Chapter Text
The last time the sun rose upon Hongjoong's face was three years ago.
He had worked tirelessly, missing exams and isolating himself from the world for months, quickly falling from valedictorian to the bottom of the barrel. Four auditions, each an entirely different song to showcase his versatility. It had nearly been a year by the time he got the call, and he broke down into tears on the kitchen floor.
The day was long and hot, sweat pooling in his forehead and soaking his clothes. Every new connection he facilitated with his peers left them with suntans, but himself with sunburns. It had been twilight for a while, but the sun is finally setting today, leaving him cold and alone on the rough, solid ground.
The lock on his back door is broken, shattered into two pieces on the balcony floor. The kitchen is wrecked, the living room a disaster. Posters are torn and papers are spilled along the carpet in messy, chaotic piles. His desk is devoid of his laptop and his sketchbook – his years of hard work, gone.
The suitcases brought along on his trip fall from his hand and hit the floor with a soft thud. He's frozen in place. His mind is blank. If anything, the closest word to describe his blurry state is disbelief. He fights with himself, long enough for time to feel unreal, before slamming the door shut with all his strength and charging back down the apartment stairs.
With a quickening, anxious pace, he hurries to door 01 – the landlord's place. A deep breath grounds him briefly and he knocks upon the door. Shifting back and forth between his legs, running his hands through his hair, it takes a moment before the familiar face appears.
"It's eight in the morning. What do you want?"
"My, um," he pants, "Someone broke in while I was out."
"I told you not to decorate your window, Hongjoong. I told you this would happen."
She's right, but it doesn't do anything but make him angrier. He can't afford a proper place to stay, with this studying and training sucking up all his time and money. Going abroad was already a risky play, and now the only work he has to show for the past five years is what he brought on his back. A single, beaten up notebook with random ideas scrawled in between the margins, barely legible and partially stained.
He bites back tears. He can't break in front of her. "What about my security deposit?"
"You lost it when you painted."
"Um… Can we file a police report? You have cameras, right?"
She rolls her eyes. "Not in the back. I told you this when you moved in."
What she did tell him when he moved in, was that this was a safe complex with great security. Cameras in the front could easily determine people entering into the back, which would have recorded the intruder, as there was no sign of anyone hopping the back fence. Police could look for DNA, could question the neighbors, but it was no use fighting with his landlord. She already didn't like him, and he had nowhere else to go.
"I just…" He sighs, bringing a trembling hand to his forehead to ground himself. "That was my life's work. I don't care if I never catch the guy, I just need it back."
"Well, don't think of contacting the police. I don't need another citing."
Another citing. Because she knows her land violates several regulations. Between the unsound foundations and the lack of secure exits, it's filled with safety hazards waiting to end in tragedy. And yet, she's like every other landlord anyone's ever complained about – too stingy to spend a single dime to help her tenants, despite the rule against them making the changes themselves. Knowing that these are some of the cheapest rooms someone can find, and that all of Hongjoong's neighbors are struggling just as much as himself.
She shuts the door and it's as cold as midnight, despite the sun shining brightly above the horizon. It's cold as midnight in the dead of winter with a coat of snow packing and weighing down the frozen ground. Not fresh and beautiful, but shoved carelessly to the dead grass and mixed with mud and dirt by people unable to appreciate its beauty. They view it as a nuisance, as an obstacle blocking them from tending to their busy lives.
He trudges through it back to his apartment, but it's only in his mind. The ground is clear, thriving and vibrant, but he's unable to see its verdant hues. His world is colorless and dead.
He drags his suitcases inside and kicks them to the side. Neglecting the mess around him, he makes a beeline for his desk, slouching in the chair and tossing his tattered notebook on the surface in front of him. He fishes around in his pocket for a moment for a pen. A gel pen – his favorite one, so long as he can be careful not to smudge it. It has a wonderful texture beneath his fingers as it glides easily across the paper.
He touches it down, but the words don't come. The ink pools against the paper. A fog is enveloping him, too thick to see through, weighing down his arms like a deep pool in which his feet don't come close to the floor.
He's drowning, and the sun won't rise to dry up the water.