#p;panic

@rkyuri

woohyun has horrible, horrible luck—really, truthfully; woohyun plays it off so well and takes it all in stride not many people take it seriously, but the amount of times things just tend to go out of control when he doesn’t want them to happens more often than he would like. it’s always one small thing that creates a domino effect, that pretty much destroys all of his pride, sanity and composure all in one go.

“c’mon,” he grumbles, clenching his fist around the water bottle as he makes a weak attempt to uncap the bottle. his palm slides, preventing him from doing so (and doing nothing but causing a small sting upon his palm). he frowns at the bottle, squinting his eyes as he tries again—tightens his grip and turns his hand, trying his best to keep his grip stable and not slip upon the condensation.

and he does get it eventually—hearing the snap of the plastic. woohyun freezes for a brief moment, incredulous before he grins wide, ducking his head down as he smiles to himself, pleased with his small accomplishment. he cracks open the rest of the top, popping the cap off as he moves to take a snap, eyes grazing down at the ground only to see a flicker run across the space in front of him. it’s small, scurrying—attenaes twitching and woohyun reacts more quickly than he ever realized.  

he jerks back, stumbles, limbs flying backwards in shock—and he’s so focused on the small, insignificant bug that he doesn’t realize his water bottle is still open and contents have likely flown about and onto the floor. woohyun turns his head to glance over, and can only choke when he sees it’s not just on the floor—but there’s a person, a girl, standing behind him, drenched in his water.

                                               [  january evaluations / day two ]

for the first time, woohyun is tired of smiling.

when the day goes by, stretching further into the night-- the nonstop dancing and continuous choreography weighing down on him, he finds it hard to keep smiling. but he does keep trying, head tilted up, the strain never ending on his face, his muscles-- he’s beginning to not be able to feel his toes properly. every fiber of his being is screaming at him to stop-- his body can’t handle it, but everyone else can, everyone else is pushing forward. woohyun can do it. he just has to get over himself.

the only obstacle is yourself.

the steps have all but blended together, it’s easier to work with his feet. the constant repetitive practice helps him get the moves down, but his body is so tired, it’s hard not to look sluggish. he’s been shouted at less than before, but occasional he slips up-- causes the entire scene to be ruined, and woohyun feels worse. he knows that the rest of the boys are all wokring hard, harder than he probably, and most have much more confidence in their dancing abilities than he could ever hope to have.

but he has to try. at this point in the day, where his lungs are heaving, body damp with sweat, clothes sticking to his skin-- he can’t just stop now.

he wonders if it’ll be like this forever. the evaluation like this, constant work shops. the pressure put on him to work harder, do better, stretch your limits, bend to the point where you break. woohyun wonders if he’ll be able to handle it-- if he’ll be able to hold out. will all his hard work be for naught? 

he’s heard of people who stay training for years, how they grow old. woohyun will be twenty-five in only a few weeks. he doesn’t have all the time in the world; what if he never gets a chance to debut?

the thought frightens him, it sends his feet moving forward, soles of his shoes slipping against the floor. hid body flops forward, forearms and knees pressing into the ground with a grunt. he hears the instructor’s shout, a call of quit playing around, get up!  but woohyun can’t breathe. he gasps and he chokes, hand clutching his throat as he scrambles to get back up. the instructor calls for a break, sharp voice snapping above the music as it shuts off. woohyun manages to get himself on his knees, pushing himself on shaky legs as he forces his way to his bag. his throat is aching, breathing heavy and scraping against his lungs. his fingers are shaking as he rips the bottle from his bag and nearly tears the cap off of it. swallowing one gulp, then two-- it soothes his throat but his heart keeps beating in that rapid, fast paced motion. the anxiety builds in him, the insecurities-- it festers and it builds, the stinging in his eyes because he wants to succeed; he wants to do better-- he wants to impress, be someone to look up to in this company. he wants to be something, he doesn’t want to be known to the instructor as the boy who can’t land simple choreography, doesn’t want to be labeled as the boy who can’t keep tripping over his own two feet. doesn’t want to be the one holding everyone back.