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They heard about it the day before. It was not that dramatic.
"Sons", their manager said while they were all having dinner. Not quite a funeral mood, just a bit. Chanyoung didn't drop his chopsticks until Sungchan nudged him. "It's okay. Take your time. Reflect. We'll take care of it." Seunghan was still dizzy because of the medication, but his blown-out pupils had their own understanding. And that was it. Treat it as a health crisis. Treat it as harm prevention. Whichever way their staff would spin it, they would abide by it and let go.
They saw Seunghan off after lunch, after premium meat, after an unbearably long speech and then Sungchan had to get ready for his self-conditioning, and by nightfall they'd go back to the company, run it over from the start. The older guys would send their supportive paragraphs when they heard about it. For now, there was a bit of gossip and updating, but Sungchan couldn't talk to anyone about it.
"It's a clusterfuck", Jungwoo had said when Sungchan met him later. He wouldn't put it like that. "Don't worry, don't worry. It will go away on its own. Let's have a meal later, O.K?"
"Okay, hyung", Sungchan said. Some things they weren't privy to, it was the way things went. It was outside his jurisdiction, determined by higher-ups in a meeting room and then it trickled out for the downpour to reach them. Things were usually done by email, first. Then they settled matters and told them to bring their parents in. There were the ones who brought lawyers since they were able to shield themselves and there were the ones who had to blindly trust that their interests overlapped with the company's.
Jungwoo looked at him a bit more, then asked: "Are you doing well?"
In a moment like this?
Sungchan took a breath. In truth, he wasn't that worried about himself.
"It will go away on its own", Sungchan repeated.
/
Chanyoung looked at him and tilted his head.
Later, practice. Running things from the start. Another chance to get it right. Then a debriefing with their team, logistics, mostly. The hyung that was head of security talked them down, reassured them. Their parents would come in later that week to touch base. Seunghan would be present for the logistical nightmare so he could take responsibility properly. But from then it was mostly about saving space: their protocol team would have a spare room available, and they'd be an even number. Numerology had failed once again.
"Kids", manager Jihyun rounded them up. It was mostly off-record. "Seunghanie was really careless, but you are just children, after all, and I know you won't let it happen again. You guys know how much work has been put into this project and we wanna see it through. Be grateful. We believe in you."
"We'll do better", they chorused, or Sungchan and Shotaro did, used to it. And then there were more meds for the nerves, anxiety prescriptions, errands, an operational schedule to reorganize, and Jihyun-noona kept a close eye on them. Their staff's monitoring wasn't supposed to be stifling, it was for their protection. It wasn't ever prohibiting as much as it was coddling. Around each other 24/7, it was an impossible business relationship. Manager Donghyun drove Seunghan to his parents' house while, box by box, his belongings were cleared out to make space for another to move in.
Manager Jihyun debriefed with him alone, same as she would do for the others, but him first. She held Sungchan's shoulders and soothed him like she would her own nephew, maybe her own son, if she had the time, if she wasn't compromised by her role in the company, full-time monitoring seven teenagers, indefinite hiatus or not.
There was a meeting first, to his knowledge. Their exhausted, unfairly paid staff weren't as prone to – they were overworked, but they tried and the ones that were left couldn't let them go, to his knowledge. They would argue their case against the financial guys. But it was decided without any significant input from the kids, besides Sungchan's childish, inside wish that everything stopped so he didn't need to deal with it, and then they were called up for the news.
The scolding would make them cry, first. From the frustration, the other kids first contact with what it meant to subject yourself to the court of public opinion and not be absolved by their love. But later, when manager Jihyun told him, "I know how long you've been waiting for this opportunity. And it's not over yet, Sungchan-ah", he couldn't help but be reckoned by how much he wanted her words to be true. Wasn't Sungchan too old to be this childish? She had known him for a long time, though.
He let himself be hugged by each and every one of the people who ensured his safety day-in, day-out, beyond their workload and above their pay grade, they wanted him to cheer up, most of all. To calm down and believe the seven-year prayer they’d been maintaining.
“Listen”, Jihyun-noona told him before he left and it was time for the consoling of another heartbroken kid. “Sungchan-ah, I really meant it, it's okay. These things happen. It's best for Seunghanie to be with his family until things calm down so there are no distractions. You just make sure the other kids are doing fine, too, okay?”
“Okay, noona”, Sungchan repeated.
How do you sell a ship that's visibly sinking?
Shotaro looked curiously at their coffee table while Sungchan took every empty plastic wrapper apart. “When did you become this dramatic?”
Their main manager would go home for the weekend. All the crisis management led to all-nighters and he hadn't seen his wife for more than a few hours since the start of it all. It made Sungchan feel so bad.
“Taro”, Sungchan said.
“I’m worried about you”, Shotaro said, as if defending himself. “Have you talked to your family yet? They must be worried, too.”
“Not yet, no.” He stopped playing with his hands and felt Shotaro’s socked feet nudging against his. “I will soon. But, hyung, the time to be angry is now, isn't it?”
“Is it?” Shotaro asked, curiously. “I don't think so. At least not yet. Things will turn out for the better.”
“People keep saying that”, Sungchan muttered. Shotaro turned his phone over when it pinged, as if to keep listening to Sungchan, but he didn't have too much to say. Be grateful. Be polite. Be considerate. Was it that hard?
“Talk it over with your family if you are still like that”, Shotaro suggested.
He didn't bother clarifying what he meant by ‘that’, they both knew– When you needed to hope and when there was enough hoping, it was time to be realistic and think it through.
Shotaro wiped the coffee table’s mess and gathered all the wrappings to be recycled. While he moved about the apartment, Sungchan thought about what anyone could say that he hadn't thought of yet by himself. Even if they were dependable older brothers, like Jungwoo. Or the kid that had been there from the start and knew how much they’d been promised on this half-remembered dream. Everyone got it but he was the only one living inside his own skin. All his choices’ consequences would be his own, too. Sungchan cleaned up and went to bed with a similarly weighing heart.
/
And then on.
/
At the other dorm, Eunseok said, “This is the part where they kill the kid, pay attention.”
Sungchan braced himself against the blood and guts instead. American filmmakers were crazy about blood and guts, whichever way.
“You flinched,” Eunseok complained, “How are you gonna learn English if you don’t watch it?”
Retail therapy would have been too much of a normie habit for Eunseok. Horror movie therapy had the added bonus of keeping everyone clear of the living room.
Sungchan had bought him a smoothie, though.
“How is this learning?”
“Well, do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life.” His eyes mirrored the dark red screen, which made the planes of his face look bloodshot. “Nevermind. You don’t need to be here for this.”
“Don’t dismiss me.”
“You need to be dismissed,” Eunseok said, “otherwise you won’t go. It’s like feeding a stray, honestly.”
Then he pushed his socked foot against Sungchan’s legs, forcing him out.
“Hey,” Sungchan said, but Eunseok kept at it, wriggling his feet on his lap. He closed his grip on the bare skin of Eunseok’s bony ankle, saying, “Hey.”
And then Eunseok held himself still, waiting. That path had been closed. Sungchan had to say, “No, not doing this either,” and he was being shoved one last time; Eunseok dropped the condensating smoothie on the coffee table. “Being boring is the worst thing that can happen to an idol these days,” he said, “you might as well kill yourself,” and Sungchan could think of worse things, surely. Eunseok continued, “Worse than that, even. Why are you here?”
“Bonding. Strengthening our teamwork,” Sungchan explained very seriously. “Breaking the ice. How have you been doing lately, Eunseok-ssi?”
“Don’t know if you’ve heard but things really suck.”
Sungchan told him, “Is that so? Too bad,” and then really did get kicked out.
Chanyoung was coming up while Sungchan went down, so absorbed in his phone that he flinched at first touch. Sungchan thought about teasing him and then reconsidered it in real-time, hand already stretched out. The pinch turned into a steady palm.
“Is he at it again,” Chanyoung complained. There was a canvas tote on his shoulder and a leathery bag across his back, both bulging out. The clearest skin ever, most importantly. Retail therapy, the normie coping method, was 1-0.
“Close your eyes and sprint,” Sungchan told him, but Chanyoung was pouting already. He pushed his hand in the tight space between the straps and Chanyoung’s bomber jacket, keeping the weight off and pushing at the taut muscles underneath. There must’ve been red stripes where the leather wore him out. “Why is this so heavy?”
“It was originally heavy,” Chanyoung deflected, waving him off. “Really, should I drop my things as I go? That’s counterintuitive.”
“Buying too much is counterintuitive.”
“I don’t see why,” Chanyoung rebutted, because he was mouthy. Sungchan couldn’t stop smiling at it. Sohee bore the brunt of the cheek-pinching but Chanyoung hadn’t tolerated it from him. It was cuter than if he’d had.
No meaningful resistance, only that he wanted Sungchan to take him seriously.
“It’s gonna be okay, really,” Sungchan said nonsensically.
Chanyoung hadn’t asked him for reassurance so he only looked at him strangely.
“What are you talking about?”
I don’t think I know, really.
“Ah, this whole month,” Sungchan said instead. “The end of the year is no joke, okay?”
“Okay,” Chanyoung said, simply as.
Peer to peer? Sometimes, at least.
Even if that wasn’t what they were supposed to be doing. Was it?
Sungchan had to deviate from that line of thought.
He pushed his chest jokingly, away from himself. “Also, don’t even think about staying up too late,” he said, wagging his finger at Chanyoung, “I’ll know.”
“You won’t,” Chanyoung said, and his voice, his whole face, the angle of him, were all saying that he found Sungchan ridiculous. Only it didn’t seem smothered.
/
The life that he was living didn't lend him too much time for introspection.
Monday, it restarted and they’d clean up choreography as a sextet. Costume fittings, being guided through demos, lengthy debriefings about what’d be expected for the coming month and so they could resume preparations for the year-end awards. Life as one piece of a sextet was similarly tiring, too. If things could click through sheer power of will, could they do it? And then he had to have consolation for the remaining pieces: if that’s what it was like, then.
“Kinda”, Shotaro said, when Sungchan didn't bother to answer. They had a little break so they didn't fold over and all the pent-up questioning rose up.
“It's worth it,” Shotaro explained. “It's really about knowing the line, then. And about—humbleness?” Sungchan didn't return his look, the unspoken request to clarify, because he didn't have anything useful to say and no heart for diplomacy.
Shotaro added: “Well, looking humble. People can't know your heart but they will keep guessing at it. Just keep your head down, for now?”
“Fuck the poor fucker for having a private life, then”, Eunseok said. They didn't react, and he glanced around. “Was that not it? Not– NCT, we’ve seen it. And the protocol team itself doesn't have an issue with it. So it comes down to people's opinion. Is it that bad to have your own personal life?”
Sungchan thought, drily: Wow, so impassioned. Chanyoung pursed his mouth to speak and held back in the same moment. It was only Wonbin that could meet them in the middle: “It's not”, he agreed. “But being a little smarter wouldn't hurt.”
When that shut Eunseok up, Sungchan sent a quick prayer thanking Wonbin’s bluntness and got up, gathering them around. "Let's have lunch now, too," so they could eat a little chicken and surpass their choreographer’s unlikely hopes and dreams. Chanyoung set his chin on his shoulder while he browsed the delivery app, and Sungchan let him.
For just a little longer, Sungchan could keep being an irresponsible kid who didn't know any better.
/
Tuesday, the announcement went up online and all the seniors who hadn't contacted them already did so. He didn't answer TXT’s or Jungwon’s messages, unsure of whichever legal proceedings were gonna involve Soobin and too tired to meet up with anyone. Their main manager sent a long message to inspire hope in their little broken hearts.
By the end of the afternoon, Doyoung had contacted them and the available 127 members joined them for a meal. Next, the older NCT members would surely make time for Seunghan to talk things over again. It wasn't that it was unusual; it was just surprising for them all to be in the same place in their down-time.
Distance was needed, too. Coworkers with all of their liabilities had to be separated from the friends that he could mess around with. Friends that he could mess around with couldn't keep getting him into trouble. The reason why it was hard to say his piece about Seunghan was that it was hard to be truthful to himself and to what he had done, but mostly that he couldn't look Chanyoung in the eyes and say that it was a good idea.
Ironically, Haechan joined him by the back-door of the restaurant to take a smoke break. “No cameras, please”, he said, in English, and Sungchan smiled because it was a ridiculous situation in that regard.
The smell always bothered him but he had become desensitized from closeness. Now, closeness had him trying to remake himself brand-new.
“Haechan-sunbaenim”, Sungchan acknowledged with his voice lilting.
“No autographs, too”, Haechan denied. “Signed goods are more expensive these days. They can also take your signature to forge documents, did you know?”
Sungchan rubbed his hands together. “So wise, sunbaenim. Thank you, sunbaenim.”
“No flattery, I don't mess around with groupies. That’s also my veteran's advice.” Haechan sniffed and remembered the burning cherry atop his knuckles, tapped it off and took a long drag. Barefaced or not, he was always doe-eyed and smart-looking. It always took so much for him to be caught lacking. “Why are you still speaking formally?”
“Ah, sorry, weird week.”
“Don't tell me.” And Haechan smiled, unsure of what bit to play next. “Do you want me to keep joking around or do you want my real, authentic, one hundred percent truthful veteran’s advice? One-time offer.”
“Hit me”, Sungchan asked.
“Stop being so conscientious”, Haechan hit him. “All this moping. It's a bore.”
“Being boring for a while would suit us, hyung.”
“But there's only so much that you can do”, Haechan complained. “You're a born-again rookie so there is no point in scolding you. Haven't you been scolded enough? Would beating up your troublesome teammate suffice? It wouldn't. There would be new problems awaiting in its place. People will talk shit regardless of how well you're doing so focus on the positive and get over it.”
Sungchan was stunned into silence after that.
His own troublesome teammate was Haechan, once. Which explained the softness, the closeness, the resentment that wouldn't suture what he was missing when he had just one last opportunity remaining. Haechan wouldn't understand because he was a sure thing from the start. The very first day.
“I will get over it”, Sungchan said obediently.
Haechan killed his cigarette against the brick steps and looked at him like he was being purposefully difficult. “Hey, cheer up. This is only the beginning.
“This isn't even the worst thing that's gonna happen to you. Let's make up, come and give hyung a hug.”
Sungchan got knocked back by the purity of Haechan’s heart, or whatever it was that he went around saying these days.
Close to midnight, when they were waiting for their manager’s car to wrap around the parking lot, Chanyoung put some distance between them and wrinkled his nose. Sungchan didn't do anything as pathetic as saying, Hyung is sorry, since he wasn't the type, but it was a close thing.
On Wednesday, Sungchan got over himself.
An-ton, was it?
“Lantern,” Sungchan tentatively joked. Chanyoung glared at him.
Like a little puppy: permed bangs framing a gawkish look. Thin lips and his actress mother’s face.
In the end, things worked out so that Chanyoung and Sungchan ended up together in the same group. How crazy was it? And how amazing, too. That they razed his life down and promised him something new. That Chanyoung would be part of it, the reason. Destined for it, or chosen, if that meant something different, same as he was.
There were stranger situations.
/
“I don’t get it”, Chanyoung said when they were in the car and the streets were really creepy, “Can I ask you something?”
“Aren’t you? Right now, I mean.”
“Not doing this with you.” And then it was very dark all around then, even under the dim yellowed out lights of the minivan. All the other guys were nodding. But it was Day 3 and Sungchan felt like Friday wouldn’t ever come, he couldn’t close his eyes to see the end of it yet.
“You keep changing the subject,” Chanyoung said, “Like sugar coating.”
Sungchan inhaled and it sounded heavy.
“That makes no sense,” he complained. Tried again, to keep it light: “And what does sugar got to do with anything, kid.”
Then Chanyoung was rolling his eyes, giving up. The faint amusement turned into the kind of maturity that Sungchan preferred to keep unacknowledged.
Chanyoung caught him staring at his face and scoffed softly, going back to his phone.
/
Thursday, the pre-recording went awfully. Give fans what they want and they’ll want more. Sungchan tried to keep the initial rookie mindset, of gratefulness and humility, the leash that kept him steady at it. Only: working for a living, didn’t it change things? The growing tension between the public and their company, their staff and the higher-ups, themselves and the image they had to attain. Jihyun was at her wit's end and it didn’t matter because the ending had to keep coming.
He said, “I’ll do it, I’ll find him,” because Eunseok thought they needed a tantrum. What Eunseok needed was for nothing to be in vain, a stabilized balance.
“That is never gonna happen,” Sungchan told him when he heard the tail end of his complaints. “Overbearing people are gonna be overbearing, let it go.”
Eunseok had colorful hair clips at his temples and unfinished brows. He looked ridiculous, even more righteous. “Then it’s not worth it.”
A few months and that was it? It’s never gonna be worth it, Sungchan wanted to say. He crept closer to Eunseok. They were in an out-of-order bathroom, blue lit and acidic. If you keep waiting for it to be worth it then it’s not gonna be, but if whoever else overheard it would become true.
Eunseok raised a palm to his chest, ready to push him off. Sungchan scoffed. Trainees solved things by shouting and shoving. Wrestling until they couldn’t remember what they were arguing about. Adults needed a little more tact. Sungchan said, “Why are you being so emotional about this?”
His friend’s face went stormy. “Not being close isn't a good enough reason for not caring.”
Sungchan felt his blood pressure rising. “Me? I don’t care?”
“Like you’re desolate.”
“Moping about it isn’t gonna do a damn thing.” Sungchan didn’t have time to regret the outburst. Because it was true, but Eunseok could be right and still miles off.
“I care more than everyone,” Sungchan said, shutting off. “I care enough, since the start. All the time, but it’s not gonna change anything. Forget it, we’re gonna be late.”
“You are so,” Eunseok complained, but didn’t wrestle out when Sungchan grabbed his wrist. “You think you are our babysitter but that’s not true at all.”
“It could’ve been you,” Eunseok added, harsher. He sounded out of breath due to their pace. The corridors were empty in this part of the building, halls spread out and echoing against their steps: “You know it could’ve been you. And then it could still be. And you’re just–”
Just what?
Chanyoung watched as he shoved the jacket off and the fleece clung to the sweat. Felt Chanyoung watching. Sungchan threw it at his head but it fell short.
For a moment, Sungchan dropped to his ankles and held his head steady. Two hours and he was already dizzy by the effort. They weren’t ever gonna get it. Choreography would keep hunting them, unfriendly. Hostile footwork. He felt Shotaro messing up his hair and saying, “Cheer up,” but cheerfulness went out of stock.
He saw Chanyoung’s sneakers and his shadow dripping across his own. A face full of fabric and the world went dark, only Chanyoung saying, “Let’s get up, hyung.” Then he was pulled by his hands, stabilized. They wore each other’s clothes and kept at it. Pushing past the limit, until they were readily torn down, made anew.
/
Before:
Chanyoung asked him cheekily, “Are you this clingy to all your friends?” Straight to the point.
Sungchan blinked. He gazed down at their meal and wondered if he was coming down with something. “Excuse me?”
“This is the third time this week you’ve invited me out.” Only then Sungchan realized Chanyoung was teasing, but unsure if the joke landed. “What’s up?”
“Pick up the tab, then,” Sungchan said, with no intention to let him do so.
“That’s unmannerly. Don’t be like that.”
“Don’t be like that, hyung.” But Sungchan smiled as Chanyoung did, snickering at their side dishes. “Who said we could be friends?”
Chanyoung had a strange look in his eyes that reeled him in. Untraditional, American boy. Spoiled and disciplined. They weren’t as different as Sungchan thought, but Chanyoung simultaneously took more and less work than he’d imagined. Only the volatility of idol life hadn’t done him in.
“Not friends,” Chanyoung amended, fiddling with a straw wrapper. “Okay.” He smiled and it looked just like his mother.
It was a strange type of confidence, Chanyoung was such a shy kid.
This was all before, though. Then things kept happening to Riize. Ouch.
/
A babysitter. Not how he’d think of himself, but alright. What was there left to do?
They might never rest again, thank God. Life as a sextet meant much of the same only in a harsher pace. They had to make up for the missing spot, or make it mean something.
Sungchan was patting Chanyoung’s chest when the thought came: We can’t stop touching.
And then it inflated, filling his ribcage.
We have to stop touching.
It was because Chanyoung spent most of his youth breaking his body into whatever he needed it for. Calluses turning his palms rough then his fingers steady. Because it was one more similarity in the breadth between them. The breadth of him.
Everything became still. Sungchan’s hands hesitated and that made Chanyoung look up from his shoes. Eye contact would be too much, it’d make him shutter out. He needed to be present for the performance but not too much that he couldn’t emote. He needed to emote but he wouldn’t, couldn’t if all he was thinking about was some younger guy. A baby, Sungchan thought sadly.
“You look ridiculous,” Chanyoung whispered. It sounded curious and that hurt too. Sungchan scoffed, deciding to practice a bit more. He turned his back to whatever was going on around him.
After his growth spurt, Sungchan’s height became bothersome when they figured out he wasn’t gonna be an actor and actually needed to dance for a living.
It was okay: he wanted to perform. To do well and be good at it, then maybe, okay – maybe he’d take others opportunities, but firstly this.
All this effort and pain was all Sungchan ever wanted. All the consequences would always be his own. These things were hard to explain, it just showed on his face. Like they all had access to his inner life and either he shut them out or let them look. If this was gonna work, Sungchan had to let them look.
Chanyoung couldn’t look, though.
Traffic knew about his incoming migraine and let their car go through. The dorm was emptied out at that point and the younger kids were a few floors up. They went there when they could but it was weird to think about the haunting space under. There was only unbecoming silence. Sungchan said goodnight to the manager and then had to face the rest of the floor plan.
Shotaro caught him frowning as he went to shower and cuffed him in the arm. “C’mon, it’s just too soon now.”
He stopped short when Sungchan kept blinking. “Are you still sullen about it?”
“No,” Sungchan admitted. “I don’t know. Bigger stuff.”
“Don’t worry about the bigger stuff.” Shotaro squeezed his shoulders, shaking him a little. He had his contacts on and a towel around his neck, ready to wash off twelve hours of suffering to sleep for three. “That’ll come. Don’t anticipate, do the small stuff.”
“Okay.”
“Good?” Shotaro smiled, and it wasn’t but Sungchan said it was, and then he was alone. He could hear the hot water working the pipes, the walls shuddering, his heart pounding on his ears.
/
Thought about calling him, then about how much he didn’t want to hear his voice, how it was gonna piss him off beyond measure; how the surety of it, of that upcoming anger, was gonna make it all worse. Emotions snowballing into losing control. Losing into wanting to be waxed over, embalmed.
How it could’ve been him, too.
How Chanyoung deserved better than this. How to convince him to stay and keep believing.
Instead, Sungchan pulled away.
From the outside in, people had to understand.
Year-end means breaking his body into a million little pieces and not being able to confess that— Sungchan always did things knowing that it would be for naught. It was hard to manifest compassion. What was compassion useful for? But he couldn’t say that to any of them, they had to believe in the end-result. Trust the process, wasn’t it?
Day one and Shotaro’s draft gets accepted, the one he and Wonbin had been working on, and that’s part of it too. One to one. Their practices run like a tight ship and every second has to be measured to the dot. Day two and Eunseok keeps complaining about how heavy he is. Sungchan says, “Too bad,” and then they have to do it a dozen times, even insincerely. Experience taught him that this is mainly for contingency, because the adrenaline means they’ll rely on muscle memory. Onstage, the lights will flood over the silhouettes; it won’t end up mattering as much.
Shotaro says, “This part. Again.”
Sungchan will always follow him, it’s just that —
Bruised blue and dripping, there isn’t much more that Sungchan can give. Even if he has to think there is.
And then Chanyoung writes, Thank you for leading the team well, even when it was hard.
The handwriting is really cute, too.
Sungchan tells him,
“I’m gatekeeping the online shopping websites.”
It’s day zero, then.
Not yet the gloomiest day of the month since things can get greyer. They will, soon.
Jungwoo caught him in the hallways trying to micromanage himself into steadiness and failing at that. So now Sungchan waits up while Jungwoo finishes his last smoke. He crouches on the tiles, right on the edge of grass, and watches a bunch of little ants carrying a dead bee away. A little funeral procession.
“So gross,” he says, to himself, but Jungwoo’s saying, “Now that you remind me.”
“Uh?”
Jungwoo’s tried vaping but he says it’s not the same. He says the smoke is worse for you. “I was thinking,” and then he taps off against the curb, black ashes staining the cement. “We don’t talk as much anymore.”
Sungchan lifts his eyes off the ground to meet Jungwoo’s blank ones.
“This is your way,” Sungchan reminds him. “I did things your way.”
“Why does it have to be my way?”
Jungwoo’s not really asking: this is the roundabout way. The real question is gonna be somewhere further, hidden under Sungchan’s outraged response.
Rather than wasting his time being indignant, Sungchan says, “I don’t know. Wasn’t I supposed to?”
The cigarette is killed right next to the little carnage happening in miniature, ashes buried in the damp grass. Sungchan wants a smoke and won’t ask for it. Jungwoo wants to talk about before without really getting into it, talking right on the edge of their shared history, the things that were kept to a single dorm in their adolescence.
Jungwoo looks at him sideways, hand on cheek. His face was bare because they were still figuring out his troublesome hair extensions. “I know you don’t think so,” he says, “And you don’t like when I mention this.”
“Then don’t mention it,” Sungchan tries.
“Don’t be childish,” Jungwoo nags him. He stands up, sanitizer already in hand, while Sungchan rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing crazy, since I know it’s none of my business. I just wonder why you’re still repenting. I know you, alright? And it’s on your face, all the time. This, like, OCD-neuroticism, you’re just worry, worry, worry. Is it magical thinking? I’ve been there.”
Sungchan swallows his saliva and doesn’t blink, or break eye contact, like it’s a bit of Jungwoo’s and the punchline is coming, surely.
“I’ve been there,” Jungwoo says, bottom lip pushed out. “Not worth it, the whole pity party. I think you’re good, man.”
Then he’s leaving, still saying stuff, like, Ah, whatever, that was so corny, but everything was quiet. The baseline noise of the back entrance pitched out, bursting Sungchan’s eardrums.
It feels like Sungchan won’t ever stop being scolded about being the way he is. Inside, he grabs Eunseok’s forgotten drink and sips at it while he loses on Wild Rift. It's lemon and ginger, too tangy.
At the risk of looking obvious, Sungchan says, “I feel like this year is never gonna end.”
“Huh?” Eunseok says, because he’s playing ranked Solo and that’s his whole world now.
“Forget it,” Sungchan tells him. “That guy is about to kill you, though. Pay attention.”
There are things that ten years won’t erase. When NCT 127 gets on stage, Sungchan sticks to the sidelines and sees it through: there's synergy threaded through each member. It came from time and effort instead of divine intent, embedded from day one. Truthfully, and they all knew this, love was possible but some members hated each other more than others. Some reinvented themselves each year, like the original adversity could only become natural closeness, like closure. He tries to see the performance with a performer’s eye, it’s just too upsetting. He keeps seeing it as the kid that was there, too.
It could have been him. Whichever way you want to think about it.
The protocol team has a weekend break to prepare for the upcoming trip to Japan. An entire week overseas means almost ten days away from their family. If their schedules are tiring at the spotlight, what did it mean that there were a hundred workers accommodating their dream? Feeling bad about it wasn’t useful and you had to put things in perspective.
Sungchan has to pack and he needs to do it quietly. Shotaro says, “You can’t do anything quietly. You’re like a hummingbird. That’s a heart attack, waiting,” but that’s because he thinks he’s so funny. They sit around the living room vetoing each other’s gaudy accessories and trading anecdotes from last year’s trip, then the year before that.
“The stages. It’s all the same but it’s so different,” Shotaro rambles. He has over a hundred necklaces, it seems. Like a down payment for a house. “Right? It blurs over. Only it’s not the same every time, it’s only getting crazier.”
“Crazy is a word for it,” Sungchan mumbles.
“And they haven’t seen it that way yet,” Shotaro continues. He knocks his foot against Sungchan’s, maybe on purpose. “I used to think the timeline was cleanly divided, like the before and after, but now it’s more like the paths colluded and unified. It’s a straight line from now on.”
Sungchan watches him a bit as he gives up on a crooked latch, refusing to right itself over. Shotaro looks back at him and he’s always more clever than he looks. Sungchan kinda hates it. “Are you consoling me?”
“Does everyone have to console you, you big baby?”
“I am just getting lectured all the time now.”
“Well, you aren’t moping anymore. That’s a point in your favor.”
“Right?”
Sungchan lays down next to Shotaro’s knees as he talks up everything; the clothing stores, the corny memorabilia, the familiar weirdness, the places where they wouldn’t take any pictures but have a lot of fun at anyway.
/
Books on leadership are books on leadership. Sungchan isn’t the leader, never will be, but he knows that much. Meaning, there is always something you can do better and projecting confidence exaggeratedly is of most importance. Eunseok saw them when Sungchan bought them and scoffed. Meaning, self-help wasn’t ever going to help that guy in particular. Self-awareness to the point of erosion was a good thing, a show of character. Eunseok said, “Everyone sees through these things.” But they didn’t, really. As of the present day, there isn’t a clear separation between Sungchan and the person that he wanted to be, no matter how much they tried to teach him.
Meaning, the hurt was all his.
The person Sungchan was didn’t deviate from his expectations. He was — all at the same time — easy-going, and still too emotional, a crybaby, temperamental, maybe easily tempered by his own mercurial whims. Stubbornly stuck to the things that he wanted and wanting a new thing each time.
He brings the projector to the living room when all the lights are off and it’s wholly quiet. It’s been just him, Shotaro and the revolving cast of their security team. Some floors above, Chanyoung's been texting him amenities about their upcoming trip, like Instagram pages and restaurant reviews. Planning it all out in-between their schedules, the things they’re actually supposed to be doing.
Sungchan doesn’t text him back because he’s too busy rewinding back to the start. Everything will always seem beautiful in retrospect but it really was. The entire thing. And then he had to let it go.
And the Memories’ hairstyle was so ugly, too. Honestly.
/
I’m just playing games, I know that’s plastic love. Mariya Takeuchi, you dog.
Cello practice holds Chanyoung back and it’s a pity. Sungchan gets so drunk he’s thinking absurdities, like speaking his own mind. Then they have a do-over, just the two of them and the entire city. That’s a little less pitiful.
Their manager says they look like twins in that setting, matching beanies, packed up in their little dark jackets. They thread through Shibuya like there isn’t a set bedtime, the last barrier against trouble making.
There isn’t much they can do in these limited hours. Chanyoung wants to try sake and they can’t, but still. They buy a bottle for keepsake, like they’ll work the rest of their schedule around that opportunity. Like teenagers in a sleepover, hiding it in the mini fridge. Sungchan doesn't have a roommate, not even accompanying staff, so it goes into his.
When it’s close to midnight, he notices that Chanyoung forgot his bomber jacket over his bedding; maybe before, during the morning. He was always doing it. Was it a disregard for personal space? Like Sungchan, he had one brother but the roles were reversed; he was his household’s oldest, by a lot, maybe five years.
Spending this much time together, he can’t help diverging into serendipitous musings about how alike they are and also how different, things like that. He’s in middle school and just got a new best friend. Comparing favorite colors is of the utmost importance. Sungchan tried not to get too much into it. Favoritism wasn’t very leadership material.
Except when Eunseok said, “It’s unfair to take care of one person only,” but this was mainly because he wanted Sungchan to buy him food. Except when it seemed like the first stages of getting to know someone he’s interested in, only it hadn’t happened like this. Before.
Chanyoung wanted these things too but it was so different. His bomber jacket smelled like cologne and sweat, like his body when they were exhausted from practice and dripping all over the hard flooring. They piled up against each other indiscriminately. Shared clothing, water bottles, earphones.
Eventually, thinking about it gets too much. Sungchan can’t do anything about it onstage, in the dressing rooms, or the hallways, where they have to greet everyone under the sun and do dancing challenges.
Jungwon is there, only for a moment, though. Eunseok comes along to chat for a bit until they have to move along and to the next thing. But there’s a moment where it’s just Jungwon and Sungchan. Things get kind of awkward.
“So,” Jungwon says. It’s cramped there, he ends up knocking his boots against Sungchan’s when he turns his body. Sungchan raises an arm to steady him, but aborts the movement at the last moment and ends up scratching his neck.
“That was great,” Sungchan tells him. “You’re good, really. Like all of you.”
“Not just me?”
“You the most,” Sungchan amends shamelessly. The ice is breaking. “But just because I taught you everything, right.”
Jungwon laughs and it’s dizzying, overly-familiar. “It’s been a while since we trained together, hyung,” he says, smiling cheekily. “Maybe I learned it on my own.”
“I did my best! That sticks.”
“That sticks,” Jungwon agreeds. He hesitates a bit. All his guys are crossing over to their next thing, too. “But it’s really been a while. Wow, am I your sunbaenim, now?”
Jungwon walks his fingers across the wall, right next to where Sungchan leans, almost touching. Sungchan scoffs, but lightheartedly. Jungwon hasn’t ever made him angry. He’s cute and small, never gave him any trouble.
Except for- Sungchan looks down at him and Jungwoo has his eyelashes darkened by eyeliner. But it’s really been a while, so Sungchan says, “I’m not doing this with you, you know.”
Jungwon looks embarrassed, even as he tries to tone it down. “Because I’m a baby?” He’s paraphrasing.
“You were,” Sungchan tells him, honestly. He even pats his head. The cutest and the smallest, aside from Sohee, now. Things that were his were always gonna be better. “And you aren’t now. You’re just bored, I think.”
Jungwon steps away. “You know,” he says. “Okay, that went how I thought it would. I hope you have fun anyway, hyung. Don’t be a stranger.”
“How can I help it?”
“Answer my texts!” Jungwon yells, but he’s already down the hall and his voice fades off.
Sungchan turns against the hall and right on the other side there’s Chanyoung. In the corner, texting so he’s not paying attention to his surroundings.
All the other guys are gone, but Chanyoung stayed. His tie’s already crooked, even if Sungchan’s fixed it about a dozen times. He keeps messing around with it.
“Hey, you. Come here.” And Chanyoung looks up, already frowning.
"Are you doing well?"
Sungchan blinks at the ceiling.
“Come again?”
Chanyoung rolls over until he’s on his elbows, staring down at Sungchan. The bottle of sake was, according to his mutterings, yummy. They each drank a shot, because they were reasonable, but it didn’t take long until Chanyoung’s bluetooth speakers were turned on. Weird, American pop made Sungchan fuzzy. Drunk on the atmosphere, which was very embarrassing, but showed on his face anyway; his circulation went up and his cheekbones turned pink.
Chanyoung had the same cute face for everything, though. He just looked flushed, like a little doll. That was Sungchan’s height and weight, but still.
He cooled off against the carpet fur and watched Chanyoung watching noisy TikToks.
Until, “Eunseok says,” and then he hesitated. “That Seunghan says that you haven’t called him yet. Are you mad?”
“Do I look mad? Or unwell.”
Chanyoung frowns at him. “I don’t know.” He lifts a thumb to Sungchan’s eyelid and then he’s half-off, distorted. “You’re never contactless. Maybe that?”
“Is the dryness making me look mad? That’s what eyedrops are for, baby.”
He uncovers his eyelid so Sungchan can better see his frustration. “Hyung,” he says. Sungchan never denies him anything. He’ll nag and poke fun, but it’s only ever that.
“I know,” Sungchan says, like an answer. He pushes Chanyoung off so he can get up, cross his legs over each other. He pushes at Chanyoung’s shoulder and he drops on his back, a little gasp at the impact. His hair’s off his face but it’s sweaty at the temples, sticky.
“I’m not mad at him,” he tells Chanyoung. “He’s a kid. A kid is gonna be a kid. Are you mad at him?”
Sungchan follows Chanyoung’s expression. Pursing his lips, considering so he doesn’t speak out of turn.
“Not at him,” says Chanyoung. “At the situation, more like. But only in the beginning.” He looks to the side. “Like when things don’t turn out how they’re supposed to. It’s just scary to think about this kind of thing.”
Chanyoung was pathologically shy but very loved. In the start, the swarm of cameras and the overwhelming, endless attention freaked him out. That was day one. There’s never one without the other, the things that you want and the things to brace yourself against.
“Don’t think about it.”
“How can you tell me that?” Chanyoung grumbles, rolling into his front and burying himself in his arms. He knocks his shot glass askew, the last inch spilling over.
Sungchan reaches over to comb through his hair, away from his forehead. He settles down again, disarming. “How can you tell me that,” Chanyoung repeats, softly, “when all you do is.”
“What?”
“Just…” Sungchan combs his hair back, scratches at his nape. He wants to nap, too. To be a kid that’s not even twenty, yet. “You’ve been weird, is all. Maybe I’m also seeing things.”
Chanyoung’s sweatshirt rides up to expose his lower back. He's entirely pale skin and soft muscles, dense to the touch but giving.
“You’re just a baby,” Sungchan tries. He sees Chanyoung’s forehead etching as he says it. “Why do you wanna know my worries, too? There’s yours, already. It hasn’t been easy.”
He breathes in when Chanyoung doesn’t react. Breathes out, inch by inch. “I’m serious.”
“You’re wrong,” Chanyoung mutters, which stings. “And lying, but it’s whatever, hyung. Ah, you’re all… Just. I don’t know, it’s fine.”
He makes it as if he’s gonna stand up, maybe go back to his room; Sungchan sees it all telegraphed and short-circuits. He grabs his wrist, holds him there.
Chanyoung looks at him like he’s being really strange.
Sungchan breathes in and out quietly, like he’s learned to do onstage. Everything that he’s gone through, until now, was because of the pain that he’s been promised. The blinding spotlight, the obsessiveness, the suffocation. And then right at the end of it, Chanyoung chose it too. He doesn’t really understand why.
There’s a ticking clock in his head, until Chanyoung decides that it isn’t worth it to hear him out. Sungchan feels like he’s slurring: “I had. Like in the beginning, I was very close to other trainees, right?”
“And kids get sentimental. Like attached, kids can get very attached. I always got more, though. It sucked. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that and things would’ve gone better.”
There is silence for a moment. Chanyoung catches on quickly, though.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s fine, it’s true. I had a type, so it’s not like I didn’t know. Just very careless, Chanyoung. And it was fine, then. Like he, they were nice to me. It just didn’t matter. Seunghanie’s situation is a nightmare, a complete nightmare. It just isn’t unusual, is all.”
“You’re not making sense,” Chanyoung tells him kindly.
“Like this is it,” Sungchan insists. Chanyoung grabs his hand when the gesticulation gets too much. Grabs the other, too, when it goes out sideways. “The pressure, not just the pressure. The entire matter of it. It’s awful and it sucks, fine. But it’s been my whole life and now it’s yours, too. I didn't want it to be like this, for you.”
When he comes to, Chanyoung is pushing him softly until he leans against him. Sungchan hides his face in his neck, feeling the tendons tensing when Chanyoung moves to raise his arms. He’s using his sleeves to dry Sungchan’s face. There’s soft cotton under his head, heavy and damp.
“Ah, don’t be like this,” he says, “You’re not making sense.”
Sungchan closes his eyes and feels the lenses pushing against the back of his eyelids. Most people can’t feel them but he always could.
Under his breath, then: “Not making any kind of sense. Just very foolish, hear me out.”
Chanyoung continues, “Who says it sucks?”
“Don’t you think so?” Sungchan rebutts. It always looks like it. This is the unfortunate means to Chanyoung’s ultimate end.
“It hasn’t,” Chanyoung tells him. “You didn’t let it suck. It’s so bad, honestly. Never letting me do things myself, from the start.”
“I’m sorry,” says Sungchan, insincerely.
“So thank you,” Chanyoung says. “Now let it go. Isn’t it useless to suffer for no reason?”
Stricken, Sungchan tries to push him off. Four years and it meant nothing. Not even four months and, even then–
“Stop,” says Chanyoung, really loud. He blushes at the volume of his own voice and keeps going, Sungchan’s wrists in his grip. “You don’t listen. You just want to feel bad about yourself and you aren’t even listening to me.”
His jaw hurts. Sungchan has to think about clenching his teeth. “Chanyoung,” he warns.
“Just listen,” Chanyoung asks.
“Say it.”
He sees it frame by frame, how Chanyoung steels himself. Like a little kid who wants to go to war. Like the stray bandmate that he grabbed by the cuff off a lonely alleway to bring home. The kid that didn’t need him at all.
“I should’ve said something,” Chanyoung tells him. “And I didn’t, so sorry. Because I didn’t know that you were like this about it. But you didn’t need to do everything for me.”
“I did it because I wanted to,” Sungchan whispers. It doesn’t hurt as much. “I can stop, you know. Why didn’t you say?”
And it isn’t very cathartic to hear Chanyoung say, “I just wanted you to.” Soft-voiced and mild. “I always want you to. I thought you wanted it, too. But you aren’t even gonna let yourself get it. Are you?”
There’s no time for an answer. There’s no point of contact between them anymore. Chanyoung lets him go and stands up, dusting his pants off so he can start looking for his things. Bomber jacket, satchel, wallet, his shoes by the door, the little speaker, powered off.
It's gotten too late for sleep. Sungchan aches; all the important parts of his brain are sore and greyed out. Foggiest behind his eyes, the aftermath of crying. Crying with his lenses on, because he wasn’t Lasik-aged and didn’t like the look of his prescription glasses. He watches as Chanyoung gets his beanie on and wipes at his eyes discreetly, hiding behind his hands. He wasn’t even twenty yet.
“Chanyoung-ah,” Sungchan calls.
“What?” His voice doesn’t break, barely raises.
“Come here,” he tries. “It’s gonna be fine.”
Sungchan has to stand up and reel Chanyoung in, away from the door so he doesn’t go out and start hating him for real. For lacking the right kind of sensitivity and having the wrong temper. He soothes his thumbs over his brows, holds his face in his palms.
Chanyoung’s voice stops short. “Don’t be unfair.”
“Baby,” he calls. “I’m always unfair, though? But it’s in your favor. Come here.”
“That time,” Chanyoung tries, swallowing. “In the hallway. What did it mean?”
“Were you listening?”
“You don’t have an inside voice, hyung.” It makes him laugh out loud, disbelieving. And then Chanyoung smiles but not at him, still waiting for an answer.
“It means whatever.” Sungchan replies, instead.
He convinces Chanyoung to dress down and throw his shoes off. The bed is messy and he has to shove the things to the floor to make space for the both of them. They don’t have to wake up in the dregs of morning, just a little before lunch. There’s still time to calm down, settle. Will themselves into steady breathing. They share a pair of earphones while some music reaction channel drones on and on.
The talk went on for too long. Time doesn’t wait for it. The early clarity of dawn spreads across the hotel room inch by inch, swallowing up the folds of his wrinkled comforter. In the dark, things were easier. Like they were hidden away from clear sight. Now, it happens hesitantly, an unbearably long stop motion, frame-by-frame: they were heading this way the entire time; the meaningless talk fades out; too shy to voice anything, Chanyoung buries himself in the space between Sungchan’s shoulder and the mattress cover. His cold nose raises the skin there. Sungchan puts a hand on his back, maybe to soothe him to sleep, ends up leaning down and cradling his chin with gentle fingers. Sungchan tilts his face sideways.
Chanyoung’s clever eyes stop watching him to close; he hums as Sungchan pecks his mouth.
It’s over in a second and then he’s glaring again.
“Again,” Chanyoung demands.