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It hurts.
There’s a twinge in the small of Wonbin’s back, probably from when he pulled the muscles there trying to land a particularly difficult jump. Or maybe from the time he strained them, practicing his upper body isolations.
Most likely, it’s a result of both, plus the dozen or so instances that he’s overworked them in his four years as a trainee.
He ignores it. Ignores the sharp, stabbing pain that rears its head whenever he twists his trunk a certain way, grits his teeth so that his sequence is a picture perfect copy of their dance teacher’s demo.
It hurts.
The muscles in his thighs are screaming– trembling with the effort of supporting his weight for the past eight hours, creaking as they struggle to complete the movements at half their usual speed. His breaths tear from his lips in ragged pants, burning his lungs, but he forces them out anyway, lets them scorch his dry, dry throat because it really doesn’t make a difference anymore.
Not when everything hurts.
His joints ache, his chest is tight, even the dim lights of the practice room are starting to hurt his eyes, and christ– he can’t– he can’t do this, but he has to, because the evaluation is in three days and not a single part of his performance looks right.
The numbers on the corner of the laptop screen read 3:13 am. His eyes flit right past them, his attention on the recording of his most recent run-through. He replays it. Pauses. Pulls the cursor along the progress bar and stops at a frame where he literally looks like a limp noodle. Zooms in, then slams the laptop closed because fuck even his facial expressions are gross.
He pinches at a piece of torn skin near the nail of his thumb. Yanks it out and pulls it apart, like he wants to with his being — body and mind and soul — just so he could find out what it is that makes him so fundamentally wrong, so incapable of being competent at his job.
The whole thing’s rough, all over the place, a shoddy excuse of the vision their company wants for the leaders of the new generation, and what if– what if the training team noonas decide that he’s not what they want? That he’s not good enough after all, that his talent– that he – is dispensable?
No, he fights the urge to pull out his hair, not what if — when will.
The center of SM’s up and rising boy group isn’t supposed to be average. Isn’t supposed to get stuck on a simple routine, not even two-thirds the complexity of their seniors’ before them. Also isn’t supposed to only deliver a satisfactory performance, let alone a subpar one.
And yet— subpar is exactly how he’d describe his current stage. He’d throw crude and miserable in there too.
He has to work himself harder. Do more. Train longer despite his heavy limbs and throbbing head, so he can be better than his limits. Until he’s so good that SM has no choice but to see him, choose him, debut him — always. He’s had too many near-misses to breathe easy even when the higher-ups have given him a congratulatory pat on the back, because these almost-debuts have taught him that he’s not safe, not guaranteed. Not even if everything’s already in motion.
So he dances. Forces his body through the motions of the choreography, pushing his arms to move cleaner, his legs to reach faster, to hit the thrum of the bass with more power but maintain the groove—
It only took a few signatures to kickstart a new company project. All it’ll take is a couple more to scrap the whole thing.
His body is teetering on the edge of collapse, hanging on by a thread — he’s the one stuck in this useless husk of torn muscles and worn out bones, of course he knows it, feels it coming — but he can’t– won’t let himself break.
He has so much to lose. So much riding on his shoulders. His parents’ excitement. The members’ expectations. The past he’s bled over and the future he’s promised himself.
If he gives up now, all that goes down the drain. If he doesn’t succeed this time, all that goes down the drain too , because he’s already twenty-one, shit, he can’t afford to wait another two years until the company decides to debut a new group— Any later than now and he’d be too old to be of value to the company anymore, would have wasted years of his life accomplishing nothing, falling short, being a failure. So why can’t he ever get this move right, why won’t his body move the way he wants it to, why is he never good enough, why why why —
“–in? Wonbin. Wonbin-ah.”
His angles are warping, his form is crumbling, he feels like his limbs are being filled with molten lead and liquid thorns and he can’t take it anymore — he stumbles, falling, splintering——
For a split second, he feels everything at once.
Then he feels nothing at all.
The first thing he feels is fingers carding through his hair. The skin’s hardened, calloused, but they’re gentle in the way they part the strands, careful as they knead down his scalp. When they reach his nape, he finally registers the coolness of the touch. He shrinks a little.
“Ah, sorry–” There’s a rustling to the side.
He notices their absence immediately. The lack. It manifests in lurching waves that take him further and further away from shore, in a weight on his chest that threatens to pull him under. It probably hasn’t even been that long, but without a bearing it feels like eternity, and he’s slipping, slipping—
The fingers are warm when they return. He leans into them. They treat him like he’s something delicate, something precious, something worth all the time and care in the world. Where they pass through, leaving feather-light touches across his skin, it’s like the area unthaws, and little by little, piece by piece, Wonbin begins to occupy more of his body.
At some point, another hand has joined the first on his shoulders. One firm touch after another they unravel the knots in his aching muscles, soothe the restlessness under his skin.
He breathes in. Breathes out.
The world falls back into place.
Someone’s humming, a soft, quiet lull that trickles over his tired body and settles over it like a blanket. He follows the sound and ends up craning his neck, catching sight of first the hands that centered him, and finally, the owner of those hands.
His masseuse is focused on Wonbin’s back now, eyebrows furrowed as he presses down into the spots that are especially tense.
Shotaro.
Of course.
Wonbin lets himself settle deeper into the other’s arms, eyelids drooping, then blinks his eyes open in mild surprise. He doesn’t know where the certainty came from.
But then he sinks deeper into Shotaro’s presence, and he thinks: It couldn’t have been anyone else.
To everyone else, Wonbin is a legend. The model student who trainees would be lucky to be in a group with, the one who’s destined to become the next face of SM. They place him on a pedestal so far up that they forget he’s just like them, that he eats and sleeps and cries and bleeds.
He’ll take SM to great heights, the higher-ups say, but he’s no superhuman. He wasn’t built to fly. At the height they want him at, he falls to his death and shatters all his bones.
But just as he lies flat on his back and stares into the sun, prepared to dissolve the iron grip he has on his battered body, Shotaro squats down next to him and holds the shards of his being up to the light. He purses his lips and scrunches his brows, then pieces Wonbin together – slowly, carefully, like a puzzle he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life learning and learning to love – bone to bone, muscle to muscle, until he’s whole again.
And when Wonbin comes to, squinting against the blinding rays of what’s always seemed so close but never close enough, Shotaro is there, chin cradled in his hands. “Wonbin-ah,” he says, and Wonbin awaits judgment. He waits for disapproval, for distaste, for impatience at the fact that he’d been stuck cleaning up Wonbin’s mess.
But none of that comes. What comes instead is this – “You’re not invincible,” Shotaro says. Not what Wonbin was expecting, but matter-of-fact enough that it still knocks the air out of his lungs.
It’s the truth. Shotaro is only stating facts. Wonbin knows this, knows that despite all his efforts to transcend the boundaries of normalcy, he’s not and will never be bulletproof. Still flesh and blood, still imperfect – he knows this, so it shouldn’t hurt this much to hear it from Shotaro.
He has no place feeling so bitter, because Shotaro is not wrong. He's the one being unreasonable – he’s the one unwilling to face the truth. And– shit , what is he doing– He needs to get his emotions under control, because Shotaro has just pulled him back together and he’s here nitpicking the other’s choice of words, and– What if Shotaro thinks he’s ungrateful? What if Shotaro regrets his kindness? Wonbin wouldn’t blame him, he’d understand, but what if Shotaro walks away and leaves Wonbin alone again, alone and burning to a crisp under the scorching weight of failure–
Shotaro grasps him by the chin. It’s not gentle, the pads of his fingers digging into the edges of his jaw, but the weight of his hand against his skin holds him down like a paperweight. It anchors his restless mind to his very mortal body, and it’s exactly what he needs.
“You’re not invincible,” Shotaro repeats, and this time Wonbin doesn’t focus on the cold hard truth of his words. He can’t. His attention is drawn to Shotaro’s eyes – bright even against the backdrop of the sun and so so warm.
To everyone else, Wonbin is a legend. But Shotaro looks at him like he's human, and who is Wonbin to resist a tenderness like this?
Shotaro’s fingers brush against his neck. His eyes are filled with something akin to heartache, and the rawness of it makes Wonbin shiver. Despite this, he can’t bring himself to look away.
You’re not invincible, Shotaro says — “But you don’t need to be.”
Shotaro must feel him shift, because his head pokes out into Wonbin’s line of sight seconds later.
“Hey you,” Shotaro smiles, double-chin showing and upside down from where Wonbin’s head lays on his lap. Wonbin still finds him beautiful, and– Yeah. Okay. So much for resisting.
There’s so much that he wants to say. Thank you, I’m sorry, I’m okay, I love you, maybe even just a hey — but he’s exhausted and his mind has been tiring itself out running in circles for hours, so everything just kind of blurs together and gets stuck in his throat.
“You’re so corny, hyung,” he ends up croaking, and wow that’s so not what he meant.
Luckily, he doesn’t get the chance to smack himself in the face, because as soon as the words leave his mouth Shotaro pinches him under his armpits. He jumps, yelping.
“No- Hyung , I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-"
Shotaro cackles, loud and unrestrained as it echoes around the practice studio, and Wonbin should be mad that he’s playing dirty – he’d told him his weak spot with the faith that it wouldn’t be used against him, damn it – but he just… Doesn’t quite manage to. Because Shotaro is already rubbing circles over the little bit of reddened skin on his side, and Wonbin’s heart just– melts .
Honestly, Wonbin is a grown man. He’s twenty-one going on twenty-two, he goes to the gym five times a week, he’d gotten way worse injuries from his time training as an athlete. The pinch is nothing, and he should tell Shotaro that.
He should tell Shotaro that he’s fine, that it doesn’t even hurt anymore, but his gaze latches onto the small pout that Shotaro sports whenever he’s concentrating on something, and all thoughts of that fly right out of the window.
At present, Shotaro is tracing the area he’d assaulted a while ago, applying just enough pressure that it distracts from the last of the lingering sting, and Wonbin– Wonbin is weak, okay? Weak to Shotaro’s gentle affection, weak to Shotaro in general, and he wants everything he’s given, craves it like flowers crave the sun.
Resigned, he rests his head on Shotaro’s shoulder.
Shotaro laughs. Quietly this time, but Wonbin feels it rumble in his chest. God. He hates this man. He buries his face deeper into Shotaro’s hoodie.
With one hand, Shotaro rummages through his tote bag, not yet set aside on the couch where they usually leave their belongings for practice. He'd probably sprinted towards Wonbin the moment he’d figured something was wrong, and Wonbin’s heart warms even more at the thought. The other is running through Wonbin’s hair, smoothing down the curls that stick out where they’re not supposed to.
There’s a few seconds of muffled clattering, during which Wonbin closes his eyes and just breathes in the scent of wood and fire. It envelops his tired limbs and calms his racing thoughts, engulfing him in the presence that’s so distinctly Shotaro.
He almost dozes off again, but before he's able to, he’s nudged up from his place on the older’s shoulder. He looks up, confused, and is presented with a bottle of banana milk– still warm from the convenience store microwave. The straw is poked in too, angled towards Wonbin.
Wonbin kind of wants to cry.
Shotaro makes it so easy to love him. Like now, with his eyes crinkling as he watches Wonbin take little sips of his banana milk. No questions, no demands, no suffocating expectations and no overbearing coddling. Like he hadn’t just brought Wonbin back from the edge of something dreadful.
Like he hadn’t been just as scared, not for himself but for Wonbin, and now has about a hundred more reasons to walk away.
Like even after all that, he’d take Wonbin — anxiety and flaws and all — and adore everything that he is.
The thrum of Shotaro’s heartbeat is strong and steady against his back. Wonbin thinks he wouldn’t mind falling a few more times if Shotaro’s always waiting down below.
“Let’s go home.” Shotaro says softly, and Wonbin nods. He tries not to pay attention to the laptop that Shotaro places back onto the table, the one with all his training footage, for fear that he’d spiral again. Shotaro notices anyway. He always does.
In a couple of strides, he’s back in front of Wonbin, sandwiching his face between his hands. Blocking the laptop from view.
Wonbin purses his lips in protest. Shotaro snorts.
“We’ll be back tomorrow, okay? Together,” He promises, and the tiny bit of unease lingering in Wonbin’s stomach fades into nothing.
They open the blinds before they leave. The sun is just emerging from the horizon, and sunlight filters in to paint them both in the golden colors of dawn.
Shotaro looks back at him, sharp lines of his features mellowed by the glow of the sun. His head is tilted in a silent question: You coming?
Wonbin looks at him and thinks: I will go where you go for the rest of my life.
“Yeah,” he says, and Shotaro smiles, small and knowing, and maybe—
The sun has always been closer than he thought it was.