Work Text:
3:53 AM
“Can you please get up before we’re late? Again?” Jeno asks, exasperated, sticking his head through the door to peer at Jaemin. There are dark circles under his eyes that Jaemin feels pretty bad about and his hair, newly dyed and newly fried, is sticking up all over his head, giving him the look of an electrified puppy.
“I’m up,” Jaemin says obediently, with no antagonism. He slides off his bed and grabs his phone, patting his pockets to make sure he has his charger and airpods. Truthfully, he hadn’t slept at all but he’s pretty sure Jeno already knows that. Everyone in their dorm had to have known that. It’s not like they were exactly quiet last night. The sun is still stubbornly sleeping but Jaemin has been awake for hours and it’s with a rare, absurd, energy that he tells Jeno. “Ready to go whenever.”
Jeno shoots him an exhausted look, taking in the three things Jaemin holds for their very long day ahead, the forced pleasantry that feels stiff on the corners of his mouth, his hoodie, surely paltry protection to the bitter winter winds outside and then leaves, letting the door creak open as he abandons his white knuckled grip on the edge.
“Be downstairs in five,” Jeno says, voice fading as he walks away, presumably to get Renjun. “We need to swing by and get Chenle and Jisung before.”
Jaemin blinks in confusion, wrenching open his bedroom door to stare questioningly at Jeno’s back. “Jisung slept over at Chenle’s?”
Jeno glances over his shoulder. “He left at like eleven last night.”
Jaemin stills. “Oh.” Jeno waits for a beat longer but when Jaemin adds nothing he continues down the hallway to knock at Renjun’s door.
The van is idling at the curb when Jaemin exits the apartment, empty, he notes with relief, save for their manager who is in the middle of chugging a monstrous coffee.
“Oh, Jaemin-ah. You’re here early.” The surprise should be offensive. Given Jaemin’s past with pickups and deadlines. Today, it’s anything but. He appreciates the consistency, the jokes.
He offers his manager a wan smile. “I can surprise you sometimes, hyung.”
Jaemin chooses the passenger seat before he can waffle too much over it and then waits for the rest of his members to pile in before he plugs in his headphones. The front seat is very often Mark’s or Jeno’s depending on whoever ends up in the car but today, Jaemin claims it and keeps his eyes deliberately shut until they end up at the broadcast station, ignoring the hushed whispers that start up when they pick up Jisung and Chenle on the way.
5:45 AM
Jaemin forgoes breakfast when their manager waltzes in with it; the strong smell of freshly baked bread rising from the takeout containers, yeasty and thick, along with a box of cut up fruit that none of them except Jeno will touch.
“The kids are bringing the drinks with them,” their manager says when he sees Jaemin looking. “They’ll be here in 10.”
Jaemin dips his head in thanks and floats back to his corner of the waiting room. Mark and Donghyuck are running a little late today, probably caught in traffic, but it’s not so big a delay as to cause problems. Their stylists have their hands full with the other five of them, anyway.
His stomach growls in warning but Jaemin, long used to the sensation, merely sips at his water and ignores it, laying his head against the wall and closing his eyes. They’d finished their comeback show yesterday, in front of a hall full of judgemental journalists and vaguely bored staff, had answered all the routine questions with the easy temperament of idols who’d been doing this for the better part of a decade and then had gone back to the company to practice. There they’d remained, meticulously working through every second of the song, to ensure that even the sharpest of cameras wouldn’t catch a mistake, to make sure there wouldn’t be a mistake to catch.
And then—
Then…
The door to their waiting room opens and Jaemin cracks an eye open to see their other manager wander in, looking exhausted as he always does and clutching two trays of drinks, followed by Mark and Donghyuck. The latter is swathed in an enormous puffy coat, with his airpods shoved in and, as if out of habit, looks up to meet Jaemin’s gaze. Eye contact lasts maybe half a second, maybe less, wretched and aching, before Donghyuck’s eyes go skittering away and Jaemin’s lungs threaten to collapse under the vacuum left behind.
He gets up, rounds the dressing room, avoiding Donghyuck as much as he can in the small space and plucks his coffee from the pile, shooting Mark a small smile in thanks, because it’s always been tradition for Mark to buy their drinks on the first day of their comebacks. Something about luck and the enduring trait of friendship.
Jaemin sort of tunes out when Mark starts talking like the sun shines out of Dream’s ass—as if success is only contingent upon their hard work and nothing else.
The caffeine, acidic and bitter, hits the back of his tongue with no small amount of relief and Jaemin exhales, swirling the concentrated liquid around his mouth. He slides back into his corner and tucks his legs in. Nothing about today appeals; his phone remains a radioactive zone of contaminated memories, Chenle and Jeno’s argument about their latest gaming session is loud and grating, the winding halls of MCountdown seem too menacing to wander around alone. And despite it all, he doesn’t actually want to leave. Despite it all, Dream has always been his solace.
So Jaemin sits there, in the corner, keeps his eyes closed and tries not to chug his coffee because he knows no one will come with him to get another one later in the day, all of them suddenly determined to police Jaemin’s caffeine intake. Well, if nearly a decade of poor life decisions and little to no to sleep as well as bouncing, harsh diets haven’t already shortened his life span, Jaemin’s sure the caffeine won’t be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, cuts his string short, however it goes.
Outside their window, the sun rises and Jaemin feels the warmth of the rays, attempting to buffet him awake, trying to warm him up. He crunches down on a piece of ice and shoves it away. The bitterness feels especially fortifying today.
8:56 AM
Their rehearsal goes terribly.
Jaemin’s surprised at it and then is surprised at himself for being surprised in the first place. It wasn’t as if it could go any other way—even if they’d performed perfectly at the comeback show yesterday, even if all their practice afterwards hadn’t left a millimetre for error. There's just something to bring on stage, to allowing yourself to be so exposed in front of so many cameras—even if it’s just an act—that renders you completely vulnerable, dependent on the six other bodies you’ve spent years dancing around.
Jaemin knows, as well he does the heartbeat under his ribs, the pounding of six other feet beside his, the harsh breathing of twelve other lungs next to his own. That connection, that inextricable chemistry is delicate, strong; impossible to get back once it’s thrown off. At least not without a good, painful conversation.
A muscle jumps in Mark’s jaw as they step off stage in a single file line and Jaemin considers the probability of being forced into a ham-fisted therapy session right before they have to get up in front of their fans. He wouldn’t put it past Mark—there’s not much he wouldn’t do for a perfect performance, especially not on comeback day.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, at the back of the group as they monitor themselves. Objectively, if the average person watched this, on Youtube or on Naver without really paying attention, they wouldn’t find anything wrong. They hit all the steps they’re supposed, they all sound exactly like they’re supposed to, except Jaemin’s smile sits fake and plastic on his face and it shows. Except Donghyuck doesn’t look up from the floor other than to sing and it shows. Except there’s an undercurrent of tension running through the whole rehearsal, from start to end, all three and a half minutes and no, an average viewer wouldn’t be able to pick up on it, but they’ve never been a group that aims for average.
Mark glances over his shoulder and then sighs, rolling his head forward.
“We’ve got five hours before call time,” he says. “Let’s focus properly. We’re not going to disappoint everyone.” The again goes unsaid and perfectly heard. They’ve had maybe one comeback in the whole span of their career where nothing had gone wrong—where they didn’t have a member missing or hurt, where they weren’t being sabotaged by their own goddamn company, when they weren’t trying so goddamn hard not to let their misery show, not to let it overtake them.
Jaemin exhales, swallows, desperately wants another coffee.
9:25 AM
Mark slides into step next to him between one breath and the next and Jaemin hadn’t even noticed him coming. Is he just that out of it or has Mark learned some subtlety? Jaemin doubts it’s either.
“You don’t need to babysit me,” Jaemin mumbles, rounding the corner, not bothering to slow his pace. Mark keeps up effortlessly. “I’m just going to get coffee.”
Mark shrugs. “Maybe I want something too,” he says, as if anything with caffeine or dairy doesn’t wreck his system beyond doubt. Mark doesn’t drink anything other than green tea and water on comeback days.
Jaemin sighs and doesn’t look over at him until they’re standing in the line at the cafe, lost in the crush of staff and other idols—some holding cameras, excitedly describing the food they’re going to get. Jaemin kind of misses those days—when he was new enough, shiny enough, to be wowed by something as simple as MNet’s shitty coffee.
“You’re not that old,” Mark snorts, when Jaemin quietly mentions it to him. It’s half a peace offering, an apology for his performance during rehearsal and Mark takes it as easily as he does everything else. “You sound like our seniors and you’re nowhere near that jaded.”
It’s the closest Mark gets to disrespect and Jaemin rankles at it, immediately retreating from the slight tinge of guilt he’d felt earlier.
“Not yet,” he says instead. “Getting close though.”
They move forward two paces in line and Mark glances sidelong at him. “Do we need to talk about this?” He asks in an undertone as someone with a camera passes them.
Jaemin hopes the viscerally disgusted noise he makes is answer enough. “I’ll fix it,” he says when Mark’s expression clearly disagrees. “I’ll be good—when it matters.”
“I already know that,” Mark starts, exasperatedly. “That was never in question—”
But thankfully, they get to the front and the cheery barista cuts off what Jaemin’s sure was going to be a very earnest diatribe on Jaemin’s attitude to idoldom. If they haven’t had a conversation about this in the last ten years, Jaemin definitely doesn't want them to start one now.
The bitterness of the coffee feels like a godsend when it hits his tongue and Jaemin sighs into it, swirling the straw around, listening to the rustle and clink of the ice.
He feels so tired, feels the exhaustion drying out his bones and usually this level of fatigue only makes itself known around the end of a comeback period, after they’ve done the whole no sleep-tv station-radio station-variety show-practice-room cycle for three or four weeks, not on the first day of it all. Jaemin’s been looking forward to this comeback for over a month now, excited to see the fans and hear the reactions to their song—not one of their worst, which is as good as he’ll get from SM—but now, all he can summon is a bone deep, wretched exhaustion.
The coffee helps slightly.
“Jaemin—”
“I don’t want to talk about this, hyung,” Jaemin says, regretting his sharp tone instantly. He doesn’t apologise for it, though. “Not with you.”
“Why not with me?”
Jaemin scoffs. “Seriously?” He asks, sliding Mark a glance. They’ve left the cafe at this point, winding back down the white hallways, passing greenrooms and dressing rooms, with the doors thrown open wide enough to catch snippets of loud conversation from the groups inside.
“Donghyuck didn’t say—”
“I definitely don’t want to talk about Donghyuck with you,” Jaemin snaps sharply. He doesn’t bother feeling guilty about it this time.
Mark looks exasperated. “Jaemin—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Jaemin says tightly. He sounds strained; either Mark notices and doesn’t care or is especially thickheaded today. The plastic crunches under his hand, ice shifting in the cup. “I don’t care what he said to you and I don’t care what you think and—”
“I’m just trying to help—”
“Well, don’t.” Jaemin finally looks at him, meets Mark’s gaze head on. Mark’s exasperation has given way to irritation, a little bit of annoyance. Jaemin takes a steadying sip of his coffee, lets the bitterness course down his throat before he says, cool and flat. “It’s none of your business, hyung. Never has been.”
But no matter how much Jaemin wishes it were true, he knows better.
12:00 PM
Jaemin picks at his lunch half-heartedly. He never likes eating right before they have to be on stage but he has no choice today; their call time is the last of the day and the two coffees he’d forced down aren’t doing anything to quell the hunger clawing through his gut, his trembling hands, his fuzzy mind.
Jaemin glances down at his lunchbox and then decisively severs the lump of rice in two, dumping the larger half onto Jisung’s plate and moving back from the table before Jisung has the chance to protest.
Proper sustenance can wait until he doesn’t have to be in front of a camera anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jeno eyeing him opening his mouth to speak but Jaemin puts his airpods in, pretending he hasn’t seen. Once Jeno actually starts eating solid food again, then Jaemin will allow him a lecture or two on good eating habits. Until then, though, Jaemin is going to sit in his corner, and pretend like he can’t hear Donghyuck and Mark quietly bickering over the leftover lunchboxes.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t been hungry since last night,” Mark hisses back. “Do you want to pass out on stage?”
Jaemin peeks through his bangs to see Donghyuck rolling his eyes to high heaven. “Leave me alone, Mark,” he says. “I’m fine.”
But Mark has never really been good at leaving things alone. Jaemin used to think it an admirable quality—how easily Mark persevered, how he never let even the most difficult challenge slip through his fingers unmet. Now he wonders, with no small amount of contempt, how Mark has the energy for it all.
“Just because you broke up with Jaemin—”
Donghyuck slaps his hand on the table, cheeks bright red just as Jaemin snaps, low and vicious, the words bubbling out of him before he can stop them, blistering and boiling, lava bursting out of a volcano with all the force of the old, vengeful, petty gods. “Why do you insist on always shoving your nose where it doesn’t belong, Mark?”
Silence falls and Jaemin picks his head up to see all his members and their manger staring at him. Jisung’s eyes are wide, Chenle raises an eyebrow, a sardonic tilt playing at the corner of his mouth. Mark’s whole countenance is stony. If his eyes could kill, Jaemin would have long been reduced to ash, like the towns diminished to rubble by a slow-moving path of fire.
He doesn’t let himself look at Donghyuck.
Their manager clears his throat. “This isn’t the time for this,” he says, shooting Mark an uneasy look. “Jaemin-ah, go cool off. The rest of you, finish eating. We need to do another dry run before you get back on stage.”
Jaemin lets his lunchbox clatter onto the table in front of him with little care and stalks out of the room without a second look back. His heart is pounding and he can barely hear the clatter and mess of the hallways over the blood rushing through his ears. Automatically, he rounds a random corner and keeps walking, focusing only on his footsteps, the way his heels click over the tiles as he tries and fails to convince himself that he isn’t running away.
12:12 PM
The glass of the vending machine is cool against his forehead. Jaemin’s ears are still hot. He peels back ever so slightly to stare at the drink selection in front of him—unchanged in all the years he’s been coming here—and eyes the smudge of makeup left behind by his foundation. He scrubs at it and leans his head back against the glass, closing his eyes again. The cool surface helps calm him down.
Unfortunately, this means the blood has stopped rushing in his ears and, at some point during their entirely ill-conceived tryst, Jaemin had memorised the exact gait and sound of Donghyuck’s footsteps.
“You’re being a dick.”
“Are we speaking to each other now?” Jaemin asks, dryly, fixating on the canned coffee in the vending machine that has been calling his name for hours. The too close glare of the vending machine lights hurts his eyes.
Donghyuck makes an exasperated noise and when Jaemin looks up, it’s to find Donghyuck far too close to him. Jaemin’s breath catches in the back of his throat, sticky and aching.
“Stop being a dick to Mark hyung,” Donghyuck says.
Jaemin floats his gaze away before he can fixate on Donghyuck, on the anger brimming at the corner of his eyes shining almost like tears, his handheld fan blowing his bangs back, the concealer fading under his eyes, revealing the redness still lingering there and around his nose. He presses the button for the canned coffee and slowly puts in the correct change, lifting his head from the glass to do so.
“It’s hyung now is it?” Jaemin asks finally when it becomes clear that Donghyuck won’t leave until he gets a reply. “That was quick of you.”
Donghyuck makes an angry noise. “He’s done nothing wrong in this except—”
“Except be the person you always run to when you want to get away from me.” The can falls to the bottom with a loud clunk and Jaemin bends to retrieve it. He straightens, glancing back at Donghyuck and then offers him a flat smile. “And look at that. Back to our regularly scheduled programming.”
Donghyuck stares at him, half in disbelief, half in anger. Half in hurt. Jaemin wants to look away—wants to back up and run full tilt from the hold Donghyuck still has on him, wants to burst out of the front doors of this damned TV station and run until he falls off the edge of the world. He doesn’t want to be here anymore.
“We broke up, Jaemin,” Donghyuck says finally, and it comes out cracked, flickering, blistering at the edges. A flame bubbling at both their flesh. Jaemin wonders if he reaches up and sweeps away the tear clinging stubbornly to Donghyuck’s eye, if it would burn his skin. Every part of Donghyuck he’d touched had always felt a little bit acidic, like the way his third cup of coffee felt on an empty stomach threatening to burn the protective layer between himself and his organs.
“You can stop pretending like you ever cared about me more than coming out on top in whatever one-sided pissing contest you have with Mark.”
Jaemin stills at that. It takes a heroic amount of effort not to flinch. Donghyuck takes a step back and then another, still watching him. “Stop picking fights with Mark,” he finishes quietly, voice shaking ever so slightly. “We’ve got a job to do.”
Then Donghyuck turns and walks away. Jaemin watches him go until he rounds the corner, without once looking back and then exhales, slowly and deliberately. Letting out the air he’d been holding from the moment Donghyuck had stepped into his space. The scent of Donghyuck’s cologne still lingers there, in the next breath he takes, sugar and citrus stinging all the way down to the holes burned in his stomach.
Jaemin looks down at the coffee in his hands. The corner of the can is dented from the force of the fall. He huffs a humourless laugh and pops the top open.
2:04 PM
Jaemin is waiting for his turn in the stylist’s chair when Jisung finishes. Across the room, they lock eyes and Jisung clearly hesitates before making his way over to Jaemin’s side.
“Are you going to avoid me all day?” Jaemin asks quietly when Jisung perches on the edge of the sofa. Jisung glances at him and then melts, dissolving into himself like a giant soufflé deflating.
“Don’t be stupid, hyung,” he mumbles, but he scrunches backwards, until he’s tucked neatly into Jaemin’s space.
The waiting room is oddly quiet. Usually comeback days are filled with too much energy, too many emotions, too much excitement, all bubbling up from every single person who inhabits the room until they clash into each other or get expelled on stage. Today, it’s the exact opposite.
Jaemin knows he’s at fault for it. He really can’t bring himself to care.
“I think I owe you an apology,” Jaemin says once Jisung is comfortably situated under his arm, somehow reducing his massive frame into a small ball at Jaemin’s side.
“Don’t be stupid,” Jisung repeats, more firmly than he had before. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“You left.”
“Because I didn’t think I should be around to hear it,” Jisung replies. “I didn’t think it was the sort of thing you’d want anyone to hear, hyung.” He looks up at Jaemin and Jaemin forces himself to meet Jisung’s gaze even though all he wants to do is run away. Odd, that; how Jisung and Donghyuck manage to evoke two very similar reactions in him despite being entirely unlike each other.
“Yeah, well…” Jaemin lasts a good four seconds before he has to look away. “It didn’t matter, did it? You could have saved yourself the sleep.”
“It matters,” Jisung says immediately. “Of course it matters, hyung. That’s—” He stops and then considers his words, before adding, quietly, “Hyung, I’m sorry.”
This sends Jaemin’s gaze skittering back to Jisung. “Why are you sorry?” He asks wildly, too loudly. Across the room, Mark’s eyes slide coldly over to them and Jaemin has to force himself from retaliating. He focuses in on Jisung’s eye makeup instead, counting the number of colours blended onto his eyelid.
“I’m sorry you broke up,” Jisung says, in that quiet, honest way of his. The words that fall so sweetly from his lips but still manage to lodge themselves painfully somewhere under the sixth layer of Jaemin’s skin, tearing him apart from the inside out. “You must be hurting, hyung.”
Jaemin’s first instinct is to laugh it off. His second is to run away. He forces it all down, pushes it deep, deep under his ribs and wishes he had another coffee to grasp to his chest.
“It is what it is, Jisung-ah,” he says finally.
“But…” Jisung hesitates. “Why did it happen, hyung?”
“Lots of reasons,” Jaemin replies before he sighs. It’s in the same vein of vague answers he’d always given Donghyuck, the kind that resulted in this; studiously avoiding looking at each other and sitting as far away from each other as the cramped waiting room will allow.
Jaemin allows himself a sweeping glance around the room, just to look at Donghyuck. He’s curled into the corner of the couch, legs pulled tightly towards him. If he keeps curled up like that with his spine in that awkward position, his leg will start to cramp soon, and then he’ll have to spend precious minutes stretching it out before it stiffens up.
Something in him aches, yawning in the cavern of his chest and pushing its way out of his ribs until they threaten to crack under the pressure. It hurts.
Jaemin looks away. It isn’t his job to worry about that. Not anymore.
3:30 PM
They win the broadcast.
Cynically, Jaemin thinks, at some point, it must get old—this rush of winning. But eight years running and it never really does. His heart still leaps and a smile still draws onto his face when he sees their name jump out in bold letters. The validation, even after all this time, hasn’t run stale—still emboldens him, attests that he made the right choice, that re-signing, even with all the pitfalls that eventually came his way wasn’t the death sentence everyone thought it was.
NCT’s last standing subunit—practically veterans of the kpop industry, still winning, despite being pitted against younger, shinier groups.
It’s an oddly cheering thought and even Mark starting his speech with that dumbly wide eyed surprise and galling humility, isn’t enough to stop Jaemin from grinning at his members, arm thrown around Chenle’s shoulder, ignoring the way his heart skips when Donghyuck, smiling bright and beautiful, meets his eyes.
6:54 PM
They’re wrapping up their fansign for the day, waving cheerily at all the fans who are slowly filing out, when Jaemin notices Donghyuck’s hand pressing at the base of his spine, knuckles digging down the muscle until he hits the base of his thigh before he loops back up.
Jaemin sinks his teeth into his lower lip and looks away. He lasts half a second, maybe less. Donghyuck’s always been a little too arresting for Jaemin’s own good—even when he tried his best to stay away, it never worked. Donghyuck would chase after him with that smirk lilted on his mouth, a high sweet Jaemin-ah lingering on his mouth for the camera pointed at them, for the amusement of those watching, for Donghyuck’s own pleasure, getting to see Jaemin visibly bristle and try to shut it down before it showed on his face. Or, Donghyuck would back away, eyes skittering over Jaemin’s face before locking onto something over his shoulder or in the other direction entirely and Jaemin would grin, big and wide, and feel something kickstart his heart, like a drumbeat pounding through his arteries and he’d lean forward, chasing back; always that push and pull, always that back and forth. They never go long without it. Or at least, they never used to.
Jaemin looks. Donghyuck’s hand is still there. The grimace painting his face as he turns his head from the audience.
He grabs Jisung’s wrist as he passes by and reels him close. They file off stage in a single line and Jaemin takes advantage of the gap between him and the other members to whisper in Jisung’s ear.
“Get him a heat pack, okay? Soon. Before we get in the van.”
“What—hyung? Get who—”
Jaemin jerks his chin at Donghyuck’s back and then drops away from the group before Jisung can give him another one of his penetrating, aching looks, ducking down to fiddle with his shoelaces so he has a visible excuse for hanging back. He can feel a headache burgeoning at the back of his head and he desperately wants to sink into a mattress and pull the thick covers over his head and stop existing for a while. For just a little bit.
His laces drop from his fingertips as nausea threatens to overwhelm him and so there he sits, pinching the webbing of his right hand between thumb and forefinger until it subsides. Until he has the strength to get up again.
8:47 PM
Jaemin hates variety shows.
It’s always the same recycled content, always the same games, always the same trite comments made, always under the same scorching hot lights and in the same stiff clothes. It may be ungrateful but Jaemin’s had a long day, and he’s allowing himself the audacity to be pissed off by it.
He just wants to go home and be alone for the few precious hours he gets before the next day comes and he has to be NCT Dream again. He wishes his apartment was closer. By the time they finish schedules, they’ll end up back at the dorms and Jaemin will stay over just as he has done for the last week because there’s no time run away, not before he has to be back the next morning; all dreams of solace and privacy must wait until this comeback period is over.
They break for ten minutes to allow the camera staff to change positions, as desks get pulled into the classroom set and Jaemin lets himself sink into the plastic chair behind all the staff and resists the urge to press his fingers into his eyes. His headache has grown from a suggestion to a full fledged nuisance that’s nestled itself somewhere between his eyebrows and nose bridge and isn’t going away anytime soon. Their manager had refused to buy him more coffee.
“We’ll be done filming in half an hour,” he’d said, exasperated when Jaemin had asked, ducking around a yawning Renjun to catch him before he’d left the changing room. “You don’t need the caffeine, you need to sleep.”
Jaemin had never thought he’d feel ill at ease around his members, but there he was, trying to disappear into the slats of his chair, focusing in on the warped pattern of the concrete under him rather than look up at any of them. His chest hurts, under the reverberation of his throbbing headache, low level and unrelenting. It’s been like this since last night.
They get called back to set and Jaemin slips off his chair immediately, fixing his jacket so it looks less crumpled. He submits himself to the stylist noona who fiddles with the imperfections in his makeup that are only visible to her and over the top of her head meets Jeno’s gaze.
“I’m fine,” Jaemin says before Jeno can even open his mouth. “If you ask me if I’m okay I’m going to shit in your bed.”
Jeno snorts. “You’re so annoying,” he says. He doesn’t ask Jaemin any inane questions, but he does put himself in between Jaemin and the rest of the group during the entire program and his hand rests ever so briefly on Jaemin’s shoulder before it disappears.
It does more for Jaemin’s manic countenance than any ham-fisted approach—and later icy anger—Mark had shown throughout the day.
10:15 PM
They head back to the company after all their schedules are done for more practice. Jaemin’s used to it—this gruelling schedule, the jarring binary of having nothing to do for months and then running yourself into the ground for a month of promotions.
It doesn’t make it any easier though—this tension, this awkwardness that has permeated itself into every crevice and strained sentence they utter just to keep the silence from closing in around them. The very walls of the practice studio seem to shrink away from the seven of them, sitting in the center with their very late dinner, as if shying away from the unease hovering in a thick fog around them.
Jaemin has to force himself to eat food—poking at the meat and kimchi until a semi-appetising piece makes itself known. Jisung keeps nudging him every time Jaemin lays his chopsticks down, poking until he picks up another piece and chews slowly.
His neck hurts from looking down all day.
“Okay,” Jeno says finally, breaking the silence, setting his chopsticks down with a decisive click. “This is stupid. No, hyung, listen—” he says sharply—or, well as sharply as Jeno dares speak to Mark. Mark shuts his mouth, looking mutinous. “This—this is—we’re not spending the whole comeback like this. You two have to talk this out.”
“What the fuck do you want us to say, Jeno-yah?” Donghyuck asks, and Jaemin looks up at him. Donghyuck looks exhausted, hair hanging limply over his forehead, hairspray having given up sometime around their third run through.
“Anything,” Jeno says, softer, backing down in the face of Donghyuck’s obvious fatigue. “I don’t want to spend three weeks walking around on eggshells around you two. So fix it.” This is said directed at Jaemin who keeps his face blank. “And Mark hyung,” Jeno adds, looking exasperated as he shoots Mark a quelling look. “Leave it alone. For now.”
11:11 PM
They’re left alone in the dorm by themselves. Jeno shuttles off with Mark and Jisung and Renjun flock to Chenle’s apartment and then it’s just them—staring at each other from opposite sides of the living room, Donghyuck clutching his bag and Jaemin sipping on a plastic cup of water—the drink he’d received when he’d asked their manager for coffee at the end of the day.
Donghyuck, always so quick to speak, so quick to jump into an argument, says nothing. He looks so tired.
“We don’t have to do this,” Jaemin says. It doesn’t feel like giving up, losing ground in this war, to speak first—not when Donghyuck looks like this. Not when Jaemin had already robbed him of precious sleep the night before. “I’ll—we’re fine—you can sleep, I mean.” Jaemin’s never felt so off balance around Donghyuck. He repeats, forcing his voice steadier. “You can get some sleep. We don’t have to do this tonight.” Or ever, if Jaemin has his way.
“We’re fine?” Donghyuck asks dully. “Is that what you think?” His eyes are dim but he focuses on Jaemin. He never used to be able to do that—look Jaemin in the eyes. At first, Jaemin thought it was because of their history, because they had been awful teenagers and then awful rookies and then awful coworkers, and distance hadn’t done them any favours and when Jaemin had returned, he hadn’t known how to fit in the spots that had been filled out by the others, only tiny crevices left behind for him to squiggle into. And Donghyuck had become something impenetrable, in the time between Jaemin’s departure and arrival—a thin shell of chocolate drawn around hard candy, sweet and sunny only to be met with a thick barrier right behind.
Then something had shifted, a few degrees to the left, the tilt of the Earth’s axis deepened, the tides receded and suddenly, suddenly—
The delicate press of Donghyuck’s mouth against his own was never something Jaemin predicted nor made allowances for but all of a sudden—suddenly, suddenly—it was just so easy to sink into, to let the familiar tune of their bickering and misunderstandings and clashes twist, just a couple degrees rotated, a gymnast sticking the landing, into something good. Something worth sticking around for.
Jaemin’s not sure he would have resigned the contract if he’d known this would be his conclusion—staring at his ex-boyfriend across the length of a dorm neither of them really live in.
“No,” Jaemin says and the words taste like ash. “No, I know we’re not fine. But…” He hesitates. Will Donghyuck accept his concern? Jaemin doesn’t know how to navigate this unfamiliar terrain between them, one full of quicksand and potholes when Jaemin had long stopped thinking about quicksand as an everyday threat. He wasn’t a child anymore—it’d been a long time since he perceived Donghyuck as a threat. But it’s too quiet and Jaemin is worn down and they’ve got to get up and do this all over again in a few hours and he’d rather Donghyuck get the sleep than rake his nails over still open wounds. He’d rather not hurt again. “I think you should get some sleep, Hyuck.”
“God, don’t call me that,” Donghyuck exhales, hurt whooshing out after the breath, almost as if hurrying to catch up with his words. He turns his head, roughly scrubs at his face with the back of his hand and then looks back at Jaemin. “You can’t just—” he huffs a laugh, but it sounds broken and something in Jaemin slowly slits apart, like a knife carefully dragged over delicate skin, and bleeds. “You’re so infuriating,” Donghyuck breathes. “You break my fucking heart—”
“I wasn’t alone in that,” Jaemin says because even aching and hurt and excoriated to shreds, he will always find the energy to argue with Donghyuck.
“And then you act like this!” Donghyuck’s bag drops to the ground as he wildly throws a hand in Jaemin’s direction. “You don’t say a word all day and you act like a fucking ghost and you pick fights with Mark—”
“That’s not—”
“And then you act like you care,” Donghyuck breathes, hurt rounding the vowels, rebounding between them like ping pong balls.
“I do,” Jaemin says honestly, cutting across the accusation as tenderly as he can. “I care. About you. That hasn’t changed.”
Why is it easier to say these words now? On the heels of their last scenes, just waiting for the credits to roll, for the curtains to fall shut. Why does it feel less like bleeding and more like breathing for Jaemin to confess his heart, when he’d fought them every step of the way before. When a relationship with Donghyuck had been like what old swordsmen must have felt like—innately used to the rhythm and the blows, to the intricate dance, to the proximity and the hot breath washing across their faces, and the vibration running up their arms with every clash—so inborn and wild and borne of comfort.
Is it because he knows this is it for them? Because there’s no going back after tonight? Does honesty only come easily to him when he knows a farewell is looming?
Donghyuck scoffs but there are tears shimmering at the corners of his eyes now and Jaemin’s chest burns in response.
The silence stretches out between them, yawning in the gap they’ve made, they’ve carved out. Jaemin thinks about saying something else, to fill the silence, but stops himself. He’s never felt the urge to do so before and he doesn’t want to start now. Putting Donghyuck at ease is a habit he no longer has the permission to create.
“You told Jisung about my leg.”
In a cruel twist of fate, Donghyuck had hurt his leg six years after the first time and this time, it hadn’t been as clean, hadn’t been as easy. Older he had been, more worn down his body, and this time, it hadn’t gone away as easily—flares up every so often when the weather is cruel and the pressure drops, and when Donghyuck forgets to care for himself, too busy caring about everyone else in his own loud, lighthearted way.
Jaemin meets his accusing, wet gaze head on. “I did.” He won’t apologise for it, even though he knows Donghyuck despises sympathy, especially from his members, especially from people he’d rather never reveal weakness to.
“I don’t understand you,” Donghyuck says after a long beat, helplessly, awfully.
And Jaemin finally laughs. Short. Huffed. Looks away for the first time. “Yeah,” he agrees. Sets his water down on the nearby windowsill and feels his limbs creak with the movement, like he’s stepping out of his tomb, the roots retreating from around his ankles as he shifts. “Yeah, that was always the problem, I think. We just… Don’t get each other.” Not easily anyway, but Jaemin had never been afraid of hard work before. Now… He wonders if it had just been rose-tinted glasses, deep brown eyes and long legs scattered with stars clouding his vision. Making him believe in a future that never really existed.
Donghyuck’s shoulders slump and that, more than anything, is the neon sign flickering on to Jaemin, bright and pulsing, and so sharp his eyeballs ache.
Oh, he thinks, stunned and a little desperate. Oh, this is really the end, isn’t it? This is it, for us.
And just a moment later, just a beat off, just missing each other, Donghyuck, every word aching with regret, confesses, “I don’t think it’s supposed to be like this. I don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard.”
It burns to look at him. Reduces his very retinas to ash to gaze upon Donghyuck’s defeated visage. Takes everything in him not to reach out, not to thumb away the tear still glittering at the corner of his eyes, two diamonds sparkling longingly back at him.
“No,” confesses Jaemin and his tongue twists under the weight of the words. Jaemin’s unfamiliar with this kind of truth, this level of vulnerability. But Donghyuck deserves it; if Jaemin can give him anything, he can give him this.
This is it, he thinks again, damning and slow. This is it, for us.
“I don’t think so either.”
Donghyuck grants him a long look and Jaemin, in turn, takes it upon himself to lay down the killing blow, feels the vibration reverberate up his spine, down his legs, over every part Donghyuck had touched. “I don’t want to do it. Not like this.”
Donghyuck swallows. “No,” he whispers, and Jaemin wishes they were closer. Wishes he didn’t have to reach across all the miles between them to clutch at these last words. He can’t move. His feet remain rooted to the spot he stands. “No, I don’t either.”
11:32 PM
Jaemin finds it himself in uproot his feet and follow Donghyuck to the front door, holding the closet door open for him so he can find his shoes.
“We’re okay?” Donghyuck’s lashes flutter as he looks up at Jaemin. “We’re okay, right?” He insists. “Like—tomorrow and after—we’ll—we’ll be okay.”
Jaemin lets the door slide shut and his hand drops to his side. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah… Don’t worry, Hyuck, we’ll—we’ll be okay.”
Donghyuck nods and slowly shoulders his bag. His chin is dipped towards the floor and Jaemin’s neck hurts in sympathy. He’s spent the whole day looking down. His hand twitches by his side and then, he—hand stuttering, rising—ghosts over Donghyuck’s arm. Donghyuck’s head follows the path of his hand until his head rises, eyes locking onto Jaemin’s.
“Can I—” Jaemin asks, gasps, stutters, ribboning to shreds between them, falling apart in the face of the inevitable and Donghyuck nods before he can even finish the sentence and Jaemin—it’s all he can do to lean down, to cup Donghyuck’s cheek in the same hand and to kiss him, light and sweet and careful. In all the ways that Donghyuck deserves, that Jaemin had never been able to give him.
Donghyuck is the first to draw away and Jaemin inhales reflexively, shuddering for a second, hand lingering in the air before it drops and he steps away. He opens the door for Donghyuck.
“Get some sleep, alright?” He asks and watches as Donghyuck’s nods, gaze flush to his own. Jaemin’s mouth burns.
“Goodnight Jaemin,” Donghyuck says, offering him a tiny smile.
Jaemin smiles back. “See you tomorrow, Donghyuck.”
