[infinite] oo5. melancholy; woohyun/hoya; g
Title: Melancholy
Pairing: Woohyun/Hoya
Rating: G
Summary: Woohyun struggles with dance. Hoya struggles with his pride. oo5. of the 100 infinite fic challenge.
Word Count: ~900
mel.an.chol.y (n)
1. a deep, pensive, and long-lasting sadness
2. the mental or emotional symptoms of depression or despondency
---
a.
He sits alone in the dance studio, back pressed against the mirror, head buried in his arms.
No matter how many times he tries, it doesn’t work -- it just never goes right. He curses his two left feet, curses his inability to remember more than a single move at a time, curses at himself, and curses at the wind until he runs out of words and energy.
Out of the trainees, he’s pretty sure he’s the slowest, and it frustrates him to no end.
You’ll get it soon, the dance instructor had told him after the other trainees left the room, you just…need a bit more practice.
First in the studio, last out, day in, day out -- and nothing to show.
-
Then one day, he’s not the first.
He stares at the boy in the studio sitting cross-legged on the bass speaker, head bopping in time with the music. The boy is wearing a bright red cap with the letters DANCE emblazoned on in gold, and an oversized t-shirt.
“Hello?”
The boy jumps in surprise, then slides off the speaker and extends a hand.
“Hi, sorry about that, I’m a new trainee, I just transferred from JYP. Pleased to meet you,” the boy greets him with a smile, and he’s slightly miffed.
“Are you a dancer?” he asks, motioning to the boy’s attire. The new boy laughs.
“Actually, yeah. I was just making some choreo. You wanna see?”
The boy moves with so much precision, so much power and control. Even in a simple uncurling of his arms, there is elegance. He watches in awe and yearns to be like him, limbs moving harmoniously with the bass beat of the music, hands catching the snares, the claps, the subtle off-beat of the lyrics. It reminds him of how absolutely inadequate his own dancing is, and a flood of despair washes over him.
The music stops and he claps politely. The boy grins.
“What do you think?”
He nods. “It’s amazing. I wish I could do that.”
The other boy grins wider.
“Come on, I’ll teach you.”
-
They practise like that every morning, before the other trainees start filing into the studio. He’s taught a different short routine every time, and each day he finds himself remembering just a little more.
He ranks in the top quarter for their next dance assessment -- something that’s never happened before.
a/b.
Time passes.
Their debut date never comes. Always pushed back, always lacking something.
The seeds of doubt and tendrils of depression warp their minds, and they struggle to keep their momentum. Patience is a virtue they both lack.
b.
He sits alone at the platform of the deserted subway station, waiting for the last train.
His heart pounds furiously in his chest. He had run all the way here, not stopping to look back down the long, dark road.
The sweat on his back makes his soaked t-shirt cling in patterns to his skin, and blooming bruises mark his arms and legs like the battle scars of war. He rubs at them absentmindedly, then presses on them, harder, harder, and the pain aches in a good way -- it reminds him of his work, his dedication, and he feels a pang of guilt.
The train pulls in, and he steps on, wishing the train could take him far, far away, where hurt, pain, guilt and disappointment didn't exist.
-
He's back at the company three days later. It’s nighttime, and all the lights are off, but he knows the dance room will be unlocked, and silently hopes that he’s still there, practicing as usual. His heart sinks when he faces an empty room, and he despondently sits on the bass speaker.
Three days had given him more than enough time to think. If he gave up then, it really would meant admitting defeat to himself -- and, he grits his teeth, to his parents. He didn't dare face them, not after he boldly walked out with a statement that he wouldn't return until he saw success. His passion and determination were qualities he prided himself on, and if he ran away from his trainee life then he would never have forgiven himself.
The door to the dance studio swings open, lights flickering on, and he looks up, startled. It’s him.
"Hello," he murmurs, registering "I'm back."
The boy who just entered freezes for a beat, equally startled, then grins.
"I knew you'd be back."
a+b.
They sit together after practice at the banks of the Han River, a can of half-finished apple cider between them.
The streets are quiet. It’s just them and the sound of the water lapping at the concrete, the bark of a neighbourhood dog, and the occasional car.
"We're a sad pair, aren't we," the older boy murmurs, taking a sip of the cider.
The younger boy says nothing, reaching over to take the can from the older boy’s hand and taking a swig. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and lies back on the grass, looking up at the stars. He thinks of the other boy’s dancing, the hours of practise, his parents, then the possible future ahead of them, and he closes his eyes.
“We may be a sad pair, but at least we have a tomorrow.”
Pairing: Woohyun/Hoya
Rating: G
Summary: Woohyun struggles with dance. Hoya struggles with his pride. oo5. of the 100 infinite fic challenge.
Word Count: ~900
mel.an.chol.y (n)
1. a deep, pensive, and long-lasting sadness
2. the mental or emotional symptoms of depression or despondency
---
a.
He sits alone in the dance studio, back pressed against the mirror, head buried in his arms.
No matter how many times he tries, it doesn’t work -- it just never goes right. He curses his two left feet, curses his inability to remember more than a single move at a time, curses at himself, and curses at the wind until he runs out of words and energy.
Out of the trainees, he’s pretty sure he’s the slowest, and it frustrates him to no end.
You’ll get it soon, the dance instructor had told him after the other trainees left the room, you just…need a bit more practice.
First in the studio, last out, day in, day out -- and nothing to show.
-
Then one day, he’s not the first.
He stares at the boy in the studio sitting cross-legged on the bass speaker, head bopping in time with the music. The boy is wearing a bright red cap with the letters DANCE emblazoned on in gold, and an oversized t-shirt.
“Hello?”
The boy jumps in surprise, then slides off the speaker and extends a hand.
“Hi, sorry about that, I’m a new trainee, I just transferred from JYP. Pleased to meet you,” the boy greets him with a smile, and he’s slightly miffed.
“Are you a dancer?” he asks, motioning to the boy’s attire. The new boy laughs.
“Actually, yeah. I was just making some choreo. You wanna see?”
The boy moves with so much precision, so much power and control. Even in a simple uncurling of his arms, there is elegance. He watches in awe and yearns to be like him, limbs moving harmoniously with the bass beat of the music, hands catching the snares, the claps, the subtle off-beat of the lyrics. It reminds him of how absolutely inadequate his own dancing is, and a flood of despair washes over him.
The music stops and he claps politely. The boy grins.
“What do you think?”
He nods. “It’s amazing. I wish I could do that.”
The other boy grins wider.
“Come on, I’ll teach you.”
-
They practise like that every morning, before the other trainees start filing into the studio. He’s taught a different short routine every time, and each day he finds himself remembering just a little more.
He ranks in the top quarter for their next dance assessment -- something that’s never happened before.
a/b.
Time passes.
Their debut date never comes. Always pushed back, always lacking something.
The seeds of doubt and tendrils of depression warp their minds, and they struggle to keep their momentum. Patience is a virtue they both lack.
b.
He sits alone at the platform of the deserted subway station, waiting for the last train.
His heart pounds furiously in his chest. He had run all the way here, not stopping to look back down the long, dark road.
The sweat on his back makes his soaked t-shirt cling in patterns to his skin, and blooming bruises mark his arms and legs like the battle scars of war. He rubs at them absentmindedly, then presses on them, harder, harder, and the pain aches in a good way -- it reminds him of his work, his dedication, and he feels a pang of guilt.
The train pulls in, and he steps on, wishing the train could take him far, far away, where hurt, pain, guilt and disappointment didn't exist.
-
He's back at the company three days later. It’s nighttime, and all the lights are off, but he knows the dance room will be unlocked, and silently hopes that he’s still there, practicing as usual. His heart sinks when he faces an empty room, and he despondently sits on the bass speaker.
Three days had given him more than enough time to think. If he gave up then, it really would meant admitting defeat to himself -- and, he grits his teeth, to his parents. He didn't dare face them, not after he boldly walked out with a statement that he wouldn't return until he saw success. His passion and determination were qualities he prided himself on, and if he ran away from his trainee life then he would never have forgiven himself.
The door to the dance studio swings open, lights flickering on, and he looks up, startled. It’s him.
"Hello," he murmurs, registering "I'm back."
The boy who just entered freezes for a beat, equally startled, then grins.
"I knew you'd be back."
a+b.
They sit together after practice at the banks of the Han River, a can of half-finished apple cider between them.
The streets are quiet. It’s just them and the sound of the water lapping at the concrete, the bark of a neighbourhood dog, and the occasional car.
"We're a sad pair, aren't we," the older boy murmurs, taking a sip of the cider.
The younger boy says nothing, reaching over to take the can from the older boy’s hand and taking a swig. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and lies back on the grass, looking up at the stars. He thinks of the other boy’s dancing, the hours of practise, his parents, then the possible future ahead of them, and he closes his eyes.
“We may be a sad pair, but at least we have a tomorrow.”