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Jay takes his clothes off.
Not that Sunghoon consciously wants him to, but occasionally, there will be a day from some modest version of hell. The utter embarrassment that comes with it. The riling twisting heavy parasite of himself in his body. His own body. What body; ridiculous, manufactured, unfit thing. He'd come home and hadn't even bothered passing out on the sofa, he thinks. He has a vague memory of crouching down on the floor by the entrance and closing his eyes. Then nothing. Now, this.
Technically, everyone's calling it a slump. Either the edge of a potential hiatus or a blackhole, with the illusion of choice up to him. Which one will it be? Because Sunghoon's slow motion public crash and burn was simply decideable, flip-a-coin-ed, heads or tails. Because of course he has real power over it all. Nobody's seeing - nobody wants to see - nobody is accepting the truth.
No, they'd rather chart a course for success they feel they're owed. A hiatus is not definitively retirement; it could mean a comeback. Everything in him revolts at the thought, and then he just wants to cry. He doesn't, and can't, so that just worsens. A slump means factory reset. Upgrade. Anything better than this. Do anything to be better than this, and it'll work out. Ultimately, a slump spells out faith.
Jay is knelt down at his side now, Sunghoon's right foot dead weight in his smooth palms, his rough fingers. A discarded sock lies on the floor. Sunghoon looks at him, and fists the sheets. The only one worth having any real faith in: Park Jongseong. A twang, more clamorous pain somewhere abstract but still, somehow, very real in his body. He's rendered furious for a second. Jongseong. The second passes.
"Jongseong," he lets out slowly, carefully. Always important, to be saying his particular, precious name.
Jay looks up. Of course he's bright eyed as ever. As if this is fine. Jay's touch warms, heat crackling almost uncomfortably along Sunghoon's skin. Sunghoon can feel his veins come alive singing, convinces himself he senses the very bone in his ankle remold itself to try and fit better into Jay's hold. Sunghoon hazily tracks movement across Jay's face, how he slowly shifts his lips before opening his mouth. How it purses, and then parts, and the edges of his teeth shine: "What."
Nothing. Sunghoon has nothing to offer. Jay is taking off his fucking clothes for him. "Jay," he tries. "Jay-yah."
Jay rolls his eyes and focuses back, this time on Sunghoon's other foot.
There's a lump in Sunghoon's throat. Ever since he met Jay, there always has been. Smaller and kinder in their starting days, snowballing as time slipped on. Some sort of tumorous growth that swelled and receded and traveled around in his body, usually stuck in his larynx, or his lungs, or, when it got really unbearable, his left fucking atrium.
As the years went on, he'd feel it pulse and radiate. Sometimes it just coasted around his stomach, a slow-stoked fire. It was round and heavy and certain, then, messing with his center of gravity, a solemn stone. When Jay shifted to doubles, transferred coaches and continents, their time together starting to fade, it thinned out painfully, a single tissue spread taut out over his entire body and on the verge of tearing. When Jay quit - the year after Sunghoon had only mentioned wanting to do so in passing, during one of their tucked away room service lunches after months apart - outright refusing to provide a reason not only in the face of the press but in front of Sunghoon as well, it cut through him like so many needles.
Always, it hurt and hurt and called for Jay, right from their very beginning. A constant call that Sunghoon could never really voice even if he tried. Not that he wanted to try. There wouldn't be a point, because Jay would never really -
Jay is a good person. That's a pretty obvious line in the sand. Not a line anyone had drawn, just one that's been there since the beginning of time. Jay, good person, on that side of the line, and Sunghoon, heap of organs, on this other side.
Jay doesn't look at him again, just gets up with his hands on his hips. In the mirror on the wall, Sunghoon catches Jay's shoulder blades rising against the cotton of his t-shirt, the fabric draped over the dip in his back as he stands. Sunghoon wonders, not for the first time, if Jay also has a stone, a growth, somewhere as well. Maybe it fit right there, nestled between his scapulas. Sunghoon thinks about mashing his face in that bony valley. It would be warm, like the rest of Jay. He could hide.
"Jay," Sunghoon says again, and this time his voice is too nasal.
"Just lie back, man." A trembling towards the end in Jay's words as well. Great, now there's two of them like this. Sunghoon would obey him, but his body still feels stiff and rooted in place. Jay clears his throat. "You're lucky today. Soup menu."
"Menu," Sunghoon repeats stupidly, nodding at his feet.
"All soup menu," Jay intones. "Cold soups hot soups. Miso soup seaweed soup. Noodles in soup, glass noodles, Hakka noodles, regular noodles. Take your pick. Reasonable prices. You won't regret, guaranteed customer sat— "
Sunghoon looks up at him. "So you didn't actually make any soup."
"It's whatever. Figured we're in soup weather. Tell me what you want," Jay shrugs. Sunghoon sees the action twice at once - in front of him, and in the mirror.
Sunghoon worries his lower lip, looks out the window. Sure is soup weather. There's the October sky standing dully in their faces, a blank sheet of nothing, and then some clouds in the middle like daubed ink. Smog dogearing the edges of the horizon. It had been frigid when he was out, enough to want to die from the ringing hollowness in his ribs, and nausea from practise. As usual.
"Whatever soup you want," Sunghoon says. "It's always good." He catches sight of a pigeon swooping past before he chances a sideways glance at Jay again.
Jay is raising his eyebrows, pleased. Mouth firm, twisted to the side: proud, barely pretending he isn't.
"Just don't take three hours again," Sunghoon tacks on, to be safe, and sure enough gets hit on the head in passing as Jay leaves the room. "That's right," he calls after him. "Concuss me!" It's a joke, of course, just whatever. No thought to it.
But Jay stalks back into the doorway, and frowns. A real glare. Sunghoon blinks. Jay leaves the room again.
Living like this, Sunghoon half-thinks, then doesn't really complete the thought. (Well, is it really living?)
He knows he had a reason, when Jay mentioned wanting to go for doubles, to not follow Jay there. He probably had multiple reasons. His parents were always good at coming up with those.
Why would you do this? Sunghoon's sure he wanted to ask. We'd be apart. Or did he really want to ask that, then? Is he confusing his memories for what came after? The collossal ache of missing that felt like a landslide.
Sunghoon's father used to make him and Yeji watch documentaries. He'd record the natural history specials, find DVDs with the subtitles in Hangul. When the younger couple moved in next door, his father got schooled in torrenting, and from then on ensured they were never out of family friendly Friday night options.
Sunghoon remembers one of the narrators. His heavy voice and slow, measured cadence, speaking over footage of a baby baboon stuck between rocks. Yeji had cried herself to sleep that night, so Sunghoon had raced her around the playground extra hard the next day. He knew she got in her head about these things more than he did.
When their father tried putting a monkey plushie in the trolley, Sunghoon left it in until the last minute, then hid it in one of the bakery aisles before they got in line for the cashier. Their parents had promised her a new toy with the grocery run and come back empty handed. They apologized to Yeji when they got home and realized.
Sunghoon made certain to swing her extra high for two weeks after. He remembers her shocked, screaming laughs, her trust in him unwavering. Sometimes it seemed everything narrowed down to these moments, that he stretched out like rubber bands as far as they could go so he'd be able to stay with them longer.
Yeji had been a balm to everything going on that month, that year. To his whole life, it felt then, because they were so young, and there was so little to their lives, and so it was all they knew.
Sunghoon remembers watching the river of earth on screen. A shock, a wound, bursting out of the mountain and trailing down, soil loose like blood. The other animals had sensed the landslide beforehand, and fled. The ones who didn't paid for their ignorance.
Sunghoon must not have sensed the signs. Because Jay was honest to a fault, steady as the earth, so there must have been signs. There were signs, weren't there? And yet when he went over it and over it, Sunghoon could never figure anything out.
In the car on the way back, he aims to look towards the river. He catches his reflection, disinterested, in the rearview. He wonders if this is what Jay sees.
At home, in the bathroom, the mirror is still fogged up almost completely from Jay's recent shower. Jay has taken to ignoring his own bathroom in favor of Sunghoon's. Something about the water pressure. Sunghoon wouldn't know, because he sticks to using his own and accepts what he's dealt, like a normal person. Besides, there is that line Sunghoon is painfully aware of, the one he does his best not to cross.
Jay stands in his bathrobe, next to Sunghoon in his sweatpants. They are brushing their teeth together, a routine by now. Sunghoon does not question this. He hadn't found an opportune time to make some lighthearted jab, and then all of a sudden the window was over and it might veer on hurtful instead if he did say anything. So he didn't - doesn't, content with things as they are.
But content isn't the word, not exactly. Sunghoon is greedy, too. And he wishes he wouldn't, but he does, he zeroes in on a single thought: maybe he's earned some right to this feeling. After all their years - when it comes to Jongseong, if not Sunghoon, who else? Who on earth else?
Jay draws him back to their current, clumsy perimeter of domesticity. He lifts his sharp elbow higher, almost touching Sunghoon's arm. That creature turns to stone again, heavy in his stomach.
Greedy and hungry both. Sunghoon can't help it.
The fog in the mirror only lets up a curve along Jay's cheek. Slowly, a sliver of Jay's neck emerges as well. He's all pink, in the reflection. He must be in real life, too, but Sunghoon does not dare look straight at him. Instead, he takes a step back and to the side. The bristles push down on his gums. Jay is in front of him, now. The mirror shows one single blob, split blurrily down the middle in the different colors of their clothes, their bodies. The line between them, Sunghoon thinks, a bit crazed, melting into itself.
Jay leans down to spit. Sunghoon eyes it swirling down the drain; Jay's knuckles on the tap; Jay leaving the bathroom.
Sunghoon brushes his teeth alone in the bathroom he shares with Jay in the apartment he has been renting with Jay for just over a year. He has a headache. His performance will never improve. He will never catch the signs. He has to figure out how he will survive it when Jay chooses something else over him again.
Sunghoon has a secret. It's not really his, or a secret, but it shimmers inside him to think of just the same: Jay's face is filling out. Finally. That insane jaw of his softens by a slight fraction. His wrists begin to pad.
Sometimes, Sunghoon wakes earlier than usual. It'll be just past midnight. He'll hear something going on in the kitchen, and quietly walk over. There will stand Jjongssaeng. Dressed to the nines in that ridiculous apron, knives flashing, sleeves rolled back to bare his arms, all of him a little shiny with sweat. The very sight of him fills Sunghoon up.
On Tuesday, Sunghoon gets up at the ass crack of dawn as schedule dictates. Jay is vertical and functioning already, fixing some sort of Thai-inspired breakfast. Sunghoon's mouth waters, before he looks up. Jay is looking back at him. No, Jay was looking at him first.
What kind of face do you even have, Sunghoon thinks to himself. What are you even saying. Not that Jay is saying anything at all. They're both pretty silent, until Sunghoon opens his mouth. "It's good to see you." And it's true, of course it is. He can't even take it back. He wants to, but he doesn't, not actually.
He makes to leave before he can try to parse what else Jay is saying with his face. That expressive forehead.
"Wait," Jay calls, right when he's at the door. Sunghoon turns around, and Jay's pointing to a little green serving saver next to the keys on the sidetable. "Take it."
Sunghoon stares at the box. It's innocuous. Jay isn't stupid; it'll be healthy. It won't be something that'll upset his diet. Even if it is, Sunghoon's old enough to know how to balance a single meal without the coach needing to know and chew him on it. Sunghoon wants to reach out and take it. Jay had said to.
"I can't," is what he says instead, and his voice cracks.
"Okay," Jay says. "Take it."
Sunghoon takes it. Neither of them say goodbye.
Sunghoon doesn't open the box. He can't bring himself to.
He traces the contours of the lid, the curved plastic outlining the slide-and-lock mechanism along the sides. Raps his knuckles against the box, affectionate. Jay had spent time on this, cooked for Sunghoon, called him over to have it. A distant, answering rumble in Sunghoon's stomach at the thought. It curdles inside him to refuse what Jay wants, and it feels good to punish himself, to push everything down. To be in control, packing the box away.
He ends up skipping his meal altogether, not reaching out for the protein bar he knows he always has on hand in the side pocket of his duffel. There's no point, he reasons, though he'll admit there's not much reason involved; it's just that, if he can't have what Jay wants him to have, he'd rather go with nothing at all. Anyway he's done it before. Anyway it's just for today.
Jay's watching TV when he gets home.
"I can't," Sunghoon says, first thing. So much for control. The entire ride home he'd been fighting some mounting, faceless surge of fear. He drops the bag on the other couch and shoves the box towards Jay with hands he's trying hard to stop from shaking. "Jay, I can't."
Jay barely looks surprised. In fact, he barely looks anything, because he's freezing Sunghoon out. That slows Sunghoon's heartrate. He can feel disappointment clogging his throat. He tries to make an excuse for the feeling. It's the weather. It's always the weather. It's the weather, and he's alone, and Jongseong always insists on being so fucking far away. Something right on the surface of Sunghoon is tearing. It's getting to his teeth.
"Listen," Sunghoon forces out. "You eat it."
Jay doesn't blink.
An exhale claws its way over Sunghoon's tongue. "I'll watch you."
"You'll watch me?" Jay raises an eyebrow.
Sunghoon goes mute for a second, everything a low buzz. Then his brain reboots with a trace of bitterness. He hates that it's there. There's no logic to it being there. He picks his bag back up. "Well, I guess not."
Somehow, that breaks whatever Jay had been trying to put on. He blanches. "Sunghoon. No, sit. Oh my God. I'll eat."
Sunghoon is sitting at the kitchen counter.
Jay keeps standing, opposite him. He brings out his chopsticks. Struggles a bit with the lid of the box, then gets it to open. Takes a bite. Chews slowly. He looks around, awkwardness everywhere about him.
Sunghoon doesn't care. He watches.
Jay's cheeks bulge a little, and he looks cute. Jay is so carefully trying not to think about anything, Sunghoon can see it all over his face. When Jay swallows, Sunghoon swears he feels it settle in his own stomach. It shimmers.
Jay had just turned up. Again and again. Their first day at the rink together as kids. At Sunghoon's hotel room, the first year they'd been apart at competitions. At Sunghoon's door, tightlipped, clear eyes dulled and downcast, not even saying anything. Just waiting.
Sunghoon thought that last detail in particular was rich - ha! - coming from Jay. Did Jay even know Sunghoon? Not that Jay even really knew Jay. There hadn't been any need to wait, there would never be. Sunghoon had opened the door fully and stepped behind it in welcome, right from the start. He'd wanted him in right at the start.
11 years old to Sunghoon's almost done-with-10, Park Jongseong had said, "You look like —" and then stopped and handed him half a brownie behind their coach's back. It was the first time Sunghoon broke a rule at the rink like that. Sunghoon had been waiting for a friend.
Sunghoon had never not waited. What did Jay think he was doing, presuming such offputting politeness?
"It's just me," Sunghoon had said, no hi or hello. None really needed. And Jay had let out a weird laugh that almost sounded angry. Then he'd barged past. Sunghoon knew better: Jay had been about to cry.
Jay was miserable. Jay wouldn't have come if he wasn't completely miserable. Greedy, hungry, and selfish, too - this was another moment Sunghoon strung around his fingers and pulled taut like a habit. Jay so close Sunghoon could almost feel him, so close Sunghoon felt the small whoosh of his movement, so close Sunghoon heard Jay's shaky inhale, smelt the mint on his breath, caught his eyes glassy in profile, about to brim. He kept going back because he wanted it all to mean something. He wanted to believe they'd each made choices, right then, and that it had been for the better.
Jay had been wearing the blue shirt Sunghoon is holding in his hands right now. It looks well-worn. 'Preloved,' Jay will type in the item description when he eventually posts it on the secondhand market website he calls his best friend. Yes, Sunghoon can tell it is loved. Ironed so meticulously the crease is permanent even when buried days in Jay's laundry hamper. Sunghoon considers the cuffs, how they hold Jay's wrists when he wears them. The seam up the side pressing close to Jongseong's ribs. Collar nestled to his neck.
Add jealous, too.
Sunghoon rolls up the shirt over his hand, aiming and succeeding for a sharp throw into his own hamper. Jay's pre-loved, Sunghoon's present tense.
"When will you stop?" Jay asks. It's so dark out. Well, it's dark in here, too. "I mean, really."
Sunghoon's head is heavy. Still, he drags it through the air to look at Jay. Jay is warm in the lamplight. Jay has always looked warm like this, in his different ways. On Sunghoon's different days - no, on all Sunghoon's days. That's what makes it all difficult. Why Sunghoon has to think and overthink. Why this is worth it. Greedy, hungry, selfish, jealous - headcase. "I know," Sunghoon says. Thinks he says.
It's just that, even when there's nothing, he gets to go home, to Jay.
"Jongseong," Sunghoon insists. Has nothing else he can trust himself to say right. As usual, nothing to offer. It's dark out, and in, and there really isn't any hope left. Sunghoon will place twelfth, and that's if he's lucky. It's over. It has been for a while now. But something's tearing through him, trying to grow towards Jongseong. Something that by all means shouldn't have any hope. Something trying anyway. As if it could change. His legs ache. His knees are getting worse. He wonders if Jay's feel the same. If there is anything at all they share anymore, beyond the rent and the space and their… perimeter. Their approximation, with its off days.
"Jongseong," Sunghoon says again, and this time hates how he sounds saying it so immediately that he stands up before he can think better. He gets dizzy.
It must be obvious, because Jay's arms jerk in place, fists clenched on his knees. Today is an off day.
"It's okay," Sunghoon says. "I'm fine." He makes sure he doesn't limp to his room. Then he closes the door.
Sunghoon wakes up on the couch. His feet are cold. Jay must have taken off his socks again. Jay is sitting next to him, on his laptop. "Look at this," he's saying, under his breath. He's probably talking to himself; Sunghoon doesn't think Jay knows he's awake. Sunghoon lifts his head a little, and looks.
On Jay's screen is a wide open river, frozen over. It's an empty expanse, the picture taken when nobody was around. The winter of the photograph is so crisp it almost rings out, like a promise.
"You never got to teaching me," Sunghoon says. Jay blinks owlishly down at him. He looks so sweet and unguarded. A gentle and favorite Jay. Sunghoon wants to keep this one, too. "You said we'd get to do doubles on our own time." He's pushing for too much, too obviously. What had happened to the line between them Sunghoon was so careful to keep? What had happened to tremulous contentment? But he has one more thing to say, just one more. "And you'd lead."
Jay chews his lower lip.
It burns and aches in Sunghoon's body, his head. It carves him out, always has him drinking more than his fill - the stone, the fire, that hungry greedy selfish thing, more alive inside his body than anything else. This heap of organs seeping into the ground, trying to melt into the line and remove it. Jay is looking at him, and suddenly Sunghoon gets it. He understands why he's always on the verge of tearing through, now: Jay is looking at him. He gets the needles and how they prick with jealousy, how they try to grow out of him and only turn towards Jongseong.
They're branches, Sunghoon thinks, dimly. This bare harsh tree in autumn bursting out of him, puncturing his skin blue where it exits his hopeless body, shaking loose and growing despite the biting cold that has been everything in the whole world except for Jay always.
And then it is silent.
Jay is looking at him. Sunghoon doesn't break his gaze, has never wanted to.
Jay reaches out a hand, tentative, to rest over Sunghoon's hair. His touch is warm, like Sunghoon knew it would be. Jay is always warm. "Sunghoon-ah," he says, quiet and firm. "I will."