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Changmin, quite atypical of the behavior of the common lovestruck young adult inhabiting the planet, doesn’t necessarily like to dwell on the concept of soulmates. In his adolescence, which is always the phase of life when everyone seems to talk about nothing except the marks on their wrists, he had often answered not-so-innocent queries and curious glances with the usual dismissal: “Dance is my soulmate.”
But now, as a debuted idol? It feels about a hundred times worse, given the scrutiny. Changmin is always under a microscope, always in front of the blinding camera flashes and the press itching to get a single glance of black ink on smooth skin.
The other idols are curious, the fans even more so. A few of the seniors try to ask him and the other members, too, about their marks, in a variety of ways—sometimes they’re subtle about it (or trying to be subtle, at least), sometimes they’re not. Either way, every single time, Changmin does his best to adopt an innocent look, all wide eyes and a hint of aegyo in his softest speaking voice, pretending to not quite understand what they mean. The other members in the group are, thankfully, not as pushy when it comes to Changmin and his elusive soulmate; they know him well enough to never pry or force him into disclosing anything, because he’ll brush them off too.
And if he has two wristguards—one on each wrist—instead of just one? Well, at least everyone is tactful enough not to comment on it.
Because, see, here’s the thing. So. Either Changmin’s soulmate has a really long name, stretching over two wrists, or he has two soulmates.
Contrary to popular belief, Changmin isn’t that dumb, so he knows that there’s about a 99% chance that he has two soulmates. (No sensible parents, after all, would give that long of a name—six syllables, really?—to a Korean child.) And Changmin knows, too, that having more than one soulmate isn’t as uncommon as many people, especially the traditionalists, want to believe. Sure, he’s only a rookie, but Changmin hears things, whispered in both the well-lit corridors and the dark corners of building hallways, during the odd space of time between prerecordings and live broadcasts of music shows. He hears them, too, among all the noise of the events they attend. The hushed and sometimes scandalized conversations of other idols, of managers, of the other support staff.
The point here is, he’s heard people talk about a certain boy group, about how there’s at least two triads among the members.
All these signs point to this one truth: Ji Changmin, in fact, has two soulmates.
The number of soulmates Changmin has isn’t a cause of concern for him at all. There had been no big crisis when he had that moment of realization as a teenager, only a slight hitch in his step and a soft sense of acceptance when he had embraced these two soulmates—whoever they must be—into the nervous and hopeful embrace of his young heart. He had never been like the others, curious and excited and impatient to meet the people behind the marks, and his parents and older sisters had always found him a bit odd for it. But he can’t deny that—this? The prospect of finding not one, but two people to love you? It’s romantic.
The Big Problem, capitalization necessary, lies in who he comes to realize these two soulmates are.
Once in a while, when the music stops for a few minutes and the only sounds in the practice room are the heavy breaths of twelve tired idols, Changmin rubs at the skin of his wrists, pushing his fingers underneath the soft leather of his wristguards.
His wrists are always warm, nowadays. The black Hangeul characters of his marks, all elegant curves and sharp lines, throb gently in time with his heartbeat. They tell a story of both proximity and distance, of the way Changmin yearns to reach out with both of his arms, to ask for the kind of affection and warmth that he isn’t entirely sure will be freely and willingly given to him. There is hesitation in everything he does, because sometimes he thinks that maybe—just maybe—he’s the missing piece to a puzzle he’s been either been too blind to see, or too scared to accept.
Because Chanhee laughs at his terrible jokes, and Younghoon kisses his cheeks—but. But. It feels like a farce, like a scene with a definitive end and a deadline that looms over his head. Because, despite the fact that the three of them are never farther than a few feet away from each other most of the time, Changmin still holds himself and his heart at an invisible distance, reluctant to give something that he can’t, eventually, pass off as a joke or simple fanservice.
He’s wondering, too, if Chanhee and Younghoon have always been offering something to him that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Or if—and this is what Changmin honestly thinks is the more probable situation—he’s simply reading too much into things. If he’s only imagining it when their hands linger a little bit too long on the small of his back, if he’s merely hallucinating it when their smiles grow a little bit wider when their eyes land on Changmin and his own smile.
Changmin wonders about these things a lot, in the quiet moments.
Beneath the leather wristguards, the midnight black of his marks are a sharp contrast to the pale skin of the insides of his wrists. The initials are familiar to him already; the marks have grown up with him and have accompanied him through the hardest moments of his trainee days, back when he had been uncertain about his chance at debuting.
(He had been uncertain, too, about whether or not he’ll be able to stay around Chanhee and Younghoon. And ultimately, it had been the thing that had worried him the most.)
Sometimes, when he happens to look up at the night sky, Changmin swears that the stars and the blinking lights of Seoul spell the initials out to him. As a taunt, perhaps? Or maybe as a reminder to him that, even though he tries his hardest to hide his own secrets behind worn leather and a sheepish smile, the deepest part of him will always know the truth.
CCH on his left wrist, and KYH on his right.
It’s a Monday night, a rare moment of rest for them all, and Changmin needs to fill up his water bottle before he can continue watching his movie.
Except Chanhee and Younghoon are in the kitchen. And this isn’t a rare occurrence, really.
But they’re kissing in the kitchen.
There’s a quote that Changmin had found on the Internet not too long ago. It goes something like this: “Your heart is a weapon the size of your fist.”
It’s apt, Changmin thinks, because the way his heart is beating so hard against his ribcage feels painful enough and powerful enough to have the entire thing rip out of his chest. Hearts are weapons of mass destruction, Changmin comes to find out, then and there. They’re weapons that every single person on the planet has, and they’re weapons that people don’t even know they’re using against others.
And as if that’s not enough, a heavy weight settles somewhere in his gut—churning, churning, churning. It’s uncomfortable, and it makes Changmin feel vaguely sick. The feeling is not... It’s not jealousy.
It’s longing.
He wants to be with them. He wants to be with them so bad, and the desire burns bright and angry in his gut, close enough to outpower the pure fear and insecurity that have always colored and influenced his every action. Underneath all of Changmin’s misgivings and all of his doubts, he is just a young adult who’s completely enamored by both of his soulmates, despite being silent about it and constantly having to pretend otherwise.
And even though his mouth feels dryer than it had felt before, Changmin still slips away quietly, back into his room, without ever refilling his water bottle.
Chanhee and Younghoon don’t seem to notice.
(It sounds like an utter cliche, but something had snapped into place in Changmin’s chest the moment he had met Chanhee and Younghoon. There had been a sensation of warmth that had spread from his chest to his stomach, to his limbs, to the tips of his fingers, until Changmin had found himself smiling at them, wanting to walk outside the Cre.ker building and into the sunshine, just to dance out of joy and contentment.
All his life he had never really asked his parents any of the usual questions—how to know if you’ve just met your soulmate, how to politely ask to see someone’s mark, what to do when you truly find the person that fate had chosen for you. He had seen his parents exchange worried glances with each other and with his older sisters over countless of dinners, curious about Changmin’s own lack of curiosity.
But in that moment, Changmin had found himself feeling like he had found all the answers to questions he had never even known he had, to questions that had lingered on the tip of his tongue for the longest time but he had never thought to ask. The questions he had always been curious about, had almost asked during those family dinners all those months and even years ago. The questions that had always floated in the back of his mind, carefully ignored and tucked away for a distant moment of time in the future that Changmin had never really known would come or not.
From then on, Changmin had realized, he had become a blooming sunflower chasing the sunlight of his soulmates’ laughter.)
And so here are two truths that Changmin knows. One, Changmin’s soulmates are Chanhee and Younghoon. And two, Chanhee and Younghoon are each other’s soulmate.
But here is another truth that Changmin has yet to know, and has yet to believe in: Changmin is also theirs, as much as they are his.
The knowledge of Chanhee and Younghoon being so physically close to him and yet so emotionally distant at the same time eats at Changmin’s mind constantly. It eats at Changmin because he knows that Chanhee and Younghoon are meant for each other—and everyone else in the group, and even in the company, knows that as well.
And yet, for some reason that no one seems to want to ask about, they’re both still wearing their wristguards. It’s only on one wrist for the both of them, but the bands are thicker, almost twice the usual size that other people wear.
Despite constantly telling himself that he should know better, and that he does know better, seeing the thick wristguards makes Changmin hope that there’s a second set of initials for Chanhee and Younghoon too, that maybe the two of them only differ from Changmin in the way that they have both names on a single wrist instead of having one set of initials on each, the way Changmin himself does.
Hope is a powerful emotion, Changmin learns.
But here’s the catch. It’s still not powerful enough to entice him to make a move.
Changmin is sitting next to Jacob during a fansign when he overhears the words Jacob tells one of their fans.
“There won’t be a perfect moment to confess to the person you think is your soulmate,” Jacob says to the girl, who is hanging onto every word that’s coming out of Jacob’s mouth. His voice is soft, and fond, and full of the kind of warm affection he normally only reserves for Kevin. “You can’t spend so much time worrying and waiting for the perfect time, because you’ll just keep finding something wrong in every situation. Just go for it.”
The fan nods shyly. But when she stands up to get to the seat in front of Changmin, there’s a new determination in the line of her shoulders, and a new confidence in the way she carries herself.
For the next few days, Jacob’s words stick to Changmin like the smell of smoke.
The night Changmin decides to do something about this so-called Soulmate Situation, capitalization yet again necessary, there’s a commotion in Chanhee and Eric’s room. His hand is just a few centimeters away from the knob when the door suddenly opens, and Eric’s disgruntled and slightly disgusted face greets him. He’s carrying a pillow under one arm, and a plushie under the other.
“Feel free to be around those two sickening lovebirds, hyung,” Eric grumbles.
Eric stomps off towards Juyeon and Younghoon’s room, more than likely just to cuddle and fall asleep with Juyeon, and Changmin can’t quite resist the urge to laugh a little under his breath. There truly is great irony in Eric’s words and actions.
When he stops laughing at Eric’s expense and brings his eyes back to face the two people still in the room, he finds the both of them frozen on the floor. Chanhee is on his hands and knees, looming above Younghoon, who is on his back. Their eyes are comically wide, as if they had just been caught in the middle of something naughty.
(A voice in the back of Changmin’s mind whispers softly. Maybe they really had been in the middle of something, and maybe Changmin is here, disrupting them. Changmin quickly pushes that thought away. He’s not jealous, it’s true—but he can’t deny that the very thought of it makes him want.)
They quickly untangle themselves from each other and sit up straight on the floor when Changmin clears his throat a little, readying himself for the unwanted—but necessary, he reminds himself—confrontation.
“Chanhee, Younghoon hyung,” he says. And then he turns silent.
His voice sounds small. And Changmin himself... Well, he feels small, like how they tease him (and Haknyeon and Eric) sometimes. What a sight he must be, standing under the glare of the dorm’s fluorescent lights and fidgeting nervously in his giraffe onesie. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. The comfortable weights that are usually settled on his wrists—so familiar because of him wearing the wristguards almost all his life—are absent, and frankly speaking Changmin feels like one strong breeze could blow his entire body away. Away from the dorm and away from the two people in front of him. Gravity’s hold on him seems inconsequential compared to the magnitude and importance of this upcoming moment.
This is different from the stage, from the bright spotlights casting shadows on him as he moves in time to a pattern that only his ears can hear and his heart can beat in tune with. This isn’t a place or situation where Changmin feels like he could be in his element. And yet. It’s just as important, if not more so.
Changmin wishes, not for the first time in his life, to have just an ounce of Chanhee’s confidence. Or even Haknyeon’s bravery.
He takes a small step towards them, and just that quiet movement forward is a grand leap of faith already. This entire gamble is Changmin jumping off a cliff without any reassurance of his harness being fastened safely. He sees the moment Chanhee and Younghoon seem to realize that he’s not wearing his wristguards, and Changmin shifts uneasily when Chanhee’s and Younghoon’s eyes fly to the bare skin of his wrists, squinting and trying to comprehend the black ink.
He’s vulnerable, and it’s as if his soul is laid bare as a sacrifice in front of them. Changmin can do nothing else except to wait.
But, Changmin then learns, there’s never been anything to truly worry about.
Another truth that comes to Changmin that night is this: When it comes to soulmates, words aren’t ever really needed. Their bare wrists say more than enough.
The romance novels that line the shelves of his older sisters’ bedrooms talk about feeling butterflies in stomachs and seeing fireworks behind closed eyelids. They talk about how groundbreaking first kisses exchanged between soulmates are—a sudden burst of flavor on your tongue, a sudden sensation of vibrancy in your sight, a sudden silencing of white noise in the background.
Changmin finds out that they’re lying.
When he kisses Chanhee—
(And it’s Chanhee first, naturally, because he trips Younghoon up in his desperate haste to get to Changmin before Younghoon does.
Younghoon falls flat on his ass, disbelief on his face.
“Hey, I’m your hyung!” Younghoon says, indignant. He reminds Changmin of a puffed up cat, sulking and pouting and trying to glare at Chanhee, and Changmin wonders what exactly is wrong with him that he finds Younghoon to be cute, rather than ridiculous.
Chanhee, already grabbing hold of Changmin’s face between his warm, warm hands, just shrugs, smiles a little smugly at Younghoon, and turns back to Changmin.)
—the ground doesn’t really shake beneath Changmin’s feet. It isn’t the fireworks or the millions of other ways that the romance novels can describe a first kiss as something monumental. It’s less like a tsunami after an earthquake and more like the gentle waves lapping on the shore, beneath a clear blue sky. It’s less like a rush of adrenaline through your veins and more like the calm of feeling someone’s heartbeat underneath your palms.
When they part, Chanhee has a blinding smile on his face, enough to rival the sun. His eyes look down, almost predatory, as Changmin inadvertently licks his lips, chasing the remnants of Chanhee’s flavored lipgloss.
But before Changmin knows it, Younghoon is tugging Chanhee away, off to the side and towards the direction of the bottom bunk. Younghoon is eager, and it shows in the way he seems to be vibrating out of his skin when his arms circle Changmin’s waist.
Younghoon’s kiss is different, but also the same in the way it’s tinged with gentleness.
There are still no fireworks, but Changmin isn’t disappointed. There are no fireworks, but there is the feeling of Younghoon smiling against Changmin’s lips—and really, Changmin hadn’t realized that it’s even possible to smile into a kiss. Younghoon’s kiss is soft and just a little bit wet, and for Changmin it ends far too soon than he wants.
This, Changmin thinks, is what it feels like to come home.
The bed is a little bit too small for them to properly cuddle on, and one wrong move could probably make the bedframe collapse underneath their bodies, but Changmin doesn’t mind. It’s warm where he is, right in the middle. Younghoon’s tall body is pressed up against his back, and Chanhee’s face is tucked into Changmin’s neck. Their arms are curled around his waist. Changmin fits—like sitting snugly in the middle of the curves of a set of parentheses.
Affection is running through his veins. It doesn’t send his entire body into overdrive, but it calms him and soothes him, and anchors him to the gentle lullaby of Chanhee’s and Younghoon’s even breaths.
Changmin closes his eyes, and falls back asleep with a smile on his face.
Changmin, Chanhee, and Younghoon belong together. This, here, is the biggest truth of Changmin’s life.