeping the peace between this group of boys. 

“you’re with me,” taemin laughs, sure sungho will hate that fact, but wouldn’t he hate rooming with anyone? surely he at least knows taemin will put up with him in his truest form, right? taemin for one thinks it’s for the best. “i think we can pick whatever room we want, but i started unpacking in here.” he leads the way to their room and flips the lightswitch on, momentarily lingering in the doorway to stare at what in no way feels like home yet. “weird,” he remarks before he enters.

“if you want one of the other rooms instead i don’t mind moving my stuff,” he informs him. he mainly wants to…make sungho less miserable. he so desperately hopes sungho can bond with the others, and that he’ll grow to love nsg in time. he’s here, and that in itself says a lot. it’s evidence of his willingness to try, at least, just like he said he would. 

he goes back to unpacking his own stuff, hanging clothes up in his half of the closet. “god,” he laughs. “can you imagine telling our teenage selves that we would be sharing a bedroom in ten years?” and a birthday. they share a birthday too. he could never forget that.

you’re with me. sungho can’t help the instinctive scowl that flashes across his face. it’s nothing against taemin personally, but he’s never been easy to share a room with. he’s pretty sure even jeonghan would say so: sungho had been an only child, after all; he had a whole room to himself for as long as he can remember. even when it comes to extended family, half of his cousins lived on the other side of the world. the other half never talked to him much anyways, except for maybe one or two that he never really saw long enough to warrant closeness with.

and it just doesn’t make sense. they have almost as many rooms as boys moving in, unless sungho is mistaking one of these doors for a bedroom when it’s really just a shallow closet or something. are they the only ones forced to share? or did the company just decide to say fuck you, we’re giving you an extra room you’re not allowed in like this is some stupid fairytale and you’ll be cursed forever if you do go in. but sungho doesn’t protest nearly as much as he really wants to; he sighs and accepts it. he said that he’s try, and he’s trying, and they’re not in any sort of competition anymore. now his future is intertwined with these boys whether he likes it or not.

he’s leaning toward the latter, but there’s still some hope left in him.

“it’s fine. they’re probably all the same anyways.” or at least he certainly hopes so. he’s not too picky about where he sleeps; this place is never going to feel like home anyways, not without him here. but he’d rather not have to listen to any bickering between the younger or more childish members about who has the bigger room, or the better view, or a nicer breeze through the window in the summertime. he’ll just trust taemin’s judgement, which is almost always better than his own anyways, and plop his things down in the room and hope he can find the motivation to start putting it all away.

part of him, perhaps a very large part, is reluctant to unpack, to put his clothes into drawers or on hangers, to make this space his own. he’d almost rather live out of his suitcase and backpack, ready to pick up and go at a moment’s notice. he’s been here for a matter of minutes and already he wants to run away, go somewhere familiar, safe, home.

taemin’s talking snaps him out of wistful daydreams before they can fully take root, and he snorts rather than mimics the other man’s laugh, but even with that puff of a breath he can find the humor in the situation. teenage sungho would’ve been convinced he’d kill taemin. today’s sungho, despite much preferring the idea of rooming alone, can accept that this is the best alternative. at least taemin can handle him. at his best, worst, whatever. at least it’s not aron. “was it really ten years ago?” god, it’s gotta be getting close by now. sungho feels old, incredibly old, too old to be debuting for the very first time. “we would’ve killed each other just to make sure it’d never happen.”

taemin tries to be one of the earliest to move in and he succeeds. he makes it to the dorm before all of the others, moving all of his stuff into an empty dorm, significantly larger than his own apartment. he hangs his clothes up in the closet, and takes in the sight of what will be his bedroom for what he hopes will be the next several years. it’ll be strange to go from a girlfriend to four other boys, but it’s not unwelcome. instead, it makes their impending debut all the more real. part of him is excited.

he still has a little more to unpack, but he wanders toward the window to see if anyone is coming, only to see sungho standing outside with an unidentified male. he could be entirely off base, but he takes a wild guess that it’s the roommate he heard about from sungho. jeonghan, right? he texted him to keep an eye on sungho once, and taemin promised he would. he wonders, vaguely, if he’ll be okay– remembers how difficult it was seeing jiwon off when she moved into luxe dorms, and how abandoned he would’ve felt had it happened even a year prior.

his departure was still far from easy, several kisses and a long lingering hug in goodbye. taemin would never be okay with leaving jiwon behind, like some army wife waiting for him to return from war, but he knew she was happy, no longer a trainee or idol, out of the public eye, studying and growing and prepared to watch him debut. she was okay, so he was too, even though he’s sure he’ll always miss her. 

he watches as jeonghan and sungho part, and then ventures into the kitchen, taking note of where all of their necessities are located– which drawers house the utensils and which cabinets have the cups –so he doesn’t look like he was just waiting by the door for sungho to come in. when he hears the door open, however, he pokes his head out to see him, then steps toward the door. “hey. do you need help with anything?”

sungho takes as much time as he can saying his good byes. he crouches down to bomul, scratching her neck and telling her how much he loves her, how much he doesn’t want to leave her, how he’ll be back as much as he possibly can. he tells her to take care of jeonghan, because he won’t be there to do it for now. don’t make him sleep alone, be sure to wake him up with a kiss, and make sure he knows how much he’s... loved. sungho stutters on that word even now, even though it’s true.

he already said the bulk of his good byes at their apartment, already gave his last kiss, but he squeezes jeonghan’s arm one last time, one last gesture. and then sungho is hiking a bag up higher on his shoulder, taking hold of his suitcase, and heading into the building that’s supposed to be his new home.

of fucking course the first person he has to see is lee taemin.

he sits, as instructed, leg pressed against sungho’s, shoulders touching, a hand resting innocently on sungho’s thigh, a wordless physical reassurance that he is here, he is here for him, to support him, through whatever dismal circumstances he’s subjected himself to this time. he thinks himself invincible, flawless marble, impervious to sungho’s problems so that he can defend sungho from them. he is floating on a rare silver-lined cloud, he is untouchable. but in a split second, his cloud is dissolved, falls to the ground in a wave of acid rain, the way his heart plummets with a loud splash into his stomach. it isn’t a sungho problem at all.

he knows what this means. he’s known what this means since sungho first signed a contract with kt entertainment, sold his soul to bubblegum pink with every promise of shedding jeonghan on his way up that candy-coated razor-sharp ladder of success. let’s sit down now. i’m tired. jeonghan knows now he’s not nearly as tired as he is something else, something else jeonghan doesn’t want to think about, but can’t escape. his hand doesn’t move, his body still brushed up against sungho’s, no physical sign of his distress.

but there are signs. there are signs in the way some of the fond redness drains from his cheeks, in the heavy way he swallows, in the subtle turn down of the corners of his smile, struggling to stay afloat.

“oh,” is all he says at first, a heavy half-second hanging between them as his gaze flits to where sungho’s hand rests in bomul’s fur. then he acts, smile returning, shoulders straightening, hand gently squeezing the familiar curve of sungho’s leg fondly.

“that’s great isn’t it? congratulations,” he masks his terror with professional skill, leans in to lay a chaste kiss on his cheek, swallows back the pain of the knowledge that their kisses are numbered, just like everything else they have together: days, nights, dates, meals, sleeps, embraces, laughs, cries, vacations, holidays, gifts, kisses, kisses, kisses…

“I’m proud of you. you’ve earned this,” that much is real, he is still almost nothing but real with sungho, even now, as his heart begins preforating itself at its weakest edges, in preparation for its inevitable breakage. it’s harder, heavier, to hide behind a false smile when he finds himself hiding from the love of his life.

“you’re gonna kill it.”

he watches jeonghan and he waits for it. he waits for the return of that dark cloud that had been haunting the other man for weeks upon weeks now, he waits for the inevitable storm, for this peaceful bubble to pop with a very un-peaceful vengeance. and it comes, but just barely. it’s only because sungho is looking closely, looking for this sort of reaction exactly, that he sees the way color drains from jeonghan’s face, the way he swallows down a frown as if he hoped sungho wouldn’t see it. he sees all the littlest things, the finer details that he wouldn’t notice anywhere else.

and he hates it when jeonghan pretends it never happened.

jeonghan leans in for a cheek kiss and sungho is still too stunned in place to lean back and avoid it. this isn’t what he wants; this isn’t them. in these walls they can be ugly, even at each other. he’ll never forget the way he resented jeonghan when he signed that trc contract, or the way jeonghan’s world fell apart when he lost it. surely that same feeling is making its home in jeonghan again right now. sungho doesn’t think he could be so noble to cover it up should these roles have been reversed; jeonghan doesn’t have to be either.

“is it?” he sounds hollow, distant, like the world he’s existing in isn’t quite real. and maybe it’s not, with the way jeonghan smiles at him like everything is going to be okay. it’s not. sungho knows it’s not. he’s not even excited for this, not even friends with enough of the boys he’s training with to think he can survive once they get to debut. he’s not excited to leave the person he cares about most, to drift further and further away until this oasis is an invisible speck on the horizon.

he lifts his eyes, somewhat taken aback by the gesture. he doesn’t know much about sungho — doesn’t know him at all truthfully — so perhaps it had been unfair to not expect any sympathy of him. the other trainee had always come across as the closed-off type, someone who preferred to keep to themselves and mind their own matters, content to stay that way. wanting to be as respectful as he possibly could, jimin never dared to toe beyond that invisible line. it had always been like that.

there was nothing wrong with a little distance between trainees, after all, a few walls kept intact. kt had a way of bringing a variety of colorful personalities together, each person unique and memorable in their own right, but all these different tones didn’t have to blend together. at the end of the day, the trainees are something akin to coworkers. they only had to get along professionally and play a role. anything beyond that is nonobligatory.

among the many things yoon joonki had told the group (resounding in jimin’s head even now), there’s one that sticks out during the moment: let’s try working together, okay?

so jimin wipes the fresh onset of tears that rise from the mention of this morning and opens his doors for sungho, just a bit. if he shuts the other trainee out now, he has the notion that it’d only worsen things between them by creating an awkward tension or, worse, cause a rift in the team.

his voice is still unsteady, throat tight as he struggles for words. “y-yeah, that’s part of—” part of it. he almost hints at his boyfriend — best friend, ex, whatever they are now. (he’ll never know because jeongguk won’t talk to him.) he catches himself, faltering. he swallows then redirects, “you’d think that i — that i would be ready for it, that i would’ve been waiting for it. it’s been three years, but i-i’m not…”

suddenly, shame washes over him. he feels pitiful, disappointed in himself, upset. “stupid, isn’t it?” he’s ventured so far down this road only to now doubt the path he walks, just as the bridge to the next terrain has come into view. “i can’t believe it’s happening now.”

he doesn’t make any attempt to move closer, doesn’t try to comfort the boy by any physical means. while he understands (oh god, does he understand) that not everyone (see: hardly anyone) in this place thinks and feels the same way he does, there’s some barriers he just won’t break. the last thing he would want was for someone to touch him while he’s vulnerable, so he gives jimin that same respect. sungho just steps inside the door frame, letting the door click shut when he leans back against it. it’s a barrier against the rest of the world, a shield for jimin’s sake. maybe it’s alright if one person sees his tears, but sungho can’t imagine that he’d like it to be everybody in the company’s business. the walls have eyes and ears anyways, let’s not make this a blatant spectacle.

sungho is not good at this. he finds himself growing impatient already at how long it takes jimin to get his words out, the way he chokes and stumbles and cuts himself off. but he keeps his cool, steadiest himself. it’s not that he doesn’t feel any pity or sympathy, he just still has a long way to go when it comes to understanding emotions beyond just anger.

calmness is kept long enough to understand at least a little bit of jimin’s plight. sungho hasn’t had time to fully process this yet, doesn’t yet know how he himself feels about it. sure he’s not crying about it, but he’s never been one for tears in the first place.

“i’m not sure,” he speaks slowly, picking words carefully as he goes but without ever truly stopping, “that we have to be ready for it right now. like, there’s no promises here.” that would be the scary part if he were five or six years younger, if he had nothing else, no secondary dream to strive for should this not work out. there was a time when sungho couldn’t see anything but the golden light of debut at the end of the tunnel. now there’s other paths. “maybe you don’t make it. maybe you do.”

he shrugs. he’s never been very good at comfort, but maybe something helps.

he could feel the impatience in sungho’s mannerisms. first there was frustration, but now, he felt that the other was turning towards immediate rewards rather than long-term satisfaction. sungho could work that way if he wanted to; many idols have also gone that path and people who didn’t know singing techniques well would also not catch it. jongdae could let sungho walk down this path, but his conscience would not let him follow through with something so negligent. if they were potentially going to be in the same group, then jongdae would also want to help him in any way possible, no matter how many times sungho denied or ignored his help.

“i mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try to pray to the vocal gods if you believe they exist,” he joked, shrugging slightly. just then, an idea popped into his head which was vocalized with a small ‘ah!’ “okay, so how i like to practice to widen my range is to know how my vocals feel when i’m pushing those boundaries. for instance, if i’m trying to sing higher, i can feel the tension in my neck start to stretch and contract since they’re not used to going that far up.” with each part of his explanation came gestures to the parts of the body where he was talking about. jongdae drew an imaginary line at the side of his neck from the base to his jaw, kind of where a vein would bulge out when he’s singing too high.

“in that case, you build up, practice to tip toe out of that range while feeling the way your throat and diaphragm react. is your diaphragm helping you when you’re trying to push the note, or do you feel everything coming from your throat? if the answer is the latter, then go back to the note you were most comfortable with and try to slide back into that note you’re trying to reach. repetition would be the best way to comfortably reach it eventually.”

he’s not a singer, chances are he’ll never be a singer, but sungho has never made excuses for himself to slack off when it came to practice. he could just give up, throw in the towel, and call it a fucking day, but that’s just not what he does. for all of his flaws, his bad attitude and foul language, his poor impulse control and short-fused temper, sungho is anything but lazy or a quitter. it’s why he’s still here now, not just in kt entertainment but the idol industry as a whole. some childhood dream that he never quite let go, though sometimes he wishes that he did.

jongdae describes his technique as if just anyone can hit any note with enough practice. sungho knows better than to fall for that trap, but he can appreciate that the advice is decent enough. yeah, he knows about the diaphragm, belly-breathing, and all that shit that a good singer has to focus on every time they open their mouth. but maybe sungho just doesn’t have jongdae’s range, maybe he’ll never be as flexible as any of the other vocalists. and he has to learn to be okay with that; he may not be the best at anything, but at least he’s sorta good at a lot of different things.

Sungho’s response to Hyunjin’s question almost takes the boy aback, unsure for a moment if Sungho is actually joking (he’s had a history with being a little dense when it came to tonal language, something about not growing up with spoken language readily available), but Sungho’s laugh feels genuine and it eases any tension from Hyunjin’s shoulders, offering his own crooked smile and response in return. The dancer doesn’t have a response that feels quite right, doesn’t really have words to express how he’s feeling other than a genuine attempt at playing along, “Should I come to you if I ever need any fighting tips then? I don’t know if it’s obvious but,” Hyunjin raises his hands in front of him, throwing a weak (and rather wimpy) punch into the air, “I’d probably lose a fight before one even began”.

Not that Hyunjin would likely find himself in a fight anytime soon. As emotional as Hyunjin can be, very rarely does he find himself expressing true anger. The adversity he grew up with frustrated him, but it didn’t often anger him through the years. There was of course (as always), an exception. Extremely protective of his parents, should someone choose to cross the line and belittle his parents, Hyunjin would not hesitate to (verbally) shoot them down without sparing a beat of silence – they were the exception that he would stand by for the rest of his life. “We’re lucky to be here but… you know it’s not luck that brought you here right? You’ve worked hard and you deserve to be here so long as you want to be here”. There’s a beat of silence before Hyunjin hastily half-backtracks over his words, “I don’t mean to sound condescending, I just… just want to make sure you acknowledge your own hard work too, because that’s important”. (There’s something about that word – lucky – that just strikes Hyunjin hard. Perhaps it has something to do with being told how lucky he was for things he’s had to fight tooth and nail for).

he almost-smiles, which is pretty good for sungho considering how much he hates this place and how little he knows hyunjin. he might have started the joke about fighting, but continuing down that path makes him uneasy. it’s one of those things that don’t bother him when it’s just himself making the joke, others not so much. perhaps it’s sort of a trust thing; it’s hard to trust people not to take it too far, to understand him and all of his many issues and nuances. but sungho doesn’t get offended just yet, doesn’t close up and retreat. he manages to stay calm, and maybe it’s because hyunjin turns the conversation in on himself. “hit first and don’t tuck your thumb into your fist,” is all sungho says, serious in a way that has to be a joke.

“jongdae really got top three for a dancing evaluation,” taemin laments, this annoyance just resurfacing now that they’re on the subject. jongdae, inevitable main vocalist, with the most center parts of all of them for the january evaluation, in the top three. maybe the coaches rigged it; otherwise, why would they give him the most noticeable dance parts? maybe taemin had about the same amount, but dancing was his only standout talent, so that made sense. what made things worse was that he couldn’t find much fault in jongdae’s dancing either. he wasn’t spectacular, but he was perfectly serviceable for an idol dancer, whole bundle of talent that he is. it should be a good thing, and if they debut together, it will be. he’ll be a huge asset to any group he debuts in, that much is true.

for now, however, with tensions so high, every little thing strikes a nerve. it’s something close to miraculous that he and sungho find so much common ground here now, opposed to arguing, given how much minhyuk has worn down their patience. he looks over at sungho with a frown, unable to do otherwise. he worries for him, and his refusal to conform, even if it’s subtler now than it once was, if only because he’s reigning it in for the sake of his chance to debut. taemin’s thankful for that much, though it doesn’t make sense why. somehow, sungho has become one of the boys whose journey to potentially debuting he’s invested in the most. he still won’t admit he wants to debut with him to himself, but who else would he be able to do something like this with, if not sungho? who else could he be so unapologetically human around, like a breath of fresh air when the rest of the world wants him to hold his breath instead?

he doesn’t say anything. they’ve been through it all before: how much they need to fake it if they want to survive in this industry, and how much that goes against sungho’s entire being. taemin is so used to it now– to holding back his biting remarks for minhyuk for the sake of the team, to holding it together to remain a reliable presence for them. he hasn’t done such a good job of that lately, though, like he’s cracking underneath the slightest pressure. at least he and sungho are here, instead of screaming at minhyuk in the practice room.

sungho, however, doesn’t think jongdae would be a better leader, and he doesn’t know why he’s so surprised to hear it. he laughs though, even if it’s short, because he makes a fair point. “you’d make jongdae’s life hell,” he agrees with a nod. “just like you made mine hell for what, two years?” he hopes sungho recognizes it as a joke. wait– it’s a joke. odd. 

“god, if the concept doesn’t include dancing they better just drop me. i’m 27. i could like, i don’t know, go get married or something.” it’s not so far off from the truth. it’s innocent enough, however, that he doesn’t worry about saying it to sungho, and maybe if it was more obvious that he already has someone he could marry, he doesn’t care as much as he should. he’s already exhausted. maybe he’s not as cut out for this as he thought. he runs a hand through his hair and holds his hand on the back of his head, letting a huff of air out through his lips. he looks over at sungho with another sigh. “we have to do our best,” he says, like it’s some awful, begrudging realization.

he still feels like tearing his hair out, still feels like he needs to scream and break something before this unbearable frustration finally breaks and a little sunlight can be let in. but talking to taemin, having someone who just understands him in this place, it goes a long way. longer than he’d ever care to admit, especially when saying out loud that he doesn’t actually hate taemin anymore is still sort of a chore. at least there’s someone who gets it, who shares most of his opinions even if he’s not so quick to voice it, or as blunt when he finally does. at least sungho has someone like him, a person rapidly becoming an oasis in a desert, a safe shelter in a storm, familiar. he might call him a friend if he wasn’t, well, taemin.

“yeah. i just don’t exist to the coaches or something. still not sure what to make of that.” he supposes he should be grateful that he wasn’t thrown in as one of the worsts of the month with the rest of the rappers, but sungho has never been the type to be satisfied with not the worst. he’s older, more realistic now than he once was. he’ll never expect to be the best, especially when chemistry is the name of the game and he’s managed to put himself on the bad side of almost every single trainee he’s interacted with. but he wants to be better than just good enough to be forgotten when it came to picking out the weak links, but not so good that he gets any sort of mention at all. sungho knows he can do better than that.

the joke taemin makes isn’t quite funny, but sungho’s scowl changes slightly in acknowledgement. he doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh, but it looks like he might have tried. god, he really hated taemin when he first met him again here. he can’t remember why now, surely it was something that ran deeper than just a grudge from when they were hardly more than kids? had he really been that stupid back then? he’d apologize for two years of hell, but he still doesn’t really want to. they weren’t good years for him either, and they don’t look like they’ll be getting much better any time soon either.

at the end of the day, jongdae might make a perfectly fine leader for every other boy in the company. but he can’t lead sungho, so he’s simply unfit for the job. not that sungho has any high hopes of making it into the final group, but surely kt has the foresight to select a leader better at handling actual conflict, rather than just theoretical?

Sungho trying to play nice was…in Aron’s terms, a little questionable. He’s never seen anyone that seemed so temperable, so serious that they can’t take (can’t differentiate?) a joke and generally, not fun. Of course, he’s not Sungho - one can’t know if the fish is happy or sad because they aren’t a god damn fish. Aron just arched a brow, waiting for him to elaborate.

He pressed his lips into a fine line, arms folded as he leaned against the wall, not speaking a word till he’s sure that the other’s done. “…Fine,” he starts after a prolonged pause, eyes not leaving Sungho in his own little defiance. He’s not afraid of him, not afraid of punches when a small temper flared within him. For some reason he felt hurt, though it’s really more of them standing on opposite side, with opposite personalities.

“Well, I like being touchy-feely. I thrive on skinship. That’s a sign of my friendship. Yeah, you can say that I tease you sometimes because lord, you’re so fucking uptight you know that? But I treat you the exact same way I treat every other KT boy. Don’t respect your space? I would have clinged all over you if I don’t give a fuck about what you think, but guess what, I do give a fuck, so I ask and open my arms. Fine, you don’t like it, but dude you expect me to know all that without you telling me? I can’t read minds. I don’t know you hated it that much.”

At least, he’s honest about it now. Even though it hurt to know that his idea of building friendship is clearly not appreciated by Sungho. It hurts, because Aron wanted a team where he could be close with most of them, if not all. At least a sort of friendship, but clearly, that’s not how Sungho roll. And for all the time they’ve spent training together, Aron supposed that he’s not even on the friend register.

Fucking ouch. 

Aron took a deep breath, evening out his volume, and tried again.

"Listen, I don’t know what issues you have over the idea of ‘bonding’, but like I said, we don’t know how you think. Fine, maybe you hate us, don’t understand this friendship thing and don’t want to be part of it, but we’re working as a team. We can’t work together if you bottle everything up. You say you’re 'trying’, well, then actually talk to us, damn it! You can’t just turn up for training and expect all of us to have chemistry to amaze our coaches. That’s not how it works. That’s not how we can debut. We don’t fake chemistry out of thin air.”  

The male grits his teeth, dropping his arms as he held back the sigh. This is stupid. They both had a common goal, but without a common pathway of working together, this talk is pointless.

“Let’s be real here. If we can’t work together, we can only be rivals - it’d either be you on the team or it’d be me. Or neither of us, which is dumb considering the years we put into KT. So how do you reckon we can work together? If it’s something I can do then alright, I’d try it.”

fine, aron says, and sungho prepares for something constructive to come out of the other man’s mouth. maybe he’s too used to taemin, to the way that he always knows just what to say. even if sungho can’t agree with him in the moment, he’s almost always right. almost. people are fallible; even taemin, even sungho. especially sungho. but rather than something that he can work with, the sort of understanding that he had started to sense forming between them shatters.

where sungho had fought to remain calm, to speak his truth as steadily as possible, aron responds with emotion bleeding through his voice. defensive might be the word to describe it, justifying all of his own actions as if sungho hadn’t on multiple occasions told aron to stop, to leave him alone, not to touch him. what the fuck did he think? sungho isn’t the brightest crayon in the box, even more so with emotions let alone all the things he didn’t really learn as an unmotivated student. but it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to understand what the fuck no means.

“are you fucking kidding me?” sungho has to stop himself, has to steady himself with a deep breath and a count to ten before he can go any further.

kwak aron is fucking gaslighting him. for once, he has every right to get angry.

“i’m telling you how i feel and you can’t take any responsibility for yourself? you treat me like every other kt boy. i’m not like every other kt boy. if you didn’t know that from the start then i don’t know what to say.” sungho can’t do this. he can’t keep his temper in this situation, can’t communicate effectively with how every instinct screams at him to stop trying to use his words, obviously they’re not getting the point across. he’s made so much progress in killing bad habits, but they still flare up under stress.

not to mention sungho is older. who fucking cares if aron is his company senior; there comes a point where it goes beyond ill-mannered and into inappropriate. how many fucking times did sungho have to say no?

what the hell even is chemistry? if it’s sharing your deepest, darkest secrets with everyone and their mother, then sungho doesn’t want any part of it. he thought he could do it, thought that it would boil down to teamwork, to a common goal, to understanding each others strengths and weaknesses and being willing to work through them. no one said they had to be friends. hell, he’d bet the farm that there isn’t a workplace in the world where everyone is best friends and an efficient team. if his only choices are being forced into vulnerability, into a mold that he’s severely uncomfortable with, or being arch enemies with every boy he’s supposed to debut with, he’d easily take the latter. but surely there was some in between. even sungho, in all his extremes, can’t quite follow the logic aron seems to be throwing at him.

“i’m telling you how i think, i’ve been telling you all for two fucking years, and none of you listen!” he’s raising his voice now, unable to entirely keep his cool. he struggles with words, but he’s always been honest. he’s always been himself. if no one can understand that he is fundamentally different than the other members of the mickey mouse club, then maybe he really should have left last spring. not for the first time, sungho feels painfully misunderstood and alone. this is no place for him.

@rksungho

it feels like the first time in a while he’s had a day not shrouded in a dulling, invisible fog, weighing down on his lips and his lungs as if threatening him with a lifetime lacking in happiness. it’s nearly freezing outside, and there are clouds in the sky, but the sun is out and the sky isn’t all gray. it helps to know he has his sister’s support behind him, even after she witnessed sungho standing up to their mother for the lot of them, all crude and brutally honest glory, resembling something close to a knight in shining armor, if a knight in shining armor could have a short fuse and no patience.

he does still bear the weight of that horrendous christmas dinner; of sungho finding the ring jeonghan had set aside in secret, with every intention of keeping it hidden for months, if not years, and ruining what could’ve been a perfectly planned surprise; of watching junhee and eunji kiss at an altar, of having to be ecstatic for them while envying what he knew then he may never have. but it’s as if the weight of it all sitting on his shoulders has made his shoulders that much stronger, as if standing up straight and holding his chin a little higher is just a little less exhausting than it was a few months ago. just a little.

it’s why he’s up when sungho comes home, awake and alert, sitting up in bed with bomul curled up at his feet, caught up in youtube videos about women who didn’t know they were pregnant until they were giving birth, his slowly-improving english making subtitles redundant here and there. it’s why he’s a little giddy when he stands to greet sungho at the door, helps him out of his coat, leans in for a quick kiss as if it’s habit, eager not to be alone, to share the day with the person he loves, in what limited time they have together before he loses him to sleep, dreams, and then a silvery-pink high rise.

“good news,” he utters quietly, reaching over to stroke bomul between the ears to keep her lying contently in her spot on the bed, “i told off an evil witch at work today, i have a callback on tuesday, noona’s having a boy, and,” he pauses dramatically, with a suspenseful smile, as if it’s a riveting, life-altering headline, “i taught bomul how to play dead.”

tonight, he’s tense. he’s sure jeonghan can feel it even in the delicate touch of their lips in quiet greeting.

he tries to nod and smile at jeonghan’s recap of his day, tries to tell him he’s excited for him, for his callback, the bitch he told off, the nephew he’ll have in a number of months and bomul’s latest accomplishments. and he is happy about all of that; he wants to be eager and enthusiastic to mach jeonghan’s good mood. but all he can think is that there’s a chance, maybe a small chance but a chance nonetheless, that he might not be around to celebrate these things with the other man for much longer. by the time that baby is born, is sungho going to be able to come home every night like this? when jeonghan inevitably lands the role, will sungho be able to go to opening night? it almost makes him sick thinking about how he might not.

“nothing’s wrong,” he says, and it’s not a total lie. there’s nothing wrong. he didn’t have a bad day at kt, he didn’t get into a fight, he’s not facing sudden unemployment from being kicked out or anything like that. everyone else is probably celebrating the news he and a select few others received today. “just..” he sighs, dragging it out in anticipation for how poorly this may go. “let’s sit down. i’m tired.”

sungho kicks off his shoes, finds a familiar place sitting at the edge of the bed, and lets his hand pass over bomul’s fur. it’s not as soft these days, puppy fur growing out into her thicker adult coat. “kt’s putting together a preliminary debut group,” he says it to the wall, not looking at jeonghan just yet. he doesn’t want to see his reaction until he knows what he’s feeling himself, now that he has to say this out loud. “i’m in it. for now.”

these are all things taemin should not say, and he recognizes it, but surely this is better than exploding during practice, right? it’s better than another fight, and jongdae of all people breaking it up, as always, proving his leadership abilities and cooler head. taemin can’t stumble where they can see him or he may lose everything. he doesn’t know how to fix the teamwork of a group so broken, or how to find enough patience to make it through this month. it’s a test; he knows it. kt knows his history with these people, and wants to see if he can keep it together, if not guide them to victory.

sure. give him 15 minutes and he’ll get right back to it, but he’s only human, and he can only take so many missteps after so many derailed ideas before it’s too much for him. sungho’s typical fuck __ makes its grand return, predictably, but it still makes taemin laugh a little, if only because they’re in agreement for the first time. there’s part of him that feels guilty; jongdae really hasn’t been anything but kind to him, and maybe that’s the problem. he’s never seen a moment of weakness from him. he wonders if jongdae has ever failed in his life. wait, wasn’t there an evaluation…? taemin can’t remember it, so it doesn’t matter. all that matters is that he falls so frustratingly short in comparison. all of them must.

he nods. “joonki said he’d rather have jongdae become a rapper than put minhyuk on stage with his level of dancing,” he recalls, and he laughs again, even if it sounds exhausted. “he’s totally right. jongdae can rap better than minhyuk can dance. but that’s so annoying. he’s not even bad at rapping. he must be a secret serial killer or something; i’ve never been able to find anything wrong with him. he’s like a robot,” taemin complains. “which means he’s the perfect idol.” if taemin was a different person he might admire him– wasn’t so insecure and desperate and worn down.

sungho unfortunately raises a fair point. they’re a team, which means they’re all responsible for the performance. it might not matter if there’s a clear weak link that brings the rest of the team down. does kt expect them to raise him up, or do they want them to still compete for the overall spot in the debut group? no, it must be the former. it’s just taemin that can’t shake the second part. he sighs, and doesn’t offer sungho a response in words. “i won’t let you kill him,” taemin objects flatly– begrudgingly. “unfortunately. it would solve a lot of our problems.”

why is he writing minhyuk’s rap? “because we need some kind of performance,” he answers. “we need to start practicing. we can’t mess around with ideas anymore just because minhyuk can’t do anything. he needs to spend the time he would spend writing it dancing anyway, even if we won’t dance a lot for the performance, so it’s easier for me to do it.” they probably shouldn’t dance at all, but it feels wrong not to, and minhyuk was willing, the absolute idiot. “i’m going to write him a shitty one.” no, he won’t. taemin’s pride wouldn’t let him do anything other than his best, and maybe he’d get some credit for writing minhyuk’s rap, too. “i’m kidding. it might make him look stupid, though.” either would make it worth it.

he heaves a sigh, and sits in silence after that, not convinced either of them are ready to face minhyuk and jongdae again just yet. “jongdae would be the leader if i don’t make it,” he comments. he’s convinced of it, and if minhyuk became leader instead by some disgusting, cursed miracle, he’d feel angry on jongdae’s behalf– not just because it’s minhyuk, but because someone there is clearly more competent. he falls quiet again for seconds that are too long. “he’d do a better job of it, too.”

“i know,” sungho half-grumbles, “i was there.” he doesn’t mean to dismiss the coach’s scathing review of a poor trainee, not really, but his poor mood makes him a terrible conversationalist. really, sungho had appreciated that someone finally said what they were all thinking, what they all already knew just from working with the damn guy. it bothers him too that jongdae is actually a decent rapper. like jesus, what the fuck. is there anything the guy can’t do? at least taemin sorta feels the same.

sungho heaves a long sigh. jongdae is one of the shoe-ins for whatever becomes of the final kt entertainment boy group. any of the trainees the coaches praised at the end of the month are probably going to make it into the final group. sungho... they didn’t even mention him. not once. he doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. he flew under the radar, but maybe just barely. maybe he’ll fly too low and they’ll forget about him by the time they come to piece together the final lineup. maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.

“i’d rather not be a robot than be a perfect idol,” sungho says, but it shouldn’t come as any surprise. he’s far from perfect, fiercely and stubbornly himself and refusing to change that for anyone. maybe he could stand to adhere to a little bit of conformity; it certainly would have made the whole chemistry challenge a bit easier for him. maybe he wouldn’t have picked so many fights, gotten himself so many enemies. jongdae doesn’t have any enemies. even sungho and taemin, who may not like him much personally, don’t have anything bad to say about him. he’s too perfect. unnaturally so. it weirds him out; what if they’re in some fucked up episode of black mirror?

god, it’d be so convenient if minhyuk just... suddenly left. sungho doesn’t have to kill him, no one has to die, but not having him here would make their evaluation group so much easier to handle. what an odd world where taemin is sungho’s closest ally now, no longer his worst enemy. he breathes a deep, frustrated sigh, uncensored and completely understood by the other man, and lets him make him make his empty threats about bad raps and sounding dumb. sungho knows too well that taemin cares too much, maybe even more than sungho does, that the group does well. at a certain point, sungho stops caring. he shuts down, throws his hands in the air, and lets every man fend for himself. minhyuk can write his own rap, teach himself to dance, and all that bullshit. the others know how to take care of themselves.