[school 2013] you are the same
Title: you are the same
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~4500
Spoilers: Through episode 13.
Warning: If you've seen the drama, you should know what to expect. But to be safe, explicit references to physical/emotional child abuse, bullying, and not-so-subtle references to sex.
Summary: There are middles of beginnings and endings to middles. And sometimes, if you're lucky, a beginning after the end.
Namsoon has never, ever been lucky. (Heungsoo/Namsoon )
you are the same
✫ ✫ ✫
the end of the end
They're standing in the hallway with hands in their pockets and steel in their eyes and Namsoon knows what Heungsoo must be thinking: if Namsoon was allowed to stop fighting, to go to school and wear his uniform and lie low and never discuss his history as the jjang of the most feared gang in Kyeonggido, if he's allowed to be a class president and flirt distractedly with girls, all without losing the most important thing in his life, why wasn't Heungsoo allowed to do the same? Why did it all come down to that one moment of Namsoon's foot against Heungsoo's knee, tendons erupting under his sneaker, Heungsoo grabbing at Namsoon's foot, gasping, Namsoon, stop? How was that the logical end of three years of brotherhood?
I didn't, Namsoon can't say. I lost the most important thing in my life even before I left. so when I left, there was nothing to lose. I lost you, you bastard. And even that was my fucking fault.
Heungsoo smiles, but it's not the same smile it had been three years previously. It's a brittle thing, worn away by time and agony. It's a smile that says, you blew it and I forgive you all at once, and it's a smile that reminds Namsoon that no matter what, he will never, ever be able to forgive himself. It's a smile that's cautious and tired. It's a smile that still hurts.
Heungsoo reaches out a hand. "You'll do my transcriptions," he says lightly, "you owe me that much."
Namsoon owes him much, much more than that. He bites back a sob. "Yes," he says, swallowing the hyung, "yes, of course."
the middle of the beginning
Namsoon owns three good pens, five notebooks (all of which are battered and filled entirely of things he'd learned in the first few years of elementary school when he hadn't known there were better things to do during class than take notes), and one keychain with two keys. One of those keys opens a box he keeps under his bed, a steel-jawed safe hiding his life's savings. The other is one Heungsoo had pressed into his hands when he'd gotten to school one morning and slipped onto the roof for a breath of fresh air and seen Namsoon sleeping behind a pole, head propped up by his ragged knapsack, sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing knobbly elbows and pale, bruised skin.
"This is the key to my house," Heungsoo had said, voice stripped of judgment, "we always have extra food."
At ten Namsoon had not known enough about shame to reject the offer. "Thank you," he'd whispered over the growl of his stomach.
Namsoon owns ten things that matter, ten things he carries around with him every day wherever he goes and now they're all on the floor and some shitty ahjusshi is accusing him of stealing. It's not a foreign accusation, and it's not entirely unjustified, but for once it isn't true. For once he'd broken the storefront glass entirely by accident. and so he'd stuck around and tried to clean it up and when he'd been caught he'd been blamed and the cops had been called and Namsoon had remembered why you never do good things for people: because people will always, always hurt you.
Heungsoo plops down seven crumpled bills, and they're familiar ones. They're all of the savings Heungsoo keeps in his desk-drawer. They're the entirety of the fund Heungsoo's been cultivating to buy new spikes. They're the tips from his job loading boxes onto flatbed trucks and the entirety of his summer's wages washing dishes in a seedy family restaurant on the wrong side of town. Namsoon feels nauseated.
"You shouldn't have compensated him. I didn't steal anything. And how are you my hyung?"
"I clean up your messes, paid the price of the glass for you, and I'm older than you. Isn't that what a hyung is?"
Namsoon feels his world spin. No, Namsoon thinks, that's what-- only he can’t finish that sentence, not even in his mind, because the words are terrifying and strange and most certainly forbidden. His stomach tenses, and it doesn't matter that he hasn't eaten since dinner the evening previously, feet brushing up against Heungsoo's socks under Heungsoo's dinner table. Namsoon still feels like throwing up. He still feels like his chest is too tight and his ears are too hot. He still feels like--
"Go on and humbly thank me. Like, "thank you, hyungnim.'"
Namsoon chokes back a smile because this is something he can do. Chaos and forced levity have always been his speciality. "Thank you," he says, "hyungnim."
Heungsoo laughs and ruffles Namsoon's hair and Namsoon's gut lurches again. "That's right, aouyah."
And Namsoon breaks and looks up and says, "did you really think I'd do that" and punches Heungsoo in the stomach just to retaliate, just to give as good as he's gotten, and the afternoon devolves into a skirmish. This is something Namsoon can handle: fists and faked anger and Heungsoo's arm around his. It's the burn in his stomach that's uncontrollable, unmanageable, and dangerous.
Heungsoo asks his mother to put up dinner, and she prepares a place for Namsoon without even asking. Namsoon wonders whether his father will even notice he's not home, but bows and accepts the full bowl of rice. He calls her mother because she might as well be, and Heungsoo leans too heavily on Namsoon's waist where there are bruises still from that afternoon's roughhousing.
They eat and then retire to Heungsoo's room, Heungsoo tossing Namsoon a pillow and offering him half of the bed. It's better than the roof of the school and it's better than an empty classroom and it's better than trying to blockade the door to his room with books and chairs and rocks so his father won't force his way inside and wrap hands around his neck and say it should have been you. It's also better, infinitely better, because when Namsoon lies down he sees the lines of Heungsoo's back and that calms a hurt in his chest Namsoon hadn't even known was there.
Namsoon remembers the crumpled bills for a very long time. A week later, he gets a part time job washing cars for scraps of spare change. It'll take him years to buy Heungsoo the shoes he wants, Namsoon knows. But, he thinks, shoving ripped and wrinkled thousand won bills into his safe, he'll have as long as he needs. It's not like Heungsoo is going anywhere anytime soon.
And neither is Namsoon, nose buried in Heungsoo's shoulder, hands fisted tightly in the bedclothes just so they won't curl around Heungsoo's hip. Neither is he.
✫ ✫ ✫
Heungsoo doesn't teach Namsoon to fight--Namsoon figures that out on his own. All Heungsoo teaches him is to reel in his anger and control it, to lash out at the right time, to hold everything Namsoon's father does to him in a box inside his chest until they happen upon a handful of shitty looking classmates who refuse to loan them a thousand won for lunch. Namsoon takes a deep breath, then, gathers every memory up, and when Heungsoo nudges softly at the small of Namsoon's back, Namsoon explodes. Sometimes he sees red and sometimes he sees nothing but blurred figures and sparks behind his eyelids. But he always feels skin underneath his knuckles and blood on his hands after he's done breaking everything and everyone in sight, after Heungsoo whispers stop low and deep in his ear. And when the blood trickles down onto his wrists, Namsoon shivers because it tickles, because there's something burning in his stomach and because Heungsoo's breath is still hot on his skin. Because it feels good--all of it.
Heungsoo hooks an arm around Namsoon's shoulder and Namsoon laughs and rubs their victory off on his trousers. The teachers and their classmates will stare tomorrow when he wears the same pair of pants and they’re stained, but Heungsoo will stare at him with hooded eyes that say, this is our secret and that will be worth it.
Besides, no one touches Go Namsoon anymore. Only Park Heungsoo. And Namsoon's father.
No one else dares.
So Namsoon dreams of a world where people do, where Heungsoo does, where Heungsoo's hands are on his hips and they're naked and he's pressed bruises into Namsoon's skin like his fingers had the day after Namsoon's initiation, when he'd said, "does this hurt?" and Namsoon had said "no" because it did but he wanted it to keep hurting. Because the pain was a reminder that this was something Heungsoo gave me, that this was the depth of Heungsoo's attention. He dreams of a world where they push each other into the shower, where Namsoon finds himself pinned against a wall under the spray and Heungsoo's body is soapy with something bubbly and citrus and his mouth is sucking marks into Namsoon's skin and he's saying, aren't you supposed to be stronger than me? in a low, taunting lilt and Namsoon doesn't know what to say to that, heat building up in his chest, his stomach, his groin.
Namsoon jerks himself off in Heungsoo's shower and avoids Heungsoo's smile when he gets out, towelling himself off, shielding himself from view, suddenly embarrassed.
"What're you looking at?"
Heungsoo's eyes are small and upturned. "Who were you thinking about in there? That girl from the convenience store last night?"
Namsoon hadn't even noticed that there was a girl in the shop they're raided. "Yeah," he says woodenly, "her. Great rack."
Heungsoo laughs. "You're growing up well, aren't you?"
the end of the middle
That year, Namsoon is sent to jail on two separate occasions, both of which result in heavy compensations that Namsoon only grudgingly agrees to, dipping deep into the money he's been saving for Heungsoo's spikes. The second time, Heungsoo hurls him out of the door and says, what the fuck is wrong with you and Namsoon doesn't want to explain that it had been a fight long since coming, and it really was Heungsoo's fault for not having been there when shit got bad. Shit tends to get bad now that Namsoon's the jjang, tearing up neighborhoods when he's angry, something possessed, when Heungsoo isn't there to calm him down and remind him that not every fight needs to end in a hospital visit--not every disagreement needs to end in fists. They're not fucking thirteen anymore and there are bigger bullies to worry about. High-school dropouts. Adults..
And Namsoon is angry now, angry that Heungsoo is shoving at his back and pushing him to the hospital ward where he's been sleeping most nights because his mother is sick and their family can't afford a full time caretaker..
"You're sleeping with me tonight. I'll make sure you don't get into any more trouble." Heungsoo's breath is hot in Namsoon's ear and Namsoon hates him for the way his spine melts into the words, hates him for how easily he dissipates the fury he once taught Namsoon to cultivate. Hates him for how well Heungsoo's grown up, even after all this.
"We're family. I can't let you do this to yourself."
"We're family because of the Family," Namsoon reminds him, skin prickling.
"That's bullshit. You know that's bullshit. We've always been family."
Namsoon stares at Heungsoo, stares at the soccer uniform neatly outlining the muscles of his stomach, at the wristlet a teammate had given him, at his old spikes with the entire front worn away. "It's not bullshit," he whispers, moving forward to grab at the top. It's yellow and green and all of the colors Namsoon can't stand. "It's not fucking bullshit." It's all Namsoon has--the fighting, the blood, the bruises along his body, the uniform of red and black-blue his face takes on after a beating. It's the only way Namsoon can be close to Heungsoo all of the time, can carry Heungsoo with him. It's the only edge Namsoon has over soccer and school and Heungsoo's sister and mother.
"We have a game Saturday. Are you coming? There will be a lot of scouts there."
"Scouts."
Heungsoo sighs and cards his hands through Namsoon's hair, and once again Namsoon feels himself forgiving Heungsoo entirely, frustration melting away. For a second Heungsoo is warm, too warm, and Namsoon forgets to be cold. "Yeah. Apparently I'm that good. They're talking about the professional leagues--training camps and shit."
"They have that sort of stuff here in Kyeunggido?"
Heungsoo skips a breath. "No. In Seoul."
"Oh."
Heungsoo presses fingers into Namsoon's shoulders where he still has cuts from the previous night's brawl outside one of the town's bowling alleys. Namsoon feels them open up and muffles a gasp, frissons of electricity shivering through his body. He's getting hard from this, so fucking hard, and he tries not to shift against Heungsoo too obviously but he's so fucking dazed and Heungsoo's fingers hurt and Heungsoo's breath is hot against Namsoon's ear and Namsoon is heavy, fucking full and heavy and--
Heungsoo doesn't move, just presses harder and harder until Namsoon sighs into him, underwear wet, chills running down his spine. "You gonna be okay?" Heungsoo asks, eyes deep and knowing.
No, Namsoon thinks, never. "You know the rule," he whispers. "If you leave--"
"I know. I'm not leaving. I'd never leave you. We're friends."
Namsoon thinks of the recently ransacked steel-jawed safe under his bed. But you will.
the end of the beginning
It's the third of December when it happens. Heungsoo's bought them both canned coffee from a nearby vending machine and Namsoon's hands are ice cold so he slides them under Heungsoo's jacket and Heungsoo doesn't stop him.
"You're freezing," he mumbles, and Namsoon can feel the words vibrate in his stomach.
"Yeah. What did the coach say?"
"That I have great legs," Heungsoo laughs, inclining the lip of his can, "cheers?"
"I could have told you that."
Heungsoo shrugs and drinks, leaning backwards, Namsoon falling further into him. Heungsoo always smells of orange soap--Namsoon knows its because of the foam cleanser Heungsoo uses, and so Namsoon's bought it too but his skin never quite smells the same way, never as deep and thick and comfortable. Initially Namsoon had thought owning it would make him miss Heungsoo less when they were apart. It hadn't helped in the least--had almost made the hours they're apart worse, painful, Namsoon imagining Heungsoo kicking a ball around a yard without him, hugging teammates, breathing in air Namsoon will never feel. Namsoon couldn't afford a jersey even if he wanted to play--which he doesn't. Namsoon likes fucking things up, likes fucking himself up, likes watching things fall to pieces around his fingers. He doesn't like the idea of building, of teamwork, of trusting someone else with his happiness.
"I like playing soccer," Heungsoo says. His chest reverberates and Namsoon hums along, warm and safe.
"Yeah? I like beating the crap out of people."
Heungsoo ignores him. "I have a game Saturday. You wanna come? Tell me what you think?"
Something stirs in Namsoon's stomach--something deep and protective and unplaceable. He wonders what the fuck Heungsoo needs soccer for when he has Namsoon, always waiting for him to call, always waiting for the text, let's go out tonight, break something. "Yeah," he says finally, "watch you run around like an idiot. Want me to bring kimbap?"
"It'd be nice to have someone to cheer for me."
Your mother isn't coming, is she? "Shut up," and Namsoon burrows closer, further into Heungsoo's jacket. "Don't be such a girl."
"You're the one who offered to cook for me."
"I never said I'd make it myself. There's loads of good kimbap for cheap."
Heungsoo winds his arms around Namsoon's body. This is not what friends do, Namsoon thinks. This is wrong. This is-- "It's even cheaper if you steal it."
"Don't encourage me."
"You don't need encouragement. You're the bad influence, between the two of us."
"That doesn't say much," Namsoon laughs, because it does. Once upon a time there hadn't been differences in their attitudes. Once upon a time they'd been so similar their conversations had been almost telepathic. Once upon a time Heungsoo would have known what it is that Namsoon can't say, can't think.
You smell like orange soap.
"Is that a yes?"
"Of course it's a yes."
the middle of the middle
The problem, Namsoon thinks, is not that he shows up in his school uniform for lack of anything else to wear. It's not that no one sits on his side of the bench, eyeing his bruised mouth and bloody knuckles dubiously, barely muffling their distaste. That, Go Namsoon is used to.
The problem is that Heungsoo is not sitting next to Go Namsoon. The problem is that Heungsoo is fifty feet away, but it could be another world for all Heungsoo is smiling and laughing in a careless way Namsoon hasn't seen since the day of Namsoon's initiation. The problem is that Heungsoo looks happy, really fucking happy, and there's kimbap sitting in a container next to Namsoon's feet and he'd bought it with the money he still owes Heungsoo for those fucking spikes and--
Namsoon's stomach seizes. The problem, he thinks, is that Heungsoo is good. Really, really good. The problem is that Heungsoo scores two goals all on his own, and everyone in the stadium is at their feet chanting his name by the end of the second quarter. No one yells their names. They're the school bastards, the bullies, the kids everyone hates. They come to class with swollen wrists and cigarette smoke clinging to their clothes. They're filthy, they're miscreants, they're trouble.
Heungsoo isn't trouble on the field. Heungsoo is brilliant.
Heungsoo scores a third goal to end off the game, and the field erupts into chaos. Namsoon kicks at the kimbap with his feet, and the package falls over, plastic container snapping open, sliced rolls flying out onto the dirt. It hadn't been cheap kimbap. It'd been the nice kind from Eunbin's place, a restaurant Namsoon's lurked around enough to know the food smells top notch. He's gotten exactly two--mostly for Heungsoo, and maybe a bite for himself if Heungsoo was in the mood to share. It's all the money he could part with, factoring in that week's living expenses, Namsoon thinks defensively.
It's on the ground and there's dirt there and Namsoon would never feed that to Heungsoo. Heungsoo doesn't deserve dirt and two fucking rolls of kimbap. He deserves more than Namsoon can ever give him.
Namsoon wonders what kind of stipend soccer players trained in Seoul get.
The game ends abruptly--right as Heungsoo scores his third goal of the game. Namsoon gets up along with the other spectators, cups his hands around his mouth and pauses before yelling out Heungsoo's name, frozen into inaction by the glares the rest of his section of the stands is giving him.
Heungsoo sees him anyway, watches Namsoon lower his hands and shove them into his pocket. Their eyes are locked on one another and only Namsoon's smile is implied-- Namsoon is sure Heungsoo's couldn't be painted in broader strokes across his face. "Congratulations," Namsoon mouths disingenuously across the stadium. There are hundreds of people shouting over them. There are dozens of hands between Namsoon and Heungsoo. At least six of Heungsoo's teammates have their arms around him. Despite all that, despite everything, Namsoon can hear Heungsoo scream, "it was for you, asshole. That last goal was for you."
Namsoon laughs because Heungsoo is watching him. Later that night he breaks the arms of two different members of Hanyang's iljeen and tells them, "I didn't want it."
"The fuck is he talking about?" Changmin asks, nudging at Youngwoon's shoulder. Taking advantage of Namsoon's momentary inattention, the plaid uniformed Hanyang boys scramble away. Namsoon lets them go. "Didn't want what?"
Namsoon feels something bubble up inside of him, and he kicks at the ground. He wonders if he should have broken their legs too. Whether that would stop everyone from escaping. Whether that would change how alone he is now that Heungsoo has something--someone--else. "Fuck you," he snorts, "mind your own fucking business."
The boys laugh nervously. Namsoon leaves them there, wrapping his misery tight around him, biking off into the dark, unlit suburban streets until his muscles seize up with exhaustion and cold and he crumples over his bike.
Namsoon sleeps fitfully and skips two days of school. Heungsoo texts him thirteen times. When Namsoon gets back, he apologizes and says his phone died.
Heungsoo says nothing at all.
the beginning of the beginning
"My name is Park Heungsoo," he says, fist tight around Namsoon's wrist, "and you are extremely tall."
"Fuck off."
Heungsoo smiles. It's the first smile Namsoon's seen since he switched into this shitty school with shitty classmates who don't even look at him, limbs sticking out of his shirts and pants awkwardly. It's not a nice smile--Heungsoo is missing his two front teeth--but it's an honest one.
"I like people who curse. Sungjin tends to have the most milk money, just so you know."
Namsoon quirks an eyebrow at that because it'd be nice to have milk money. "Yeah?"
Heungsoo claps Namsoon on the back. "I knew you were the kind of person I guessed you were."
"Dirty? Gangster? Thief?" Words he's heard before. Words he's pretty sure his father has heard before. The drunkard's son? The family that never pays the rent on time? Words he doesn't want to hear from Park Heungsoo, the first boy all year who's approached him.
"A bastard. A total, complete bastard." Heungsoo says it like an endearment, like the words are the kindest things he's ever admitted, syllables curling around his tongue and escaping into the classroom air. They're forbidden words, here in school.
They burn in Namsoon's chest. And Namsoon feels his mouth curl into a smile in response almost immediately. "Oh," he hears himself say. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
"I already took Sungjin's money today. How about we get ddeokbukki after class? We can be bastards together."
Namsoon is starving. There probably isn't dinner ready at home. There probably isn't enough right to make dinner. "Yeah," he breathes, too excited to feel shame. "Let's."
the beginning of the end
"A scout." Namsoon closes his eyes and steps back, away from Heungsoo's arms and warmth and smile. It's March and winter is ending. It's March and winter will never, ever end. "Seoul."
"Not 'till next year, but I have to stop--they don't want me coming to practice all cut up anymore." Heungsoo sighs softly. "It's been a good run. We're done. Namsoon. I never meant for it to last this long anyway."
This, Namsoon thinks, is my family. "The gang is forever, Heungsoo. Anyone who leaves--"
"--has to get beaten," Heungsoo voice is terribly quiet. "I know."
"You know. You understand." I love you. Why are you leaving?
Heungsoo's arms slip around Namsoon's shoulders, and Namsoon has to bite into his lip desperately to stop himself from relenting. "I know, okay? You gonna do the honors, kiddo?"
Every lines in Namsoon's body is taut--every muscle overly tense. Namsoon almost can't breathe. "Yes."
"Then I'll leave it to you. And," Heungsoo hesitates, chin still digging into Namsoon's shoulder, body still smelling of orange soap, "when you're done--when you're done with all of it, I'll patch you up. Maybe we can go to Seoul together, yeah?"
Namsoon thinks of his empty home, his drunken father, the rent money they never have. Namsoon thinks of the part time jobs he's already started looking into. Namsoon thinks of his mother.
"You're a good kid," Heungsoo adds.
Namsoon shakes with anger. "Yeah," he spits, blood seeping out of the corner of his mouth, "Seoul."
the middle of the end
In March 2012, Namsoon unbuttons his shirt, slips the keys off of his head, and unlocks the steel-jawed safety deposit box under his head. It's bursting with money, even after he spent a fistul of bills buying textbooks for Heungsoo. It's certainly enough for the best pair of spikes at the local sports store. It's probably enough for two.
Namsoon fingers each note carefully, smoothing them along his thigh, rubbing thumbs along the fading colors. He doesn't remember getting each one, but the overall collection is three years of work, of abject silence, of the lousiest jobs and verbal abuse and paycuts for entirely arbitrary measures. And it's Namsoon's silence, every single time, imagining each rebuke coming from Heungsoo, reconstructing the scene in front of that looming, glass hospital window, Heungsoo's fist slamming at the panes of glass. He'd been slapped by customers, fined by employers, and humiliated, time and time again. But at the end of the day he'd come home with a thin envelope of cash and he'd wad up the bills so they reminded him of the ones Heungsoo slammed down on the countertop of the convenience store years and years ago in order to cover the price for a broken storefront, and he'd swallow thickly and pinch at his skin until the feeling of helplessness died away, until he had bruises that reminded him of the ones Heungsoo used to give him, of the ones they got together, roaming the streets of Kyeonggido, hands curled into gentle, graceful fists.
Namsoon closes the box, heart still heavy. The interest on his debt has become enormous, overwhelming. It'll become manageable, Kang-ssem had said, eyes sharp. It will never be okay, but eventually it will become manageable.
Namsoon wonders how this--them--love--could ever be manageable.
a beginning after the end
Namsoon saves the picture of them eating ramen together and copies Heungsoo on the text he sends to Jung-ssem. She responds with "^^~~" right away.
It isn't until after the fight, until after the broken piggy bank, until after Heungsoo and Namsoon have parted ways at the bridge again, until after Namsoon has showered and smells of orange soap, until after Namsoon has changed into worn pajamas and curled up under his duvet that he hears his phone chime.
He lunges for it.
Our Namsoon's a good kid, Heungsoo's texted. Took you long enough.
There are two typos, Namsoon notices. His hand trembles and he reads it again. And then Namsoon laughs so hard his stomach tenses, laughs so hard he ends up dry-heaving into his carpet, tears pricking at his eyes. He wonders whether Heungsoo finds any of this ironic, whether Namsoon once looked like Oh Jongho--lost, sad, endlessly hopeless. Whether Namsoon was once that proud, once that lonely. Whether Jongho will become theirs eventually.
Jongho hadn't exactly smiled after they'd rescued him, but he hadn't tried to beat the crap out of them either. A good start, Namsoon had thought. He'd looked up at Heungsoo and had seen Heungsoo watching him--not Oh Jongho, him--and had almost dared to hope that--
Namsoon wonders whether this is what Heungsoo had always felt: warm, caring, old. Whether this was the story of their friendship--whether Heungsoo really always has been his hyung. Just Namsoon's hyung--nothing else.
Just like Namsoon is Youngwoon's hyung, Hakyung's president, Kangjoo's charity case.
The rejection is comforting, in a way. Namsoon had expected the world to end. It's why he'd held on for so long, so fiercely. It's why every smile wrangled from this Heungsoo--the boy that Namsoon barely knew--was a punch to the gut, a reminder that the Heungsoo from before was gone. He cradles the phone to his chest. This is almost like another beginning, a fresh start, a chance at redemption--at a future, tables clear and tallies even. For all of them.
Namsoon's lost his hyung--he knows that--and maybe he's lost love. And maybe that's what Kang-ssem had meant, up on the roof, eyes cold, expression grave. Maybe love is never something that gets easier. Maybe that kind of hurt lasts forever.
But maybe he hasn't lost Heungsoo. Not yet. Maybe they can still be friends. Maybe Namsoon can't have all of him, but maybe that can be okay. Namsoon thinks about Jongho's smile, Jongho's eyes, the bruises littering Jongho's face, and thinks that maybe--just maybe--he can learn to share with the rest of Seoul this time.
Namsoon goes to his window and opens it, smelling the cool quiet of spring slowly permeating the city. It's March and winter is ending. It's March, and spring is on its way.
I loved you, he replies, five years too late. Bastard
Namsoon closes his eyes and breathes in--deep, full, painlessly.
And Heungsoo writes back: I'll see you tomorrow.
You have to take a close look
to see that it’s pretty,
You have to take a long look
to see that it is lovely.
You are the same.
"Flower" - Na Taejoo
Author's Note: firstly, once upon a time (like maybe 2 years ago? one year ago?) the lj user who went by ulzzang/tjsbox aka tj wrote a block b story with a format kind of like this--dividing up the sections--and i had thought it was a pretty neat idea and thought that one day i'd like to emulate that. the fic itself, i believe, along with his livejournal has long since been deleted, and he's also left fandom, so i can't say i replicated this with his permission. but i suppose at the end of the day i still wrote this story the way i did, hence this miserable attempt at an author's note offering credit where credit is due.
secondly, thank you so much to ree and sam for helping me through this. to ree for copying out our dms and walking me through heartwrenching rewatches of the show, for her translations, for her fascinating discussions w/r/t particular turns of phrase within the show, and to sam for reading, critiquing. and basically being my samwise. ♥ thank you, both of you. i probably wouldn't have had the gall to post this without you.
finally, i wrote this over various lunch breaks at my desk, hence the distinct lack of explicit sex.
this is a much better author's note than i managed last time i suppose. i'm still 100000% done w/ this show tho.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~4500
Spoilers: Through episode 13.
Warning: If you've seen the drama, you should know what to expect. But to be safe, explicit references to physical/emotional child abuse, bullying, and not-so-subtle references to sex.
Summary: There are middles of beginnings and endings to middles. And sometimes, if you're lucky, a beginning after the end.
Namsoon has never, ever been lucky. (Heungsoo/Namsoon )
you are the same
✫ ✫ ✫
the end of the end
They're standing in the hallway with hands in their pockets and steel in their eyes and Namsoon knows what Heungsoo must be thinking: if Namsoon was allowed to stop fighting, to go to school and wear his uniform and lie low and never discuss his history as the jjang of the most feared gang in Kyeonggido, if he's allowed to be a class president and flirt distractedly with girls, all without losing the most important thing in his life, why wasn't Heungsoo allowed to do the same? Why did it all come down to that one moment of Namsoon's foot against Heungsoo's knee, tendons erupting under his sneaker, Heungsoo grabbing at Namsoon's foot, gasping, Namsoon, stop? How was that the logical end of three years of brotherhood?
I didn't, Namsoon can't say. I lost the most important thing in my life even before I left. so when I left, there was nothing to lose. I lost you, you bastard. And even that was my fucking fault.
Heungsoo smiles, but it's not the same smile it had been three years previously. It's a brittle thing, worn away by time and agony. It's a smile that says, you blew it and I forgive you all at once, and it's a smile that reminds Namsoon that no matter what, he will never, ever be able to forgive himself. It's a smile that's cautious and tired. It's a smile that still hurts.
Heungsoo reaches out a hand. "You'll do my transcriptions," he says lightly, "you owe me that much."
Namsoon owes him much, much more than that. He bites back a sob. "Yes," he says, swallowing the hyung, "yes, of course."
the middle of the beginning
Namsoon owns three good pens, five notebooks (all of which are battered and filled entirely of things he'd learned in the first few years of elementary school when he hadn't known there were better things to do during class than take notes), and one keychain with two keys. One of those keys opens a box he keeps under his bed, a steel-jawed safe hiding his life's savings. The other is one Heungsoo had pressed into his hands when he'd gotten to school one morning and slipped onto the roof for a breath of fresh air and seen Namsoon sleeping behind a pole, head propped up by his ragged knapsack, sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing knobbly elbows and pale, bruised skin.
"This is the key to my house," Heungsoo had said, voice stripped of judgment, "we always have extra food."
At ten Namsoon had not known enough about shame to reject the offer. "Thank you," he'd whispered over the growl of his stomach.
Namsoon owns ten things that matter, ten things he carries around with him every day wherever he goes and now they're all on the floor and some shitty ahjusshi is accusing him of stealing. It's not a foreign accusation, and it's not entirely unjustified, but for once it isn't true. For once he'd broken the storefront glass entirely by accident. and so he'd stuck around and tried to clean it up and when he'd been caught he'd been blamed and the cops had been called and Namsoon had remembered why you never do good things for people: because people will always, always hurt you.
Heungsoo plops down seven crumpled bills, and they're familiar ones. They're all of the savings Heungsoo keeps in his desk-drawer. They're the entirety of the fund Heungsoo's been cultivating to buy new spikes. They're the tips from his job loading boxes onto flatbed trucks and the entirety of his summer's wages washing dishes in a seedy family restaurant on the wrong side of town. Namsoon feels nauseated.
"You shouldn't have compensated him. I didn't steal anything. And how are you my hyung?"
"I clean up your messes, paid the price of the glass for you, and I'm older than you. Isn't that what a hyung is?"
Namsoon feels his world spin. No, Namsoon thinks, that's what-- only he can’t finish that sentence, not even in his mind, because the words are terrifying and strange and most certainly forbidden. His stomach tenses, and it doesn't matter that he hasn't eaten since dinner the evening previously, feet brushing up against Heungsoo's socks under Heungsoo's dinner table. Namsoon still feels like throwing up. He still feels like his chest is too tight and his ears are too hot. He still feels like--
"Go on and humbly thank me. Like, "thank you, hyungnim.'"
Namsoon chokes back a smile because this is something he can do. Chaos and forced levity have always been his speciality. "Thank you," he says, "hyungnim."
Heungsoo laughs and ruffles Namsoon's hair and Namsoon's gut lurches again. "That's right, aouyah."
And Namsoon breaks and looks up and says, "did you really think I'd do that" and punches Heungsoo in the stomach just to retaliate, just to give as good as he's gotten, and the afternoon devolves into a skirmish. This is something Namsoon can handle: fists and faked anger and Heungsoo's arm around his. It's the burn in his stomach that's uncontrollable, unmanageable, and dangerous.
Heungsoo asks his mother to put up dinner, and she prepares a place for Namsoon without even asking. Namsoon wonders whether his father will even notice he's not home, but bows and accepts the full bowl of rice. He calls her mother because she might as well be, and Heungsoo leans too heavily on Namsoon's waist where there are bruises still from that afternoon's roughhousing.
They eat and then retire to Heungsoo's room, Heungsoo tossing Namsoon a pillow and offering him half of the bed. It's better than the roof of the school and it's better than an empty classroom and it's better than trying to blockade the door to his room with books and chairs and rocks so his father won't force his way inside and wrap hands around his neck and say it should have been you. It's also better, infinitely better, because when Namsoon lies down he sees the lines of Heungsoo's back and that calms a hurt in his chest Namsoon hadn't even known was there.
Namsoon remembers the crumpled bills for a very long time. A week later, he gets a part time job washing cars for scraps of spare change. It'll take him years to buy Heungsoo the shoes he wants, Namsoon knows. But, he thinks, shoving ripped and wrinkled thousand won bills into his safe, he'll have as long as he needs. It's not like Heungsoo is going anywhere anytime soon.
And neither is Namsoon, nose buried in Heungsoo's shoulder, hands fisted tightly in the bedclothes just so they won't curl around Heungsoo's hip. Neither is he.
✫ ✫ ✫
Heungsoo doesn't teach Namsoon to fight--Namsoon figures that out on his own. All Heungsoo teaches him is to reel in his anger and control it, to lash out at the right time, to hold everything Namsoon's father does to him in a box inside his chest until they happen upon a handful of shitty looking classmates who refuse to loan them a thousand won for lunch. Namsoon takes a deep breath, then, gathers every memory up, and when Heungsoo nudges softly at the small of Namsoon's back, Namsoon explodes. Sometimes he sees red and sometimes he sees nothing but blurred figures and sparks behind his eyelids. But he always feels skin underneath his knuckles and blood on his hands after he's done breaking everything and everyone in sight, after Heungsoo whispers stop low and deep in his ear. And when the blood trickles down onto his wrists, Namsoon shivers because it tickles, because there's something burning in his stomach and because Heungsoo's breath is still hot on his skin. Because it feels good--all of it.
Heungsoo hooks an arm around Namsoon's shoulder and Namsoon laughs and rubs their victory off on his trousers. The teachers and their classmates will stare tomorrow when he wears the same pair of pants and they’re stained, but Heungsoo will stare at him with hooded eyes that say, this is our secret and that will be worth it.
Besides, no one touches Go Namsoon anymore. Only Park Heungsoo. And Namsoon's father.
No one else dares.
So Namsoon dreams of a world where people do, where Heungsoo does, where Heungsoo's hands are on his hips and they're naked and he's pressed bruises into Namsoon's skin like his fingers had the day after Namsoon's initiation, when he'd said, "does this hurt?" and Namsoon had said "no" because it did but he wanted it to keep hurting. Because the pain was a reminder that this was something Heungsoo gave me, that this was the depth of Heungsoo's attention. He dreams of a world where they push each other into the shower, where Namsoon finds himself pinned against a wall under the spray and Heungsoo's body is soapy with something bubbly and citrus and his mouth is sucking marks into Namsoon's skin and he's saying, aren't you supposed to be stronger than me? in a low, taunting lilt and Namsoon doesn't know what to say to that, heat building up in his chest, his stomach, his groin.
Namsoon jerks himself off in Heungsoo's shower and avoids Heungsoo's smile when he gets out, towelling himself off, shielding himself from view, suddenly embarrassed.
"What're you looking at?"
Heungsoo's eyes are small and upturned. "Who were you thinking about in there? That girl from the convenience store last night?"
Namsoon hadn't even noticed that there was a girl in the shop they're raided. "Yeah," he says woodenly, "her. Great rack."
Heungsoo laughs. "You're growing up well, aren't you?"
the end of the middle
That year, Namsoon is sent to jail on two separate occasions, both of which result in heavy compensations that Namsoon only grudgingly agrees to, dipping deep into the money he's been saving for Heungsoo's spikes. The second time, Heungsoo hurls him out of the door and says, what the fuck is wrong with you and Namsoon doesn't want to explain that it had been a fight long since coming, and it really was Heungsoo's fault for not having been there when shit got bad. Shit tends to get bad now that Namsoon's the jjang, tearing up neighborhoods when he's angry, something possessed, when Heungsoo isn't there to calm him down and remind him that not every fight needs to end in a hospital visit--not every disagreement needs to end in fists. They're not fucking thirteen anymore and there are bigger bullies to worry about. High-school dropouts. Adults..
And Namsoon is angry now, angry that Heungsoo is shoving at his back and pushing him to the hospital ward where he's been sleeping most nights because his mother is sick and their family can't afford a full time caretaker..
"You're sleeping with me tonight. I'll make sure you don't get into any more trouble." Heungsoo's breath is hot in Namsoon's ear and Namsoon hates him for the way his spine melts into the words, hates him for how easily he dissipates the fury he once taught Namsoon to cultivate. Hates him for how well Heungsoo's grown up, even after all this.
"We're family. I can't let you do this to yourself."
"We're family because of the Family," Namsoon reminds him, skin prickling.
"That's bullshit. You know that's bullshit. We've always been family."
Namsoon stares at Heungsoo, stares at the soccer uniform neatly outlining the muscles of his stomach, at the wristlet a teammate had given him, at his old spikes with the entire front worn away. "It's not bullshit," he whispers, moving forward to grab at the top. It's yellow and green and all of the colors Namsoon can't stand. "It's not fucking bullshit." It's all Namsoon has--the fighting, the blood, the bruises along his body, the uniform of red and black-blue his face takes on after a beating. It's the only way Namsoon can be close to Heungsoo all of the time, can carry Heungsoo with him. It's the only edge Namsoon has over soccer and school and Heungsoo's sister and mother.
"We have a game Saturday. Are you coming? There will be a lot of scouts there."
"Scouts."
Heungsoo sighs and cards his hands through Namsoon's hair, and once again Namsoon feels himself forgiving Heungsoo entirely, frustration melting away. For a second Heungsoo is warm, too warm, and Namsoon forgets to be cold. "Yeah. Apparently I'm that good. They're talking about the professional leagues--training camps and shit."
"They have that sort of stuff here in Kyeunggido?"
Heungsoo skips a breath. "No. In Seoul."
"Oh."
Heungsoo presses fingers into Namsoon's shoulders where he still has cuts from the previous night's brawl outside one of the town's bowling alleys. Namsoon feels them open up and muffles a gasp, frissons of electricity shivering through his body. He's getting hard from this, so fucking hard, and he tries not to shift against Heungsoo too obviously but he's so fucking dazed and Heungsoo's fingers hurt and Heungsoo's breath is hot against Namsoon's ear and Namsoon is heavy, fucking full and heavy and--
Heungsoo doesn't move, just presses harder and harder until Namsoon sighs into him, underwear wet, chills running down his spine. "You gonna be okay?" Heungsoo asks, eyes deep and knowing.
No, Namsoon thinks, never. "You know the rule," he whispers. "If you leave--"
"I know. I'm not leaving. I'd never leave you. We're friends."
Namsoon thinks of the recently ransacked steel-jawed safe under his bed. But you will.
the end of the beginning
It's the third of December when it happens. Heungsoo's bought them both canned coffee from a nearby vending machine and Namsoon's hands are ice cold so he slides them under Heungsoo's jacket and Heungsoo doesn't stop him.
"You're freezing," he mumbles, and Namsoon can feel the words vibrate in his stomach.
"Yeah. What did the coach say?"
"That I have great legs," Heungsoo laughs, inclining the lip of his can, "cheers?"
"I could have told you that."
Heungsoo shrugs and drinks, leaning backwards, Namsoon falling further into him. Heungsoo always smells of orange soap--Namsoon knows its because of the foam cleanser Heungsoo uses, and so Namsoon's bought it too but his skin never quite smells the same way, never as deep and thick and comfortable. Initially Namsoon had thought owning it would make him miss Heungsoo less when they were apart. It hadn't helped in the least--had almost made the hours they're apart worse, painful, Namsoon imagining Heungsoo kicking a ball around a yard without him, hugging teammates, breathing in air Namsoon will never feel. Namsoon couldn't afford a jersey even if he wanted to play--which he doesn't. Namsoon likes fucking things up, likes fucking himself up, likes watching things fall to pieces around his fingers. He doesn't like the idea of building, of teamwork, of trusting someone else with his happiness.
"I like playing soccer," Heungsoo says. His chest reverberates and Namsoon hums along, warm and safe.
"Yeah? I like beating the crap out of people."
Heungsoo ignores him. "I have a game Saturday. You wanna come? Tell me what you think?"
Something stirs in Namsoon's stomach--something deep and protective and unplaceable. He wonders what the fuck Heungsoo needs soccer for when he has Namsoon, always waiting for him to call, always waiting for the text, let's go out tonight, break something. "Yeah," he says finally, "watch you run around like an idiot. Want me to bring kimbap?"
"It'd be nice to have someone to cheer for me."
Your mother isn't coming, is she? "Shut up," and Namsoon burrows closer, further into Heungsoo's jacket. "Don't be such a girl."
"You're the one who offered to cook for me."
"I never said I'd make it myself. There's loads of good kimbap for cheap."
Heungsoo winds his arms around Namsoon's body. This is not what friends do, Namsoon thinks. This is wrong. This is-- "It's even cheaper if you steal it."
"Don't encourage me."
"You don't need encouragement. You're the bad influence, between the two of us."
"That doesn't say much," Namsoon laughs, because it does. Once upon a time there hadn't been differences in their attitudes. Once upon a time they'd been so similar their conversations had been almost telepathic. Once upon a time Heungsoo would have known what it is that Namsoon can't say, can't think.
You smell like orange soap.
"Is that a yes?"
"Of course it's a yes."
the middle of the middle
The problem, Namsoon thinks, is not that he shows up in his school uniform for lack of anything else to wear. It's not that no one sits on his side of the bench, eyeing his bruised mouth and bloody knuckles dubiously, barely muffling their distaste. That, Go Namsoon is used to.
The problem is that Heungsoo is not sitting next to Go Namsoon. The problem is that Heungsoo is fifty feet away, but it could be another world for all Heungsoo is smiling and laughing in a careless way Namsoon hasn't seen since the day of Namsoon's initiation. The problem is that Heungsoo looks happy, really fucking happy, and there's kimbap sitting in a container next to Namsoon's feet and he'd bought it with the money he still owes Heungsoo for those fucking spikes and--
Namsoon's stomach seizes. The problem, he thinks, is that Heungsoo is good. Really, really good. The problem is that Heungsoo scores two goals all on his own, and everyone in the stadium is at their feet chanting his name by the end of the second quarter. No one yells their names. They're the school bastards, the bullies, the kids everyone hates. They come to class with swollen wrists and cigarette smoke clinging to their clothes. They're filthy, they're miscreants, they're trouble.
Heungsoo isn't trouble on the field. Heungsoo is brilliant.
Heungsoo scores a third goal to end off the game, and the field erupts into chaos. Namsoon kicks at the kimbap with his feet, and the package falls over, plastic container snapping open, sliced rolls flying out onto the dirt. It hadn't been cheap kimbap. It'd been the nice kind from Eunbin's place, a restaurant Namsoon's lurked around enough to know the food smells top notch. He's gotten exactly two--mostly for Heungsoo, and maybe a bite for himself if Heungsoo was in the mood to share. It's all the money he could part with, factoring in that week's living expenses, Namsoon thinks defensively.
It's on the ground and there's dirt there and Namsoon would never feed that to Heungsoo. Heungsoo doesn't deserve dirt and two fucking rolls of kimbap. He deserves more than Namsoon can ever give him.
Namsoon wonders what kind of stipend soccer players trained in Seoul get.
The game ends abruptly--right as Heungsoo scores his third goal of the game. Namsoon gets up along with the other spectators, cups his hands around his mouth and pauses before yelling out Heungsoo's name, frozen into inaction by the glares the rest of his section of the stands is giving him.
Heungsoo sees him anyway, watches Namsoon lower his hands and shove them into his pocket. Their eyes are locked on one another and only Namsoon's smile is implied-- Namsoon is sure Heungsoo's couldn't be painted in broader strokes across his face. "Congratulations," Namsoon mouths disingenuously across the stadium. There are hundreds of people shouting over them. There are dozens of hands between Namsoon and Heungsoo. At least six of Heungsoo's teammates have their arms around him. Despite all that, despite everything, Namsoon can hear Heungsoo scream, "it was for you, asshole. That last goal was for you."
Namsoon laughs because Heungsoo is watching him. Later that night he breaks the arms of two different members of Hanyang's iljeen and tells them, "I didn't want it."
"The fuck is he talking about?" Changmin asks, nudging at Youngwoon's shoulder. Taking advantage of Namsoon's momentary inattention, the plaid uniformed Hanyang boys scramble away. Namsoon lets them go. "Didn't want what?"
Namsoon feels something bubble up inside of him, and he kicks at the ground. He wonders if he should have broken their legs too. Whether that would stop everyone from escaping. Whether that would change how alone he is now that Heungsoo has something--someone--else. "Fuck you," he snorts, "mind your own fucking business."
The boys laugh nervously. Namsoon leaves them there, wrapping his misery tight around him, biking off into the dark, unlit suburban streets until his muscles seize up with exhaustion and cold and he crumples over his bike.
Namsoon sleeps fitfully and skips two days of school. Heungsoo texts him thirteen times. When Namsoon gets back, he apologizes and says his phone died.
Heungsoo says nothing at all.
the beginning of the beginning
"My name is Park Heungsoo," he says, fist tight around Namsoon's wrist, "and you are extremely tall."
"Fuck off."
Heungsoo smiles. It's the first smile Namsoon's seen since he switched into this shitty school with shitty classmates who don't even look at him, limbs sticking out of his shirts and pants awkwardly. It's not a nice smile--Heungsoo is missing his two front teeth--but it's an honest one.
"I like people who curse. Sungjin tends to have the most milk money, just so you know."
Namsoon quirks an eyebrow at that because it'd be nice to have milk money. "Yeah?"
Heungsoo claps Namsoon on the back. "I knew you were the kind of person I guessed you were."
"Dirty? Gangster? Thief?" Words he's heard before. Words he's pretty sure his father has heard before. The drunkard's son? The family that never pays the rent on time? Words he doesn't want to hear from Park Heungsoo, the first boy all year who's approached him.
"A bastard. A total, complete bastard." Heungsoo says it like an endearment, like the words are the kindest things he's ever admitted, syllables curling around his tongue and escaping into the classroom air. They're forbidden words, here in school.
They burn in Namsoon's chest. And Namsoon feels his mouth curl into a smile in response almost immediately. "Oh," he hears himself say. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
"I already took Sungjin's money today. How about we get ddeokbukki after class? We can be bastards together."
Namsoon is starving. There probably isn't dinner ready at home. There probably isn't enough right to make dinner. "Yeah," he breathes, too excited to feel shame. "Let's."
the beginning of the end
"A scout." Namsoon closes his eyes and steps back, away from Heungsoo's arms and warmth and smile. It's March and winter is ending. It's March and winter will never, ever end. "Seoul."
"Not 'till next year, but I have to stop--they don't want me coming to practice all cut up anymore." Heungsoo sighs softly. "It's been a good run. We're done. Namsoon. I never meant for it to last this long anyway."
This, Namsoon thinks, is my family. "The gang is forever, Heungsoo. Anyone who leaves--"
"--has to get beaten," Heungsoo voice is terribly quiet. "I know."
"You know. You understand." I love you. Why are you leaving?
Heungsoo's arms slip around Namsoon's shoulders, and Namsoon has to bite into his lip desperately to stop himself from relenting. "I know, okay? You gonna do the honors, kiddo?"
Every lines in Namsoon's body is taut--every muscle overly tense. Namsoon almost can't breathe. "Yes."
"Then I'll leave it to you. And," Heungsoo hesitates, chin still digging into Namsoon's shoulder, body still smelling of orange soap, "when you're done--when you're done with all of it, I'll patch you up. Maybe we can go to Seoul together, yeah?"
Namsoon thinks of his empty home, his drunken father, the rent money they never have. Namsoon thinks of the part time jobs he's already started looking into. Namsoon thinks of his mother.
"You're a good kid," Heungsoo adds.
Namsoon shakes with anger. "Yeah," he spits, blood seeping out of the corner of his mouth, "Seoul."
the middle of the end
In March 2012, Namsoon unbuttons his shirt, slips the keys off of his head, and unlocks the steel-jawed safety deposit box under his head. It's bursting with money, even after he spent a fistul of bills buying textbooks for Heungsoo. It's certainly enough for the best pair of spikes at the local sports store. It's probably enough for two.
Namsoon fingers each note carefully, smoothing them along his thigh, rubbing thumbs along the fading colors. He doesn't remember getting each one, but the overall collection is three years of work, of abject silence, of the lousiest jobs and verbal abuse and paycuts for entirely arbitrary measures. And it's Namsoon's silence, every single time, imagining each rebuke coming from Heungsoo, reconstructing the scene in front of that looming, glass hospital window, Heungsoo's fist slamming at the panes of glass. He'd been slapped by customers, fined by employers, and humiliated, time and time again. But at the end of the day he'd come home with a thin envelope of cash and he'd wad up the bills so they reminded him of the ones Heungsoo slammed down on the countertop of the convenience store years and years ago in order to cover the price for a broken storefront, and he'd swallow thickly and pinch at his skin until the feeling of helplessness died away, until he had bruises that reminded him of the ones Heungsoo used to give him, of the ones they got together, roaming the streets of Kyeonggido, hands curled into gentle, graceful fists.
Namsoon closes the box, heart still heavy. The interest on his debt has become enormous, overwhelming. It'll become manageable, Kang-ssem had said, eyes sharp. It will never be okay, but eventually it will become manageable.
Namsoon wonders how this--them--love--could ever be manageable.
a beginning after the end
Namsoon saves the picture of them eating ramen together and copies Heungsoo on the text he sends to Jung-ssem. She responds with "^^~~" right away.
It isn't until after the fight, until after the broken piggy bank, until after Heungsoo and Namsoon have parted ways at the bridge again, until after Namsoon has showered and smells of orange soap, until after Namsoon has changed into worn pajamas and curled up under his duvet that he hears his phone chime.
He lunges for it.
Our Namsoon's a good kid, Heungsoo's texted. Took you long enough.
There are two typos, Namsoon notices. His hand trembles and he reads it again. And then Namsoon laughs so hard his stomach tenses, laughs so hard he ends up dry-heaving into his carpet, tears pricking at his eyes. He wonders whether Heungsoo finds any of this ironic, whether Namsoon once looked like Oh Jongho--lost, sad, endlessly hopeless. Whether Namsoon was once that proud, once that lonely. Whether Jongho will become theirs eventually.
Jongho hadn't exactly smiled after they'd rescued him, but he hadn't tried to beat the crap out of them either. A good start, Namsoon had thought. He'd looked up at Heungsoo and had seen Heungsoo watching him--not Oh Jongho, him--and had almost dared to hope that--
Namsoon wonders whether this is what Heungsoo had always felt: warm, caring, old. Whether this was the story of their friendship--whether Heungsoo really always has been his hyung. Just Namsoon's hyung--nothing else.
Just like Namsoon is Youngwoon's hyung, Hakyung's president, Kangjoo's charity case.
The rejection is comforting, in a way. Namsoon had expected the world to end. It's why he'd held on for so long, so fiercely. It's why every smile wrangled from this Heungsoo--the boy that Namsoon barely knew--was a punch to the gut, a reminder that the Heungsoo from before was gone. He cradles the phone to his chest. This is almost like another beginning, a fresh start, a chance at redemption--at a future, tables clear and tallies even. For all of them.
Namsoon's lost his hyung--he knows that--and maybe he's lost love. And maybe that's what Kang-ssem had meant, up on the roof, eyes cold, expression grave. Maybe love is never something that gets easier. Maybe that kind of hurt lasts forever.
But maybe he hasn't lost Heungsoo. Not yet. Maybe they can still be friends. Maybe Namsoon can't have all of him, but maybe that can be okay. Namsoon thinks about Jongho's smile, Jongho's eyes, the bruises littering Jongho's face, and thinks that maybe--just maybe--he can learn to share with the rest of Seoul this time.
Namsoon goes to his window and opens it, smelling the cool quiet of spring slowly permeating the city. It's March and winter is ending. It's March, and spring is on its way.
I loved you, he replies, five years too late. Bastard
Namsoon closes his eyes and breathes in--deep, full, painlessly.
And Heungsoo writes back: I'll see you tomorrow.
You have to take a close look
to see that it’s pretty,
You have to take a long look
to see that it is lovely.
You are the same.
"Flower" - Na Taejoo
Author's Note: firstly, once upon a time (like maybe 2 years ago? one year ago?) the lj user who went by ulzzang/tjsbox aka tj wrote a block b story with a format kind of like this--dividing up the sections--and i had thought it was a pretty neat idea and thought that one day i'd like to emulate that. the fic itself, i believe, along with his livejournal has long since been deleted, and he's also left fandom, so i can't say i replicated this with his permission. but i suppose at the end of the day i still wrote this story the way i did, hence this miserable attempt at an author's note offering credit where credit is due.
secondly, thank you so much to ree and sam for helping me through this. to ree for copying out our dms and walking me through heartwrenching rewatches of the show, for her translations, for her fascinating discussions w/r/t particular turns of phrase within the show, and to sam for reading, critiquing. and basically being my samwise. ♥ thank you, both of you. i probably wouldn't have had the gall to post this without you.
finally, i wrote this over various lunch breaks at my desk, hence the distinct lack of explicit sex.
this is a much better author's note than i managed last time i suppose. i'm still 100000% done w/ this show tho.