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The silence of the practice room wasn’t something Heeseung thought he could ever get used to.
Rehearsals with backup dancers helped ease the ache. But on nights like these, when the choreographer had already gone home and he was alone with nothing but the speaker and six years’ worth of memories, Heeseung struggled. Everything felt more acute. The music would cut out, and his ears would ring in the silence.
And so he kept pushing himself. Kept the track running and kept himself in motion until he physically couldn’t anymore, sweating and shaking and on the brink of physical and emotional collapse. Not ideal, but infinitely better than giving himself even a moment to think about what was missing. What he’d lost.
Heeseung knelt to the ground as soon as the music stopped, trying hard to catch his breath. The sheer exertion of the choreography had his head in a sickening spin. The scuffs on the practice room floor warped in his vision, and he distantly worried that he would be sick.
When he finally felt like he could move without immediately keeling over, he forced himself unsteadily to the back of the room to find his bag. He paused for only a moment when he found it resting alone against the wall. The image was disconcerting, and the wrong feeling in his gut only intensified.
He picked up his water bottle with a trembling hand and realized instantly that it felt too light.
Empty.
Heeseung stared down at the bottle for a long moment, turning it over in his hands. Mentally cataloguing each of the dents and scratches etched into the metal. Remembering; always remembering.
Whenever they’d run out of water during practice, Ni-ki had always been the first to volunteer to get them more. He’d always played it off casually, but even still, Heeseung could practically feel the swell of satisfaction radiating off of him at the praise he would undoubtedly receive from the rest of them. Ni-ki was more attentive than he would ever let on, and always so eager to please.
The silence of the room crashed over him all at once, and his vision blurred until he could barely make out the features of the bottle and his own fingers. He let it fall to the floor as he pressed both palms hard to his eyes, sucking in a shuddering breath. He’d lost count of just how many times he had cried in the past month and a half. It took all he had to keep quiet. Still, it wasn’t enough.
Not that it mattered, really—it was well past midnight and most of the staff had already gone home for the night. The quiet of the building matched that of the practice room, and of his new one-bedroom apartment miles away from his home.
Heeseung had realized early on that these weren’t the kind of feelings he could just suppress. That they would always find a way to resurface at the most inconvenient and humiliating times. Some things were too big to tamp down; easier to just let it out when he felt he was close to coming apart at the seams.
Often he wondered if he would feel this way forever.
He dropped to the floor, crossing his legs beneath himself and curling inward like it could somehow keep him together. Salty tears dripped steadily from his cheeks onto the front of his sweatshirt. He was too worked up, aching in a way that distraction couldn’t ever fix; that he had learned from experience.
But he still needed water.
He eventually hefted himself unsteadily to his feet, huffing at the way his exhausted muscles protested. The closest water fountain was at the opposite end of the hall, and even that felt too far. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would manage to drag himself all the way home.
His bottle wasn’t even half-full yet when a voice startled him out of his stupor. Still, it made a mess when it clattered to the floor.
“Heeseung?”
Heeseung turned quickly on his heel, praying that the redness of his eyes and splotchiness of his cheeks wasn’t easily discernible from a distance.
Sunoo stood only fifteen feet in front of him. For a moment, Heeseung worried his chest might cave in.
“Sunoo,” he breathed, his heart suddenly pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. Here was someone he had lived with, trained with, suffered with, nearly every day for six years.
And yet.
“What are you still doing here?” Sunoo questioned, taking a half-step in Heeseung’s direction. Heeseung fought the urge to flee; to turn away and hide his face in shame. Sunoo had always been too perceptive for his own good.
“It’s—um. I’m just having a hard time with this new choreography. Why are you here, though?”
Sunoo observed him for a long moment, ignoring the question entirely. Something new came over his face then—something distinctly sad. Heeseung had come to know the look of pity well.
“You’ve been crying,” Sunoo said softly.
“I’m good,” Heeseung insisted. “It’s nothing. I’m just—you know.”
Sunoo’s face softened.
“Yeah, I know.”
Heeseung felt his throat constrict with something that tasted like grief.
“I really have to go. I’m sorry,” he rasped, ducking to pick his water bottle up off of the floor and rushing past Sunoo before he could get another look at his face. He knew exactly what he would find there; what it would make him feel. What it would make him want to say.
He realized too late that the bottle was still empty.
-
Heeseung sat on the hardwood floor of the kitchen in his new apartment, back pressed to the cabinets and knees pulled up to his chest. A half-empty beer can sat on the floor to his right, water droplets gathering where he’d traced patterns in the condensation. Another can sat empty at the top of his recycling bin. He probably should have felt ashamed.
Except his phone sat to his left, a track he’d written entirely on his own drifting quietly from the speaker. It was a beautiful song, he thought. One he’d written years earlier, well before he’d had the rug pulled out from under him by a faceless company executive. He’d put something of his soul into it just as he had with all of his music.
He couldn’t help but hate it now.
Still, he didn’t turn it off. Each time the track drew to a close he would rewind it to the beginning, over and over again for an indiscernible amount of time that must have been at least an hour.
Jake had really liked this song the first time Heeseung had played it for him a while back. He wondered what Jake would have thought if he’d known that Heeseung would have to be removed from the group to ever have a chance at releasing it.
He sighed shakily, taking another bitter swig.
And then, a knock sounded at his door.
Heeseung jolted, nearly dropping the can. His stomach knotted with anxiety. Who would’ve been at his door at nearly two in the morning? His managers all had the code to his apartment; there was no reason they would need to knock. He suddenly thought back on the time that “fans” had broken into their dorms in the middle of the night. His entire body went ice-cold with fear.
The knock sounded again a minute later. Heeseung kept quiet, holding perfectly still despite how badly he wanted to dart to his bedroom and slam the door shut as a last line of defense.
And then, his phone vibrated. He turned it over carefully, anticipating the worst.
From: Forever Leader
1:54 A.M.
Can you let me in? I know you haven’t been sleeping.
Heeseung stared blankly down at the screen, simultaneously relieved and filled with nauseating trepidation.
Jungwon was there. Waiting in the early-spring cold just outside of his apartment in the middle of the night even though Heeseung knew the group undoubtedly had a packed schedule.
Jungwon was there.
Heeseung took a deep breath in, bracing himself. He briefly considered concealing the beer can if only to hide his shame. But Jungwon had seen him at his very worst time and time again over the last six years, and there was no hiding from him. Heeseung knew better.
To: Forever Leader
1:54 A.M.
The door code is 112825
A moment later, he heard the keypad give a low beep from the hallway. He swallowed hard around the lump forming in his throat.
And then Jungwon was standing in the kitchen doorway. Heeseung couldn’t quite make out the features of his face in the poor lighting, but he could have identified his silhouette from a mile away. He’d spent the entirety of his adult life with Jungwon who had been the steadying force ever-present at Heeseung’s side; his safe place to land.
Until March. Until it had happened to him; to all of them.
“Jungwon,” he rasped.
Jungwon didn’t say anything. He stepped past the threshold, reaching to switch on the lights. Heeseung had to press his eyes shut for a moment before he could adjust.
And then Jungwon was in front of him, kneeling to Heeseung’s eye level. The blatant fatigue etched into his features made Heeseung’s stomach ache with guilt.
“Sunoo said he thought you were hurting,” he started.
Heeseung flinched.
“Ah—something like that.”
Jungwon eyed the can on the floor, somehow managing to keep his face even.
“Have you been drinking a lot?”
Heeseung shook his head quickly.
“Maybe a little more than I used to, but not—not often. I swear.” It was the truth.
Jungwon nodded slowly. “I believe you.”
Heeseung drew his knees in closer to his chest. He hated how uneasy things felt now—how Jungwon’s gaze made him feel as though he was being dissected even though Heeseung knew better. How great the distance felt even when Jungwon was only an arm’s length away.
“It’s late,” Heeseung murmured. “And I know you’re busy. What are you doing here?”
Something changed in Jungwon’s expression. He gazed back at Heeseung with something that looked like guilt. Something that looked like regret.
I’m still here, Heeseung wanted to cry. Please, I’m still right here. It’s not your fault.
“I’m here because I’m worried about you,” Jungwon said quietly. “I’m here because I love you. We all do, Heeseung. We know this isn’t what you wanted, and it’s not fair that you have to figure it all out alone while we still have each other to lean on. I’m here because you’ll always be a part of us, of me, and I need to know that you’re okay. Why wouldn’t I be here?”
Heeseung’s face crumpled instantly. He dropped his head to rest against his knees, his shoulders shaking. Tears pattered onto the fabric of his sweatpants. He couldn’t bring himself to care that Jungwon was seeing him come apart. If someone had to bear witness to his heartache, he didn’t mind that it was his leader.
“I wish you hadn’t come,” he sobbed. He heard Jungwon inhale sharply.
“What—”
“I wish you hadn’t come, because it means I have to watch you leave.” Heeseung was having a hard time catching his breath; the loneliness he’d been trying so hard to tamp down bloomed sharp in his chest until he felt like he couldn’t get any air in. “Because now I remember how it feels to not be alone, but it won’t last. I’m not part of the group anymore. This is all I have now.”
Jungwon cursed under his breath.
“Heeseung.”
Heeseung’s head jerked up, startled by the anguish in Jungwon’s voice. Before he understood what was happening, there was a firm hand clutching his upper arm, tugging him forward with such force that he nearly toppled over himself.
The hold Jungwon pulled him into was nearly crushing. His arms wrapped tight around Heeseung’s shoulders, one hand pressed tenderly along the back of his neck. Heeseung felt himself go lax, the tension he’d been carrying for weeks draining from him all at once. He let Jungwon support his weight. Physically, yes, but something beyond it too. Though he'd never liked to rely too heavily on Jungwon knowing just how much he had on his plate, Heeseung couldn’t help but let himself be selfish just this once.
Jungwon would be gone by morning, and Heeseung didn’t know how long he’d be able to hold out on his own again.
He cried like he wasn’t ashamed. Like he hadn’t spent the past month carefully constructing a brave face for the company and the fans. He clutched on to the back of Jungwon’s hoodie feeling as though he would shake apart the moment Jungwon let him go.
“I’m sorry,” Jungwon breathed. His fingers massaged delicately through the strands of blonde hair at the back of Heeseung’s head. “I’m so sorry, Heeseung. I don’t think I can fix this.”
It was never yours to fix, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t manage it between gasping breaths.
By the time Heeseung was able to quiet himself, his temples were throbbing with pressure. His vision was blurry, and he was fairly certain that his eyes were swollen and raw in a way that should have embarrassed him.
“Jungwon,” he croaked.
“Hm?”
“This was never what I wanted,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I need to know that you know that.”
Jungwon pulled back suddenly, steadying Heeseung by his shoulders when he nearly tipped forward.
“I know,” he said firmly. “Of course I know. You never have to worry about that.”
“And the others?”
“Heeseung, we were there too,” Jungwon reminded him gently. “We know that it wasn’t your choice.”
Heeseung just nodded, pressing his tired eyes shut. His throat had gone tight with all the emotion he could never put into words.
“What do we do now?”
Jungwon sat back on his heels, looking thoughtful for a moment before he spoke.
“I can stay,” he said. “Or, actually—why don’t you come back home with me? Just for tonight.”
“I can’t. It’s not my home anymore.”
“It is,” Jungwon said patiently. “You always have a home with us, and you know that. I don’t want you to be alone right now.”
“The company would kill me,” Heeseung keened, hands balling into fists in the fabric of his pants.
“Fuck the company.”
Heeseung nearly jolted at his candor. Jungwon wasn’t usually one to curse.
“I would have to get back before my schedule tomorrow morning. They couldn’t find out or they—wait. How did you even get here?”
“I walked,” Jungwon said simply.
Heeseung blanched. “You walked? At this hour?”
“From the company building,” he clarified.
“That’s still, like, four kilometers, Jungwon.”
“Doesn’t matter. Come home for the night. We can set an early alarm and have you back before your managers even know you were gone. What do you say?”
Jungwon hadn’t actually needed to ask, and they both knew that. Heeseung was weak for them and always would be regardless of how much time had passed. And he wanted so, so badly to not be alone anymore, even if it was only for one night. He’d spent nearly every waking moment of the past six years with them, and suddenly being on his own wasn’t something he could adjust to. Wasn’t something he wanted to adjust to.
Heeseung swiped his sleeve roughly over his face, trying to wipe away the gritty feeling of half-dried tears. He took a deep breath in to steady himself, but it still came out shaking. Jungwon didn’t rush him; just watched patiently as Heeseung tried to pull himself together enough to get up off of the floor.
“We’ll have to walk,” Heeseung finally murmured. “I’ve had too much to drink. I can’t drive us.”
Jungwon smiled warmly back at him, and Heeseung felt something in his chest settle. The ache receded for the first time since March. Only a little, but it was enough.
“That’s okay,” Jungwon said softly. “We’re not in any hurry.”