Work Text:
A whimper escapes Chan’s lips, as he settles against the wall of the isolation booth. The space is much more confined than he prefers it to be, especially when he’s already having trouble breathing with the way a sufficient amount of air refuses to chart its course within his body—clearly defeated by the velocity of a familiar dread, forming within every corner of his being.
It had been fine a moment ago, when the only thing reverberating through the booth was his resilient vocals and a roaring instrumental that he had crafted until the waking hours of a night that’s blurred into his routines of similar ones. It had been sufficient then, guessing by the way no one had knocked on the door to tell Chan to lower the volume of neither the speakers nor his own vocals. He had been unabashedly riding the melody to its fullest, knowing well enough that he needed to walk out any moment and sing the same to a crowd that would be much more critical than the young boy staring back at him from the mirror across from himself.
At least that’s what he has always thought, to make himself breathe better. He can’t have it any other way—can’t allow for his own self to be recognized as his own worst critic, even though deep inside his own heart and within the eyes of the crowd he so shamelessly projects onto, it seems to be a shared understanding.
He can see his phone vibrating on where it’s carelessly thrown onto the speaker, reminding him of the performance room he’s supposed to be rushing into for the monthly evaluations. On any other day, he wouldn’t even wait for this moment—having his feet already knocking against the surface of the worn out practice room, with fingers sniping the reminder off before it can earn him a glare from any of the evaluators seated in front. On all the other days, throughout his six years at JYP entertainment, he would be beaming with unbridled hope and turning around to flash his friends with a smile that showed off his dimples in a way that he had been often told was adorable. Younghyun had always been the most fond of it all, sinking his finger into the dip for the briefest of pokes and cooing as Chan whined of his hyung babying him too much.
But that was when he had friends to turn around to.
That was when he wasn’t the only one standing in the practice room after having been a trainee for more than half a decade now, with his shoulders squared up to sustain the weight of his farthering dream.
Today, he was supposed to be walking into a room of people that had never heard him ramble about all of the aching legs and sleepless eyes being worth it when he would get to look at a crowd far bigger than the practice room could fill. There was no longer a single face he could hope to find a friend in amongst the sea of acquaintances, who probably saw him nothing as a competition to trample upon and overtake. All of the hands that had previously been leading him with synchronized steps had diverged into signing their own records and grasping at the straws of a dream they had worked hard to achieve for so, so long.
They had all made it, except Chan who still lay collapsed against the walls of a booth that almost had his name etched into its existence if one was to consider all the times he had entered his name on the scheduling register.
He had said that he would fight harder—he had promised himself of it just a few nights ago, when he had crashed into his bed with teary eyes after having spent the night celebrating his friend’s confirmed debut in a group that was supposed to include him. He had promised he would be fine—even if all the eyes at the table had been trained to look at him with the most sympathetic and pitying of looks, calling his bluff. He had hoped to himself too of making true on those words, for all the times such similar situations had unfolded in front of him, and it’s just as much a surprise for his own self that today he seems to be failing at them.
He doesn’t know this version of himself, of Christopher Bahng, that stares back at him from the mirror on the wall and refuses to stand against the weight pulling him down. He thinks he has seen a hint of him sometimes, but he has always been too busy to get to know him. What from all the leaving his house to a land that’s supposed to be his home, to making himself grow into an ever-improving musical artist, he supposes he might’ve been a little ignorant to the boy that weeped against the softness of his mattress—only showing himself only once in a while, for all the days Chan spent himself hunched over instruments and a screen.
And yet, right now he’s out there forcing Chan to stare at pieces of all that he’s managed to hold onto for six years. With another tear running down his face, Chan hates that he’s allowed all of them to become impossible to bandage together.
“Ugh, where is i—Oh, hi! I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here,” Chan’s hands instinctively shoot up to wipe at his tear-stained cheeks as he fixates his eyes on the intrusion. It’s a boy definitely younger than his own self, guessing by the hints of baby fat that continues to pool at his cheeks—ones that he definitely remembers seeing, and finding adorable, through his recent trips down the hallways of the building. “I checked the sheet and it said the last scheduled slot ended ten minutes ago.”
“It’s okay, I was just about to leave,” Chan gathers himself off the floor, ignoring the way his knees feel too wobbly to stabilize his weight. He doesn’t even realize when the sigh escapes his lips at the false alarm, as he manages to make his way to his belongings sprawled across the room and throws them into his bag.
“Ah, yes. Sure,” the boy nods along, eyes never leaving Chan’s figure as the other moves around the booth to make sure there’s nothing left behind. It’s fairly obvious that he still has something more to say considering how his lips stay apart, and Chan’s about to confront him when the other beats him to it. “Do you mind if I search around the room as you pack? I’m just—I’m supposed to be performing for the evaluation in ten minutes and I can’t find the paper I had my lyrics on.”
“Go ahead,” Chan instantaneously agrees, ignoring the way his heart quickens pace at the mention of the evaluation. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you pulled the lyrics up on the internet though? Sure, one person or two might frown at that but it’s better than possibly showing up late.”
“I would but it’s an original song,” he sighs as he begins shifting every object possible, as if in hopes that the piece of paper would magically appear under one. “Serves me right for trying to be different, actually.”
“You’re performing an original song?” Chan stops in his attempts to zip his bag up, turning around to find the presumably younger boy hunched over the speaker’s corner. “Isn’t this your first monthly evaluation? I don’t remember seeing you at the last one.”
As soon as the words leave his lips, Chan winces at his own accusatory tone as he watches the other boy straighten up in his place. He looks sheepish if anything, as his hand comes to rub at the back of his neck in a clear show of embarrassment.
“I didn’t mean to sound like that ,” he rushes, both verbally and physically to make sure the other hasn’t been hurt—stopping in his tracks only when he realizes he’s just a stranger to the other. Perhaps even a competitor. “I was just surprised, it’s unusual for new trainees to write their own lyrics.”
“I know,” the boy’s smile deepens, the flush traveling all the way from the tip of his ears to instead bloom on his cheeks. “I wasn’t so sure of it myself, but then I thought how bad could it possibly go? I knew my lyrics were somewhat good, and that leaves only so much scope for messing it up. At least that’s what I thought—until the moment I lost the damn paper with the lyrics.”
Chan doesn’t even know when the corners of his lips begin to mirror the other’s throughout his dialogue, so it’s a surprise for him when a soft giggle breaks out from his throat. He finds the other boy absolutely adorable, and admirable for his courage.
“Should I help you look for it?” he offers quietly, his chest swelling at the offer once he sees the other’s smile widen at the proposition.
“I would definitely appreciate that!” the boy beams, his heart-shaped smile puffing up his cheeks even more. “But—er—.”
“Chan. You can call me Chan hyung. I’m guessing you’re younger than 19.”
“I am! And my name’s Jisung,” he introduces himself, a slight bow etched into his greeting before he resumes. “I was just saying that you don’t have to—hyung.”
Chan absolutely wants to crush the smaller boy—Jisung, as he has just learned—into the tightest hug as he watches the hint of a smile form at the younger’s lips. He decides he loves the way the honorific sounds in Jisung’s voice, so soft and innocent that it reminds of all the times he had relied on it to refer to true friends within a place so unfamiliar and harsh.
“You must be getting late for the evaluation too, right?” Jisung continues, opening the door for Chan as if his words aren’t enough affirmation for Chan’s chance to escape. “I don’t want you to miss your chance because of me, so you should go ahead. I’ll look for it quickly and be right behind.”
“It’s completely fine, Jisung,” Chan smiles, plucking away his bag from his shoulder as he turns to a corner that has not yet been searched by the younger. “I wasn’t planning on making it on time anyways.”
“Hyung!” the other’s sharp voice resounding through the room startles Chan, as he stops in his endeavors to find Jisung staring at him with widened eyes. “You absolutely shouldn’t be doing that! I’ve heard that can be really bad for the trainees. You should go right now, I’m sure the evaluators must still be doing introductions so you can sneak in just fine.”
He wishes he could break Jisung’s innocent fear—tell him of a much more threatening dread that’s spilling within his blood, but he decides against it when he sees the youth still morphed into Jisung’s features. His cheeks had just been one part of it, now that he realizes because his eyes are revealing so much more. They carry within them hope and confidence, akin to the one that Chan had seen his own future with for a long time.
“I don’t know, Jisung-ah,” he lies through his teeth, lazily turning his eyes to the digits on his phone’s screen. He knows he could definitely make it if he wanted to, but he hopes that Jisung’s innocence blankets off the lie as believable. “It’s already too late. I’m sure I’ll only be forced to stand outside if I were to go now.”
With the way Jisung’s eyebrows immediately furrow, Chan’s sure he has managed to convince the younger just fine. He knows it’s a little selfish, considering Jisung must be evaluating the stakes in his own head and would be panickingly rushing through the door himself any moment now but—.
“It’s not too late, let’s go,” Jisung huffs, grabbing Chan’s hand as he leads them out the door. “And, we won’t know unless we try. At least then we can tell ourselves that we did all that we could.”
Chan’s steps fall in sync with Jisung’s own before he can even realize what is going on at the moment, his thoughts definitely falling into an overdrive as he processes the sudden development. He wasn’t supposed to leave the booth so quickly. The scheduling register still didn’t have his signature to mark his exit from the booked time, and he was still supposed to be searching the space for Jisung. Jisung still hadn’t found his paper with lyrics, had he?
“But we don’t have your lyrics, yet,” he mumbles against his body’s struggling attempts at catching up to the new pace of breathing.
He’s sure the noise comes out almost strangled and incomprehensible, but the doubt disseminates as Jisung turns around to flash him the briefest of smiles.
“Well, I’ll just have to freestyle then, won’t I?” Jisung laughs, turning his focus back to the front as he leads them through the hallways with a practiced ease. “You’ll have to wish me luck though, hyung.”
Chan doesn’t even realize when he’s stopping behind Jisung himself, standing in front of the same door that he couldn’t imagine walking down to just moments ago as his willingness scattered away at the thought of a repeated horror. His heart is still racing inside his chest, but the smile breaking out on his lips tells him it’s for a different reason entirely.
“Ofcourse, Jisung-ah. I’ll be cheering you on—the loudest.”