IMB 2011: Infinity (1/2)
Title: Infinity
Pairing/Focus: Sungjong-centric OT7 + Myungsoo/Sungjong
Rating: PG-13
Current Word Count: 12,323 w.
Summary: They were infinite, they were timeless; and also, Sungjong thinks, their love was too.
monday.
教えてくれないか 心はまだ救えるかな
i want to know if our souls can still be saved
They die on a Monday.
"Why don't I get to go too? It's so boring having to stay at home alone like this!" Sungjong crosses his arms and puts on the most upset expression he can muster, although he knows it probably wouldn't come across half as angry as he wants it to look.
Sunggyu sighs, crossing the living room in three strides; he's gotten so used to the occasional shirt and stuffed animal lying around the floor that he almost seems to know where to sidestep them. He unfolds Sungjong's arms with a mildly amused smile playing on his lips. "If we don't leave now, we wouldn't make it on time to the radio station! And besides, you wouldn't be home alone, silly, the van's coming to pick you up for this week's Makirae recording soon, right? Speaking of which, why aren't you dressed yet? You know the makeup noonas there don't like waiting," he fusses.
Sungjong eyes him warily, but lets his arms hang at his sides as he huffs a little. "I know, I know. It's just that we're always busy and I go for Makirae recordings all the time, and we're so tired from dance practice and preparations for Japan that we come back and crash!" He hesitates a little, then scoots closer, his voice quieter, "We spend less time together now."
Sunggyu's eyes soften, pools of the darkest shade of chocolate. They really hadn't been spending as much time together as they used to. During their trainee days, they'd spend every waking moment together, from washing up in the bathroom to practice to meals - everywhere. They made it a point to have short talks before going to bed every night, simply to reflect (and maybe even so they wouldn't feel so alone). He remembers the walks they'd have, back when they could still shop and eat without being recognized or mobbed by eager fans. He loves Inspirits, he really does, but he misses the simple delights in life that most idols have to forgo.
Sunggyu smiles again, this time an apologetic one, then reaches out to ruffle Sungjong's hair. "I know. But we're going to Japan this month, aren't we? I'll make sure we spend lots and lots of time together then, every single moment," he promises. "Now go," and he pets Sungjong's right cheek lightly, "go change before the van comes and they find you in house clothing."
Sungjong straightens the flyaway strands of his hair, smiles to himself as he trails Sunggyu to the door. "Yah, guys, hurry or we'll be late!" he calls out to the dorm. Sungjong hears the doors start to open and slam shut, "COMING!", "HEY! Way to slam the door in my face!", "Has anyone seen my cellphone?" He can't help but giggle; he loves the noise everyone made in the house. It isn't as if the dorm is all that big either, so even the slightest sound would bounce off the walls and come across as louder than what it originally was.
He doesn't realize it, but the grin on his face grows wider, spreading his cherry lips as Hoya stumbles around the corner first, stuffing the contents of his backpack deep enough so he could zip it up. Dongwoo and Sungyeol look like they're racing each other to the door although Sungjong knows they're not, footsteps heavy against the floor and out of breath when they reach the shoe racks. Woohyun hurries out of his room with a lopsided beanie on his head just as Myungsoo finally manages to squeeze his door shut behind the mountain of Dongwoo's stuffed toys.
Sungjong watches fondly as they put on their shoes and make adjustments to their hair, their loud chatter occasionally punctuated with laughter. They wave their 'bye's and 'good luck's to him and slip out the door one by one. Myungsoo spins on his heel just as he reaches for the doorknob, abruptly turning around and pressing his lips briefly against Sungjong's. His fingers brush against Sungjong's cheekbone as he obliges the other's whimper for a second kiss. "See you later," he whispers, slim figure sidling out the door.
Sungjong sighs contentedly; he can still hear the members' voices floating back to him from the corridor outside. He glimpses the clock on the wall near the kitchen, and rushes to his room to get ready when he realizes he has but 15 minutes left.
"Aaaaaaaand… CUT!" The director's voice reaches Sungjong's ears, sharp but not unfriendly. "Okay everyone, lunch break! It's on me today, go help yourselves," he says, gesturing towards a table stacked high with what looks like take-away boxes. "Thank you for all your hard work!" everyone calls together. The children squeal excitedly just as the camera crew and standby makeup staff stretch themselves, forgetting all about their exhaustion as they hurry over to the food.
It turns out to be take-away Chinese - steamed pork buns, har gao, sticky rice, lo mein. Sungjong smiles and bows at each member of the staff that he passes on the way to the portable freezer where they kept drinks; he picks up a can of soda because he never did like iced coffee (although he remembers Hoya saying something about your stomach turning upside down inside when oily food met gassy drinks in your stomach, or something like that).
He sits at a table next to the chatty production crew, flashing a smile every now and then when one of them makes eye contact. Sungjong hasn't eaten Chinese food in a while; they've been so busy they mostly just eat instant noodles in between schedules. He peels the plastic wrapping of the wooden chopsticks and begins eating, glancing around the familiar set. He loves Makirae and everyone in it, but he really can't help wishing that all of Infinite were regulars, not just him. He knows they'd love the bright colours (even Myungsoo, no matter how much he tries to deny it).
"Sungjong-oppa, Sungjong-oppa!" Hyein comes squealing with her box of noodles, the contents looking like they're about to spill over. She hurtles herself into his arms, laughing brilliantly, then Sungjong sees Donghyun running towards them both with a smile to match hers.
Yoojung giggles, the edge of her pink dress sashaying around her knees as she jogs to keep up and sits next to Sungjong. "They're playing tag! Hyein-ah wins all the time, but Donghyun-oppa never gives up!" she explains, swallowing a mouthful of pork bun.
He's gotten much too fond of these children - they're almost like the younger siblings he never got to have, he muses. He strokes Yoojung's hair just as Dongwoo offers him a bun with twinkling eyes, "Hyung, do you want one?" He shakes his head and says he has his share, laughing as Dongwoo pretends to give him the cold shoulder and sticks half of it into his own mouth, the huge bun causing his cheeks to puff out.
Sungjong laughs so hard at the Tok Tok Tok children's antics that he has to put his lunch aside to wipe away the tears forming in his eyes. He laughs so hard that he doesn't hear the one of the broadcasting station's staff call out to him.
It's only when Yoojung - ever the sensible one - hears his name that she snaps out of their little world first and taps Sungjong on the shoulder. All eyes are on him, the director's, the staff's, the children's.
"Y-Yes? I'm sorry," he apologizes beforehand, searching the crowd for the familiar middle-aged lady who worked at the broadcasting station's reception desk, because he recognizes her voice now. He lowers Hyein gently down to the floor from his lap and stands up, brushing at his pants lightly. When he catches sight of her, she doesn't seem the calm, collected, mildly humorous woman he's come to know. She looks shaken, she is trembling. "Jooyeon-sshi, are you okay?" Sungjong asks, half-reaching out to her.
She shakes her head, as if the physical action would be able to clear up whatever there is floating about in her mind. But she doesn't answer him, simply looks at him as if she's taking him in from head to toe. Sungjong hasn't ever been an expert at reading emotions; he can't pinpoint what it is he's feeling from her. Her eyes look empty, whispers of shock (and… pity?) playing about in her pupils.
"I… I'm fine. Y-Your agency called," her voice rattles as much as her body. A long, long pause, and it seems like forever until she speaks again, "I-I'm so sorry, Sungjongie. There's been an accident."
Sungjong has always made a personal note to refrain from being near hospitals; he never wants to be anywhere within a kilometer from them. When he passes by the buildings in their company vans on the way to a schedule sometimes, he tries to hide his little shudder and presses closer to whoever's sitting next to him in the car.
But here he's running through the corridors, seeing white and grey and pale blue everywhere. He hears the nurses yelping in shock, the managers calling after him, but he can't make out what it is they're saying. (He thinks they're telling him to stop, but how could anyone?) His fingers stab at the buttons of the elevators, as if pressing it any harder or any faster would make the doors open quicker. He just about runs into an elderly lady, sprinting in the moment the doors part; he presses the third button with unnecessary force, the label below it reading 'Trauma & Surgical Wards'. Sungjong's never had a case of claustrophobia before, but he struggles to breathe in the spacious elevator, the change in floor numbers painfully slow. He runs out just as fast as when he entered, if not faster.
(But time runs faster than he ever could.)
His head is spinning as he rounds corner after corner, eyes raking across the gold-plated hospital signs. The blues and whites and grays and the scent of medicine and a sense of heaviness (Sungjong lies to himself and says it's depression, but what he really thinks is death) is making him sick; he wants to throw up. He doesn't hear the managers anymore but he thinks he still hears shocked nurses - he's running too hard to care.
(What is there left to care for?)
His heart feels as if it's completely bounced out of his chest altogether; he's breathing in big gasps. "Where are they," his voice is low, rough. He coughs, choking, clutching so hard against the smooth wooden texture of the receptionist's desk. The woman looks taken aback, but he can see that she is young - possibly in her early twenties - the age group that would recognize him as a member of Infinite. "O-Oh, um, Sungjong-sshi, they're in," she glances at the monitor and back at him with broken eyes, "Room 361."
He doesn't wait for her to continue as he begins running again, just as oblivious to the sounds of nurses telling him to slow down as he is to his feet's plea for mercy. He does find their room, but he suddenly isn't sure if he wants to know anymore. (An irrelevant thought crosses his mind - how could humans be so fickle? One moment, they feel this way; the next, they don't.)
He isn't sure if the world is shaking around him or if he's shaking so hard that the world is shaking along; all he knows is that everything he sees begins to blur in and out of focus as he lifts a trembling hand to the door, pushes it open, takes one step, two steps, three steps in. He expects the hospital rooms he sees on TV - white-walled with sickening light blue curtains faded with time and pain, reeking of medicine and vomit and IV drips, machines blinking yellow and red and green everywhere, silence so poignant it seems as if everyone's run out of things to say.
But here the walls are a pale shade of cream, the curtains an inviting brown. There are no machines, no medicine cabinets; he could even pick up the faint trail of rosemary swirling in the air. (Wouldn't a hospital room need to have immediately-accessible medical facilities? Unless the patients are already-) He sees vaguely familiar faces - the members' parents, even his own. He isn't in the right mind to try telling them apart. Their gazes float to him for a moment, as if acknowledging him but not really, because their eyes are blank, then back to the few beds that were taking up a large part of the room. Sungjong belatedly realizes that they are crying, the women with loud choking cries and the men in hushed tears.
His steps are as unstable as his heart, but he manages his way over to the first of the beds, closest to the door. He sees Woohyun (who was always the first to greet him, not just at home, it now seems), then Sunggyu and Hoya and Dongwoo and Sungyeol and Myungsoo. Whatever gruesome car accident that might have been, their bodies are intact, their faces untouched by the claws of fate. Death must've grabbed them by the clothes, he thinks, because they looked so unharmed, almost as if they were sleeping soundly after a day's worth of dancing, on beds slightly too small for them.
His gaze lands on Myungsoo, unmoving and still, yet still gleaming with unnatural beauty. That alone is enough to unravel him, the fragile strings of his heart falling apart cleanly, like a fresh blade swiping through them, still hot from the fire. One moment, he sees his members, and all he can see the next is the marble floor as white as their faces, light swirls of pink and grey as if frozen in the cold stone; the legs of the beds, metal gleaming under the bright fluorescent lights.
Sungjong hears a ruckus, he cannot be sure - he hears panicked voices and a brushing of feet and maybe someone calling for a nurse. Strong, masculine arms lift him off the floor; familiar fingers (his father?), yes. He is put on a chair, his head forced back for some air. He hears something along the lines of, "Oh god, is he okay?" and "Jongie, can you hear me?"
He cannot say for certain, because he cannot hear them. All he can hear is the sound of his very soul falling apart at the seams, a clean tinkling sound.
His mother, he realizes, is holding out a wad of tissues to him, her eyes red-rimmed, just as broken as the receptionist's had been. He wonders if he's getting dizzy, if he's going to pass out soon, because everything looks strangely blurred. "Don't cry," she says, a sense of desperation in her voice as if she was talking to herself more than to him.
He pushes away the tissues she offers because he doesn't feel the hot liquid streaming down his milky face, doesn't realize he's crying too.
tuesday.
眠れずに触れた手が 幻でも 僕には 優しい
even if i touch a phantom hand on a sleepless night, i will feel tenderness
Sungjong flips over in his bed, accidentally hitting himself with his arm. He groans, feeling hung over although he isn't even of legal age to drink yet. He sits up in his bed, so battered that he barely has enough energy to hold himself upright.
Honestly, he doesn't even really remember how he got here. He doesn't remember who told him what, who offered him their condolences, who drove him back to the dorms, how he even got changed - his memory is just as broken as his heart. Sungjong falls back onto his flattened pillows and pulls the comforters over his head, fingers digging deep into the cotton mattress as he shut his eyes, willing himself back into the refuge of sleep, refusing to think about how quiet and lonely the dorms would be once he's really woken up-
"Wake up, you sleepyhead! You've slept in so much; do you have any idea what time it is?" Warmth washes against Sungjong's face as the comforter is brutally snatched away. He lifts his arm to cover his eyes in the split second it takes for him to come to the realization that that voice is eerily familiar, a voice that shouldn't even be here-
He sits up abruptly, peering over the edge of his double bunk bed to see Woohyun wrestling with the sheets in an attempt to fold it while standing. "What-" Sungjong doesn't know what to say, so he stares instead. His eyes move to the clock on the messy nightstand he shares with Hoya; it reads 11.27 am. Well, existing or not, this Nam Woohyun is right - he's slept in much more than he normally would. "W-What… What are you doing here?" It's a stupid question, he thinks, but it escapes his lips anyway. This Woohyun gives him the same mildly amused, you-are-so-weird look that the one he knows does (the one who's supposed to be dead, he thinks, but he shakes that off too).
Woohyun smoothes out the sheets, places them neatly on Sungjong's bed, puts his hands on his hips. "What do you mean, 'what are you doing here'? I live here, duh," he laughs to himself as if it's the greatest joke that's ever been cracked on earth, flopping down with a goofy grin plastered on his face next to Sungjong who's climbed down onto Sungyeol's bed.
Sungjong can't help but smile a bit, but then it disappears just as quickly as it came, and he's gazing at Woohyun as he stares out the window, his slightly tanned skin bathed in the morning sunlight. Sungjong's a little amused and very, very confused. Part of him wants to believe that this is true, that all he's seen was but a dream. A very vivid one, if a dream at all; everything he felt yesterday (or what was supposed to be yesterday, he corrects himself) seemed too real. He thinks he's going crazy, that he's ended up like one of those psychopaths everyone sees on TV who can't let go of whatever's left them behind. He thinks Woohyun's not really there, that he's hallucinating and dreaming and really only talking to himself.
Woohyun gently places his fingers on Sungjong's wrist (and it is warm, so very warm and tender and gentle and all the good that Woohyun ever was); Sungjong does a double take. If Woohyun really was dead, he'd be a ghost. And people know that ghosts can't touch anyone; technically they're not really there, not actual substance, and therefore they shouldn't be able to make physical contact with the living, right?
"Hyung," he says, and it comes out more like a whisper because he thinks his heart knows him too well. If he tries to speak any louder, he knows his voice will give in and crack. His eyes impulsively skim over Hoya's unkempt bed across the room, the comforters hanging off one side and his reading glasses tossed carelessly over his iPod, just the way he's always liked it. Sungyeol's is soft and cooling, pillow perfectly fluffed and stuffed animals arranged near the wall. He picks up the dog he remembers he hit on one of their Sesame Player episodes, rubs the area he's hit (as if it would relieve it of the pain it'd felt, and maybe relieve himself of a little pain too).
"Where's Sungyeol, and Howon-hyung?"
Sungjong musters all the strength he can to look directly into Woohyun's eyes, and for a moment he thinks he sees a mirror of himself because Woohyun's gaze is as broken as his own. "Jongie-ah," now he's whispering too, "T-They're… dead. We all are."
Sungjong throws the doll at him; Woohyun catches it. (Just like how Sungjong's always thrown his troubles at Woohyun, cries them out, and Woohyun's always there to take them and lock them away forever.) "If you're dead, how can you touch me? If you're dead, you can't be here! If you're dead, you should be translucent and floating!" Sungjong realizes he's screaming only when the sounds bounce off the walls back at him. He feels Woohyun's fingers tighten slightly around his.
The answering voice is apologetic. "I don't really know either. I don't even know how I got here; I kind of just… appeared?" Woohyun seems to think for a moment, as if deliberating whether or not to divulge something. After a long pause, he says, "We each get turns to see you. We don't get to choose which order we go in. I don't know how long we can stay or what time we first appear, though? I don't even remember who told me that, really - the last thing I really remember was red all over." Everything comes out in a rush, like Woohyun's been holding his breath.
Sungjong eyes him, doesn't realize he's gripping Woohyun's hand in return. "Where do you go after that?"
"I don't know. I… I don't think we come back anymore."
Sungjong spends a large part of the day cleaning the dorms with Woohyun just because he was asked to; "It's always been so messed up and we never really have time to clean anymore," he'd said. It really isn't as bad as Woohyun's exaggerated it to be, everything's just not in their proper places is all, but then again, which teenage boys are ever in order anyway?
Woohyun talks about the most mundane of things, like it was any ordinary (exceptionally free) day at home - he talks about the café in Hongdae he's been wanting to try, about the florist along the street hasn't had a day off in 17 years, about how he wishes KBS would give him a casting call for Immortal Song 2, about how he needs to practice his cheesy aegyo for the fans more because Sungyeol is catching up. Sungjong tries to bring himself to say something about the accident, ask everything he's wanted to ask what happened where were you did it hurt are you going to leave me, but he doesn't want to break Woohyun's happy bubble of thought (he knows he's lying to himself; he just wants it to be noisy so he wouldn't feel like he was really alone anymore). So Sungjong decides to forget about it, loses himself in the moment, tries to brush against Woohyun whenever possible to make sure he's really still as solid and present as he was this morning.
It's evening when they finally finish up, and they collapse onto the wooden floor. They aren't tired; Sungjong thinks that they just both want to lie down for a while. He scoots closer to Woohyun, his head fitting nicely under the other's arms, his forehead pressed against the side of Woohyun's chest. And they stay like that for a while, letting the comfortable silence wrap around them.
Then Woohyun murmurs, "Hey, you're gonna be okay, you know?" Sungjong wants to say, no i won't you idiot i need you i need all of you, but something in Woohyun's voice is so reassuring, as if every word that came out of it was the ultimate truth. Kind of like a mother, he supposes; there's something in a mother's tone that makes her children believe her, no matter how skeptical they are (or how ludicrous the lie is).
So all he says is, "I hope so."
They lay like that for could have been hours and days, until Woohyun finally says he's getting a cramp because he's aging and he feels like cooking. He pulls Sungjong up to his feet. "Well, I'm going to go make something for dinner, what do you want?" he asks. "Ramen will do," Sungjong answers, and Woohyun pats his head. "Okay, go watch something on TV in the meantime. I'll probably make kimchi chigae for myself, and no, you're not going to have any!" he says, in a sing-song voice, already crossing the kitchen threshold.
Sungjong chuckles a little, sliding down onto one of the large beanies their manager had brought home a week ago or so in the living room. He flips the channels mindlessly, finally settling for a black-and-white Western movie which he doesn't even understand, for lack of something better to watch.
The movie is actually turning out to be rather interesting; it's a cliché love story along the lines of triads and a rich woman who's taken hostage and falls in love with the head gangster. It's been more than half an hour and he still hears the gas in the kitchen. "Hyung, isn't it done yet? What super-special ramen are you even making?" he half-whines, propping himself up on his elbows and making his way to the kitchen.
When he peers around the doorframe, all he sees are his overcooked noodles simmering in long-boiled water and a frozen pack of kimchi lying on the counter. He can smell the open packet of seasoning on the stove (and a tinge of vanilla - Woohyun's distinct scent).
Sungjong loses Nam Woohyun on a Tuesday.
wednesday.
思い出は そばにある 永遠を埋めて
the memories are by our side, forever and ever
Sungjong makes himself kimchi chigae the next morning, the very same pack Woohyun had taken out of the fridge the day before. It's close to tasteless, of course, because cooking has never been his forte and he really can make salty cupcakes. (He did that once, and he remembers Dongwoo scribbling a black-and-white declaration banning him from the kitchen.) He finishes up, stuffs the last spoonful of the orange-red soup into his mouth, washes the bowl and spoon he'd used.
He sidles up to the small window by the wall; it's a bright day out - it's not sunny to the point where the heat becomes unbearable, but it's not cloudy and cold either. Everything's set just right for an outing, but the last thing he wants to do is leave the house; he'll bump into journalists with prying questions, see sympathetic fans who still squeal at the sight of him, brush past boisterous groups of teenage boys on a noraebang trip (everything that reminds him of what he doesn't have anymore).
So instead, he curls up in bed - this time Sungyeol's again because he's exhausted and doesn't want to climb up onto his own - and rummages around in the desk drawer for one of his revision books. He picks up History, then Social Studies, neither of which he feels like studying right now, and settles for Math. He convinces himself that it's never too early to study for finals because he's an idol and he doesn't really go to school much more and he needs to keep up (although all he really wants is something to take his mind off everything).
Given 5p (k-3) over 2 = 8 over r, express k in terms of p and r; Sungjong's been working on this question over and over, scribbling out a formula and thinking he suddenly has it when the answer doesn't make much sense. He erases out his latest experimental answer, brushing the eraser dust onto the bed-
A high-pitched shriek rang shrill in Sungjong's ears the exact moment he feels a sudden throbbing ache on the side of his head; he belatedly realizes that he'd been hit by the huge teddy bear he used to - and admittedly still does - assault. "Yah! That's my bed you're throwing all that eraser dust onto! Do it on your bed or something!"
Sungjong whirls around, to see a sputtering, half-fuming Sungyeol stomping across the room and pulling the nearest stuffed animal to his chest, towering over Sungjong when he stands like that at his full height. He scoots towards the wall to make space for the older boy who's already climbing into the bed and cramming himself into a space obviously too small for him; Sungjong knows Sungyeol has never been one to be angry for long. He just throws fits and rambles to himself for a while, then all is peaceful again. (Sungjong thinks he now believes that people don't become saints once they die and go to heaven like what's always said; they do keep some of their human traits with them.)
Sungyeol grabs the pencil from his aching fingers, "Yah, you've really been skipping too much school for your own good," he sighs disapprovingly, scribbling out his working and the final answer. There is a brief moment of silence when Sungjong writes in the answer for real. Sungjong feels the sheets shuffle beneath him as Sungyeol flips over onto his back, staring up at the low ceiling of his bunk. Sungjong feels as if Sungyeol knows Woohyun's told him, because he doesn't bother explaining the details. He skips straight to the point instead. "Jongie, let's do something," he offers. This usually happy voice is still happy, but Sungjong can tell it's seems that way only because Sungyeol is trying, trying so damn hard.
"Okay. What do you want to do?"
They leave the house through one of the many back doors, and end up at a funfair, not the ones that are packed and noisy and full of people; they go to the smaller one on the other side of town that's less crowded but merry nevertheless. The sort where the person at the ticketing counter isn't a platinum blonde girly-girl blowing strawberry-flavoured bubblegum, instead a middle-aged woman who's been working there half her life and smiles a warm smile that reminds Sungjong of wooden cottages. The sort where the attractions aren't in cement booths with flashy blinking LEDs, instead dainty wooden shacks with strings of coloured lights. There aren't any humongous roller coasters that Sungjong can see from a mile away or full with hip teenagers. It's mostly just parents with their children, families (Sungjong thinks it's ironic because he's surrounded by something he's lost).
He pulls his scarf tighter over his face although it's suffocating him, inhaling the same carbon dioxide. He watches in a daze as Sungyeol daringly orders two sticks of cotton candy for them without even trying to hide his identity, but no one recognizes them here. The old man at the stand gives him an extra large portion because he claims Sungyeol's choding reminds him of his youth, flashes a toothy but not unkindly grin as he waves them off.
Sungyeol is popping fluffball after fluffball into his mouth as they wander through the maze-like array of stalls to the main wide-open area. "Hey, let's go on the Ferris wheel," he says, staring wide-eyed at the structure. They've gone on the merry-go-round, rode bumper cars, played crazy rounds of 'Test Your Strength' (even temporarily drowned themselves in laughter and fun and childishness again) - the Ferris wheel is the only major attraction they haven't tried.
The sky is a palette of colours by the time they board one of the carriages, a mixture of pale blue and lavender and bright orange, their cotton candy reduced to wooden sticks. As the Ferris wheel begins its slow turn, they sit facing each other, stealing long glances out the glass at the city laying unaware before them. Sungjong thinks it's strange, how humans think they know everything when they don't even know what happens a few feet above them. Seoul's nightline is beginning to show; warm lights of all colours outlining departmental stores, majestic skyscrapers, long stretches of streets.
Sungjong realizes Sungyeol's gazing at him, eyes soft. "I'll miss you," he whispers, and his voice is so gentle, so much like that of a child's that even in the carriage's silence, Sungjong has to strain to hear him, but he does.
"I know," his answering voice is just as soft, a whisper racked with emotion as he bites back tears. "I'll miss you too." So much, you have no idea. His mother always told him never to hold grudges even against the people you constantly bicker with; you never know what you have till it's gone. His father told him mothers were always right.
Sungjong reaches out to bridge the tiny space separating them, encasing Sungyeol's hands in his own. They sit like that through the entire ride, comfortable silence and gentle smiles between them.
When they alight from the Ferris wheel, they make one last stop at the shooting range, where Sungyeol wins a bunny. They make their way back to the old lockers where you could pay to keep your bags so you wouldn't have to lug it around the entire funfair. Sungjong hands over the money to the woman manning the entrance; she smiles and tells them to hurry home because it's running late.
"D'you think we'll still have time to go to Yongin?" Sungyeol asks, glancing behind him at the sky. "I just want to see my mom for a bit. Well, from afar, but you get what I mean," he adds on, voice soft, uncertain. Sungjong checks his watch (lets his gaze drop so Sungyeol wouldn't have to see how shaky it was); it reads 5.40pm. "I think so? By the time we get to the subway, it'll be 6.00, maybe? If the ride takes an hour, it should be okay. We can have dinner somewhere and come back," he says, turning the key to the locker.
Sungjong watches with the tiniest smile as Sungyeol walks down a couple more rows to get his bags and slides out of his sight; there's always such a rustic feel to Sungyeol, a country boy who always has his family in his heart.
Sungjong leans against the lockers, feeling the cold metal seep into his skin even through his shirt. 10 minutes later, he realizes it doesn't take someone all that long to get their bag. He's at the row where Sungyeol's locker is supposed to be before he knows it. The door of the locker is hanging open, an envelope sticking out of the unzipped bag. Sungjong can see the striking black words even from afar, Sungyeol's familiar handwriting: 'To Mom, Dad & Daeyeol.'
Sungjong loses Lee Sungyeol on a Wednesday.
thursday.
孤独の意味に堪える 痛みなら受け入れるよ
battling loneliness, i will live with aches and pains
Sungjong ends up going to Yongin anyway, and he knows he shouldn't have, but he reads Sungyeol's letter on the train. It turns out to be one of those bi-monthly letters Sungyeol sends home, and this one is telling his family that he'll bring extra watermelons when he next comes home and that the Pikachu he bought once is torn (hinting that he really wants his mom to sew it back for him) and that he wants them to come for their next fansign.
The house is a mess when he arrives, like time has stopped for its occupants, yet the world continues to spin around them. Daeyeol is studying with eyes redder than the scarlet hardcover textbook before him, and he's so absorbed in literature that he doesn't even notice Sungjong (or rather, Sungjong thinks, absorbed in memories). Sungyeol's mother looks like she hasn't washed up properly in days, smiling a shattered smile, taking the letter with a rattling hand (and a rattling heart).
Sungjong wakes up with Sungyeol's mother's tears dripping down his cheeks, he thinks, because he hasn't quite cried so much before.
It's breezy out today and the skies look like it might pour after last week's short dry spell. Sungjong never did realize how far away their dance studio was from the dorms; it was always a ten-minute ride with the company car. He wonders if his body is getting increasingly brittle; it hurts, whenever the wind comes in gusts (or maybe it's just the heartache, he can't tell for sure). It's slightly past dawn, and the streets are lonely, save for the ahjummas setting up their stalls and white-collar workers hurriedly slurping on their noodles to catch the subway to their workplace somewhere far away.
Sungjong makes it to the dance studio in one piece though, and he feels the familiar warmth come in quick waves when he shuts the door behind him and begins ascending the stairs. Their practice room is exactly as they'd left it - empty water bottles pushed to a corner for recycling at the end of the week, CDs stacked carelessly near the player, someone's jacket left behind on the table. He breathes, but the air he's inhaling is more than just air; it's memories, sweat, time, hardship, energy, love.
He turns to see his own reflection in the mirrored wall glaring back at him, burning the image into his brain. A once-powerful, piercing stare reduced to nothing more than a ruptured, lost gaze-
"Oh, so that's where it went!"
Sungjong would be lying if he said he's surprised at all. It's been two days in a row now, and he didn't keep his hopes up, but he'd had a feeling someone else was coming today. His gaze flicks to his right, and he sees Howon fondly bundling the purple jacket up into his arms. Their eyes meet through the mirror, midnight black and mahogany brown, and Sungjong thinks this mirror is perfect because he sees his own pain reflected in Howon's eyes, in contrast with his bright smile.
They stand like that, Howon by the table and Sungjong by the mirror, for many moments, so still that Sungjong thinks his heart might just stop too, before he turns around and flings himself against Howon (and this time, the air he's breathing is filled with the other's scent). "Woohyun-hyung and Sungyeol-hyung came," Sungjong says, voice muffled, out of a lack of things to say to Howon (but all he really wants is for Howon to nod and laugh and say, "Didn't you know they played a prank on you? They're not dead, 'course not!") Howon shifts so that he can hug in return, arms now full with his jacket and Sungjong's frail body, but he doesn't say anything like that.
"I know," he sighs instead. He pulls away and that smile is still there, now tinged with sadness yet glowing all the same. There's a pause, then, "Let's forget about all this for a while," he says, and now his smile is cheeky.
"Let's dance."
Sungjong thinks he won't cry himself to sleep tonight because his body's lost enough liquid as it is. He's sweating through his shirt, through his jeans even, sweat hanging off the wet tips of his hair like he's just gone for a shower. He's been staring at his reflection for hours; he might even be able to draw himself out, every single line and detail, if he was any good at art. His body is aching, but he's moving relentlessly - up, down, right leg up, left hand out - dancing like his life depended on it. They've danced to nearly every CD in the room, even hooked up his MP3 player.
They're dancing to a hip-hop song that sounds freshly extracted from the underground rap scene in an American suburb, right off Howon's phone. Then they're dancing to freestyle composition, then Come Back Again blares (and Sungjong would rather not dance to this one, because there's absolutely no formation and it's so empty). But they do anyway; they dance to songs where they've practiced the choreography over and over again, so much so that Sungjong doesn't even really think about which hand or leg he has to move next once he's started because it comes naturally. They dance to songs which they've only performed once or twice at showcases and special events, slightly easier routines. They dance to songs they haven't even had the opportunity to do live yet, off their new album, freshly done choreography and this is a little stiff even for Howon because they've barely practiced. (Of course, there's that Leaping Over concert in September, but they've been so busy they've barely started preparations.)
When Sungjong sees their reflection in the mirror, he thinks Howon's a hypocrite. Howon told him to forget about everything, at least for today; dance the worries away and dance like it's the last time he'd be dancing (well, Howon is, but Sungjong doesn't want to think of it that way). Sungjong's doing as he's been told, he's not thinking of anything but how synchronized they look, how his facial expressions look, at what angle his arm's being lifted in.
But when he looks over at Howon's face in the mirror, his eyes are sparkling. They're sparkling with tears (and also, Sungjong thinks, sparkling with memories). There's so much swirling in his eyes - passion, love, longing and probably a hundred other emotions Sungjong can't list out. He's sweating even harder, his entire face coated in a sheet of moisture, hair plastered to the side of his face. Sungjong wonders what he's thinking about, maybe he's recollecting the moment he auditioned, the moment he decided to rebel and become an idol, the moment they first met. He's pretty sure Howon's letting his mind wander and letting his body do the dancing; sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and when he peers over his bed, he sees Howon staring up at the ceiling of his bunk with that same look, too absorbed to even notice that Sungjong's awake and staring at him.
The ending note of Don't Spray Perfume resonates in the empty studio and there really aren't any more songs to play; their background music becomes heavy panting and the dripping of sweat. Howon crumples down onto the floor, exhausted, lying flat on his back and gazing up at the glaring lights of the studio. "Yah," he's heaving so hard that the words come out barely a whisper, "could you get ice-cream? From that shop across the road? Oh god, I'm never dancing so much without a break ever again!"
Sungjong's bent over, clutching at his knees, every inch of his body hurting (although he's sure his heart is hurting more), and his voice comes out hoarse too, "Yeah. What flavour do you want? I'll bring shaved ice back too, it's so hot," he pants. Howon replies that he wants Metropolitan, with every topping imaginable just because he can.
Sungjong comes home ten minutes later with the icy treats in hand (freezing his fingers as much as the shop noona's worried look froze his heart), and he realizes Howon's left his jacket again.
Sungjong loses Lee Howon on a Thursday.
Next
Pairing/Focus: Sungjong-centric OT7 + Myungsoo/Sungjong
Rating: PG-13
Current Word Count: 12,323 w.
Summary: They were infinite, they were timeless; and also, Sungjong thinks, their love was too.
monday.
教えてくれないか 心はまだ救えるかな
i want to know if our souls can still be saved
They die on a Monday.
"Why don't I get to go too? It's so boring having to stay at home alone like this!" Sungjong crosses his arms and puts on the most upset expression he can muster, although he knows it probably wouldn't come across half as angry as he wants it to look.
Sunggyu sighs, crossing the living room in three strides; he's gotten so used to the occasional shirt and stuffed animal lying around the floor that he almost seems to know where to sidestep them. He unfolds Sungjong's arms with a mildly amused smile playing on his lips. "If we don't leave now, we wouldn't make it on time to the radio station! And besides, you wouldn't be home alone, silly, the van's coming to pick you up for this week's Makirae recording soon, right? Speaking of which, why aren't you dressed yet? You know the makeup noonas there don't like waiting," he fusses.
Sungjong eyes him warily, but lets his arms hang at his sides as he huffs a little. "I know, I know. It's just that we're always busy and I go for Makirae recordings all the time, and we're so tired from dance practice and preparations for Japan that we come back and crash!" He hesitates a little, then scoots closer, his voice quieter, "We spend less time together now."
Sunggyu's eyes soften, pools of the darkest shade of chocolate. They really hadn't been spending as much time together as they used to. During their trainee days, they'd spend every waking moment together, from washing up in the bathroom to practice to meals - everywhere. They made it a point to have short talks before going to bed every night, simply to reflect (and maybe even so they wouldn't feel so alone). He remembers the walks they'd have, back when they could still shop and eat without being recognized or mobbed by eager fans. He loves Inspirits, he really does, but he misses the simple delights in life that most idols have to forgo.
Sunggyu smiles again, this time an apologetic one, then reaches out to ruffle Sungjong's hair. "I know. But we're going to Japan this month, aren't we? I'll make sure we spend lots and lots of time together then, every single moment," he promises. "Now go," and he pets Sungjong's right cheek lightly, "go change before the van comes and they find you in house clothing."
Sungjong straightens the flyaway strands of his hair, smiles to himself as he trails Sunggyu to the door. "Yah, guys, hurry or we'll be late!" he calls out to the dorm. Sungjong hears the doors start to open and slam shut, "COMING!", "HEY! Way to slam the door in my face!", "Has anyone seen my cellphone?" He can't help but giggle; he loves the noise everyone made in the house. It isn't as if the dorm is all that big either, so even the slightest sound would bounce off the walls and come across as louder than what it originally was.
He doesn't realize it, but the grin on his face grows wider, spreading his cherry lips as Hoya stumbles around the corner first, stuffing the contents of his backpack deep enough so he could zip it up. Dongwoo and Sungyeol look like they're racing each other to the door although Sungjong knows they're not, footsteps heavy against the floor and out of breath when they reach the shoe racks. Woohyun hurries out of his room with a lopsided beanie on his head just as Myungsoo finally manages to squeeze his door shut behind the mountain of Dongwoo's stuffed toys.
Sungjong watches fondly as they put on their shoes and make adjustments to their hair, their loud chatter occasionally punctuated with laughter. They wave their 'bye's and 'good luck's to him and slip out the door one by one. Myungsoo spins on his heel just as he reaches for the doorknob, abruptly turning around and pressing his lips briefly against Sungjong's. His fingers brush against Sungjong's cheekbone as he obliges the other's whimper for a second kiss. "See you later," he whispers, slim figure sidling out the door.
Sungjong sighs contentedly; he can still hear the members' voices floating back to him from the corridor outside. He glimpses the clock on the wall near the kitchen, and rushes to his room to get ready when he realizes he has but 15 minutes left.
"Aaaaaaaand… CUT!" The director's voice reaches Sungjong's ears, sharp but not unfriendly. "Okay everyone, lunch break! It's on me today, go help yourselves," he says, gesturing towards a table stacked high with what looks like take-away boxes. "Thank you for all your hard work!" everyone calls together. The children squeal excitedly just as the camera crew and standby makeup staff stretch themselves, forgetting all about their exhaustion as they hurry over to the food.
It turns out to be take-away Chinese - steamed pork buns, har gao, sticky rice, lo mein. Sungjong smiles and bows at each member of the staff that he passes on the way to the portable freezer where they kept drinks; he picks up a can of soda because he never did like iced coffee (although he remembers Hoya saying something about your stomach turning upside down inside when oily food met gassy drinks in your stomach, or something like that).
He sits at a table next to the chatty production crew, flashing a smile every now and then when one of them makes eye contact. Sungjong hasn't eaten Chinese food in a while; they've been so busy they mostly just eat instant noodles in between schedules. He peels the plastic wrapping of the wooden chopsticks and begins eating, glancing around the familiar set. He loves Makirae and everyone in it, but he really can't help wishing that all of Infinite were regulars, not just him. He knows they'd love the bright colours (even Myungsoo, no matter how much he tries to deny it).
"Sungjong-oppa, Sungjong-oppa!" Hyein comes squealing with her box of noodles, the contents looking like they're about to spill over. She hurtles herself into his arms, laughing brilliantly, then Sungjong sees Donghyun running towards them both with a smile to match hers.
Yoojung giggles, the edge of her pink dress sashaying around her knees as she jogs to keep up and sits next to Sungjong. "They're playing tag! Hyein-ah wins all the time, but Donghyun-oppa never gives up!" she explains, swallowing a mouthful of pork bun.
He's gotten much too fond of these children - they're almost like the younger siblings he never got to have, he muses. He strokes Yoojung's hair just as Dongwoo offers him a bun with twinkling eyes, "Hyung, do you want one?" He shakes his head and says he has his share, laughing as Dongwoo pretends to give him the cold shoulder and sticks half of it into his own mouth, the huge bun causing his cheeks to puff out.
Sungjong laughs so hard at the Tok Tok Tok children's antics that he has to put his lunch aside to wipe away the tears forming in his eyes. He laughs so hard that he doesn't hear the one of the broadcasting station's staff call out to him.
It's only when Yoojung - ever the sensible one - hears his name that she snaps out of their little world first and taps Sungjong on the shoulder. All eyes are on him, the director's, the staff's, the children's.
"Y-Yes? I'm sorry," he apologizes beforehand, searching the crowd for the familiar middle-aged lady who worked at the broadcasting station's reception desk, because he recognizes her voice now. He lowers Hyein gently down to the floor from his lap and stands up, brushing at his pants lightly. When he catches sight of her, she doesn't seem the calm, collected, mildly humorous woman he's come to know. She looks shaken, she is trembling. "Jooyeon-sshi, are you okay?" Sungjong asks, half-reaching out to her.
She shakes her head, as if the physical action would be able to clear up whatever there is floating about in her mind. But she doesn't answer him, simply looks at him as if she's taking him in from head to toe. Sungjong hasn't ever been an expert at reading emotions; he can't pinpoint what it is he's feeling from her. Her eyes look empty, whispers of shock (and… pity?) playing about in her pupils.
"I… I'm fine. Y-Your agency called," her voice rattles as much as her body. A long, long pause, and it seems like forever until she speaks again, "I-I'm so sorry, Sungjongie. There's been an accident."
Sungjong has always made a personal note to refrain from being near hospitals; he never wants to be anywhere within a kilometer from them. When he passes by the buildings in their company vans on the way to a schedule sometimes, he tries to hide his little shudder and presses closer to whoever's sitting next to him in the car.
But here he's running through the corridors, seeing white and grey and pale blue everywhere. He hears the nurses yelping in shock, the managers calling after him, but he can't make out what it is they're saying. (He thinks they're telling him to stop, but how could anyone?) His fingers stab at the buttons of the elevators, as if pressing it any harder or any faster would make the doors open quicker. He just about runs into an elderly lady, sprinting in the moment the doors part; he presses the third button with unnecessary force, the label below it reading 'Trauma & Surgical Wards'. Sungjong's never had a case of claustrophobia before, but he struggles to breathe in the spacious elevator, the change in floor numbers painfully slow. He runs out just as fast as when he entered, if not faster.
(But time runs faster than he ever could.)
His head is spinning as he rounds corner after corner, eyes raking across the gold-plated hospital signs. The blues and whites and grays and the scent of medicine and a sense of heaviness (Sungjong lies to himself and says it's depression, but what he really thinks is death) is making him sick; he wants to throw up. He doesn't hear the managers anymore but he thinks he still hears shocked nurses - he's running too hard to care.
(What is there left to care for?)
His heart feels as if it's completely bounced out of his chest altogether; he's breathing in big gasps. "Where are they," his voice is low, rough. He coughs, choking, clutching so hard against the smooth wooden texture of the receptionist's desk. The woman looks taken aback, but he can see that she is young - possibly in her early twenties - the age group that would recognize him as a member of Infinite. "O-Oh, um, Sungjong-sshi, they're in," she glances at the monitor and back at him with broken eyes, "Room 361."
He doesn't wait for her to continue as he begins running again, just as oblivious to the sounds of nurses telling him to slow down as he is to his feet's plea for mercy. He does find their room, but he suddenly isn't sure if he wants to know anymore. (An irrelevant thought crosses his mind - how could humans be so fickle? One moment, they feel this way; the next, they don't.)
He isn't sure if the world is shaking around him or if he's shaking so hard that the world is shaking along; all he knows is that everything he sees begins to blur in and out of focus as he lifts a trembling hand to the door, pushes it open, takes one step, two steps, three steps in. He expects the hospital rooms he sees on TV - white-walled with sickening light blue curtains faded with time and pain, reeking of medicine and vomit and IV drips, machines blinking yellow and red and green everywhere, silence so poignant it seems as if everyone's run out of things to say.
But here the walls are a pale shade of cream, the curtains an inviting brown. There are no machines, no medicine cabinets; he could even pick up the faint trail of rosemary swirling in the air. (Wouldn't a hospital room need to have immediately-accessible medical facilities? Unless the patients are already-) He sees vaguely familiar faces - the members' parents, even his own. He isn't in the right mind to try telling them apart. Their gazes float to him for a moment, as if acknowledging him but not really, because their eyes are blank, then back to the few beds that were taking up a large part of the room. Sungjong belatedly realizes that they are crying, the women with loud choking cries and the men in hushed tears.
His steps are as unstable as his heart, but he manages his way over to the first of the beds, closest to the door. He sees Woohyun (who was always the first to greet him, not just at home, it now seems), then Sunggyu and Hoya and Dongwoo and Sungyeol and Myungsoo. Whatever gruesome car accident that might have been, their bodies are intact, their faces untouched by the claws of fate. Death must've grabbed them by the clothes, he thinks, because they looked so unharmed, almost as if they were sleeping soundly after a day's worth of dancing, on beds slightly too small for them.
His gaze lands on Myungsoo, unmoving and still, yet still gleaming with unnatural beauty. That alone is enough to unravel him, the fragile strings of his heart falling apart cleanly, like a fresh blade swiping through them, still hot from the fire. One moment, he sees his members, and all he can see the next is the marble floor as white as their faces, light swirls of pink and grey as if frozen in the cold stone; the legs of the beds, metal gleaming under the bright fluorescent lights.
Sungjong hears a ruckus, he cannot be sure - he hears panicked voices and a brushing of feet and maybe someone calling for a nurse. Strong, masculine arms lift him off the floor; familiar fingers (his father?), yes. He is put on a chair, his head forced back for some air. He hears something along the lines of, "Oh god, is he okay?" and "Jongie, can you hear me?"
He cannot say for certain, because he cannot hear them. All he can hear is the sound of his very soul falling apart at the seams, a clean tinkling sound.
His mother, he realizes, is holding out a wad of tissues to him, her eyes red-rimmed, just as broken as the receptionist's had been. He wonders if he's getting dizzy, if he's going to pass out soon, because everything looks strangely blurred. "Don't cry," she says, a sense of desperation in her voice as if she was talking to herself more than to him.
He pushes away the tissues she offers because he doesn't feel the hot liquid streaming down his milky face, doesn't realize he's crying too.
tuesday.
眠れずに触れた手が 幻でも 僕には 優しい
even if i touch a phantom hand on a sleepless night, i will feel tenderness
Sungjong flips over in his bed, accidentally hitting himself with his arm. He groans, feeling hung over although he isn't even of legal age to drink yet. He sits up in his bed, so battered that he barely has enough energy to hold himself upright.
Honestly, he doesn't even really remember how he got here. He doesn't remember who told him what, who offered him their condolences, who drove him back to the dorms, how he even got changed - his memory is just as broken as his heart. Sungjong falls back onto his flattened pillows and pulls the comforters over his head, fingers digging deep into the cotton mattress as he shut his eyes, willing himself back into the refuge of sleep, refusing to think about how quiet and lonely the dorms would be once he's really woken up-
"Wake up, you sleepyhead! You've slept in so much; do you have any idea what time it is?" Warmth washes against Sungjong's face as the comforter is brutally snatched away. He lifts his arm to cover his eyes in the split second it takes for him to come to the realization that that voice is eerily familiar, a voice that shouldn't even be here-
He sits up abruptly, peering over the edge of his double bunk bed to see Woohyun wrestling with the sheets in an attempt to fold it while standing. "What-" Sungjong doesn't know what to say, so he stares instead. His eyes move to the clock on the messy nightstand he shares with Hoya; it reads 11.27 am. Well, existing or not, this Nam Woohyun is right - he's slept in much more than he normally would. "W-What… What are you doing here?" It's a stupid question, he thinks, but it escapes his lips anyway. This Woohyun gives him the same mildly amused, you-are-so-weird look that the one he knows does (the one who's supposed to be dead, he thinks, but he shakes that off too).
Woohyun smoothes out the sheets, places them neatly on Sungjong's bed, puts his hands on his hips. "What do you mean, 'what are you doing here'? I live here, duh," he laughs to himself as if it's the greatest joke that's ever been cracked on earth, flopping down with a goofy grin plastered on his face next to Sungjong who's climbed down onto Sungyeol's bed.
Sungjong can't help but smile a bit, but then it disappears just as quickly as it came, and he's gazing at Woohyun as he stares out the window, his slightly tanned skin bathed in the morning sunlight. Sungjong's a little amused and very, very confused. Part of him wants to believe that this is true, that all he's seen was but a dream. A very vivid one, if a dream at all; everything he felt yesterday (or what was supposed to be yesterday, he corrects himself) seemed too real. He thinks he's going crazy, that he's ended up like one of those psychopaths everyone sees on TV who can't let go of whatever's left them behind. He thinks Woohyun's not really there, that he's hallucinating and dreaming and really only talking to himself.
Woohyun gently places his fingers on Sungjong's wrist (and it is warm, so very warm and tender and gentle and all the good that Woohyun ever was); Sungjong does a double take. If Woohyun really was dead, he'd be a ghost. And people know that ghosts can't touch anyone; technically they're not really there, not actual substance, and therefore they shouldn't be able to make physical contact with the living, right?
"Hyung," he says, and it comes out more like a whisper because he thinks his heart knows him too well. If he tries to speak any louder, he knows his voice will give in and crack. His eyes impulsively skim over Hoya's unkempt bed across the room, the comforters hanging off one side and his reading glasses tossed carelessly over his iPod, just the way he's always liked it. Sungyeol's is soft and cooling, pillow perfectly fluffed and stuffed animals arranged near the wall. He picks up the dog he remembers he hit on one of their Sesame Player episodes, rubs the area he's hit (as if it would relieve it of the pain it'd felt, and maybe relieve himself of a little pain too).
"Where's Sungyeol, and Howon-hyung?"
Sungjong musters all the strength he can to look directly into Woohyun's eyes, and for a moment he thinks he sees a mirror of himself because Woohyun's gaze is as broken as his own. "Jongie-ah," now he's whispering too, "T-They're… dead. We all are."
Sungjong throws the doll at him; Woohyun catches it. (Just like how Sungjong's always thrown his troubles at Woohyun, cries them out, and Woohyun's always there to take them and lock them away forever.) "If you're dead, how can you touch me? If you're dead, you can't be here! If you're dead, you should be translucent and floating!" Sungjong realizes he's screaming only when the sounds bounce off the walls back at him. He feels Woohyun's fingers tighten slightly around his.
The answering voice is apologetic. "I don't really know either. I don't even know how I got here; I kind of just… appeared?" Woohyun seems to think for a moment, as if deliberating whether or not to divulge something. After a long pause, he says, "We each get turns to see you. We don't get to choose which order we go in. I don't know how long we can stay or what time we first appear, though? I don't even remember who told me that, really - the last thing I really remember was red all over." Everything comes out in a rush, like Woohyun's been holding his breath.
Sungjong eyes him, doesn't realize he's gripping Woohyun's hand in return. "Where do you go after that?"
"I don't know. I… I don't think we come back anymore."
Sungjong spends a large part of the day cleaning the dorms with Woohyun just because he was asked to; "It's always been so messed up and we never really have time to clean anymore," he'd said. It really isn't as bad as Woohyun's exaggerated it to be, everything's just not in their proper places is all, but then again, which teenage boys are ever in order anyway?
Woohyun talks about the most mundane of things, like it was any ordinary (exceptionally free) day at home - he talks about the café in Hongdae he's been wanting to try, about the florist along the street hasn't had a day off in 17 years, about how he wishes KBS would give him a casting call for Immortal Song 2, about how he needs to practice his cheesy aegyo for the fans more because Sungyeol is catching up. Sungjong tries to bring himself to say something about the accident, ask everything he's wanted to ask what happened where were you did it hurt are you going to leave me, but he doesn't want to break Woohyun's happy bubble of thought (he knows he's lying to himself; he just wants it to be noisy so he wouldn't feel like he was really alone anymore). So Sungjong decides to forget about it, loses himself in the moment, tries to brush against Woohyun whenever possible to make sure he's really still as solid and present as he was this morning.
It's evening when they finally finish up, and they collapse onto the wooden floor. They aren't tired; Sungjong thinks that they just both want to lie down for a while. He scoots closer to Woohyun, his head fitting nicely under the other's arms, his forehead pressed against the side of Woohyun's chest. And they stay like that for a while, letting the comfortable silence wrap around them.
Then Woohyun murmurs, "Hey, you're gonna be okay, you know?" Sungjong wants to say, no i won't you idiot i need you i need all of you, but something in Woohyun's voice is so reassuring, as if every word that came out of it was the ultimate truth. Kind of like a mother, he supposes; there's something in a mother's tone that makes her children believe her, no matter how skeptical they are (or how ludicrous the lie is).
So all he says is, "I hope so."
They lay like that for could have been hours and days, until Woohyun finally says he's getting a cramp because he's aging and he feels like cooking. He pulls Sungjong up to his feet. "Well, I'm going to go make something for dinner, what do you want?" he asks. "Ramen will do," Sungjong answers, and Woohyun pats his head. "Okay, go watch something on TV in the meantime. I'll probably make kimchi chigae for myself, and no, you're not going to have any!" he says, in a sing-song voice, already crossing the kitchen threshold.
Sungjong chuckles a little, sliding down onto one of the large beanies their manager had brought home a week ago or so in the living room. He flips the channels mindlessly, finally settling for a black-and-white Western movie which he doesn't even understand, for lack of something better to watch.
The movie is actually turning out to be rather interesting; it's a cliché love story along the lines of triads and a rich woman who's taken hostage and falls in love with the head gangster. It's been more than half an hour and he still hears the gas in the kitchen. "Hyung, isn't it done yet? What super-special ramen are you even making?" he half-whines, propping himself up on his elbows and making his way to the kitchen.
When he peers around the doorframe, all he sees are his overcooked noodles simmering in long-boiled water and a frozen pack of kimchi lying on the counter. He can smell the open packet of seasoning on the stove (and a tinge of vanilla - Woohyun's distinct scent).
Sungjong loses Nam Woohyun on a Tuesday.
wednesday.
思い出は そばにある 永遠を埋めて
the memories are by our side, forever and ever
Sungjong makes himself kimchi chigae the next morning, the very same pack Woohyun had taken out of the fridge the day before. It's close to tasteless, of course, because cooking has never been his forte and he really can make salty cupcakes. (He did that once, and he remembers Dongwoo scribbling a black-and-white declaration banning him from the kitchen.) He finishes up, stuffs the last spoonful of the orange-red soup into his mouth, washes the bowl and spoon he'd used.
He sidles up to the small window by the wall; it's a bright day out - it's not sunny to the point where the heat becomes unbearable, but it's not cloudy and cold either. Everything's set just right for an outing, but the last thing he wants to do is leave the house; he'll bump into journalists with prying questions, see sympathetic fans who still squeal at the sight of him, brush past boisterous groups of teenage boys on a noraebang trip (everything that reminds him of what he doesn't have anymore).
So instead, he curls up in bed - this time Sungyeol's again because he's exhausted and doesn't want to climb up onto his own - and rummages around in the desk drawer for one of his revision books. He picks up History, then Social Studies, neither of which he feels like studying right now, and settles for Math. He convinces himself that it's never too early to study for finals because he's an idol and he doesn't really go to school much more and he needs to keep up (although all he really wants is something to take his mind off everything).
Given 5p (k-3) over 2 = 8 over r, express k in terms of p and r; Sungjong's been working on this question over and over, scribbling out a formula and thinking he suddenly has it when the answer doesn't make much sense. He erases out his latest experimental answer, brushing the eraser dust onto the bed-
A high-pitched shriek rang shrill in Sungjong's ears the exact moment he feels a sudden throbbing ache on the side of his head; he belatedly realizes that he'd been hit by the huge teddy bear he used to - and admittedly still does - assault. "Yah! That's my bed you're throwing all that eraser dust onto! Do it on your bed or something!"
Sungjong whirls around, to see a sputtering, half-fuming Sungyeol stomping across the room and pulling the nearest stuffed animal to his chest, towering over Sungjong when he stands like that at his full height. He scoots towards the wall to make space for the older boy who's already climbing into the bed and cramming himself into a space obviously too small for him; Sungjong knows Sungyeol has never been one to be angry for long. He just throws fits and rambles to himself for a while, then all is peaceful again. (Sungjong thinks he now believes that people don't become saints once they die and go to heaven like what's always said; they do keep some of their human traits with them.)
Sungyeol grabs the pencil from his aching fingers, "Yah, you've really been skipping too much school for your own good," he sighs disapprovingly, scribbling out his working and the final answer. There is a brief moment of silence when Sungjong writes in the answer for real. Sungjong feels the sheets shuffle beneath him as Sungyeol flips over onto his back, staring up at the low ceiling of his bunk. Sungjong feels as if Sungyeol knows Woohyun's told him, because he doesn't bother explaining the details. He skips straight to the point instead. "Jongie, let's do something," he offers. This usually happy voice is still happy, but Sungjong can tell it's seems that way only because Sungyeol is trying, trying so damn hard.
"Okay. What do you want to do?"
They leave the house through one of the many back doors, and end up at a funfair, not the ones that are packed and noisy and full of people; they go to the smaller one on the other side of town that's less crowded but merry nevertheless. The sort where the person at the ticketing counter isn't a platinum blonde girly-girl blowing strawberry-flavoured bubblegum, instead a middle-aged woman who's been working there half her life and smiles a warm smile that reminds Sungjong of wooden cottages. The sort where the attractions aren't in cement booths with flashy blinking LEDs, instead dainty wooden shacks with strings of coloured lights. There aren't any humongous roller coasters that Sungjong can see from a mile away or full with hip teenagers. It's mostly just parents with their children, families (Sungjong thinks it's ironic because he's surrounded by something he's lost).
He pulls his scarf tighter over his face although it's suffocating him, inhaling the same carbon dioxide. He watches in a daze as Sungyeol daringly orders two sticks of cotton candy for them without even trying to hide his identity, but no one recognizes them here. The old man at the stand gives him an extra large portion because he claims Sungyeol's choding reminds him of his youth, flashes a toothy but not unkindly grin as he waves them off.
Sungyeol is popping fluffball after fluffball into his mouth as they wander through the maze-like array of stalls to the main wide-open area. "Hey, let's go on the Ferris wheel," he says, staring wide-eyed at the structure. They've gone on the merry-go-round, rode bumper cars, played crazy rounds of 'Test Your Strength' (even temporarily drowned themselves in laughter and fun and childishness again) - the Ferris wheel is the only major attraction they haven't tried.
The sky is a palette of colours by the time they board one of the carriages, a mixture of pale blue and lavender and bright orange, their cotton candy reduced to wooden sticks. As the Ferris wheel begins its slow turn, they sit facing each other, stealing long glances out the glass at the city laying unaware before them. Sungjong thinks it's strange, how humans think they know everything when they don't even know what happens a few feet above them. Seoul's nightline is beginning to show; warm lights of all colours outlining departmental stores, majestic skyscrapers, long stretches of streets.
Sungjong realizes Sungyeol's gazing at him, eyes soft. "I'll miss you," he whispers, and his voice is so gentle, so much like that of a child's that even in the carriage's silence, Sungjong has to strain to hear him, but he does.
"I know," his answering voice is just as soft, a whisper racked with emotion as he bites back tears. "I'll miss you too." So much, you have no idea. His mother always told him never to hold grudges even against the people you constantly bicker with; you never know what you have till it's gone. His father told him mothers were always right.
Sungjong reaches out to bridge the tiny space separating them, encasing Sungyeol's hands in his own. They sit like that through the entire ride, comfortable silence and gentle smiles between them.
When they alight from the Ferris wheel, they make one last stop at the shooting range, where Sungyeol wins a bunny. They make their way back to the old lockers where you could pay to keep your bags so you wouldn't have to lug it around the entire funfair. Sungjong hands over the money to the woman manning the entrance; she smiles and tells them to hurry home because it's running late.
"D'you think we'll still have time to go to Yongin?" Sungyeol asks, glancing behind him at the sky. "I just want to see my mom for a bit. Well, from afar, but you get what I mean," he adds on, voice soft, uncertain. Sungjong checks his watch (lets his gaze drop so Sungyeol wouldn't have to see how shaky it was); it reads 5.40pm. "I think so? By the time we get to the subway, it'll be 6.00, maybe? If the ride takes an hour, it should be okay. We can have dinner somewhere and come back," he says, turning the key to the locker.
Sungjong watches with the tiniest smile as Sungyeol walks down a couple more rows to get his bags and slides out of his sight; there's always such a rustic feel to Sungyeol, a country boy who always has his family in his heart.
Sungjong leans against the lockers, feeling the cold metal seep into his skin even through his shirt. 10 minutes later, he realizes it doesn't take someone all that long to get their bag. He's at the row where Sungyeol's locker is supposed to be before he knows it. The door of the locker is hanging open, an envelope sticking out of the unzipped bag. Sungjong can see the striking black words even from afar, Sungyeol's familiar handwriting: 'To Mom, Dad & Daeyeol.'
Sungjong loses Lee Sungyeol on a Wednesday.
thursday.
孤独の意味に堪える 痛みなら受け入れるよ
battling loneliness, i will live with aches and pains
Sungjong ends up going to Yongin anyway, and he knows he shouldn't have, but he reads Sungyeol's letter on the train. It turns out to be one of those bi-monthly letters Sungyeol sends home, and this one is telling his family that he'll bring extra watermelons when he next comes home and that the Pikachu he bought once is torn (hinting that he really wants his mom to sew it back for him) and that he wants them to come for their next fansign.
The house is a mess when he arrives, like time has stopped for its occupants, yet the world continues to spin around them. Daeyeol is studying with eyes redder than the scarlet hardcover textbook before him, and he's so absorbed in literature that he doesn't even notice Sungjong (or rather, Sungjong thinks, absorbed in memories). Sungyeol's mother looks like she hasn't washed up properly in days, smiling a shattered smile, taking the letter with a rattling hand (and a rattling heart).
Sungjong wakes up with Sungyeol's mother's tears dripping down his cheeks, he thinks, because he hasn't quite cried so much before.
It's breezy out today and the skies look like it might pour after last week's short dry spell. Sungjong never did realize how far away their dance studio was from the dorms; it was always a ten-minute ride with the company car. He wonders if his body is getting increasingly brittle; it hurts, whenever the wind comes in gusts (or maybe it's just the heartache, he can't tell for sure). It's slightly past dawn, and the streets are lonely, save for the ahjummas setting up their stalls and white-collar workers hurriedly slurping on their noodles to catch the subway to their workplace somewhere far away.
Sungjong makes it to the dance studio in one piece though, and he feels the familiar warmth come in quick waves when he shuts the door behind him and begins ascending the stairs. Their practice room is exactly as they'd left it - empty water bottles pushed to a corner for recycling at the end of the week, CDs stacked carelessly near the player, someone's jacket left behind on the table. He breathes, but the air he's inhaling is more than just air; it's memories, sweat, time, hardship, energy, love.
He turns to see his own reflection in the mirrored wall glaring back at him, burning the image into his brain. A once-powerful, piercing stare reduced to nothing more than a ruptured, lost gaze-
"Oh, so that's where it went!"
Sungjong would be lying if he said he's surprised at all. It's been two days in a row now, and he didn't keep his hopes up, but he'd had a feeling someone else was coming today. His gaze flicks to his right, and he sees Howon fondly bundling the purple jacket up into his arms. Their eyes meet through the mirror, midnight black and mahogany brown, and Sungjong thinks this mirror is perfect because he sees his own pain reflected in Howon's eyes, in contrast with his bright smile.
They stand like that, Howon by the table and Sungjong by the mirror, for many moments, so still that Sungjong thinks his heart might just stop too, before he turns around and flings himself against Howon (and this time, the air he's breathing is filled with the other's scent). "Woohyun-hyung and Sungyeol-hyung came," Sungjong says, voice muffled, out of a lack of things to say to Howon (but all he really wants is for Howon to nod and laugh and say, "Didn't you know they played a prank on you? They're not dead, 'course not!") Howon shifts so that he can hug in return, arms now full with his jacket and Sungjong's frail body, but he doesn't say anything like that.
"I know," he sighs instead. He pulls away and that smile is still there, now tinged with sadness yet glowing all the same. There's a pause, then, "Let's forget about all this for a while," he says, and now his smile is cheeky.
"Let's dance."
Sungjong thinks he won't cry himself to sleep tonight because his body's lost enough liquid as it is. He's sweating through his shirt, through his jeans even, sweat hanging off the wet tips of his hair like he's just gone for a shower. He's been staring at his reflection for hours; he might even be able to draw himself out, every single line and detail, if he was any good at art. His body is aching, but he's moving relentlessly - up, down, right leg up, left hand out - dancing like his life depended on it. They've danced to nearly every CD in the room, even hooked up his MP3 player.
They're dancing to a hip-hop song that sounds freshly extracted from the underground rap scene in an American suburb, right off Howon's phone. Then they're dancing to freestyle composition, then Come Back Again blares (and Sungjong would rather not dance to this one, because there's absolutely no formation and it's so empty). But they do anyway; they dance to songs where they've practiced the choreography over and over again, so much so that Sungjong doesn't even really think about which hand or leg he has to move next once he's started because it comes naturally. They dance to songs which they've only performed once or twice at showcases and special events, slightly easier routines. They dance to songs they haven't even had the opportunity to do live yet, off their new album, freshly done choreography and this is a little stiff even for Howon because they've barely practiced. (Of course, there's that Leaping Over concert in September, but they've been so busy they've barely started preparations.)
When Sungjong sees their reflection in the mirror, he thinks Howon's a hypocrite. Howon told him to forget about everything, at least for today; dance the worries away and dance like it's the last time he'd be dancing (well, Howon is, but Sungjong doesn't want to think of it that way). Sungjong's doing as he's been told, he's not thinking of anything but how synchronized they look, how his facial expressions look, at what angle his arm's being lifted in.
But when he looks over at Howon's face in the mirror, his eyes are sparkling. They're sparkling with tears (and also, Sungjong thinks, sparkling with memories). There's so much swirling in his eyes - passion, love, longing and probably a hundred other emotions Sungjong can't list out. He's sweating even harder, his entire face coated in a sheet of moisture, hair plastered to the side of his face. Sungjong wonders what he's thinking about, maybe he's recollecting the moment he auditioned, the moment he decided to rebel and become an idol, the moment they first met. He's pretty sure Howon's letting his mind wander and letting his body do the dancing; sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and when he peers over his bed, he sees Howon staring up at the ceiling of his bunk with that same look, too absorbed to even notice that Sungjong's awake and staring at him.
The ending note of Don't Spray Perfume resonates in the empty studio and there really aren't any more songs to play; their background music becomes heavy panting and the dripping of sweat. Howon crumples down onto the floor, exhausted, lying flat on his back and gazing up at the glaring lights of the studio. "Yah," he's heaving so hard that the words come out barely a whisper, "could you get ice-cream? From that shop across the road? Oh god, I'm never dancing so much without a break ever again!"
Sungjong's bent over, clutching at his knees, every inch of his body hurting (although he's sure his heart is hurting more), and his voice comes out hoarse too, "Yeah. What flavour do you want? I'll bring shaved ice back too, it's so hot," he pants. Howon replies that he wants Metropolitan, with every topping imaginable just because he can.
Sungjong comes home ten minutes later with the icy treats in hand (freezing his fingers as much as the shop noona's worried look froze his heart), and he realizes Howon's left his jacket again.
Sungjong loses Lee Howon on a Thursday.
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