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It wasn’t supposed to go this far.
He was doing Seongil a favor and it turned into this.
One moment he was buying an umbrella at the convenience store underneath the company building and the next he saw cameras flashing as he tried to shield the girl out of view.
Seongmo sighed loudly, thumb and forefinger rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose with emotional fatigue. He set his phone down on the desk in his dorm room, the glow of the screen still radiating in the darkness of the evening.
He already contacted his manager who reached out to their CEO about the matter. She had gotten their team to report the original post so it would be taken down by moderators but it was too late. The tabloids and gossip articles and fan pages on Twitter already got to the photographic evidence.
It wasn’t even really that incriminating, just a photo that depicted a guy with long dark curly hair shielding a woman with inky black hair from a cab that drove too close to the curb and kicked up a puddle of water. Except his hand was firmly grasping her waist, and her head was tucked into his chest, and the umbrella was tilted just right to make it look like they were doing something suggestive.
Both of their faces were fully in view which only added salt to the wound. Seongmo frowned, another screenshot of the photo was sent to him by another random phone number along with a lengthy paragraph message that was probably about how horrible of a person he was for seemingly being in a relationship out in public. He had to ask Seongil if he could talk to the company about getting new phone numbers again because those sasaengs were crafty and managed to find them out nearly everytime.
Right now, Seongmo couldn’t even stand to look Seongil in the eye, he was the whole reason he was in this mess. He was doing him a favor, his leader.
His leader, the guy that was supposed to put himself aside to protect the rest of the team, sacrifice his wants for the sake of the members. He was acting so selfishly. Seongil was hardly a leader, at least not one worth following anyways.
There was a light knock at Seongmo’s closed door and then a voice that followed quickly after. “Dinner….if you’re done sulking, and then we can talk about how you’re gonna fix this,” the voice reprimanded. It was Seongil, their righteous leader, doing what he did best, blaming.
Seongmo wouldn’t eat, he had no appetite. The constant messages, infiltrating his personal phone number and his Stars Bubble account, mentions on the 82MAJOR members’ account on Twitter, direct messages on Instagram and fan posts on Weverse….
Name a social media platform and the picture was on there. There was too much hate free roaming around the algorithm right then for Seongmo to even try to filter through for the truth or find fans who didn’t despise his guts. The feeling sunk like rocks in his abdomen, tightened the circumference of his throat like he was suffocating.
The knock sounded again, harder this time, and there was barely a second in between for Seongmo to respond or react before the doorknob started to twist open. The light switched on abruptly, warm fluorescent lighting cutting through the space with a harsh flash. Seongmo grimaced, eyes squeezing shut to ward away the impending headache he was about to get from not only the lights, but the tongue lashing of a career from his leader.
“I told you that dinner’s ready,” Seongil enunciated, the syllables thick and bold on his tongue. He always was like this when he was angry; stern with a fake sense of calmness like he was trying to convince the latter he wasn’t really mad, just disappointed in his actions.
What a fucking joke.
Seongmo opened his eyes just to roll them, turning his desk chair where he sat cross legged to face the blonde man. Seongil stood with his arms crossed, really adding to the disappointed parental facade. He sank into his left hip and Seongmo feigned to admit that if he started to tap his foot on the floor with comical annoyance that he would just burst out laughing without taking Seongil seriously.
“I’m not hungry,” was all Seongmo said, holding a tight grip on his tongue between his teeth after he finished. He was holding back, that much was apparent to both of them when Seongmo’s jaw twitched adamantly.
Seongil scoffed, uncrossing his arms almost to amplify the sound of displeasure. “It wasn’t an offer, you need to eat, you know the company isn’t happy about your weight,” was what Seongil responded. It was another illusion of calmness, one that had another fun layer that Seongmo acknowledged as fake empathy.
“That’s not what this is about and you know it,” Seongmo retorted, bile starting to creep up his throat and stain his mouth with the bitter taste.
“I have a hard time gaining weight and that’s the hot pressing issue you want to highlight tonight?” He spat back again, voice raising a bit.
Seongil looked back at the younger with equally stern eyes. Despite the empathetic words, his harsh tone and facial expression were apparent enough for anyone to understand he wasn’t playing nice.
“Non negotiable, you need to hold yourself responsible for what happened too. Come to dinner and we can talk about what you’re going to do to fix it,” Seongil repeated through gritted teeth. He still stood in the doorway, wide open and exposed so that any other member could walk by and listen in. Seongmo hated when Seongil would do this, it always felt like a power trip for the leader.
“What I’m gonna do to fix it?” Seongmo barked, the anger really starting to rise up his body. His hands felt clammy and his cheeks burned, partly with humiliation but also brazen anger. How dare Seongil pin the blame to just him!
“Are we going to forget that you are the reason I was in that situation in the first place? I was doing you a favor!” Seongmo continued, voice now a full yell. He wasn’t sure at what point that he had stood up from his desk and paced forward to stand in front of Seongil, but it happened. The leader visibly wavered at his words and the new closeness, only a small flicker of doubt in his eyes and the way his lips softened as he frowned. Seongmo wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t standing so close to him.
“Don’t rope me into this, Seongmo,” he warned, stoic and emotionless. “None of the other members would’ve ever been caught making a mistake this huge, this career-altering.”
Seongmo couldn’t believe his ears. His leader, the guy who cried like a baby over getting shin splints after a run, hollered out in glee whenever he won a dumb arcade game, was ridiculing the ever living daylight out of Seongmo for an accident he didn’t even cause. It was at that moment Seongmo remembered that even though Seongil was a leader, he wasn’t wise or mature like one.
“You’re right,” he cut in suddenly, crossing his own arms in defeat. Seongil looked taken aback then, like he hadn’t expected Seongmo to give in so easily without more of a fight.
Seongil would’ve almost believed it too if there wasn’t a conniving smirk slowly painting itself on Seongmo’s pursed lips. He looked up at Seongil through his lashes and under his breath, just loud enough for only the elder to hear him, muttered,
“It was your bitch sister’s fault too.”
Okay yeah, in hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have brought up Seongil’s sister or called her a bitch. In Seongmo’s dwindling defense, it was the only thing he could think of saying that had the ability to bite Seongil hard enough that it would ache where he really wanted to hurt him; his heart.
Seongil didn’t even reply at first, just grabbed Seongmo by one shoulder to turn him before his right fist collided with the latter’s plush cheek. The punch was the loudest word either of them had said. It echoed through the doorway of Seongmo’s room, reverberating on the hallway walls and into the kitchen. All that followed was silence.
Seongmo held his cheek in shock as he heard the clinking of forks and knives on plates come to an abrupt halt in the kitchen. There were some whispers in the distance, fueling the ache that started to form in Seongmo’s mandible as he listened closely. Then there was the sound of a chair scuffing along the tile floor and finally soft footsteps.
Seongil merely stared back at Seongmo, holding his eye contact with some mixture of melancholy and hatred lying on his face. His mouth contorted into a pursed grimace, probably mulling over if he should yell at Seongmo some more or just punch the shit out of him again. Seongmo didn’t know, didn’t care enough either, he had won their little argument. Seongil was almost never physical with them, never got in fist fights, so landing a right hook on Seongmo’s face, a part of his body that was so important to his job as an idol, was kind of a big deal.
Another figure appeared in the doorway then, matching the footsteps from earlier. He was tall, taller than Seongmo but still a couple centimeters shy of Seongil where he stood behind him. His dark brown hair made up for it, parted on the side with so much upwards volume that it added the illusion of those missing centimeters.
“What the fuck did you just do, Seongil?” the newcomer mumbled, voice so quiet that Seongmo could hear how the forks and knives had resumed eating in the kitchen down the hall.
Yechan, clothed in sweatpants, tube socks and a black tank top, sporting the same cross necklace and designer prescription glasses like he did any other day. Except this wasn’t just any other day, this was the day Seongmo fucked up and got himself into his first scandal. But yeah, probably just like any other Thursday to Yechan.
He stood in the hallway about two steps behind where Seongil had his back to him and still staring daggers into Seongmo’s pupils. Yechan looked tense, probably sent by the other members while they ate dinner as their representative to see just what the sudden sound of skin on skin cracking through the air was in their dormitory. His hands fumbled at his sides, quad muscles flexing under his sweatpants.
Yechan reached out to pat Seongil’s shoulder, guide him backwards and out of Seongmo’s face. The eldest just shook off his advance roughly, pivoting on his heel and pushing past Yechan with a sharp thrust against his sturdy chest before storming down the opposite end of the hallway to his own room. The door slammed shut behind him, Yechan and Seongmo’s eyes following the sound down the hall, meeting each others gaze after a moment as if to agree that the whole reaction in general was so immature.
At first, Yechan didn’t say anything, just gently pulled Seongmo’s hand down from where he was still cupping his bruised cheekbone and led him by his free wrist to their bathroom. He sat the smaller boy down on the closed toilet seat, taking it upon himself to kneel in front of him with some first-aid supplies.
“So,” he finally said, sturdy voice cutting through the air like a blade. It was the first words Yechan had said to Seongmo since the entire incident started. He hadn’t seen the other guy all day, much less spoken to him.
Yechan pulled out an alcohol wipe, unwrapping it from its package before delicately swiping over the inflamed area of Seongmo’s cheek. He couldn’t see it very well in the vanity mirror across the bathroom, but he figured the injury was starting to look pretty terrible given how tentative Yechan’s touches were. The look on his face was just as gentle, soft brown eyes and downturned lips juxtaposing his otherwise angular face.
“Are you going to catch me up on why Seongil just punched you?” Yechan finally concluded, thumb dragging across the plush part of Seongmo’s cheek to clean the skin. The ache had only grown alongside a new burn where Seongmo was sure Seongil had busted the corner of his lip When he tried to part his lips to reply, the sting of torn flesh just pulsed though his mouth. It wasn’t half as bad as what he expected, and part of that fact just angered Seongmo even more because what if Seongil was holding back? What if he held back his strength in that punch because Seongmo had fucked up so bad that he wasn’t even worth the extra effort?
After a beat of silence, Yechan pressed for an answer again.
“Maybe you can tell me why my brother reached out to me today about a Koreaboo article that got posted this morning, or why Seokjoon’s parents emailed him about a certain photograph that got uploaded.”
Okay, not good. If Yechan’s brother, an immensely more popular idol in an even more successful group knew about the articles then Seongmo was utterly fucked. Seokjoon’s parents knowing was slightly worse, given how out of touch they were with technology, they still somehow found out. He might as well draft his letter of resignation to post on their Twitter.
Seongmo’s hands started to sweat again, forehead starting to thrum with the same pain in his jaw as he tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill in his waterline from Yechan’s words. Sure, he could stand the torment from Seongil, the berating and the vicious retorts; but he couldn’t take that from Yechan.
To Seongmo, Yechan was kindness and aloofness and easygoing quips and understandings. Judgement from him was the ultimate betrayal, and Seongmo wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it without crashing out completely in front of everyone. Yechan meant too much to him for there to be any doubt or brashness or criticism. To put it simply, Seongmo would rather kill himself than have Yechan be angry with him.
Sensing the onslaught of tears, Yechan pulled Seongmo downward to the bathroom floor with him, grounding him with the coldness of the porcelain tiles. The teardrops had started to dribble down Seongmo’s cheeks, completely obscuring whatever disinfecting Yechan had done with the alcohol wipe. The latter just hummed, tutting out little shushes from between his lips as he wrapped Seongmo’s smaller frame in his arms, tucking his head into his chest. The position was almost that of the girl in the picture’s, only this time it was Seongmo nestled into Yechan’s embrace, and the realization only made him sob harder.
The gravitational pull of Seongmo’s head onto Yechan’s chest was addicting, magnetizing even. He wanted to answer, needed to clear the air and tell someone the truth of the matter, but whenever he craned his neck upward to stare at Yechan in the eyes, the words died on his tongue like a dead language. He fell back into the embrace, sitting there for probably longer than either of them would like to admit. But that was Yechan, affectionate and comforting behind closed doors and a pestering fool in public.
It was selfish, he knew it, from the way the tendrils of shame started to curl around his shoulders alongside Yechan’s fingers and prick his skin with discomfort. Seongmo just let himself bask in the attention for a moment longer because if when Yechan found out about the reasoning for his fight with their leader he might not be so sympathetic again.
“Momo?” he whispered into Seongmo’s hair, the nickname hanging in the air like a promise. A promise he wouldn’t be mad, a promise he’d stay and try to fix things with him.
Seongmo pulled back, acting against every nerve ending in his body screaming for him to stay in the safety of the latter’s grasp. He wiped his under-eyes to rid them of stray tears and sniffled, cheeks rosier and shining with the remnants of his breakdown.
Yechan just cooed, tilting his head with a pitying smile before finally letting Seongmo go. He picked up the alcohol wipe again and started to clean the area once more. When Yechan reached for an anti-inflammatory cream, Seongmo finally spoke.
“Remember how yesterday I missed the company dinner?” Seongmo began, lips trembling much more than he’d like them to. Something about Yechan made it so easy to be vulnerable, to let his body unfurl its natural emotional behaviors.
Yechan hummed out an agreement, eyes focused on unscrewing the cap to the cream in his hand and squirting out a pea sized dollop onto the tip of his middle finger.
“Well It was because Seongil called me after my studio session…and he sounded really distressed, something about his sister and how she was in a bind but he couldn’t help because he was stuck at the company meeting with our CEO….”
Yechan scooched closer to Seongmo on the tiled floor, delicately dabbing his middle finger to the suppleness of the latter’s cheek. The skin dimpled beneath Yechan’s fingers as he rubbed in the cream while Seongmo spoke. The added pressure ached a bit, but nothing too hurtful for how bruised the area was becoming.
“What happened with his sister?” Yechan asked, following along competently while multitasking with treating Seongmo’s wound. He had reached for a cotton swab to clean the blood off the corner of the smaller boy’s lip next.
“That’s the thing,” Seongmo answered, lips forming around the cotton swab as Yechan worked diligently, “I just agreed because of how panicked he seemed and when I showed up to the address pin he sent me of her location, I just figured she needed a ride somewhere.”
“And?” Yechan mumbled, not meeting Seongmo’s eye. He was too busy rolling the other end of the swab on his lip, applying an antiseptic to the cut. It stung a bit, and Seongmo had to wink his corresponding eye to wain away anymore tears.
“I bought an umbrella from the mart downstairs before I left the company, the forecast called for rain, and then I started thinking that it must be serious enough if Seongil was willing to let me miss the company dinner.”
Seongmo looked at Yechan, really tried to study his face. Tried to see if the latter was growing upset with him as more information was being revealed. Yechan wore no expression on his face what’s so ever.
“And,” he hesitated, mouth dry all of a sudden, “when I got there, she was being cornered by these guys outside of a bar in Hongdae and I panicked, I grabbed her and tried to get here away from them, but the guys wouldn’t let up. I riffed off that she was my girlfriend when I realized the guys didn’t recognize me and then a car came, they got in the cab to leave, probably super drunk, and the water from the puddles near the curb almost splashed us so I covered her.”
“That’s when the photos were taken huh?” Yechan finished, finally speaking for the first time during the reiteration of the whole story.
Seongmo just nodded, feeling ashamed as he looked down in his lap at his bitten fingernails. Yechan moved his thumb to stroke over the expanse of Seongmo’s knee once he finished cleaning his wounds. They weren’t by any means perfect, but it was better than explaining a domestic situation to a hospital at this hour of the night. The only thing worse than an idol dating scandal was an idol violence scandal.
“They must’ve either watched me leave the company building or pinged my phone location, because it looked like it was taken from the barbecue shop across the street,” Seongmo added, one final detail like it would save face.
Yechan just clicked his tongue, leaning forward to tuck a brown curl behind Seongmo’s ear. An endearing, gentle, compassionate gesture.
“Seongil tried to blame me and say it was my fault that the photos were taken, that the netizens were sitting up saying rumors between me and this girl,” he explained, the gears visibly turning in Yechan’s brain.
“Let me guess,” he jutted in, “He wouldn’t let you say that it was his sister to protect her identity, right?”
Stunned, Seongmo just nodded.
“Mm,” Yechan hummed, back hitting the bathroom wall as he leaned away to think.
“It’s valid, he doesn’t want his sister in the public eye, but the way he reacted to you wasn’t right either, so why did he-“
“I called her a bitch because I was so angry at him,” Seongmo finally confessed. He really wanted to curl up into a ball and die when he watched Yechan’s eyes widen behind his glasses, mouth forming into a surprised ‘o’ shape.
“Okay yeah, I would’ve punched you too if you called my sister a bitch,” he acquiesced. Seongmo turned his head to the side, his right cheek now flushed to match the bruise on his left cheek.
“I know I deserved it.”
Yechan shook his head and then there were fingers on Seongmo’s chin pulling him to look back at the latter. Yechan had a goofy smile splayed on his face, relaxed brows despite the sternness he wore just seconds before.
“Momo,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables with a soft tone, it made Seongmo look at him with apprehension.
“You didn’t deserve to be ridiculed, to be photographed, to have your privacy invaded while trying to do a good deed,” he started, fully cupping the uninjured cheek in his palm. Seongmo leaned into it absentmindedly, nuzzling Yechan’s hand like a kitten would.
“But?” he interjected, sensing where the other boy was going with his statement.
Yechan repeated, “But, you also shouldn’t instigate more of an issue with Seongil by insulting his sister, she didn’t deserve what happened to her either.”
The latter’s perspective was annoyingly refreshing. Seongmo hadn’t thought of how Seongil’s sister probably felt about the whole ordeal. He now assumed she probably got corned outside of a bar, tried to reject some creepy guys, before sending a distressed sos message to her brother to save her, only to find out he couldn’t. So his band mate arrived, clueless, and tried to save her when a sasaeng took their photo and posted it to every online forum known to mankind. So much for a night out.
Then suddenly there was guilt. He was so selfish to be the only victim, to push the blame onto everyone else when there was very clearly someone else in greater distress than him. Sure it was his career on the line, but maybe to Seongil’s sister, the worst case scenario would’ve meant her life was on the line. These apples weren’t oranges, and Seongmo suddenly felt so immensely guilty for weighing them out to be the same.
“Mm that one got you, didn’t it?” Yechan teased, snapping Seongmo out of his guilt sprial. The other boy had a cocky smile and was waggling his eyebrow to get a reaction out of Seongmo.
“Probably the most incredible advice you’ve heard all day, huh?” he chided. Ah, the regular Yechan was back. The goofy exterior never strayed from his body for too long, and Seongmo must’ve already used up his delicate and homely side when he was dressing the wound.
“You fucking suck,” Seongmo said glumly, playfully hitting Yechan’s clavicle where he held it with a mocked hurt painted on his face. He laughed, a real hearty laugh, before replying.
“I’m not the one with a bruised cheekbone though.”
“Touché,” Seongmo said, utterly defeated from the days events. He slumped back against the toilet, neck stretching back against the expanse of the lid while he sighed.
“How’d you learn how to dress a wound anyway?” he questioned just to fill the silence. Seongmo wasn’t ready for the one on one moment with Yechan to really end just yet. Yechan tapped a finger on his lips, grinning around the digit when he thought of what to say.
“Growing up with Keeho wasn’t peaceful, we fought all the time, but my older sister would always make the perpetrator tend to other’s injuries afterwards, you know, because our mom wasn’t around to do it for us.”
Seongmo didn’t answer, didn’t need to, the mental image of a younger Keeho pressing an ice pack to a younger Yechan flooded his eyes. They were giggling in the fake memory, tears prickling both of their eyes, one from pain, and the other from the fear of probably getting in trouble for whatever dumb thing they were fighting about.
Was that what this was? Was this just a dumb thing? It didn’t feel like it. Losing his job and getting kicked out of their dorm and company didn’t feel like a consequence fitting for a sibling-like fight. Seongmo knew it wasn’t the same, it couldn’t be, but the explanation was Yechan’s olive branch of relatedness to soothe the instilled ache.
He didn’t say anything when Yechan stood them up either, bringing him against his chest for a proper hug, tucking his pointed chin over Seongmo’s shoulder so far that Seongmo just stared at the broad expanse of Yechan’s back beneath his tank top in the vanity mirror.
“Let’s get something to eat, eh?” Yechan then offered, rubbing circles into Seongmo’s back, only stopping when he felt the latter nod against his shoulder.
—-
The days following after the initial event felt like purgatory. Seongmo couldn’t go out, risk the public seeing him or the bruise that nearly encompassed the entire left side of his face. Seongil still avoided him whenever they were at the dorm, and the rest of the members were too busy to really be around. It was lonely, it was an indefinite hiatus, and it was shaping up to be a grueling punishment.
Their CEO decided it would be best for Seongmo to sit out the next couple of fansigns and video call sessions, maybe even skip out on an Arirang podcast session with Yechan later in the week. She didn’t even know about Seongil punching him, and by the fact that Seongil hadn’t gotten equal punishment was evidence enough that no one had said a damn thing. Maybe it was better that way. Seongmo would rather be alone to rot in the dorms than with the guy whose sister he called a bitch. He deserved that much.
The loneliness and solitude led to doom scrolling, opening burner account notifications to see his family members check in on if he was okay. Seongmo felt an anchor weigh down his chest and the absence of energy to reply. He knew his family meant well, but the other things he’d seen on social media during his house arrest sucked the life right out of him.
“How’d he even get a girlfriend anyways? Are girls really desperate enough to go for a skinny piece of shit like him? ㅠㅠ“
“ㅋㅋㅋ It’s a pity, he has a cute face and a nice voice but it’s being wasted since he wants to whore around.”
“I wonder if the rest of 82MAJOR are like this? Maybe they should purge him out before he corrupts the others with bad decisions.”
It was vicious. Seongmo wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. Wouldn’t wish it on anyone. He was weak, weak in physical stature, but weak minded where it hurt the most. He wasn’t strong enough to filter through the hate to recognize his personal truth. He was tired, so tired, and the fatigue only grew in the sluggishness of his fingers scrolling on his phone as he wept and the dark circles that made permanent homes under each soulless eye.
Tonight, he sat besides his mirror, a cheap full length one Seongbin had found at a flea market when they were still trainees. Seongmo never liked it, it had warped glass, making him appear shorter or wider or whatever negative adjective his brain could come up with.
Tonight was no different. Seongmo tucked his knees into his chest, half staring at himself in the mirror, the husk he had turned himself into over the past several days, and also thumbing through another article about “nugu flop idols who think they can get away with dating!” where his recent concept photos were used for the cover image. Would it ever not hurt? Would he ever get to look at himself and not feel resentment or guilt? He tried to imagine how Seongil’s sister felt; the netizens were saying shit about her too. He didn’t get far, the overwhelming guilt hit him like a truck as probably the hundredth wave of tears hit him silently.
Seongmo slumped forward, wishing infinitely that his body could crack open and cave in on itself like a klein bottle, the glass of his ribs fracturing himself far beyond repair. It all hurt too much, ricocheted in the emptiness behind his heart, bruising him from the inside out so his organs would match his punched cheekbone.
Seongmo never really enjoyed himself. Never really saw that ‘idol factor’ in himself like he did with their fellow members and peers in the industry. He was normally shy, reserved in a way that came off as cheeky or arrogant, but really he was self conscious. To Seongmo, he was just a guy with a hobby in making music, no talent in performing it, and certainly nothing special to look at.
Maybe that was why it was so easy. It was so easy for people online to construe these misconceptions about him, turn his behaviors into crime scenes, and pick him apart bit by bit like he was some conglomerate degenerate. Seongmo knew people took one thing and ran with it. He watched it happen to Yechan when people complained he was dickriding his brother’s success, watched it happen when Seongbin liked a song on a burner Soundcloud account years and years ago. He knew things resurfaced to bite them all in the ass when they least expected it, but somehow when it was him, it felt right. Like it wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’. Like Seongmo would be the scapegoat and he would deserve it, he would take it, all of it, the brunt of it and the weight and the sinking feeling like he was just holding everyone back anyway.
That was why it was so easy. So easy for people to hop on this bandwagon of damnation. He wasn’t well liked anyways, they were all pretending, just like he was whenever he stared back at himself in any reflection he passed by. The whole population was on the same wave length of pretending to like Seongmo until he gave them a reason to stop.
Six member groups never worked out anyway, right? There was no center position in dance formations, no clear line distribution or anything. Maybe it would be best if the other five members used this incident as a catalyst for moving beyond the era of Seongmo in 82MAJOR.
It didn’t matter what narrative Seongmo’s diseased brain came up with in order to host himself, every story was just some version of the same old tale. Seongmo hated himself, hated the way his laugh sounded decibels too loud, hated the way his chest ached when someone held him too tenderly like he didn’t deserve it, hated the way his hipbones protruded beneath his boxer briefs. It was easy to hate when it was all he knew, embedded in his brain chemistry and underlying the foundation of his mind. Seongmo longed to love, longed to give the scraps of what he had left of himself to someone else to feel something, anything positive. He would seek out love in someone else for the things he despised in himself, hoping eventually it would teach him to love himself.
The closest he had ever gotten was Yechan, a glimmer of some kind of affection manifesting in the curve of his waist, the sound of his chuckle, the feeling of his hands on Seongmo’s body. And Seongmo would argue it was pity, a favor from Yechan for all the pain and suffering he had felt over the years. He had never let him know, never let him guess the monster of his mind that was constantly eating away at him. Seongmo clung to the desperate hope that maybe Yechan wanted to love him for the things he hated in himself too, if that was how love even worked.
The door creaked open, whether there was a knock that had preceded it, Seongmo was too lost in grief to have paid attention. Socked footsteps shuffled amongst the floorboards before settling to sit behind Seongmo’s hunched over figure. The lights were still off, but Seongmo’s eyes had adjusted much to his discontent. He made out the outline of broad shoulders and the small curve of naked biceps from behind his pulled up sweatshirt hood.
“Momo…” the voiced trailed, a hand coming to smooth against each vertebrae of Seongmo’s spine. Seongmo lowered his gaze, finding it suddenly too embarrassing to meet the latter’s gaze through the mirror in front of them. He didn’t get the chance, the other boy’s hand wrapped around his body to grasp his chin and lift it to stare at eachother in the mirror.
It was probably the first time Seongmo had looked at anyone since the day of the incident. He could tell he was probably a lousy sight to see given the grimace in the latter’s voice when he spoke again.
“Momo, look at me please,” he mumbled, voice shaking in the edge of something real, something too raw and real for Seongmo to acknowledge.
Yechan. Arms wrapped around him, thumb grazing the skin of his chin, legs bracketing Seongmo’s hips from behind him like the former was sitting in his lap. He was like a shield, bracing his broader body around Seongmo’s like a guard, a protector, all the things he had yearned to have throughout his isolation. All he wanted was someone to take the pain away for a moment, even if it meant it would come back ten fold later on.
The hand on his chin dropped to spread along the expanse of Seongmo’s chest, gripping the fabric of his hoodie where it hid his body in a desperate hug. Yechan only met his eye for a moment, pupils enlarged to let in as much light as possible in the dark bedroom. Seongmo would tell himself they were large out of love, whatever twisted lie he could conjure to try to heal from this feeling. Even with all the self hatred, he couldn’t resist the temptation to hold some place in his heart for the other boy. It was so easy to feel affection for someone who treated him so delicately, the only person.
Yechan buried his face into Seongmo’s shoulder blade, cheeks rubbing against the scratchy fabric with some kind of his own turmoil and frustration brewing beneath the surface.
“You can’t stay here forever,” he finally mustered, the words seeping hot breath into the bones of Seongmo’s back. It warmed him from the inside out.
“It would be best if I did,” Seongmo replied, voice small and hollow, vibrating in his core.
He could feel Yechan shake his head against his back, legs coming to close around Seongmo’s body a tiny bit tighter.
“I tried to give you space, I did, but I’m really worried,” Yechan confessed, the point of his long nose digging into the junction between Seongmo’s shoulder and neck. He wasn’t sure when the latter had pulled his hood back, but he felt the hair on his nape stir from where Yechan pressed his mouth to it gently. He was still timid, delicate, like Seongmo would shatter if handled wrong, like he would bruise like a peach if struck again.
Seongmo preened into the touch, the reflex engrained in his bones to lean into whatever contact would distract him from his thoughts. He’d mull over whether it was deserved or pitiful later, but the fact that he was receiving the affection in the first place without even having to ask was enough for now.
Yechan noticed, lips pulling into a smile against his skin. “You’re not alone, Mo.”
Seongmo sniffed, pressing the pads of his fingers into where gray sullen circles had formed beneath his eyes. Yechan started to maneuver him into turn around, body shuffling in the confinement till eventually he sat cross legged in between Yechan’s outstretched legs.
The other boy reached his hands up, cupping the lines of Seongmo’s sunken in cheeks with a soft sigh escaping his lips. “Look at you,” he said nearly silently, pinching the skin of his cheeks between thumb and forefinger. Usually there would’ve been more fat there, a pudginess to Seongmo’s baby-like cheeks. It had all been lost in the days leading up to this, the exhaustion, the loss of appetite, the fatigue. It had taken a toll on his roundness, on his likeness.
Yechan seemed to fret about it slightly, the pinches turning harsher till he eventually leaned his face in close to press a chaste kiss to a particularly hard pinch on the still bruised flesh. Seongmo didn’t even flinch, he could barely feel it. He was numb to physical pain, only brought to tears by the mental and emotional strains of it.
“I’m sorry to worry you,” Seongmo mustered, his own hands holding weakly onto Yechan’s elbows while he still held his face. It wasn’t to push him away, stop him, or reciprocate; but a touch to prevent Yechan from leaving him. Even with the self hatred, Seongmo could allow himself some greed. He really was sorry too, apologetic in the ways that he knew he shouldn’t be, but felt the need to say in order to keep Yechan close.
Yechan shook his head, thumb swiping over the edge of Seongmo’s bruise. His eyes never left the latter’s, glowing in the darkness with a hefty dose of warmth despite the frigidity Seongmo felt clamoring around his chest.
“You don’t need to apologize to me.”
Seongmo opened his mouth to say something more, and Yechan quickly realized with a quirked eyebrow that no matter what he said, Seongmo would have a self depreciating response customized to perfection in retaliation.
“I feel-“
Seongmo was cut off, eyes fluttering shut in the darkness of his bedroom. The plush of lips on his own startled him, but soon his fingers grabbed at Yechan’s sleeves for some semblance of grounding. Yechan’s mouth moved against his own with determination, to repress whatever statement was dying on Seongmo’s tongue, to drink up any lingering pain, to paint over it all with what Seongmo could only deduce as desolate affection.
Hot breath fanned over Seongmo’s cold skin, a brief exhale against his lips as Yechan moved his hands to grip at the collar of his hoodie instead. He met his lips again, the kiss incessant with energy, like a transfer of electrons from atom to atom, color resurfacing to Seongmo’s cheeks like a battery being recharged. It hurt, the corner of Seongmo’s mouth still scabbed over from where the skin had torn and bled from the punch, but it hurt good. It burned with the flavor of metal and longing and promise on his taste buds.
All the love Seongmo had yearned for, pined after in the brush of fingertips and playful wrestling and side hugs with Yechan, they had never kissed. Maybe he was saving this one, vaulting it under the depths of his soul for a time when he’d really need to use it, a time like this. Because Yechan, despite his demeanor and his heartiness and his stupid jokes and competitive nature, never acted out of selfishness or personal gain. He never touched or prodded for his own comfort. Seongmo felt he only clung to others for the gratification. The idea that Yechan had been saving a kiss for when Seongmo really needed it had the corners of his lips turning up mid action.
Yechan noticed, when it came to Seongmo, he always did. He pressed his palm flush to the nape of Seongmo’s neck, threading his fingers through the dark curls as he angled himself further into the kiss.
They stayed like that for a while, tentatively letting eachother explore more and more of the other, tips of tongue prodding each other’s lips open further, licking into their last breath.
When they separated, Yechan pressed his forehead against Seongmo’s with a heavy sigh. The burden of withholding worries seemed to exit his body with slumped shoulders, but some still lingered in his gaze where he stared up at the latter. Any other moment and Seongmo would’ve been ecstatic at the prospect of Yechan kissing him, but the only question plaguing his mind was ‘why?’
“You didn’t have to-“
“No I needed to, Mo,” Yechan interjected quickly, trying to halt the downward spiral of Seongmo’s brain chemistry any further. “I didn’t know how else to get you to listen, I care too much about you.”
Oh. Seongmo couldn’t hold eye contact any longer, hands retracting from where they had rested against Yechan’s forearms. It was too raw, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t adapted to yet, hadn’t come up with a way to deflect yet. It felt wrong, out of place, shameful.
“You dont realize how much I love you,” Yechan said suddenly, voice cutting through the adamant silence like a butcher knife. It sliced through the air with resounding volume, reverberating against each wall of the dark dorm room, echoing in the empty cavity of Seongmo’s chest with a beautiful and painful agony. “It kills me to see you aren’t loving yourself.”
“You love me?” Seongmo said, tone flat against the harmony of Yechan’s confession. He cursed himself for not believing it, for not enjoying the words how he wished he could. It didn’t feel right, didn’t feel authentic given what everyone else thought, what Seongil thought, what the fans thought, what Seongmo thought.
But Yechan sat there in front of him, mouth downturned in a frown and hair tousled probably from his usual midday naps, and he looked earnest. It was in his nature to tell the truth, he was the worst liar Seongmo knew. Would it kill him to try and believe he could be loved for even a moment?
“I do, Mo, in a way you’ll probably never understand, but we all do. Despite what you think, what’s written online, what Seongil did-“ he paused, tucking a brown curl behind Seongmo’s ear to see more of his face.
“-you have so many people who love you, Momo.”
They were just words. At face value, it was just words. They went in one ear and out the other, and even though it was nice to hear, Seongmo couldn’t bring himself to trust it. Every nerve ending in his brain screamed not to. The instinct was so foundational to Seongmo that he couldn’t just ignore it.
“You probably dont believe me,” Yechan said, murmuring between soft kisses to the bruised tissue of Seongmo’s cheek. Was he that easy to read?
Yechan reached around himself at that moment, fumbling with a stack of papers behind his hip on the floor. They were envelopes, about a dozen or so in all ranges of colors and sizes and thicknesses. In the dim light, Seongmo could still make out who they were addressed to, glitter gel ink and calligraphy pens and highlighter makers all forming the characters of his name; 남성모.
“Are these-“
“You thought we wouldn’t keep them? I asked the staff to keep a few dozen to take home, I knew we’d want to read some of them whenever we felt down on ourselves,” Yechan answered, pushing the stack of envelopes into Seongmo’s lap.
They were fan letters, each one uniquely designed and decorated with small stickers or doodles or a collage of colored construction paper. The only thing they all had in common was Seongmo’s name. During tour, he remembered wondering if the handcrafted letters from their fans would ever be read, if he’d ever get the luxury of holding one in his own hands and reading the intimate words of a stranger who loved him. Someone who had taken time and resources out of their life to articulate their affection for him. It seemed impossible once tour ended, Seongmo had assumed they all ended up in a bag somewhere back at the company, forgotten and unopened and never to be read. Seeing Yechan with that goofy smile on his face and the stack of brightly colored envelopes was as endearing as it was unbelievable.
The past week or so had rendered anything like this impossible to Seongmo. The feeling of being wanted or being loved had disappeared almost completely, but at the sight of the fan letters, it started to come back piece by piece.
Seongmo picked one up, a small white envelope with his name written in hot pink ink, sequined sparkles lining its border.
“Do you want to open it?” Yechan’s voice rang through his ears, abrupt but still comforting. Seongmo nodded briskly, the greed overtaking him again.
“Go ahead, Momo.”
Seongmo’s fingers pried the seal of the envelope open slowly, as if the letter would be tainted with too much force, as if he would corrupt it with his self hatred. Eventually, he slid the letter from its shell, the lined paper note folded neatly into four equal planes. Whoever had written it had taken good measures to ensure it was cared for, an act of love, an act of wanting.
Seongmo’s eyes wilted when he began to read it, the language not feeling congruent with his inner voice.
“It’s written in all English, Yechan, I dont know what it says,” he professed, voice wobbling towards the end as his lip began to quiver again. Yechan shushed him promptly, easing them into warbling silence as he offered to translate it for Seongmo’s ears only. He took the paper into his own hands, clearing his throat comically loud and smiling as his eyes skimmed each line.
With a clear voice he began,
“Dear 모모,
I know you dont know me, and we will only meet for a brief photo and hi-five, but you mean so much to me. Even though these moments are small, they’ll hold a special place in my memories for years to follow. I’m so excited to watch you flourish on stage and perform. It’s truly an honor.
We’re the same age, and despite that, I dont feel badly for myself. I expected to be jealous, to watch someone of your caliber be the same age as me and accomplish so much, I would’ve thought that I’d become bitter at my lack of achievements, but I find myself wanting to live through you. Through you I can perform, I can sing, dance, travel the world, and have a family by my side to do so. You are so lucky and I am lucky also, to get to exist in a timeline alongside you and grow with you despite how separated we are.
I know you don’t know me, but I know you. I know you love monkeys and the color pink, pork belly and trucker hats. I know you don’t have many hobbies, but you love your fans like a hobby. You can do no wrong in my eyes, and I hope you can realize one day how loved you are. If me telling you isn’t enough, I’ll remind you every chance I get.
Thank you for the memories, I hope I will get to see you in concert again.
With love,
82DE”
He didnt know when the tears had started to fall, only that the note below him had been stained with the pitter-patter of teardrops as Yechan read its contents over his shoulder. The sob came after, following the silent tears like thunder following a lightning strike. The cries bellowed in his chest, Seongmo’s body going slack against Yechan’s shoulder as the latter held him upright. He shushed him, pulling the sobs out tenderly as he smoothed his hands up and down Seongmo’s body to relieve him of the agony.
“Every letter here is written just like this, they all love you.”
The thought was obsolete yet somehow it still struck a chord within Seongmo’s heart strings. Every thrum of his heartbeat was telling him to lean into the feeling, lean into Yechan’s embrace some more, lean into the love that was given to him by this random fan.
“Want to read more?”
So they did. Yechan held Seongmo in his lap, envelopes and fan-letters scattered along the hardwood floors of his bedroom. Some were silly, some were heartfelt, and some had little drawings to go alongside the words. Each one felt like a puzzle piece being put back where it belonged in Seongmo’s heart. Puzzle pieces hand placed with care and love by none other than Yechan.
“Momo,” Yechan said, closing the envelope to the last letter. His crying had subsided but the pain in his chest remained. The love he felt was foreign, it would never completely feel right just like a new language would never fully be comfortable like a mother tongue. There were still people out there who would ridicule him, drag his name and identity through the mud whenever it was convenient for them, yet the letters, the words, the way Yechan’s breath ghosted over the apex of his neck, it all helped Seongmo ignore the bad sides.
He hummed in acknowledgment, selfishly wanting to stay in this positive limbo-like feeling for even a second longer.
“Do you understand now?”
Seongmo turned to face Yechan, the latter’s eyes downturned with some unique amalgamation of grief and compassion. The corner of his lip turned up. Seongmo failed to fight the urge to lean into the greed again, stooping forward to press a soft kiss to the edge of Yechan’s lips.
“Not fully,” he whispered, lips hovering over Yechan’s.
“You dont have to fully understand, just be willing to listen when people tell you they love you.”
Yechan cupped Seongmo’s thinned cheeks, squishing them upwards to add the illusion of how supple they once were. He would bounce back, he would round himself out again. Seongmo would get his color back eventually. It still hurt, the lack of clarity for what they were alongside the deep ache in his cheekbone, but it hurt good. It hurt good, not like it felt like Seongmo deserved it, but like it was the beginning of healing.
“One day you’ll hear it enough that you’ll start to believe it too,” he finished, pulling Seongmo’s head forward to rest in the crook of his neck once more.
There, under the moonlight of his bedroom, floor littered with the testaments of love from dozens of strangers, Seongmo realized just how love actually worked. It was unconditional, unregulated, and required no expectations. Love was given from whoever was around to give it, a fan, a family member, a band member, himself. Love was Seongmo’s enemy just as it was his driving force, in all forms. In its care, in its empathy, in its favor, in its pity, love was what Seongmo neglected to admit he desired because sometimes he couldn’t supply it on his own.
So he would lean into it, the otherwise selfish supply of love from whoever would give it to him while he learned, with Yechan’s broad shoulders to lean on as guidance, to love himself the way everyone around him did.