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It feels like a long dream, slow-moving when you’re in it.
There are the logistics of trying to squeeze nine boys’ worth of luggage into one dorm, divvying up living space, a growing mess of garbage and dirty dishes in the kitchen as they run from schedule to schedule. Too tired to pick up after themselves and too tired to even get annoyed about the mess.
Taerae is still trying to adjust. Planet Camp was just a camp; it was never meant to be long-term. This is long-term.
It was hard enough moving to the Wakeone dorms. But after three years there it had started to become home; Jeonghyeon’s shoes kicked off by the door, Junghyun’s uniform jacket draped over the couch, Yeojeong’s schoolbag next to the window. The tiny kitchen window above the sink where the sunrise came in. If Taerae thinks about it too hard, it starts to ache— he wants to feel the walls of the tiny hallway closing in, his bare feet on the glossy wooden floor, and the smell of breakfast in the air.
The first morning after, Taerae wakes up not knowing where he is.
The feel of new sheets and the humming of a big fan in the corner is unfamiliar, disorienting. It’s only when he looks around from the bottom bunk and sees one of Gyuvin’s hoodies laid out on a chair that he remembers. He thanks God that Gyuvin and Gunwook don’t snore.
The early days were strange. Some of those days, Taerae wakes up half-expecting to be in Planet Camp still, the bathroom tap running in the background and the constant hum of commotion outside.
Other days, he half-expects to wake up in the little apartment Wakeone squeezed all of them in, Junghyun sprawled out sleeping in the bunk below him. It seems to only exist in a faraway memory now.
He waits for his turn in the bathroom. He pours himself a coffee from the fresh pot Jiwoong makes every morning. He listens to the others talking, all this noise filling up the dorm, voices he can’t yet distinguish. Even when he’s sitting on their stiff new IKEA couch, freshly caffeinated, Taerae never fully feels awake. He floats from place to place, smiles, says the right things, and sings if he’s put up to it, but his body is the one moving. His mind can’t seem to keep up.
Nobody even notices. Everyone is too fixated on themselves to notice anything else, much less Taerae. Nobody even notices Taerae because Taerae keeps it to himself— who would listen? Who would ask?
This is how it’s supposed to be. Being too busy to even sleep, going from schedule to schedule, the whole world buzzing about you. It’s a good thing, Taerae keeps hearing. He wonders if it’s still true when he watches Yujin drink Red Bull like it’s water, when Matthew gets sick, when the injuries start.
Another day is over before Taerae realizes it’s over. Another night is here. He waits for his turn in the bathroom and he waits for Gyuvin and Gunwook to stop giggling in their bunks before turning out the lights.
He waits for sleep to come.
Taerae hears footsteps, coming up the hall, stopping by his doorway. He knows who it is from the pattern of his walk. When he turns, Hanbin is standing there, barefoot in the dark, watching him. He doesn’t say anything when he steps out of the shadows and into the room, nor when he closes the door behind him with a click.
Taerae opens his mouth but the words don’t come. There’s nothing to say.
They get into Taerae’s bed, Taerae on the inside and Hanbin on the outside. They’re both shirtless; the way they’d usually go to sleep. Taerae curls up, faces the wall, and tries not to move. Tries not to break anything. Hanbin breathes softly next to him.
Maybe this is worse. If they let this hang over them unbroken and suffocating.
Taerae knows Hanbin isn’t sleeping.
“Taerae,” Hanbin whispers. His voice sounds hoarse, croaky, and ready to crack. Usually, Taerae might giggle, or ask him if he wants a lozenge or a sip of water. “You still awake?”
Hanbin knows Taerae isn’t sleeping either. But Taerae can’t make himself speak. He put himself on mute and now he can’t find the remote to turn the sound back on. The silence makes itself comfortable, sitting like a mountain between them.
Hanbin is quiet again.
There are only inches between them. The only reason they’re not touching is because Hanbin doesn’t reach over, because Taerae doesn’t either. But Taerae lies there and he thinks about Hanbin inching closer, Hanbin’s arm around his stomach, Hanbin’s chest pressed to his back, Hanbin’s palm over his stomach— Hanbin’s bare skin on his. Touching with a purpose, not like a hand on Taerae’s shoulder in the kitchen or a quick hug after a long day of practice. Touching, and meaning it.
They don’t touch. Maybe Hanbin wants him to. Taerae can only lie there and think about it. Touching comes with breaking, falling apart. A vase pushed off the table, a glass dropped on the floor. Taerae can’t bring himself to break Hanbin, to be the one that destroys them. Maybe Hanbin can’t either.
Taerae closes his eyes. In the morning, things will be different. Taerae will take the last of his things and Hanbin will say goodbye to him at the door. But for the next few hours, they can just sleep.
When he’s on the verge of sleep, when light is starting to reach into his window, when everything real is melting away, Taerae thinks that Hanbin mumbles something next to him. Something he can’t quite make out; something he’s not really supposed to hear.
As he sleeps, Taerae lets it go. He forgives it. He forgets it.
In the morning, he wakes first. He knows exactly where he is. Hanbin is curled facing the other way. Taerae slithers out of the bed, climbing over Hanbin carefully, trying not to wake him up. He thinks Hanbin might wake up anyway, but Hanbin doesn’t move.
Taerae kneels by the bed, by Hanbin’s face. His eyes are closed. His breathing is soft, quiet, barely there. Could Hanbin stay asleep for a little while longer? Until Taerae comes back?
If Taerae could keep him like this, he would. Like sleeping beauty, unchanged by time, waiting for the true love’s kiss that wakes him up; Hanbin wouldn’t even have to miss him, wouldn’t even know.
“Hanbin.” He’s the one whispering this time. “Are you awake?”
Hanbin doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Taerae looks at him. Really looks at him. This is the only thing Taerae wanted to come back for, to take with him. Hanbin in any way Taerae could have, his sleeping face and messy hair and old pajama bottoms.
Taerae is stronger than he thinks. But he can’t stop himself from lifting his hand, letting it hover next to Hanbin’s face.
For once, he will be greedy. He’ll take something for himself. Taerae brushes the knuckles of his index finger over Hanbin’s cheek, letting his finger skate over the sharp slope of his cheekbone. He lets his eyes sink lower to Hanbin’s bare neck, the curves of his collarbone and shoulders, and the peek of his chest under the blanket. It’s not enough. Taerae takes a deep breath and holds it as he runs the pad of his thumb over Hanbin’s lips. They part, almost as if to speak, the inner flesh shiny with spit. Inviting. Even when Hanbin is unmoving and quiet, he’s still luring Taerae in, like honey, like light. Like a temptation that Taerae has to resist.
Taerae does another slow sweep, the left corner to the right. Hanbin doesn’t move. Then he makes himself pull back, before he does something he can’t control, before Hanbin does it first.
He stands up, his legs shaky from the weight of his body pressing his knees to the floor. Hanbin doesn’t move.
Taerae’s bags are already packed, waiting for him by the front door. The only thing left in this room is his messenger bag, with a thin old shirt that he slips on. It offers a bit of comfort, familiar in the way it hugs his skin. It’s Hanbin’s.
Taerae walks to his bedroom door and stops there, his back to Hanbin. He presses his forehead to the wood, trying to steady his will, and he doesn’t let himself turn around, not even when he hears the slightest shuffle of the sheets.
He got one thing wrong. Hanbin won’t say goodbye at the door. Taerae won’t either.
Taerae opens the door and walks out of this bedroom, no longer his, for the last time. He sets his keys down on the table, neatly laid out next to the mail. He picks up his bags. He leaves.