#idmilo

@idmilo, music showcase chile, night at a private hotel party.

milo’s name is trapped in san’s phone. some of the unread notifications are from him. a glaring red dot, an eye that judges. but he’s busy, he defends. hes been busy. recording his song,  choreographing, working in japan. and then stage prep for the showcase. he’s been busy. too busy to talk to milo. too busy to tap open those messages and see what he’d sent him. and does it even matter -- what are they? san still can’t figure it out. he knows that long ago he took them both between his hands and snapped their relationship in half. they didn’t bounce back, but they came back together. jagged linens that don’t fit quite right. 

an unspoken want, and thinking of milo sometimes feels like static underneath his skin. pins and needles. a feeling he wants to escape from. he’d been busy. he hadn’t had time to see him. he’d only been ignoring him for a bit (for no other reason than being busy of course, or, that’s what he tells himself), but hasn’t it happened before? months gone by with no contact? but then, this time milo had been reaching out and san hadn’t bothered. he didn’t know if the reason for the messages was inane or important. 

but he knows that when he runs into milo at the hotel later, drink in hand, that he probably should’ve bothered to open them. contact him. find him before their stages. something. but he hadn’t. san doesn’t apologize, doesn’t preemptively ask for forgiveness. he should, but he doesn’t. instead, he acts like nothing has happened. the avenue san falls back on often to deal with his problems. like if he closes his eyes they might disappear. “hey you, having fun yet?” san asks him, and he’s already downed a few drinks. it’s what san does when he has an access to a bar and has previously been forced to sit confined in a room with the rest of olympus for more than five minutes. 

chess. the act of getting the king into safety and the rook into the game. see also: aroon looking for safety with @idmilo

like most things in aroon’s life chess came to him thanks to his mother. he was a kid like many others, who preferred to spend his days playing in their largue backyard than to stay in. his father and him would play soccer for hours, practicing penalties as if aroon was a professional about to play the world cup. it was his mother who one afternoon called him inside and sat in front of the board. do you know there are different types of intelligence? she asked. aroon shook his head. you need to learn how to develop your logical intelligence, she said, smile gentle and wide as always, now let’s play.

over the years aroon would learn how to love the game as much as he loved soccer, but never as he loved music. he still took a small board with him to korea, a cheap plastic set his mother gave him when he was a kid, a comfort item of sorts.

it’s the act of setting the board, putting the pieces into their places and practicing the moves that calms him down when aroon is too stressed. now after he released a song, now as their comeback approaches, he feels the nerves eating him away in slow but insistent manner. and there is hyuk, of course. there is always hyuk. cursed was the moment he decided to introduce himself to the new trainee. but aroon has always been too desperate for creating bonds, for human contact. maybe it’s an only child, who knows.

he cleans the coffee table of their living room and sets the board. it’s a new one, luxury wood, walnut burl, cost him a little bit to ship to seoul, but what a beauty it is. he puts every piece on its place in slow and deliberate movements. rook, knight, bishop, queen, king, bishop, knight, rook, pawns in the next row. his fingers linger over the king when he hears the door and looks up to see milo.

they have a lot in common, aroon and milo, maybe it’s why they can understand each other well. titanium as a whole is made of complimenting personalities, midas made sure they wouldn’t clash – at least not too hard, not to damage the group. with milo there is no need to fill the silence with mindless words, no need to small talk, they work well in understanding silence.

@idmilo, ep 1 of dancing9, during filming.

this is the first real time they’ve worked together while both being established. they had in the past, when milo used to backdance for olympus. but it’s a little different. despite it, it still brings with it a wash of nostalgia, back from those days. san had gotten himself wound up tight. as tight as he was able, anyway. he hadn’t had time for dating around the time of olympus’ debut. his entire focus was on his career., everything else fell to the wayside. potential friendships, finishing high school, and definitely dating. 

but, from san’s point of view, they’d gotten close. he’d been around his age and interested in talking. and so san gravitated toward him and away from his group members. would find slivered out hallways and cram both of their bodies back there between takes, if only to hide from taeho or seokyung. he remembers milo’s fingers working into stiff calf muscles, remembers talking intermittently about groups, or about potential auditions in milo’s future. remembers that overeager zealousness when they found somewhere cramped and quiet, to shove themselves closer. rough lips, curious hands.

but san didn’t have time for milo. his focus was singular, and if it threatened to split, then his mother was already there. ready to slap on some blinkers, or to grab him forcefully enough to redirect his attention. milo should have washed away. evaporated. dried up. something. but he didn’t. san always found him again, but it feels ingrained now to keep pulling back. and at this point, there’s some undiagnosed fear of giving in. milo’s been a presence in his life, sure. but have they ever really collapsed in front of each other? let down those walls for long enough to allow in reality. 

at this point it’s been so long. nearly too long. sometimes it feels fake. whatever understanding they have of each other. sometimes san’s not sure like he feels like himself when milo stares at him, rapt. sometimes it feels like he might be in love with a false image of him. but maybe that’s san projecting without realizing it. maybe that’s what happens when you grow up surrounded by people proclaiming their love for you, people who don’t even know the first thing about you. that want to hurt you just to remember them by. selfish. and that’s what san became.

@idmilo, after party for the awards ceremony. 

milo’s his sort-of date in the middle of a  room filled with mildly-familiar people to them both. industry something-or-others intermixed with idols. san knows mostly everyone in the industry at this point. he’s been in the game for so long. sometimes it feels like too long. but he doesn’t mind the parties. an excuse to get drunk. san takes a lot of those.

he knows why he brought milo. it was to piss johyun off. it’s unfair. he knows it is. knows milo likes him. or, likes the idea of him at least. but san knows him. or, parts of him, more realistically. knows he leaned hot and cold against him, back before atlas debuted. back when milo knew all of olympus’ dances just as well as san did. knows the feel of his hands, and knows that despite being fit into a room of too-attractive people, milo will gravitate back toward him. and san likes that. at least for the moment. he likes milo’s attention, even if it’s maybe misplaced.

he likes getting under milo’s skin, too. because milo is always finding him. eyes heavy. and san likes holding himself just out of reach. likes making people run. tipping them off balance. tottering uneasy. almost falling. knowing he has the power to give one firm, final shove and send them crashing. he shouldn’t treat milo like a distraction. but he does..

so when he’s off to find drinks. he stops. smiles. touches. flirts. if only because milo’s watching. because he knows milo will get all wrapped up in it. and he knows milo has that strange way about him, that in the end he’ll only serve to build him up higher and higher in his mind. san knows that one day it will all topple. san’s half sure that milo’s written him out as a completely different person than who he really is in his head. but san’s used to that. so he lets him. there are two flutes of something expensive in his hand. almost back to milo but he stops again. smiles. a hand on his forearm and san leans into it. because he knows milo’s watching. maybe it’s cruel. but san doesn’t care.

he just wants to work him up. wants to pull out the angry slant of milo’s brow. wants fingers curled tight against his biceps. possessive and insistent. gnashing at the edge of anger. that’s how san lives his entire life lately. volatile and violent. a reckless ocean of a thing, and he wants milo to dash him against the rocks. a water-tombed rage.

@idmilo, halloween party, astoundingly late or astoundingly early, status: wasted ( event )

-- dare, break onto the roof.

it’s late. the time that breaks past night and into the early morning if you bother asking a pedant what time it is. san’s had far, far too much to drink. at some point he moved past sloppy and into blear-eyed and telling people too much about himself. a rating that was achieved due to the fact that nobody was asking him questions. his tongue’s still loose, hands lonely. it feels like there are eyes on his back. a pair from someone he still hasn’t decided if he wants to buck the attention of or not. annoyance eventually outweighs desperation, and he’s on the verge of ordering himself another drink. the inevitable straw that will break him into tipping himself over the edge of a sink.

but then he finds someone familiar propped up against a pillar. san finds him, wants to hold him like a tool, use him for his own personal destruction. 

so he reaches out.

one finger tucked underneath the edge of a suspender, he pulls it out in a slow stretch. it matches the smile on his face. heavy blinks of his eyes before he lets it slide free, thump back into place. “hey milo,” it comes out in a honeyed drawl. dripping slow, a clumsy-tongued attempt. but he’s still smiling. distracted. milo’s always been good for that, even back before atlas took off. back when san’s hair was always wadded up in long ponytails that milo would occasionally tug at during dances where he slipped up behind him. back when milo was still just a dancer.

“i’m bored.” it’s just a statement. there’s no question. there’s no request. but somehow san has this innate power to turn nearly everything into a demand. i’m bored, that’s what he says. you should fix it, that’s what he means. but he takes that upon himself anyway. “i’m already fucking losing, but find the roof with me.” he curls his fingers around milo’s wrist and pulls him along. weaves them both through bodies still littering the dance floor. protesting the idea of returning back to the real world where boundaries are firmly in place. where antics of this nature aren’t really possible. 

“i bet the lock’s good and fucked at this point. should be easy.” san’s half-hoping it’s slowed down enough that it’ll be mostly empty. that enough people have gone home or passed out in some corner or another that he can find a small gap of space he can steal for himself. or for the both of them. he needs a smoke, wants to shake this feeling of claustrophobia sticking to him like sweat. 

@idmilo, end of the kcon party ( event )

it’s late -- actually, maybe early -- but either way, san’s completely trashed. he’d had too much to drink with jowi, had managed to fall into something chaotic with yohan, in the sort of ways they’ve been managing to do constantly as of late. it’s a little funny that san considers them to still be friends. maybe his pool is just too shallow to draw from. not that he’s ever blameless. not that yohan’s ever perfect. but he wants to shove him out of his head. his talk with dahye probably should have left him feeling more comforted than anything else, but now san just feels raw. a little vulnerable, the way he always does when he lets his prop-top tent walls collapse in a rush. 

so he leaves the roof, back to the party, on a quest to see if there’s more alcohol to scrounge up. he finds milo on the way. offers him a wide smile. the kind that might’ve looked nice if his eyes weren’t so wild, if he wasn’t half-stumbling over himself on his way toward the bar. “you’re coming too?” he asks the other when he falls in step alongside him. it comes out slurred, and san finds himself laughing. but he twists his fingers in the sleeve of milo’s shirt for balance anyway, blinks his eyes hard a few times, shakes his head, starts walking again.

“where have you been hiding anyways, i was looking for you earlier.” san admits, in that open sort of way he only manages to hit after he’s been drinking so much. he doesn’t overthink it, the words leave his lips and then that’s that. if he were sober, it might be a different story. “i only saw yohan, are you actually mad at me after all?” san asks him outright, one of those thoughts that’s been hung up in his mind for a while now. that he hasn’t found the right way, time to vocalize. he laughs immediately after. 

@idmilo, milo’s studio.

it’s not often when neither of them are promoting. not that their schedules are a blank slate. san’s isn’t at the very least. concert prep, a string of them to go to, and midas had okay-ed his mini album preparations. the date of when everything would be pushed out is a complete mystery to him. it usually is. he’d recorded danger a year before it had dropped, after all. but he likes the song they’d pulled for him. and they’d even let him sit and talk about creative direction (and mostly that revolved around san attempting to push for something harder-edged, something that leaned away from the strict pretty boy feel they constantly doled out to him in olympus). 

but who knows if they’d listen. that’s how that sort of thing often goes, letting him run his mouth like it might tire him out, only to brush away all of his ideas as useless. but san’s gotten used it to. maybe he won’t even be disappointed this time.

but the gap in his schedule makes it feel like there’s an itch he can’t reach underneath his skin. he’s already run his way through olympus’ choreography too many times. his muscles are sore, mind buzzing, and after throwing around a few messages and realizing milo doesn’t have a schedule for the night either? well, it seems like a default option to drive over to see him. only, it almost isn’t. he still gets in his car, mind you. still turns the key into the ignition and heads over. but still, he hasn’t seen him since they’d both been in america for kcon. hasn’t seen him since that near-blackout-drunk conversation milo had shaken out of him that san still wants to take back. wants to pull all of his fragmented shattered-glass words out of milo’s mind and swallow them back down.

but that’s not how things work. so san just feels an odd mix of anxious, angry, and paranoid. but he doesn’t want to avoid milo. or, that’s perhaps not the most accurate of statements. because sometimes he does. but right now? there’s static electricity snapping underneath his skin, and lately it feels like only the rough drag of milo’s palms against him can smooth it all away. so he goes. goes with the intention of ignoring it all. moving on like he can’t remember. because he doesn’t want to confront it. doesn’t want to sit down with milo and lay things out for them both. doesn’t want to learn how to deal with it in any other manner than locking it all away and making things worse for himself. so he won’t. or that’s his intention. 

@idmilo, guest house in la ( after danger promotions have wrapped )

san had this idea in his mind from the moment management had said that olympus was getting an entire weekend off. that olympus was getting an entire weekend off the same two days that san had to go perform on music shows, film for variety to promote himself. because they couldn’t wait three, four weeks and allow him a half-a-second to catch his breath, too. he’d even talked for it, a bit, with milo. choppy and half strung to decorate the anxiety when they’d toppled against each other backstage at one of the shows a couple of weeks ago. it was still impulsive when he’d bought the tickets. his laptop against his thighs. 

one tab had his latest performance playing, the other a cursor flickering in the search bar. until he’d finally typed in, just to look at prices. but then there was a list of flights, and seats open, and san had bought two before he could really properly think about it. think about how angry his manager would be, how angry everyone would be that he was going to no-show on their useless collection of schedules for a week. that he wasn’t going to tell them he was leaving, or where he was. a stupid idea, but the compulsion eats away at him.

he can’t bring himself to care. he’s just tired. so god damn tired. and angry, too. angry they dangled that in front of him. angry that they’re still yanking him around like he might be a goddamn rookie. 

so he’d bought them. had called milo at three in the morning planning on leaving a voicemail asking if he wanted the second. had gotten his sleep-scratched voice instead. confused at first, and hazy throughout. but he’d agreed. had snuck away to the airport that morning, and san had jammed blonde hair under a hat, and then a hood. swamped himself in fabrics and a face mask until they were finally off the plane. nearly as far away as san could possibly get from korea. and that was why he’d picked it. that and because it had been the flight with two first class plane tickets still open and next to each other.

they’d gotten a cab, had found the guest house he’d managed to book online, apparently a miracle, but he’d also paid an arm an a leg for it because of that. he’d dropped to a bed, and had promptly sleep for a solid seventeen hours straight. had woken up once to wander into the bathroom and gulp down mouthfuls of tap water, grumble a sleepy hello at milo before he dropped right back into bed. there’s still exhaustion surrounding him now when he finally stirs, a veritable mountain of lost hours looming above him. but he’d needed it, and his head doesn’t feel like it’s swimming when he props himself upright. san puzzles his way through a foreign shower, digs clothes out of his suitcase, glances briefly at his phone before deciding it’s best left turned off as he wanders off in search of milo. lets fingers slip and thunk against stairwell railings on the way. finds him on the couch and drops down next to him, thumps a fist between his shoulder blades in something of a massage as he grinds knuckles into muscle.