#17 [MBLAQ, Gen]
Fandom: MBLAQ
Title: Crash
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s)/Focus: none
Length: 2,860 words
Summary: Five seconds. Four possibilities. You can only save one of them.
Warnings: death, mentions of suicide, various PTSD symptoms and eating disorder.
Notes: this is my first time remixing anything i ended up attempting something way more ambitious than i have the ability for, so apologies to my remixee author andersenmom if this ended up falling flat. they mentioned feeling sorry that they kept killing mblaq, so i guess that makes me 4x as sorry??
Remixee author: andersenmom
Title of work you remixed: One Last Thunderstorm
Link to work you remixed: http://mblaq-ohyeah.livejournal.com/159033.html
5...
The day you came back to Seoul, you started wearing your hood up. Eunah mentions it in passing once or twice, when the two of you meet privately for lunch. She knew you were nervous about coming back. It’s okay to need a security blanket sometimes, she says, but it's not the teasing jab it should be. Yeah, you know. A pause, and then she asks -- awkwardly, because your relationship was never like Cheondung's and Dara's -- if you’re alright. You nod and make some flimsy excuse about the unusually cool weather and the on and off rain. Skinny boys with no insulation. You’re alright. Ah. She goes back to poking her salad around her plate, both of you knowing that's not what she was asking at all.
Three years, five months, and nineteen days since the accident, long enough for most people to have forgotten. That's the hope, at least, as you wander around Insadong, head down and hands in your pockets, earbuds in out of habit despite your playlist being empty. Your psychiatrist-mandated journal is in your bag back at your apartment because you know you won't need it. It's empty anyway, except for some silly doodles and the words "one day" written at the beginning of each page -- it was funny at the time, and some days it makes you smile.
It’s not raining now, but the sky has been grey since early this morning and the smell of ozone is heavy in the air. Coats and unopened umbrellas fill the streets, and it takes conscious effort to unclench your jaw, tension bleeding up into soft temples. You massage the bridge of your nose with your fingers, knuckles slightly swollen from constant popping. Without anything to occupy your hands, you can’t seem to stop, but it's a habit you allow yourself because you remember the months and months of physical therapy it took to be able to do even that.
You only hesitate for a half-step before turning the corner towards a section of sidewalk with a divide that's newer-looking than the rest of it. There are still remnants of messages left, disintegrated post-it notes and bits of ribbon and written on the concrete itself. The wax of a few hundred candles is melted permanently into the ground, thick and glossy like a scar.
Even as you lift the edge of the hoodie away from your eyes, part of you wants to just keep walking. No one would blame you if you said you weren't ready, but the fact is you're not sure you'll ever be, which is exactly what you told your mom when she'd asked, over and over, why you wanted to go back to Seoul at all.
Because, you said, goodbye isn't the same as moving on.
It's not like in the movies. There's no cathartic sense of peace -- if anything the proverbial weight on your shoulders feels a little bit heavier as you skim faded eulogies and condolences, but it doesn't hurt like you thought it would either. And maybe it's not what you wanted, but it's something, and you're alright with that.
You're alright.
4...
Sometimes you wonder if Dara is ever starting to feel her age. Not to say that she's old, because she's really not, but years seem to go by faster for idols than regular people. You watch her backstage interview segment at Arirang, looking for telltale signs on the close ups, but all you see is the sharp snap of hips and a smile that outshines these rookies a decade younger than her.
In the kitchen, the real Dara minces garlic for the beef adobo you're having for dinner. Even though 2NE1 is currently in the middle of a promotion cycle, she'd gotten permission from the company -- demanded, more likely -- for the next two days off, tweeting her fans in Busan and Daegu a cute apology for the signings she's missing. You try not to feel guilty, reminding yourself that even if YG hadn't given her permission, she'd probably be here anyway. It doesn't work, but at least you're making an effort. That's what's important, she says.
Today is the one year anniversary. You live with your noona, just the two of you, in a small but neat apartment within walking distance of the convenience store. When you can sleep, you sleep well into the afternoon and wake up feeling hollow and more tired than before. When you can’t, you lie staring at the numbers on the clock and hyperventilate quietly until it’s time to get up. You’re still underweight, because sometimes you lie when Dara calls between her insane schedules to check if you've eaten, but overall you're looking slightly less spectral these days. Mostly, you make yourself to do things because you don't want her to worry anymore. You've caused so much trouble already.
The interview ends and a preview for next week's comebacks flashes bright across the screen. You change the channel to some show about dogs. It's still hard to watch a lot of the time, all the familiar faces and stages and songs and a hundred other things that inevitably remind you of them.
They'd called it a miracle, how you'd managed to walk away from the accident with little more than a few bruises. You've never had the guts to tell them otherwise.
"Do you want to go visit them, Sanghyun-ah?" she asks, pouring you a big glass of orange juice. She never calls you by your stage name anymore. "We can take the train," she adds gently, when she sees you tense up. "I know Mir is in Jang Seong, but we could see the others. I think Joonie would really..."
She stops when you shake your head, smile just a bit forced as she brushes your bangs out of your eyes. She goes to put the juice back in the fridge.
"I hate them," you mutter, hands trembling around the glass.
"Sanghyun..."
"I hate them! I hate him! Why did he pick me? Why couldn't I have just died too s--"
You touch the angry welt on your cheek where her nails accidentally caught your skin. She'd cried harder than you'd ever seen before.
Outside, the rain falls steadily. You turn up the volume on the TV and wrap the blanket tighter around your body.
3...
You're not sure if the thunder that wakes you is real or in your head this time, but either way it has you out of bed, face flushing hot just before the color drains out as you swallow back too much saliva.
There are two bathrooms in this apartment, and somehow you have enough presence of mind to half-stumble half-run to one that doesn't share a wall with your manager's room -- the last thing you need right now is him walking in on you when you’re busy puking your guts out. He already threatened to take you to the hospital once this week, even though you told him you'd die before setting foot in that place again.
You kneel with your elbows against the toilet seat, head clenched between your hands as dry heave after dry heave wracks you, ears throbbing and muscles burning lactic as they starve for oxygen. Breathe, you try to breathe but your throat is twisted shut and you can’t, can't catch a fucking breath and you should be used to it, but it hurts so much worse than shoving fingers down your throat.
Six months. Six months since everything changed, but nothing is different. Tomorrow, you'll arrive on set to the same sidelong glances and try your best not to scream as they tiptoe around you out of misplaced politeness. When they do speak to you, their words are too careful and their eyes are full of pity. You'll forget to eat, and at some point someone, maybe one of the production crew, will take a discreet photo with their phone and upload it to Twitter, and the netizens will comment on how thin Lee Joon is, how awful his sunken eyes look under his makeup, yah, doesn't he feel ashamed, carrying on like this after what happened?
Tomorrow, you'll lie awake for as long as possible, and if you're lucky your insomnia will hold and you'll only have to relive the accident as memories instead of nightmares; nightmares of falling rain and glass, crumpled metal and crumpled bodies and Cheondung crying out for his sister while he holds the gash in his stomach together, cradling his own insides and stop screaming, please, please, just stop. And the next day you'll do it again, and the day after that, and the day after that until your body falls apart, because this is all you have left, because you don't know how to live any other way and you're too much of a coward to take pills or jump off a building or slit your wrists, so instead you've settled on killing yourself slowly while everyone around you watches.
You retch hard enough to tear the muscles in your sides, heart clenching in your chest. Liquid too dark and viscous to be bile spills over your lips, and you spit weakly, strings of fluid stretching thin, trembling like the rest of you before blossoming bright against the water.
When you come to, you're still clinging white-knuckled to the toilet, mouth sticky and grey lights spotting your vision. You clean up as best you can and crawl back to your room, curling up at foot of the bed, where you'll wait for your schedule to start in two hours. The tears running down your face are still hot.
Nothing is different.
2...
The human mind has a strange, inefficient way of processing information. You think at one point you understood how triaging works, and maybe you still do, but right now your mouth is oddly sticky and you can't string your words together properly. Cheolyoung doesn't seem to be listening anyway -- he keeps flying away, and you're annoyed because someone left the window open even though it's clearly storming. You shudder and sink down further into the leather seat, staring out at the blur of neon lights and confusion happening beyond the van as it speeds towards your next schedule. The cold permeates all the way to the tips of your fingers.
--ssure on it. On three, move him. One, two--
There's a white door in the middle of the backstage area at Countdown that you're sure you've never seen before. No one goes in or comes out. They’re all watching the stage, waiting for the PD to direct the next group up for their prerecording. You can't remember what order you're supposed to be in today, but you think MBLAQ must be towards the end of the lineup because you don't see the other guys anywhere. They must still be in the waiting room getting their makeup done, which is probably where you ought to be -- glancing down, you realize not only are you still in your street clothes, but they're soaking wet.
You'll take a shortcut through the white door. You're sure that's where everyone went. As you turn the handle, you hear the PD barking instructions from far away:
--ing him. BP fifty over thirty. Get the crash cart in--
The door swings open. It leads to a hallway in the same building as your old dorm, the one you lived in when you first debuted. Everything is as dingy as you remember, with the same cracks and crappy insulation that lets the draft in. The cold is even worse now, settling at the bottom of your rib cage -- it hurts when you inhale, a sharp, broken glass pain in your lungs that forces your to breathe fast and shallow. In fact, your whole body hurts now, like you just came back from dance practice but worse, and, ah, maybe you should just go lie down.
You tell yourself this as you wander down the hallway, which seems to go on for miles and miles. Every so often you think you see someone in the distance, and you want to run after them but your legs have stopped working and you can't fly like Cheolyoung and, shit, it's getting really hard to think.
Frustrated, you lean heavily against the wall, sliding down until you're curled up and shivering on the floor. You need to find the other guys or you're going to be late for your stage, and the fans will be so disappointed if you don't come, but you're so, so tired and everything hurts. You need to sleep.
--tand clear. Charging. Administering shock. Stand cl--
You close your eyes. Yeah, this is good. You'll take a shower and wash away the red clouding up your vision and make Joon move to the top bunk and sleep. Everything will be better if you just sleep for a while, and then you'll go find everyone.
--ging. Clear--
"Yah, G.O."
You open your eyes.
"Seungho?"
--e got him back. Heart rate's stabilizing, BP up to eighty over sixty and climbing. Christ, this I hope this kid knows he's lucky. Really, really lucky...
1...
To say it's raining hard on the day of the crash is something of an understatement -- Seoul hasn't seen a storm like this in years and even with the wipers on full blast, the windshield is a curtain of water. Traffic is moving slowly, enough for you to feel the thunder rumbling over the steady purr of the engine. Next to you, G.O has his headphones in and seems to be completely oblivious -- you're not even sure he's awake with how his face pressed at such an odd angle against the window -- but Joon and Cheolyoung are in a silly mood, yelling and jostling Cheondung in the back with every flash of light and rolling clap, telling him to be quiet. From the front seat, your manager swears under his breath about being late to the studio, eyes locked on the three or so meters of road ahead that's visible through the downpour.
You're the only one who sees the truck coming.
According to G.O, the technical term for that slow motion effect in movies is "overcranking." It’s usually accompanied by some kind of accent in the score, a swell in the soundtrack or a fade to silence to enhance the dramatic impact.
It's not quite like that -- you can still hear the squeal of breaks as the truck starts to hydroplane, hear your own heartbeat and rush of blood in your ears as you glance around, looking at each of your members, your friends. It's funny, but you don't feel panicked at all, maybe because you don't have time. In fact, your head is strangely clear, and more than anything it makes you sad because in that clarity you know, somehow, how all of this is going to end. You've heard the whole thing about life flashing before your eyes, and you guess it's true; it's just not your life. It's theirs.
Five seconds. Four possibilities.
You look at Cheolyoung, your maknae, the one everyone is supposed to protect most. He's not a baby anymore -- the circles under his eyes are dark enough to rival yours and when the cameras are off he can be so quiet, so serious that you used to worry -- but his laugh is just as nasally and bright as the day you met him, uneven teeth split into a ridiculous grin as he slaps Cheondung's shoulder. He's always been resilient because of that. The grin would fade, but he'd be alright.
Cheondung would have a much, much harder time, you think. He's always been a little bit awkward on his own, the sense of being the "odd one out" since debut never quite fading, but you know it's only because his sense of family and what it means to belong is so strong. Right now, there's a smile on his lips as he ragdolls onto Cheolyoung, and you can't think about him without thinking about Dara too. How she would never, ever forgive you if something happened to him.
Joon... you can't help the way your heart aches a little harder when you look at Joonie, who's struggled so, so much. There were a lot of times you wondered how he managed to smile despite everything he had going on. Not just the extra schedules, but the things in his head that plagued him, that he wouldn't let anyone else help him with because he wanted to be strong. Lee Joon, who's sacrificed more for the sake of being an idol than anyone else.
And then there's G.O. The man who's been your best friend since the beginning, who's spent more grueling rehearsals and sleepless, worried nights by your side than you can possibly count. G.O, with his perverted sense of humor and a voice you've loved and admired and envied, even as he's been jealous of your mish-mash of odd talents. You hadn't told the others yet, but the two of you were going to enlist together in a few more months. If you had time, you'd tell him you're sorry. You'd tell all of them you're sorry, because you know.
You know you can only save one of them. Five seconds are up.
You move from your seat, using your body as a shield, and then the whole world shatters.
Title: Crash
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s)/Focus: none
Length: 2,860 words
Summary: Five seconds. Four possibilities. You can only save one of them.
Warnings: death, mentions of suicide, various PTSD symptoms and eating disorder.
Notes: this is my first time remixing anything i ended up attempting something way more ambitious than i have the ability for, so apologies to my remixee author andersenmom if this ended up falling flat. they mentioned feeling sorry that they kept killing mblaq, so i guess that makes me 4x as sorry??
Remixee author: andersenmom
Title of work you remixed: One Last Thunderstorm
Link to work you remixed: http://mblaq-ohyeah.livejournal.com/159033.html
5...
The day you came back to Seoul, you started wearing your hood up. Eunah mentions it in passing once or twice, when the two of you meet privately for lunch. She knew you were nervous about coming back. It’s okay to need a security blanket sometimes, she says, but it's not the teasing jab it should be. Yeah, you know. A pause, and then she asks -- awkwardly, because your relationship was never like Cheondung's and Dara's -- if you’re alright. You nod and make some flimsy excuse about the unusually cool weather and the on and off rain. Skinny boys with no insulation. You’re alright. Ah. She goes back to poking her salad around her plate, both of you knowing that's not what she was asking at all.
Three years, five months, and nineteen days since the accident, long enough for most people to have forgotten. That's the hope, at least, as you wander around Insadong, head down and hands in your pockets, earbuds in out of habit despite your playlist being empty. Your psychiatrist-mandated journal is in your bag back at your apartment because you know you won't need it. It's empty anyway, except for some silly doodles and the words "one day" written at the beginning of each page -- it was funny at the time, and some days it makes you smile.
It’s not raining now, but the sky has been grey since early this morning and the smell of ozone is heavy in the air. Coats and unopened umbrellas fill the streets, and it takes conscious effort to unclench your jaw, tension bleeding up into soft temples. You massage the bridge of your nose with your fingers, knuckles slightly swollen from constant popping. Without anything to occupy your hands, you can’t seem to stop, but it's a habit you allow yourself because you remember the months and months of physical therapy it took to be able to do even that.
You only hesitate for a half-step before turning the corner towards a section of sidewalk with a divide that's newer-looking than the rest of it. There are still remnants of messages left, disintegrated post-it notes and bits of ribbon and written on the concrete itself. The wax of a few hundred candles is melted permanently into the ground, thick and glossy like a scar.
Even as you lift the edge of the hoodie away from your eyes, part of you wants to just keep walking. No one would blame you if you said you weren't ready, but the fact is you're not sure you'll ever be, which is exactly what you told your mom when she'd asked, over and over, why you wanted to go back to Seoul at all.
Because, you said, goodbye isn't the same as moving on.
It's not like in the movies. There's no cathartic sense of peace -- if anything the proverbial weight on your shoulders feels a little bit heavier as you skim faded eulogies and condolences, but it doesn't hurt like you thought it would either. And maybe it's not what you wanted, but it's something, and you're alright with that.
You're alright.
4...
Sometimes you wonder if Dara is ever starting to feel her age. Not to say that she's old, because she's really not, but years seem to go by faster for idols than regular people. You watch her backstage interview segment at Arirang, looking for telltale signs on the close ups, but all you see is the sharp snap of hips and a smile that outshines these rookies a decade younger than her.
In the kitchen, the real Dara minces garlic for the beef adobo you're having for dinner. Even though 2NE1 is currently in the middle of a promotion cycle, she'd gotten permission from the company -- demanded, more likely -- for the next two days off, tweeting her fans in Busan and Daegu a cute apology for the signings she's missing. You try not to feel guilty, reminding yourself that even if YG hadn't given her permission, she'd probably be here anyway. It doesn't work, but at least you're making an effort. That's what's important, she says.
Today is the one year anniversary. You live with your noona, just the two of you, in a small but neat apartment within walking distance of the convenience store. When you can sleep, you sleep well into the afternoon and wake up feeling hollow and more tired than before. When you can’t, you lie staring at the numbers on the clock and hyperventilate quietly until it’s time to get up. You’re still underweight, because sometimes you lie when Dara calls between her insane schedules to check if you've eaten, but overall you're looking slightly less spectral these days. Mostly, you make yourself to do things because you don't want her to worry anymore. You've caused so much trouble already.
The interview ends and a preview for next week's comebacks flashes bright across the screen. You change the channel to some show about dogs. It's still hard to watch a lot of the time, all the familiar faces and stages and songs and a hundred other things that inevitably remind you of them.
They'd called it a miracle, how you'd managed to walk away from the accident with little more than a few bruises. You've never had the guts to tell them otherwise.
"Do you want to go visit them, Sanghyun-ah?" she asks, pouring you a big glass of orange juice. She never calls you by your stage name anymore. "We can take the train," she adds gently, when she sees you tense up. "I know Mir is in Jang Seong, but we could see the others. I think Joonie would really..."
She stops when you shake your head, smile just a bit forced as she brushes your bangs out of your eyes. She goes to put the juice back in the fridge.
"I hate them," you mutter, hands trembling around the glass.
"Sanghyun..."
"I hate them! I hate him! Why did he pick me? Why couldn't I have just died too s--"
You touch the angry welt on your cheek where her nails accidentally caught your skin. She'd cried harder than you'd ever seen before.
Outside, the rain falls steadily. You turn up the volume on the TV and wrap the blanket tighter around your body.
3...
You're not sure if the thunder that wakes you is real or in your head this time, but either way it has you out of bed, face flushing hot just before the color drains out as you swallow back too much saliva.
There are two bathrooms in this apartment, and somehow you have enough presence of mind to half-stumble half-run to one that doesn't share a wall with your manager's room -- the last thing you need right now is him walking in on you when you’re busy puking your guts out. He already threatened to take you to the hospital once this week, even though you told him you'd die before setting foot in that place again.
You kneel with your elbows against the toilet seat, head clenched between your hands as dry heave after dry heave wracks you, ears throbbing and muscles burning lactic as they starve for oxygen. Breathe, you try to breathe but your throat is twisted shut and you can’t, can't catch a fucking breath and you should be used to it, but it hurts so much worse than shoving fingers down your throat.
Six months. Six months since everything changed, but nothing is different. Tomorrow, you'll arrive on set to the same sidelong glances and try your best not to scream as they tiptoe around you out of misplaced politeness. When they do speak to you, their words are too careful and their eyes are full of pity. You'll forget to eat, and at some point someone, maybe one of the production crew, will take a discreet photo with their phone and upload it to Twitter, and the netizens will comment on how thin Lee Joon is, how awful his sunken eyes look under his makeup, yah, doesn't he feel ashamed, carrying on like this after what happened?
Tomorrow, you'll lie awake for as long as possible, and if you're lucky your insomnia will hold and you'll only have to relive the accident as memories instead of nightmares; nightmares of falling rain and glass, crumpled metal and crumpled bodies and Cheondung crying out for his sister while he holds the gash in his stomach together, cradling his own insides and stop screaming, please, please, just stop. And the next day you'll do it again, and the day after that, and the day after that until your body falls apart, because this is all you have left, because you don't know how to live any other way and you're too much of a coward to take pills or jump off a building or slit your wrists, so instead you've settled on killing yourself slowly while everyone around you watches.
You retch hard enough to tear the muscles in your sides, heart clenching in your chest. Liquid too dark and viscous to be bile spills over your lips, and you spit weakly, strings of fluid stretching thin, trembling like the rest of you before blossoming bright against the water.
When you come to, you're still clinging white-knuckled to the toilet, mouth sticky and grey lights spotting your vision. You clean up as best you can and crawl back to your room, curling up at foot of the bed, where you'll wait for your schedule to start in two hours. The tears running down your face are still hot.
Nothing is different.
2...
The human mind has a strange, inefficient way of processing information. You think at one point you understood how triaging works, and maybe you still do, but right now your mouth is oddly sticky and you can't string your words together properly. Cheolyoung doesn't seem to be listening anyway -- he keeps flying away, and you're annoyed because someone left the window open even though it's clearly storming. You shudder and sink down further into the leather seat, staring out at the blur of neon lights and confusion happening beyond the van as it speeds towards your next schedule. The cold permeates all the way to the tips of your fingers.
--ssure on it. On three, move him. One, two--
There's a white door in the middle of the backstage area at Countdown that you're sure you've never seen before. No one goes in or comes out. They’re all watching the stage, waiting for the PD to direct the next group up for their prerecording. You can't remember what order you're supposed to be in today, but you think MBLAQ must be towards the end of the lineup because you don't see the other guys anywhere. They must still be in the waiting room getting their makeup done, which is probably where you ought to be -- glancing down, you realize not only are you still in your street clothes, but they're soaking wet.
You'll take a shortcut through the white door. You're sure that's where everyone went. As you turn the handle, you hear the PD barking instructions from far away:
--ing him. BP fifty over thirty. Get the crash cart in--
The door swings open. It leads to a hallway in the same building as your old dorm, the one you lived in when you first debuted. Everything is as dingy as you remember, with the same cracks and crappy insulation that lets the draft in. The cold is even worse now, settling at the bottom of your rib cage -- it hurts when you inhale, a sharp, broken glass pain in your lungs that forces your to breathe fast and shallow. In fact, your whole body hurts now, like you just came back from dance practice but worse, and, ah, maybe you should just go lie down.
You tell yourself this as you wander down the hallway, which seems to go on for miles and miles. Every so often you think you see someone in the distance, and you want to run after them but your legs have stopped working and you can't fly like Cheolyoung and, shit, it's getting really hard to think.
Frustrated, you lean heavily against the wall, sliding down until you're curled up and shivering on the floor. You need to find the other guys or you're going to be late for your stage, and the fans will be so disappointed if you don't come, but you're so, so tired and everything hurts. You need to sleep.
--tand clear. Charging. Administering shock. Stand cl--
You close your eyes. Yeah, this is good. You'll take a shower and wash away the red clouding up your vision and make Joon move to the top bunk and sleep. Everything will be better if you just sleep for a while, and then you'll go find everyone.
--ging. Clear--
"Yah, G.O."
You open your eyes.
"Seungho?"
--e got him back. Heart rate's stabilizing, BP up to eighty over sixty and climbing. Christ, this I hope this kid knows he's lucky. Really, really lucky...
1...
To say it's raining hard on the day of the crash is something of an understatement -- Seoul hasn't seen a storm like this in years and even with the wipers on full blast, the windshield is a curtain of water. Traffic is moving slowly, enough for you to feel the thunder rumbling over the steady purr of the engine. Next to you, G.O has his headphones in and seems to be completely oblivious -- you're not even sure he's awake with how his face pressed at such an odd angle against the window -- but Joon and Cheolyoung are in a silly mood, yelling and jostling Cheondung in the back with every flash of light and rolling clap, telling him to be quiet. From the front seat, your manager swears under his breath about being late to the studio, eyes locked on the three or so meters of road ahead that's visible through the downpour.
You're the only one who sees the truck coming.
According to G.O, the technical term for that slow motion effect in movies is "overcranking." It’s usually accompanied by some kind of accent in the score, a swell in the soundtrack or a fade to silence to enhance the dramatic impact.
It's not quite like that -- you can still hear the squeal of breaks as the truck starts to hydroplane, hear your own heartbeat and rush of blood in your ears as you glance around, looking at each of your members, your friends. It's funny, but you don't feel panicked at all, maybe because you don't have time. In fact, your head is strangely clear, and more than anything it makes you sad because in that clarity you know, somehow, how all of this is going to end. You've heard the whole thing about life flashing before your eyes, and you guess it's true; it's just not your life. It's theirs.
Five seconds. Four possibilities.
You look at Cheolyoung, your maknae, the one everyone is supposed to protect most. He's not a baby anymore -- the circles under his eyes are dark enough to rival yours and when the cameras are off he can be so quiet, so serious that you used to worry -- but his laugh is just as nasally and bright as the day you met him, uneven teeth split into a ridiculous grin as he slaps Cheondung's shoulder. He's always been resilient because of that. The grin would fade, but he'd be alright.
Cheondung would have a much, much harder time, you think. He's always been a little bit awkward on his own, the sense of being the "odd one out" since debut never quite fading, but you know it's only because his sense of family and what it means to belong is so strong. Right now, there's a smile on his lips as he ragdolls onto Cheolyoung, and you can't think about him without thinking about Dara too. How she would never, ever forgive you if something happened to him.
Joon... you can't help the way your heart aches a little harder when you look at Joonie, who's struggled so, so much. There were a lot of times you wondered how he managed to smile despite everything he had going on. Not just the extra schedules, but the things in his head that plagued him, that he wouldn't let anyone else help him with because he wanted to be strong. Lee Joon, who's sacrificed more for the sake of being an idol than anyone else.
And then there's G.O. The man who's been your best friend since the beginning, who's spent more grueling rehearsals and sleepless, worried nights by your side than you can possibly count. G.O, with his perverted sense of humor and a voice you've loved and admired and envied, even as he's been jealous of your mish-mash of odd talents. You hadn't told the others yet, but the two of you were going to enlist together in a few more months. If you had time, you'd tell him you're sorry. You'd tell all of them you're sorry, because you know.
You know you can only save one of them. Five seconds are up.
You move from your seat, using your body as a shield, and then the whole world shatters.