Archive of Our Own

Gunwook’s breath was hot and steady against his own, foreheads bridging the two newly found worlds. Large silky hands held his own with one slowly forming bruise and rings decorating his slender fingers. Blind eyes, seeing only him and only for him. Peppered laughter rang in the back, tired coos, rumbling and shuffling and calls from staff members. The toll of silence sheltered them from disowned clothing and clumsy mistakes.

Pegged, hit with pillows, the cold battering his cheek. Gunwook smiled, smirked, steady and firm eyes now softening with the red now crawling across his face.

“Sorry, Ricky,” familiar words, snarky words. 

He snapped to the lanky man, balling his hand up in a fist and threatening a punch. 

“Aw, Ricky-hyung, you’re not going to hurt him. Right?”

Ricky raised his eyebrow and cocked his head.

“What, are you going to stop me?” he sneered.

Gyuvin’s voice cut back in, “You couldn’t touch me if you tried.”

Fire, contempt burned in his eyes and burned his ears. He snatched the towel that had been resting in Gunwook’s arms and balled it up, throwing it with all his might. Strong, boasting power heaving it as far as it could go. Too bad that towels unravel in the midst of battle. 

Gyuvin laughed, stumbling towards Ricky. Gunwook laughed, bumping right into Ricky. They threw their bodies on him, muscles and bones and too long limbs with two long men. And he was stuck, unmoving and bound. 

“God, you’re going to fucking crush me,” he wheezed from the core of their entanglement.

“Is that a challenge?” Gunwook said in perfect, practised English. 

Gunwook was quick to squeeze, Gyuvin was quick to fall. Pushed onto a lucky couch in the middle of an unfortunate filming place where all of them had been before. Where stories were told, lost, spoken and left as secrets for the couch to hold. Name tags and drinks and staff members who pretended they didn’t hear the sinful and devastating and juicy words that were shared over the deceivingly plain couch. 

A cat, a dog, and a pig-puppy. It sounded like a terrible way to start a terrible joke. A cat, a dog, and a pig-puppy walk into a bar. Except the cat was now getting his ribs crushed by two incredibly loud and jumpy men that weren’t even fully on the couch. Too short for each of them, stunted just as their beds were. 

Hot foreheads, hot hands. 

Gyuvin was a rock, shaky but a stable presence in his life. An anchor that grounded him yet managed to float his own way to the sky. Every nook and cranny open to Gyuvin, every gem that tried to hide and every sparkle that only gave itself away to him. Examined over and over again with sculpting hands that didn’t even know they were making its mark in the marble. Stuck, stuck to his side and stuck to the chambers of his mind as they cradled one another for the foreseeable eternity. Crushing his bones with unwavering love, armour of stone that would forever protect. 

Gunwook was new, unpredictable. The wind flew him over here and it could just as easily throw him to the other side of the river, never to be seen again. New things to be discovered, open with hidden lives behind their deceiving stories. Waves crashing, beaching and taking. Gunwook left to shore, his friends taken back to the sea. He could fall, too, at any time. Squeezing, exploring every new part, every way fabric draped over Ricky’s skin and every way his nerves faltered and choked. An adventurer, ready to conquer the cave of hidden wonders. There was nothing to predict, no future to see into, only the present that sat right in front of him. 

“Guys, get off of me,” he wheezed.

Protests were thrown at him in the form of groans and tapping limbs.

“If I die then you know why.”

Reluctant sloths made their way off of him, legs threatening collapse as they stumbled into upright positions. Ricky stayed lying, heaving breaths nourishing his lungs.

“So, how’d we do?” Gyuvin asked.

Ricky raised an eyebrow.

“The challenge. How’d we do?” Gunwook restated.

He paused for a moment, every timeline passing through his mind with each word he wanted and would loath to say.

“You fucking failed.”

This time, Ricky was prepared to run.

~

Palm pinched, tongue cut, staying in the present and staying in the calm. No playful punches, no words dripping with sarcasm, no instinct. Paying attention to his palm and to the camera, paying attention to the brain that wants to joke but doesn’t because he’d rather fall from the public eye than fall because of the public eye. 

He was stuck, untelling, not snappy, not helpful. There was no way to tell him to cut his own tongue, no way to speak Chinese without consequence, no way to teach him the media training that had been drilled into him. Not at that moment, not until they could make it to the laundry room sans suspicion. He could just keep his breaths long, eyes empty, reactions gone. 

He stayed in the present, his words could always be redefined by crisp edits. He couldn’t tell him off, he couldn’t help him, not without his strawberry red words turning to blood with the hand of a clever edit. 

These emotions all felt too familiar. 

Silence will be dragged, the fight will be dragged, he will be dragged and Ricky couldn’t be dragged with him. No one will have the timeline they deserve on this practice. No one will have the screen time that they should have gotten because this one fight will fill up their entire time slot despite every other day being fine and more than fine and better than whatever this is. It was sad. It was pathetic. Hopeless and hopeful stories never to be told, lost to puppeteers and contracts. 

His heart banged against the cage that his ribs held it in. Beating, begging for help. He needed to get out, they both, they all needed to get out. His fingers slipped off his sweaty palm, but he always latched back on. 

People will catch his camera stares, they won’t be enough to save Jingxiang from the general public but they will help to save his perception among the people tired of the falsified drama. And that was all he could do, pathetic to the bloodthirsty will of directors and managers.

~

Ricky didn’t remember going to the court case between his parents, he didn’t remember sitting there nor giving his testimony. He remembered being in the car on the way, and he was here in the house that was being scrubbed free from the lingering smell of cigarettes. But the hours, the days that had passed were gone. A blink from one day to another, as if he were asleep for the whole time. 

The pungent apple cleaner attacked his nose, reigning over his sense of smell. But it was better than the smoke that had spread its unwanted body all over their hallways and in their rooms. Now being erased, a rebellion successfully dethroning their tyrannical claim over the entire house. 

Delicately, his mother placed a bowl of strawberries in front of him. Fresh, a signal of freedom. 

“You did well,” curt, kind, solemn but relieved. 

That was the first sign of relaxation that Ricky had seen from his mother in a long while. But he wasn’t sure what he did well. Was it that he spoke well? In favour of his mother? Was he confident, lax? Or did he gain subconscious pity with a nervous and shaky voice? Was he just silent, appropriately, following, never stepping out of line?

Questions that would remain unanswered as they refused to even tease the tip of his tongue. They captured the empty space in his brain that he wished was filled with the days that he lost instead. 

The strawberries were pure, sugary, melodious, melting in his mouth. No prepackaged snacks that tasted artificial, although pleasant they couldn’t replace the relishing taste of fresh victory. And there was no smoke to taint his taste buds nor the fruit that would devastatingly be ruined, not anymore. 

“You were lovely,” she rubbed the palm of his free hand.  

He stared right at the tear stains that no longer held constantly replenishing tears. Every cut to his mother he would see water repeatedly tarnishing her cheeks, but now it had ended. Left alone, waterfalls no longer falling, marks now able to disappear off her face in peace. 

“Mama doesn’t have to cry any more,” is all Ricky could say. “Up, it’s going up from here.”

It held the weight of everything in his chest. All the worries of her children, all the worries of her appearances, all the times she had to carefully balance her words to not fall from the gazes of her investors. All the tears from her marriage no longer had to fall onto marble countertops in an otherwise pindrop silent house. No more maids with stained aprons, no more houses that felt too big and too empty despite the elephants that roamed around. 

No more hiding in his room, no more distracting with his baby sister while his own mind crashed and burned. He could breathe, he could play without worries of banging noises and endless streams of fiery words. Maybe his days would still be skipped, forgotten, lost to the empty walls of his house. But maybe he would be able to remember a little more, maybe he would want to remember a little more. 

His mother smiled at him. Bittersweet, still shining while exhaustion was finally allowed to seep into her visage. Those thoughts were to be saved for later, now was time to live in the present. Future worries no longer had to be thought about, he could finally look at what was right in front of him. 

“It’s only going up from here,” she parroted back to him. 

A tinge of excitement underpinned her words, smiling, uplifting. Uplifting to the both of them as freedom sat right in front of them. A chapter had ended with gaps in its pages, and a new one would begin with a bowl of the sweetest strawberries that Ricky had ever eaten. 

~

The hyung that came from the twenty-something-year-old caught him off guard. Stunning, terrifying, a frame so strong he could for sure crush Ricky with one hand. He held so much confidence, so much body, he was definitely older than him. So the fact that he was being called hyung completely surprised him. 

“Hyung? I’m born in 2004.”

He nodded with a gummy smile, “I’m born in 2005.”

Ricky didn’t mean to look shocked, but he couldn’t hold back his impoliteness. His expression was probably incredibly stupid, and also incredibly rude as he realised his jaw was hanging and his eyes were blown wide open. 

“I’m sorry,” he bowed. “I didn’t mean to be so rude. What’s your name again? I’m really bad with Korean names, sorry.”

The not-twenty-year-old just giggled with a little shine in his eyes. There was no offence, not even a tiny hint of meanness or incredulousness or anything written anywhere on his face. Just forgiving, and very sweet. It still felt strange to be walking amongst people who wouldn’t scrutinise your every move.

“I’m Park Gunwook, at your service,” he said while saluting to him.

Laughter escaped Ricky’s mouth. Impolite laughter that hopefully wouldn’t make it into the episode. He clasped his hand over his mouth, hiding both the bruise and his brashness from possible cameras and the kind boy in front of him. 

“So, Park Gunwook, what brings you to this fun little show?” he asked. 

Everyone had their own story, independent trainees, those that cut off their contracts, those that were cut from debut groups, those who were forced here and those who came of their own accord. Ricky wanted to know Gunwook’s story, the story of a young boy who just missed debuting in a previous survival show. And he was young, too, it must be devastating to have to go through hell for a second time at an age younger than his own. 

At an age where he sits right at the cusp of coming of age, where Korea would call him a child but the western world would call him an adult. Either way, too young in his eyes. Too young to have to learn media training, to live in torment with scraps of contact to the outside world. 

The way Gunwook talks draws him in. Like he’s never experienced a day where he’s snapped at someone, like he doesn’t have any ills to say, like he didn’t even need media training and this was just coded into his genes. Only flowers sprouted from his words and smiles beamed to the world. Endearing, adorable, like a protector that Ricky wants to protect. Innocent, but not naive. Beautiful, amazing, enrapturing, someone that he wants to get to know more. Amazing, silly, social, someone who’s talked to everyone and who loves to talk to everyone but has chosen to talk to Ricky and to get to know him. 

(Ricky talks to Gyuvin about Gunwook later that day. They both laugh about thinking he was older, and they both share the sentiment that they think he’s cute. And lovable. And that they’d probably invite him into their relationship.)

~

Gyuvin’s hands were hot, engulfed around Ricky’s face and head. Foreheads pulsated against each other, breaths slowing as ease seeped into their bodies. They held each other, the failed debut still vibrating in their minds. 

The determined Tempest members were already ushered out of the trainee dorms, two abandoned beds residing in their room. Now, it was just them two and their heartbeats emanating through the whole place.

“I’m sorry,” Gyuvin said. “It’s been so long.”

He rubbed the broken hand that had to face the emotional front that Ricky had barely been maintaining. Lapsing in and out. Losing minutes, hours, all fallen to no man’s land. 

“Don’t apologise, it’s not your fault.”

A shy smile sat on Gyuvin’s face, a smile that didn’t often see the light of day. Big smiles, laughs, full smothers of love. Nothing like the quiet that he let sit in the room with them, the space that needed to be left. 

“Still,” a pause in time, letting thoughts simmer and letting thoughts go. “I wish it didn’t have to go like this.”

The clock ticked by, setting the background to this moment in life. His blotched and tainted palm sat prettily in Gyuvin’s pure and clean hand. His magic didn’t lie with words, they lied with touch. Every touch grounded him, weighed him back to Earth. Immovable, a refusal to leave and a wish to make sure he was okay.

At some point he had managed to get Ricky to sit up and had a glass of boiled water and tissues for him. Rubbing his back, rubbing his hand, fire that kept him feeling. Ricky wasn’t sure how much time passed as he lapsed in and out of memory, but Gyuvin was always there with his body held against his own or with a refilled cup or a handful of candy. 

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered. 

Nodding, nodded, Ricky just agreed as he always did. He wasn’t sure how much he believed those words, but he felt the weight of the world in each consonant. Something that Gyuvin always wanted to give to him.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

Warm lips met his own. Soft, moist, moving all across his face and down his neck and everywhere that he could find. Each touch left him feeling slightly better than before, as if he was cleaning his skin. Kiss, another one, and another one on his bruised palm as if they were trying to heal the pain and the misery of everything it symbolised. 

It was as if chains were being bashed apart by rocks and tools. An unrelenting force that wouldn’t stop until he was feeling better. A sweet dedication he would always treasure. 

~

The applause, the stage. Spotlights that he revelled in. 

Hair sprayed into the perfect place, just how he liked it, just how they liked it. His heartbeat raced and he took slow breaths to counteract the heat that was flowing through his bones. He could feel eyes boring into the pores that he knew were airbrushed enough to be invisible, yet it felt as if they were judging anyways. 

Ricky soaked in red smoke and adoration as screams ventured his way. He danced and sang past the feeling of his muscles slinking as cheers pushed his exhaustion to the side. Thoughts bounced around, doubt sunk into his lungs. Gone, he wished they would leave. The song, the beat, the sounds. Every note that exited his mouth and every limb that struck the air with power that he had to work for. 

Living, he looked good, he sounded good. He had to, for the stage, for them. This is where he shined, this is where he belonged, under red lights with his hair sitting perfectly on his forehead. Sweat refused to pour down his face, opting for his arms and palms instead. The ribbon didn’t slip, it couldn’t slip. Not now, not ever. 

Stunning, that’s how he hoped he was. He had to be stunning elsewise what would he be?

He knew that those were broken thoughts leaking from his broken brain. He would be Ricky, he would be the sweetness under the hot and poised and silly and funny face that usually glazed his body. He was imperfect, human. 

He sang with his heart. Right here, he shone. He would earn the gleaming admiration from the people that shouted his name, eyes scrutinising his every move, gazes that he’d hoped to gain the approval of. And he could go back to warm hugs that cared about him no matter what he did because he was Ricky. 

Spotlight, thank you. Loves, thank you.

~

Hao’s hand rested on his forehead. 

“You have a fever,” he mumbled. 

Ricky shrugged, fevers could blow over. They’ve passed in the past and there was no reason for it to change. 

“It’s fine,” he said. “You know I get them a lot, I’ll get over it.”

Hao shot him a suspicious look.

“Yeah, but that’s only because I make you lie down and not die by Michael Jackson dance.”

He rolled his eyes in response, “Alright, mother. I’ll rest.”

A smug look sat squarely on his face like it belonged there. 

“Oh, and can you check Gunwook and Gyuvin, too? I hope they don’t have what I have.”

He raised an eyebrow, before deciding he didn’t want to delve into it. 

“Actually, just stay here. I have a feeling they’ll be in here soon.”

Hao looked at him weirdly, while Ricky just stared back in smug repose. He plopped onto his back, his silky bed sheets engulfing him as he listened to the familiar sounds of footsteps coming from the hall. Quiet, sneaky, but unpracticed. His own ears were trained, trained to hear the difference between wooden floors and marble and steps from people he hated and steps from people he’d never see more than a single time. 

“I can just go check,” he said. “You look awfully suspicious.”

Ricky shrugged, “Also, your not-violin hickey is very visible from this angle.”

“Hey!” Hao immediately snapped his hand to cover his neck. “It’s a violin mark!”

“Yeah, on the right side of your neck. That’s where you play the violin.”

His ears flushed and knives shot through his squinting eyelids. The footsteps grew closer, carefully avoiding the board that shrieked like a crow every time someone stepped on it. 

“Hey, are you sure you’re not sick? You look more red than me.”

A deserved slap hit his shoulder, soft and affectionate. Smaller than Gyuvin’s spread hands, more covered than Gunwook’s own, firmer than Gyuvin’s but not as firm as Gunwook’s. Still soft, the same soft, harm damned to the basement where it wouldn’t be allowed to see the light of day. 

Louder, closer, careful, arriving. They paused by the door, they were right there. Ricky launched a countdown on his fingers for Hao, having memorised the exact timing that they seemed to always follow by accident. As his pointer finger descended, voices burst through with the sound of the door whipping onto the wall.

“Jesus Christ how did you know?” he mumbled.  

He refused to produce a response as the two intruders yelled, no words, just yelled. 

“What the fuck?” is all Ricky could exclaim. 

“We’re trying out harmonies,” Gunwook smirked. “Why are you lying down? And why’s Hao-hyung here?”

Hao rolled his eyes, “I’m here because he’s sick. And, in fact, we were just talking about you. Sit.”

Gunwook looked confused, Gyuvin looked terrified. Ricky held back the laughter that rumbled on his tongue when they pulled expressively stupid(ly cute) faces. 

“Are we in trouble?” Gyuvin asked as they sat on either side of Hao on the bed. 

“No, I’m just here to make sure that you’re not dying, either,” he said as he felt their foreheads.

“Oh,” Gunwook said. “I think I’m fine, I don’t feel sick at all.”

“Me too.”

“Why are you guys so sweaty?” Hao asked with apprehension. 

Ricky could see the cogs turning in his mind, his eyebrows and lips were pursed in the way he knew he was trying to make revelation. He also knew that Hao was definitely wrong about his assumptions as he watched his hands begin to burn up and subtly cover his neck. Hao looked Ricky dead in the eyes, which he retorted with the most judgemental eyes he could muster. 

“You’re wrong.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

Hao was flustered, ears now tomato red. Ricky always enjoyed poking fun at the man in front of him.

“I’m a mind reader,” sarcasm dripped from every bone in his body. “They were just out on a food run for Yujin.”

Disbelief dared to cross his eyes, but was quickly washed away by the decision that he’d rather believe those words regardless of if they were true or not. 

Hao scoffed, “Alright. Now get out before Ricky coughs on you all.”

“But-”

“Nope. You can see him later. Right now, you just need to not get sick.”

They sulked before trudging out of the room with Hao lightly pushing at their backs.

Gyuvin stretched his arm out as if they would never see each other again.

“Bye bye, Ricky. Love you,” he said in English as he always did. 

“Love you, hyung,” Gunwook joined in with an adorable accent and a pout. 

“Love you, too,” holding all the affection he could give to them. 

~

An endearing man sucked all his attention. A force on stage, a presence he didn’t dare take his eyes off of. A siren’s voice that flew straight to his own ears.

He always loved this side of Hao, he loved this new view of Hanbin, and he loved everything about Hoetaek and his musical genius. But he breathed for the pink shirt that marked Gunwook’s deserved place on the stage. He belonged there, he lived with rap in his bones and vocals in his blood and dance in every muscle that dared to move.

His hand found Gyuvin’s, who was just as drawn in as he was. Ricky’s jaw slacked, eyes bulged, presentability fell, and he didn’t care. There was a performance being put on and he could almost feel the bass rumbling from inside the greenroom. For a moment of time, he wished he could be watching from the crowds, but that thought soon left as he just wanted to enjoy the moment in the now.

New lyrics, a rap tone that breathed new air into his lungs. He could feel his heart thumping as the music roared and so did the room. Gyuvin jumped up, cheered, shook Ricky and shook the trainees in front of them. He couldn’t jump up, he couldn’t cheer, he couldn’t do anything. Ricky was stuck to the chair in unrelenting love and admiration. Glued, glued to the screen and glued to his spot. 

He could listen to this all day. Perfection in the air, perfection in his breath. This was a new flavour of charisma and he was enraptured, willingly ensnared in the most beautiful trap he’s ever been in. As if he were trapped in the eye of a tornado. 

One Gunwook, an infinite amount of love. 

~

Ricky didn’t know who to believe. He lived in a world of stories that always told him how to feel, to act, to behave. Stories that told him that both of his parents were lying at the same time as they were telling the truth and that he shouldn’t be crying because his parents loved him. His mother’s words sat buried under the countless times his father has told him to be better because he should be better. He didn’t have any reason to be crying right now.

“Every family is like this,” he said. 

Ricky nodded, that’s all he could do. So that’s all he ever did. He never remembered the words his father said to him, the emotions even less. As if they were stripped, stolen away. So nodding, polite nods that he’d been taught. Nod when you don’t like someone, nod when you aren’t listening, nod whenever possible so people don’t think you hate them. That’s the key. You don’t need to make friends, you just need to make sure you don’t have enemies. 

He pinched at his palm, something he did to keep him sane during all the nodding and headaches and earfuls of words he didn’t understand and words he refused to understand. 

“Why are you crying? Stop crying.”

Yelling. That’s all he understood. He didn’t want to be crying, he knew he shouldn’t be crying, but the waterworks kept flowing and refused to stop. Leaks burst, holes burst, he didn’t have enough tape to close them all. He pinched his palm harder, that would get him to stop. 

Focus on the burn. Fire spread through his hand and reverberated all through his body. Alone in a loud house, gasoline being dumped on him with words that threatened to burn him. 

He choked, one breath. One breath would be all it took to stop the waterfalls from cascading down his cheeks. It wouldn’t stop his yelling, it never did. Palm pinched, to wish upon a wishing star, to hope upon a hopeless hand. 

~

Gunwook, Junhyeon and Gyuvin were all lying on each other on the laundry floor after exhaustion caught up to them. Ricky was either throwing chocolates into someone’s mouth or sitting on the washing machine or poking fun at his hyungs. He couldn’t exactly remember, it felt like his memory of the day had been broken up into little fragments and he’d just grabbed a handful and hoped they made sense together. Maybe those were memories from the morning, or of the day before, or of a few months earlier. It all felt like it could have happened today. 

That’s how he finished his diary entry for the day. He had to write every word and every moment. Ricky didn’t want to forget the swell of winning the artist battle challenge, he didn’t want to forget holding Jeonghyeon and Kuanjui as they realised they had a chance of surviving, he didn’t want to forget his one moment of success littered in the sea of evil edits. And if these memories ever slipped out of his hands, he could read the kilos of words that decorated his pages with flowery and detailed descriptions of what he could remember. 

He placed the diary back in its spot in the drawer before lying flat on his bed. An aggressive hand knocked at his door, a small noise of approval escaped his mouth, and a tired Gyuvin with eyebags waltzed into his room.

“Kim Ricky, move,” he demanded. 

He followed with a reluctant groan escaping his mouth. He rolled over to one side, leaving a gap for the incredibly tall boy to throw himself into. 

“Yes, your highness. How else would you like to be served today?” Ricky joked.

Gyuvin wordlessly took his hand, the one he knew had a bruise blotted on it. 

“What’s wrong?”

Ricky stilled as he felt fingers tracing the outside of the purple stain and rubbing the back of his hand. Earlier today, Gyuvin congratulated them, jumped with them, and was so excited. Now, he was lying down with soft eyes and his forehead touching his own. 

He didn’t say anything, he just started crying as tornadoes were finally allowed to tear apart his composure. The disaster was set free to run around the room, blotted messes hosted from his brain and his heart. He felt like a scribble, a tangled wad of yarn, ignored cables that sat collecting dust for years. It was all so much, and the leaking dam was finally allowed to burst as Gyuvin held him in his arms. 

Silence, loud and comfortable silence. A still moment for Ricky to just sob as emotions tore him apart. And Gyuvin collected all the pieces that fell because he always did. He wasn’t ready to be put together again, he didn’t want to be the porcelain perfect doll he had to be just to avoid the camera’s doom. To avoid everyone’s doom. In this moment, he was allowed to be cracked and broken and a person .

The camera would refuse to see this moment, would refuse to glance at a moment of Ricky’s broken pieces and would refuse to glance at the man holding him. Two people separated by crafted words and worlds, never allowed to collide. Two people that would hold each other. String unravelling, spilling apart before a puppy dog would wind it to a perfect ball of wool. 

Warm breaths, warm foreheads. It was nice after the longest period of exhaustion yet. 

~

Ricky hadn’t cut up fruits before. He still tried to, barely getting the knife in his hands to cooperate with him as he struggled to slice through the apple. His good palm dug into the top half of the blade, sinking into his skin while it jolted through the stubborn fruit. 

His bruise stung as he lifted the knife out of the apple, pulsating where the handle had been pressing against. He winced, shaking his hand to hopefully get the air to work its healing powers and magically remove the pain. The things he’d do to cheer up the puppy that had wormed his way into his life. 

“Quanrui! What are you doing?”

Ricky whipped around to see Hao standing in the doorway with eyes curiously looking at the choppy chunks of apple on the chopping board. 

“Ah, I’m trying to cut an apple for Gyuvin. He’s been obsessed with apples recently but he can’t bite into them properly because of, well, you know.”

Hao nodded, but his expression still didn’t leave his face.

“ Trying to cut an apple?”

The room sharpened, all of its lines leading towards Ricky. He could almost hear swords sheathing and accusatory noises darting by him as if he were in an anime. 

“What are you trying to insinuate?”

A smirk tugged at Hao’s lips which caused him to throw daggers at whatever was to come next. 

“Have you never cut an apple before?”

Ricky shrugged, “My mother never let me.”

Hao could just nod, understanding everything that laced those words. 

“You need help?”

Ricky shook his head, “I have to do this myself.”

“Alright then, I’ll see you later, then,” he chuckled.

He waved goodbye at the older man as he walked back out of the room with a small thumbs up. 

Ricky remembered the day where he was sitting in his room with his little sister crying in the cradle. Shushing a baby while he could hear nondescript screams that he could barely block out of his own brain challenged every cell in his body. Later that day, his mother had apologised for making him take care of his sister as if it were her own fault. She had cut up dragon fruit for him as they were out of strawberries and wished that to be enough of an apology. 

Ricky had wanted to cut up an orange for her in return, but she refused. She didn’t want him to do any more work than he needed to, she just wanted him to relax. He refused to do nothing, though, so instead he drew her a little picture of a happy family, a smiling family as a gift to cheer her up. Her resultant grin sent warmth through his own body, a sensation he would always chase.

That’s why Ricky loved to give gifts to people. It was a sign he cared despite the fact he was so frozen in place as to do most other things. But he yearned to do more, so he made a decision to push past the internal barrier that kept him from loving. And here he was, cutting up an apple for the apple obsessed boy who was struggling to open his jaw any wider than a small slice. 

He took one of the halves he cut and put the knife through it. His palm stung less as it felt easier to get the blade through the flesh of the apple. He was learning to take care of a puppy who always took care of him. 

~

He checked the date on the top of his paper. Ten days since he last remembered checking. Ten days since his last memory. What was he doing? Where was he?

A table, white and plastic, sickly bright lights, a loud conversation, an incomplete drawing. It clicked. He was at school and he was drawing his mother over top of a printed outline of a person. Ricky read the words at the top of the page over and over again before they finally strung together in his head. 

Draw Your Role Model! 

The artworks would accompany those that sat on the walls around the classroom. Self portraits, family drawings, Easter bunnies and all. His teacher sat with some other students and helped them pick colours, slotting herself in seats that were too small for her. 

He almost felt like that sometimes. Like he was in places that couldn’t hold him properly, that were trying but still sunk to the ground. He never fit neatly, he always had to change. Hair, posture, clothes, all wrong at the start of the year and wrong in a different way at the end. 

Ricky continued to colour in his mother’s hair with the yellow crayon that sat too small in his palm. He ruffled his own, unpermed since school started. His mother had always been there to make sure he wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb in the moving crowds of school children and rich CEOs with pampered children at dinner parties. She’d always ask if he was okay with any of this, and he’d always respond with a tiny nod. 

He drew the sunglasses that she always wore, inside and out. A cool demeanour, slotting herself in with the other adults that always tossed their head back and laughed with their hands covering their mouths. Which all also hid her bloodshot eyes or her messed up mascara or the lack thereof because it wasn’t worth putting it on when it was going to get ruined and covered anyways. 

Ricky made sure to draw the shining teeth of the smile she always wore. The two would practise together in the bathroom while they laughed about random things like the time when his teacher accidentally tripped into the bin. Her practised smile was always polite, plastered like the artificially sweetened words that hid the bitterness trapped behind her teeth. Her actual smile wasn’t as pretty, but it was better. It felt more real and more fresh and it made him happier. He wasn’t sure how to describe it and he was sure that his teacher wouldn’t like it so he just drew the one she had to show to people. 

He drew and coloured the fancy clothes that she liked to wear. They were a part of her that she could always show, art found in what others would call sleek and classy. This is when he could smile. His father could never tell her what to wear because it was already clean and proper enough, so he could only scoff and turn his head. And then the two would be alone. She’d twirl and Ricky would clap in awe as she sparkled even under the dim lights of their room at night. 

She always tried to be happy with him. It helped him feel better as cigarettes seeped into the walls around them. She tried so hard to not get hurt and she tried so hard to keep him safe. Role model, he wanted to be like her. 

He wanted to have blonde hair.  

~

It was just Gunwook and Ricky. No one else to be seen. No labelmates, teammates, partners in crime. Just the two of them sitting in a room fogging up with silence. 

They’d not gotten time alone together, everyone was usually grouped together in the minimal amount of dorms the building held. Not even after Gunwook had joined their relationship, it had always been the three of them at the very least. Gyuvin had been alone with him once or twice, but the last time Ricky had this kind of alone time was before they’d gotten together and they’d been crying over their friends’ horrible edits. 

Now, they were just sitting peacefully, foreheads bound together and hands wrapped around each other’s arms. The two hugged a lot, slotting into each other’s embrace perfectly. But they didn’t get a lot of time to just hold each other, no time to just cherish their shared breaths and beating hearts. 

Crashing waves, whatever happened next was up to Gunwook. If it was Gyuvin, he would guess that he’d smother him with kisses and they’d fall into a fit of giggles onto the bed with one of them accidentally rolling off. There was no way to guess Gunwook’s actions, and that was exciting. No expectations, and something wonderfully new. 

“You’re very pretty,” he said. 

One thing about Gunwook was that he loved showering people with sugary words. He meant all of them, disgustingly sweet, incredibly open and vulnerable. Something that Ricky struggled with, something that Gunwook helped him with. 

“And so incredibly sexy ,” he added.

That earnt a hearty laugh from Ricky. He’d always said sexy in English in such ridiculous situations, it was one of the greatest things that’s happened in this tiring show. And, the best thing was he meant it every time. 

Ricky fluttered his eyes, “Thank you. You’re very cute. And sweet.”

Curt, short, Gunwook knew they held Ricky’s love despite the gates holding him back. Words that could tumble like snowballs out of his mouth were met with tiny snippets of his own thoughts. 

“Hey,” words teetered on his tongue. His face scrunched, as if he were deciding whether this would be an okay thing to say. “Can I kiss you?”

Different words, new words. Those that he wanted to hear for a long time yet weren’t expecting to be spoken today. Gyuvin always showered him, both of them, with peppery puppy kisses but the two that sat in this room only ran marathons to give hugs. Kisses were untouchable, a force that didn’t come naturally. A pattern that the two had followed before they met and a pattern that continued after. A pattern that would be broken by unpredictable winds and a man with no inhibitions.

So Ricky nodded, because that was what he always did. But it wasn’t anyone’s definition of polite, in fact some might sneer at him and call him overzealous or overbearing. He didn’t care, his guard was gone, his hands rested in those larger and softer than his own. 

A soft peck, his lips more moist than his own bitten and dry pieces. Another soft peck, wanting, yearning for more. Ricky squeezed Gunwook’s hand and tugged his body closer to his own. A longer, sweeter, kiss. Letting go, passionate, an utter refusal to hold back. There were no fireworks, nothing being set off. It felt so raw, so real. Grounded, stuck in this moment of time and there was no want nor will to become unstuck. The wind had settled, just for this moment, just for him . 

No cameras to worry about, no editors that would dare share such an intimate moment between the perfect ace and an ignorable, hateable force. So Ricky pulled even closer, wanting all of him and wanting to share himself with all of him. The wind tugged back, dancing in tandem with the fire that warmed him. 

Lovable lovable Park Gunwook who had undertones of chocolate on his lips and a lot of care in the arms that held them close together. (And who managed to lose his balance and therefore his grip on Ricky and almost fell onto the floor face first.)

~

Ricky wrote about a boy for the first time. 

He didn’t want to forget the boy with pretty hair and pretty eyes that made his heart beat more than it had for the past few years. He helped draw him out of his slumbers, though hours with him may still be lost he could still help. He would aid, ground, and love. And love. 

Love isn’t foreign. He loved his mother, his mother loved him. He loved his father, his father loved him (hopefully). Ricky loved his friends and his cat and his neighbour that always waved to him whenever they saw each other despite knowing nothing about each other. But this flavour was new, a completely new thing that sat on his platter. A taste he couldn’t get enough of.

He doodled cats all over the pages he filled with elaborate descriptions of what he did today and the future he wanted (which involved a nice house in a quiet suburb with a lot of cats). He used a sticker he’d been a bit too scared to use, like he would waste it if he used it in the wrong place. Here, it felt right. 

He told his mother who smiled and told him it would be their little secret. Whispers of a crush would dance in the hallways and crowd in their dead quiet and joyous room. Hands would be held, his mother would learn about the boy’s beautiful hair and eyes and smile and in return she’d teach him new words he could use. Idioms, poems, stories to describe the rush of love that could either grow or flee from between his fingers. 

Potential, rush, the potential rush. Ricky loved the flowers that grew in his heart and his palms and so would his mother. New things to write, so many things to write and to try. A taste of life that the two of them could savour together between conferences and colouring pages. 

The next week, he learned that someone else already had a crush on the boy which meant he couldn’t like him anymore. Oh well. 

~

Ricky fell in love with Taeyang’s yeorobun the day he saw the clip. As a result of his small obsession, Hao had joined in with his dancing and constant references which Gyuvin would just roll his eyes at. 

“Ricky here is an idiot,” Gyuvin would introduce him to new trainees. “He makes stupid references.”

Ricky would nod with a polite smile before jabbing back, “And Gyuvin doesn’t remember the word for tissue half the time.”

It would develop into a little petty fight and whether they’d call it a devolution or an evolution was up in the air. But it made the new people slightly more comfortable in the cold corridors of the building as their shoulders relaxed and their smiles drew a more genuine feel. Trainees would either join in singing yeorobun as Hao and Ricky danced through the hallways or shout at them as they avoided their responsibilities. Comfort in an unfamiliar place, that’s what mattered. 

So Ricky once again was flying through the building as his footsteps beat to the sound of his and Hao’s vocals. 

“Yah,” Gyuvin shouted. “We have training in like five minutes. Come back!”

He just ran like the gingerbread man before turning back and knocking straight into the other boy. Hao laughed, Ricky laughed, Gyuvin groaned as he fell straight to the floor. 

~

“It’s not your fault,” Ricky said as he hugged the boy.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He held Jingxiang close, daring to care about the boy who’d been wronged. That could’ve been Ricky, that could’ve been any of the Chinese trainees, a spinner of destiny always bestowing a pitiful fate on unfortunate souls. And one of the spinners chose the shaking boy right in his arms.

Moments lost to thrown away SD cards and corrupted footage. Times where laughter was shared, spread, thrown around every room and every corridor with every person. Space now emptied once again, half the trainees unceremoniously hauled out of the place that he wished they could stay in. 

Tears fell onto his silly little blazer. Custom made for everyone, not that it even mattered as most of them disappeared with barely a sign that they ever existed. 

Devastation pooled in his stomach, tears trickled down his own face onto the blazer that would never be worn again. He wished there was more he could have done, more that could have saved the boy who was so fortunate to have never experienced constant picking at his clothes and mannerisms. A boy whose innocence was taken advantage of. 

Jingxiang pulled back, the cold air breezed by the space that now increased between the two of them. Ricky waved, his bruise on full display as a testament to what the both of them had to endure. He waved back, trudging closer to the car with a luggage that would take him back to wherever he decided to go. 

“Thank you,” he cried out.

Ricky didn’t respond verbally, just making a small heart in the air before turning back. The last person he had wished goodbye to, after his labelmates and his friends and the people he held in his heart. The last person he wished well was one of the many who were deeply wronged by camera tricks and clever cuts. 

Wind bit at the tiny bits of exposed skin that sat on his neck and hands as he walked back to his room. Open windows and barely working ventilation froze his thoughts in ice, whatever thoughts he had left after they dissipated into the air. At some point, warmth bundled up in his arms as familiar hands found their way to his own arms. 

“Hyung,” Gunwook said. “This sucks.”

Ricky nodded, no energy to laugh.

“I wish it could be different,” he responded.

“I do, too. But,” Gunwook paused. 

He paused for a while, looking for the right words to say. There was no reason to barge through doors and find out the hard way, it was time to search for something that Ricky wasn’t sure what he wanted. 

“It sucks, but we can only move up from here. We can be sad now, but we can’t dwell on it for too long before we have to keep climbing.”

Ricky nodded again, new thoughts being burned into his mind. Wishes still huddled in glaciers, but they would melt and move on and away.

They reached Ricky’s room, where he immediately pulled out his diary and sat on his bed. He wrote and wrote, pouring his soul and the remnants of his memories onto the pages made for his endless thoughts. Unfinished sentences, forgotten words that forever marked his diary. Gunwook held him, eyes buried in his neck rather than in his book, privacy maintained. A silent agreement, one he was grateful for. 

Broken pieces of grief and of peace, metaphorical births and deaths scattered themselves in the midst of coherent thoughts and full sentences. Laments, tributes, nothing that would ever see the light of day. Doodles of scribbles and animals and faces decorated the margins of every page. Ice melted, all captured on paper bits that lived in binded rings. Melted memories left to live in a new place that he could still call his own.

Gunwook’s breath was sweet against his neck, lips lightly grazing his skin and arms wrapped around his waist. His breaths were drawn and heavy, chest gently heaving against Ricky’s back. His own signal that he was letting go of the icy thoughts that hailed on his brain. 

It would all move on. Time would tick and space would shift and Ricky would have to move with it. 

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

(“Goodbye,” others would cheer back.)

~

His mother’s hand rested on his forehead before pressing it to her own. Sympathy flashed across her eyes as Ricky shivered under the layers of piled blankets. 

“Here, I made some congee.”

He struggled to sit back up, but managed as he wrapped the blankets around himself. His mother spooned him a small bite of congee which also contained a small bit of century egg. Just how he liked it. Ricky could feel sweat dripping from his forehead despite the ice that lodged itself into every muscle and every joint. A dichotomy that burned his throat in every way possible.

Thoughts buzzed in Ricky’s mind. Would he catch up to the school work? Is his little sister okay? What happened to his dad and does he really care?

“I have to make a thing for my friend’s birthday,” he said.

His mother tilted her head before running her hand through his hair as if she were petting a cat.

“You need to rest. You can barely even sit up properly.”

A cough escaped his mouth before he took another spoonful of the congee. 

“But it’s important.”

He watched cogs turn and click in his mother’s mind. It looked as if she were trying to find a way, something to say and something to do. Ricky was determined to make the big cardboard giraffe structure for his friend’s birthday in two weeks and he wanted to get it started now so he could make sure he actually got it finished. 

And it wasn’t just about the giraffe or the gift. It was about every question and every worry that he had, every old thing that he wanted to get better and every new thing he wanted to try. So many stories he could write in his diary and pocket for the future, an older version of him laughing at his scrawled words and retelling them to new people and new friends. 

“We can start it after you get better,” she said. “Ma can help you so you get it done quickly.”

He knew she didn’t just mean the gift. He knew she was talking about the life that they wanted to project into the stars. Every comet and piece of debris could knock them over and they would still make it to a place of ecstacy. 

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

It wasn’t just a promise for the coming days where Ricky would hack up phlegm, or where he’d go to his friend’s birthday party, or when his sister started school. It was a promise for the future that stretched onto forever. A promise that they’d live with their hands in each other’s grip. 

~

Ricky sunk into Hao’s arms. They were going to debut, they could finally relax. They didn’t have to act anymore and they didn’t have to be vigilant of cameras and of editing. Chains that bound them to hurt and hell were finally unshackled. It was something only the two of them could share. They’d lost so many people to the same edits for the same foreign problems, and they were standing at the top as justice. 

“We did it,” Ricky whispered, Chinese spitting out of him like a vendor in the streets. “We debuted, we made it out of this hellhole, we don’t have to worry anymore.”

Hao nuzzled into his shoulder, proud, happy, so incredibly full of relief. 

“We don’t have to cry because of the stupid cameras anymore,” he joked. 

Ricky laughed quietly in response. Then louder, boisterous, unrelenting. To which Hao joined in. His hyung, but not his ge, most certainly his friend and someone that resembled his mother in the most unexpected of ways. 

“You did so well, Quanrui,” he continued. “Young and rich made it past Mnet’s evil edits.”

Humble truths, open to giving affection. 

“You did, too,” he responded. “First place - China’s pride! I can see it in the headlines right now.”

Hao hit Ricky affectionately, embarrassed, and humble. He bit his lip, a little habit he picked up from Hanbin, and took Ricky in another hug. Ricky didn’t know how long it lasted, and he frankly didn’t care. He sobbed, they both sobbed as their worries could finally fall from their racing minds. His bruise could finally be washed away, no longer painting the hand that kept him from clawing his brain out. 

“There’s only going up from here,” Hao said.

He knew exactly what he meant. Brutality would cease, worries were shrugged, life had taken a breath of air above the water’s surface. Times would dip, but the two would resurface, higher and better than before. Triumphant, others would call it; celebration, Hao and Ricky would say. 

Ricky squeezed tighter, agreement just on the tip of his tongue. It would tip at just the right time, where emotions would dim down and exhilaration would taper off. The right time for hope to settle, for dreams to have been made. 

“Only up from here.”

~

“When we say we dream of stars, are we dreaming of the same ones?”

Gunwook’s question hung in the air above the three lying on the floor. 

“Do I belong with the shining giants in the sky?”

Gyuvin shot up and was quick to respond with sweet reassurance, words tumbling out of his mouth as they clattered onto the floor in a pile of love. He scrambled over, hands cupping Gunwook’s face and shaking it lightly. Disjointed and unfiltered, a sign of his truthfulness.

On the other hand, Ricky was silent, but moving. He rolled over to place his hand lightly on the younger boy’s before holding it with both of his own. He rubbed his soft palm and played with his fingers.

“You belong with us,” Gyuvin said.

Gunwook didn’t say anything, instead small beads of tears escaped his bleary eyes and glittered as it trailed down his cheeks. Ricky brought a hand to his forehead, Gyuvin wiped away the tiny bits of water that tainted his skin.

“The exact same stars? I’m not sure,” Ricky finally managed to say. “The places we want to go are different, but the place we want to end up in is the same.”

Every worry, every bit of intention was placed behind his words. A force, a weight comparable to Gyuvin’s own sweet and heavy pile. 

Gunwook wrapped his arms around the both of them, dragging them down beside him. Holding, holding. He just needed to be held. Their limbs entangled, a lasso on the wind that needed to be calmed. He was a tornado that wished to stop whirling, a calamity that didn’t want to strike. 

Gyuvin held him like a rock, pressing him down with every inch of his body and every inch of his love. Unrelenting as he always was. He was unshakable. He held down the wild winds that thrashed about and soothed them with everything he had. 

And Ricky? He was ocean, a river, running down streams. Soaring with the breeze that threw him to new places and held together by rocks that willed him to be okay. Water would sometimes evaporate into the air, lost to somewhere that no one would find, but it would condense again, enough to be okay. Enough to fall back into crashing waves and patterns. 

So he swirled with the wind, he danced in the worry so the breeze didn’t have to be alone in its suffering. A reign would pull them in, and they would fall until they were okay together. 

He wasn’t sure when they all started sitting, but there they were. Foreheads resting against each other, hands in hands in hands. The future was unsure, but they were here now. Eyes only for them, for each other, in that moment and that was all that mattered. Shaky breaths turned hot and steady under the silence of the room. Laughter escaped his lips, all of their lips. Sugary sweet, a taste of comfort. 

Fire burned, and they danced with it.