#24: Verschlimmbesserung (for qiguai)
Title: Verschlimmbesserung
Fandom: VIXX
Pairing(s)/Focus: Hongbin/Jaehwan
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1300
Work remixed: in this story, the end isn’t the most important by qiguai
Summary: The weird thing about time is how it festers.
Hongbin’s phone vibrates quietly against his upper thigh in the middle of a board meeting. With the likelihood of an innovative breakthrough far from imminent, he spares a glance for the text, biting back a smile as he reads it through. He replies quickly, promising to finish up as soon as possible. He switches his phone to silent afterwards, in the hopes that it’ll help him focus on the monotonous tone of the marketing head. It doesn’t work, and Hongbin finds himself surreptitiously fidgeting with his cell to see if there are any new texts. (There aren’t.)
It’s another hour and a half before they’re officially wrapped up, and it takes another twenty minutes after that for Hongbin to politely excuse himself. His secretary, bless her, doesn’t even blink when he tells her he won’t be coming back today. She has a car waiting for him when he steps outside, and it unnerves him ever-so-slightly that he doesn’t even need to say where to go as the driver speeds along with practiced ease.
┖❧
The apartment is empty, the mid-afternoon sunlight pouring in relentlessly. It’s stiflingly hot, so he goes to open the windows before switching on the fan. The sound construction filters through the walls, but they’ve been such a constant for so long now that Hongbin can’t be sure if he ever truly hears them anymore.
He sits down on the sofa and turns on the TV, unsurprised when he’s greeted with Jaehwan’s face, as a voiceover dramatically introduces him. A trained singer who struggled for fame, who finally got his break after landing a support role in a hit musical. Hongbin laughs quietly to himself. Nothing came so simple, nor so definitive as a “break.” There had been endless nights in bars, hustling for connections, for references, for demos, for chances, for food, for rent, for pride, for validation.
Jaehwan sings in concert halls and stadiums now and gets even less sleep than he ever did before. He doesn’t actually say any of this of course, but Hongbin can tell from the way stylists have been steadily caking on the makeup, and from how Jaehwan’s rarely seen without some form of caffeine in hand. A radio DJ had even laughed about it once, jokingly saying that it might be more economic if Jaehwan took his coffee via IV line.
Hongbin still remembers when he’d buy green tea in bulk, swearing that it more soothing for his vocal cords. He’d been so young then--and it’s a testament to just how long it’s been that Hongbin considers 30 to be young--so determined to break into the world he’d dreamed about, and he’d done it. He’d fought his way into a world that was getting exponentially younger and conquered it, refusing to give up his rightful place in the spotlight for something so inconsequential as age.
And Hongbin had peaked and just sort of, left it at that. He would go down as the youngest CEO in his company’s history, but other than that, he’d done nothing particularly innovative. Sales were good; shareholders were happy, but he would fade into nothing, a name on a plaque with no frills, no defining moment, no crowning glory. He didn’t break anything, good or bad, is what would go on his history. He kept the company going, which, if his VPs or CFOs were to be believed, should be considered a feat in and of itself.
He had simply survived. He met with people he needed to meet, and he delivered on deadlines within a reasonable period of time. Jaehwan, on the other hand, had thrived. Jaehwan had set out to prove his worth, to show that he was more than anyone ever imagined.
Hongbin realizes that the program is actually a taping of Jaehwan’s latest concert in Japan, and Jaehwan’s performing his latest ballad, a special track for a new film. The lines on his face are deeper set, his eyes permanently weary. Every day of the last twenty-five years has aged them both, but Jaehwan still has the same youthful energy as he sweeps from one end of the stage to the other, followed by a deafening roar of fanchants that nearly drown out the music.
The song ends and Jaehwan bows deeply, grinning from ear to ear. It cuts to a commercial break just before he speaks. Hongbin closes his eyes and lets his mind wander.
┖❧
It’s just after 4pm when Hongbin blinks awake. The room remains untouched. He stands, glances toward the bedroom, but thinks better of it. The LED light on his phone flashes repeatedly, and he sees several earnest replies from his granddaughter. One of them asks if he can make time for a movie before they head home. Hongbin figures he might be able to make a 4:30 showing if he leaves now so he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks out the door.
He will call his daughter when he gets to the theater and assure her that he’ll have her child well-fed and home before 8. He’ll even stay to help with her homework. She’ll only sigh and remind him not to spoil her so much. They won’t talk about how Hongbin will stay as long as he can get away with without being rude, and when his granddaughter asks if Hongbin ever misses her grandmother, he’ll say, “So much, every day,” because it isn’t fair to crush her fairytale dreams with the mistakes he’s made. Maybe, he hopes, a day will come the people he’s hurt can forgive him for the relationships he destroyed, and he won’t have to wonder if every song is about him or how he was a person better left unmet.
He hasn’t been the greatest person. Jaehwan had been more than upfront about it some twenty years ago. The echoes of their last fight still haunt him when things get too quiet. They had never been the type to scream and yell. Jaehwan preferred cutting remarks that only hurt once you realized they were directed at you. Hongbin had always stayed silent, whether it was Jaehwan or his ex-wife, it was usually easier to keep quiet and hope things would pass.
He was silent still when Jaehwan announced he was done being Hongbin’s secret shame, when his wife walked away not long after. Inexplicably, he’d bought Jaehwan’s apartment when he saw it was on the market, much to his agent’s disapproval. It’s terrible resale value was no justification for the price he’d paid, but a sale was a sale. The problem these days isn’t that Hongbin can’t acknowledge what he’s done wrong, it’s that he can’t find it in himself to let go. A part of him hopes that Jaehwan will come back--either to the apartment or to him, it doesn’t matter. Another part, the older, wiser, well chastised, part thinks it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t. They’re all better off believing that Hongbin had given up every other part of his life to climb the corporate ladder, and maybe in another twenty or so years, Hongbin can convince himself it was worth it.
Fandom: VIXX
Pairing(s)/Focus: Hongbin/Jaehwan
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1300
Work remixed: in this story, the end isn’t the most important by qiguai
Summary: The weird thing about time is how it festers.
Hongbin’s phone vibrates quietly against his upper thigh in the middle of a board meeting. With the likelihood of an innovative breakthrough far from imminent, he spares a glance for the text, biting back a smile as he reads it through. He replies quickly, promising to finish up as soon as possible. He switches his phone to silent afterwards, in the hopes that it’ll help him focus on the monotonous tone of the marketing head. It doesn’t work, and Hongbin finds himself surreptitiously fidgeting with his cell to see if there are any new texts. (There aren’t.)
It’s another hour and a half before they’re officially wrapped up, and it takes another twenty minutes after that for Hongbin to politely excuse himself. His secretary, bless her, doesn’t even blink when he tells her he won’t be coming back today. She has a car waiting for him when he steps outside, and it unnerves him ever-so-slightly that he doesn’t even need to say where to go as the driver speeds along with practiced ease.
┖❧
The apartment is empty, the mid-afternoon sunlight pouring in relentlessly. It’s stiflingly hot, so he goes to open the windows before switching on the fan. The sound construction filters through the walls, but they’ve been such a constant for so long now that Hongbin can’t be sure if he ever truly hears them anymore.
He sits down on the sofa and turns on the TV, unsurprised when he’s greeted with Jaehwan’s face, as a voiceover dramatically introduces him. A trained singer who struggled for fame, who finally got his break after landing a support role in a hit musical. Hongbin laughs quietly to himself. Nothing came so simple, nor so definitive as a “break.” There had been endless nights in bars, hustling for connections, for references, for demos, for chances, for food, for rent, for pride, for validation.
Jaehwan sings in concert halls and stadiums now and gets even less sleep than he ever did before. He doesn’t actually say any of this of course, but Hongbin can tell from the way stylists have been steadily caking on the makeup, and from how Jaehwan’s rarely seen without some form of caffeine in hand. A radio DJ had even laughed about it once, jokingly saying that it might be more economic if Jaehwan took his coffee via IV line.
Hongbin still remembers when he’d buy green tea in bulk, swearing that it more soothing for his vocal cords. He’d been so young then--and it’s a testament to just how long it’s been that Hongbin considers 30 to be young--so determined to break into the world he’d dreamed about, and he’d done it. He’d fought his way into a world that was getting exponentially younger and conquered it, refusing to give up his rightful place in the spotlight for something so inconsequential as age.
And Hongbin had peaked and just sort of, left it at that. He would go down as the youngest CEO in his company’s history, but other than that, he’d done nothing particularly innovative. Sales were good; shareholders were happy, but he would fade into nothing, a name on a plaque with no frills, no defining moment, no crowning glory. He didn’t break anything, good or bad, is what would go on his history. He kept the company going, which, if his VPs or CFOs were to be believed, should be considered a feat in and of itself.
He had simply survived. He met with people he needed to meet, and he delivered on deadlines within a reasonable period of time. Jaehwan, on the other hand, had thrived. Jaehwan had set out to prove his worth, to show that he was more than anyone ever imagined.
Hongbin realizes that the program is actually a taping of Jaehwan’s latest concert in Japan, and Jaehwan’s performing his latest ballad, a special track for a new film. The lines on his face are deeper set, his eyes permanently weary. Every day of the last twenty-five years has aged them both, but Jaehwan still has the same youthful energy as he sweeps from one end of the stage to the other, followed by a deafening roar of fanchants that nearly drown out the music.
The song ends and Jaehwan bows deeply, grinning from ear to ear. It cuts to a commercial break just before he speaks. Hongbin closes his eyes and lets his mind wander.
┖❧
It’s just after 4pm when Hongbin blinks awake. The room remains untouched. He stands, glances toward the bedroom, but thinks better of it. The LED light on his phone flashes repeatedly, and he sees several earnest replies from his granddaughter. One of them asks if he can make time for a movie before they head home. Hongbin figures he might be able to make a 4:30 showing if he leaves now so he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks out the door.
He will call his daughter when he gets to the theater and assure her that he’ll have her child well-fed and home before 8. He’ll even stay to help with her homework. She’ll only sigh and remind him not to spoil her so much. They won’t talk about how Hongbin will stay as long as he can get away with without being rude, and when his granddaughter asks if Hongbin ever misses her grandmother, he’ll say, “So much, every day,” because it isn’t fair to crush her fairytale dreams with the mistakes he’s made. Maybe, he hopes, a day will come the people he’s hurt can forgive him for the relationships he destroyed, and he won’t have to wonder if every song is about him or how he was a person better left unmet.
He hasn’t been the greatest person. Jaehwan had been more than upfront about it some twenty years ago. The echoes of their last fight still haunt him when things get too quiet. They had never been the type to scream and yell. Jaehwan preferred cutting remarks that only hurt once you realized they were directed at you. Hongbin had always stayed silent, whether it was Jaehwan or his ex-wife, it was usually easier to keep quiet and hope things would pass.
He was silent still when Jaehwan announced he was done being Hongbin’s secret shame, when his wife walked away not long after. Inexplicably, he’d bought Jaehwan’s apartment when he saw it was on the market, much to his agent’s disapproval. It’s terrible resale value was no justification for the price he’d paid, but a sale was a sale. The problem these days isn’t that Hongbin can’t acknowledge what he’s done wrong, it’s that he can’t find it in himself to let go. A part of him hopes that Jaehwan will come back--either to the apartment or to him, it doesn’t matter. Another part, the older, wiser, well chastised, part thinks it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t. They’re all better off believing that Hongbin had given up every other part of his life to climb the corporate ladder, and maybe in another twenty or so years, Hongbin can convince himself it was worth it.