[infinite] the chronicles of myopia
Title: the chronicles of myopia
Rating: pg
Word count: 3284
Summary: Sometimes "teamwork" is just a fancy sort of euphemism.
the chronicles of myopia
if a thing loves, it is infinite
william blake
∞
The announcement comes almost as a shock--the five of them are rounded up and told that Sungyeol and Sungjong would be stepping in, and Yeondo-hyung would be leaving. Hoya purses his mouth and wonders if they’ve have to learn all of their choreography all over again, and Woohyun kicks at the table angrily. Dongwoo wonders why any of them care--it’s not like they’ve worked particularly well together for the past three months, but there’s lunch, which is a bonus, even if it’s just chicken breasts with a small side salad. Their newly appointed leader, Kim Sunggyu, is quiet, leaning against a wall, food untouched.
“I expect perfection,” he says after they’re all finished and the staff members have left to attend a planning meeting. “I expect each one of you to work harder than you ever have. I’ve watched all of you--I know that most of you can’t sing, half of you can’t dance, and all of us are awkward around the camera. That’s unacceptable. Starting today, we’re a team.”
Dongwoo feels dread pooling in his chest; Sunggyu might be whispering, but every criticism is precise and serrated. This is not the boy they’ve been training with--the one who did exactly as Yeondo said, eyes low and hands balled. Even Hoya’s hands are clenched under the table, and Hoya has always been the trainee Dongwoo thought would go the farthest out of all of them, who has always needed the least direction.
“You didn’t answer me. That’s unacceptable. You understand?”
“Yes.”
Their answers are staggered, some softer than others. Sunggyu looks furious. It’s probably even more disconcerting than his perpetual silence.
“Yes.”
∞
It begins when Dongwoo realizes that he can’t dance in the streets forever, that someday, something will have to give. So he makes the rounds of all of the entertainment companies, and is summarily rejected, until he’s given a thumbs up with Woolim. He joins with a boy named Lee Howon who puts Dongwoo’s talent to shame, and is stuck in a dorm overrun by desperation and told to try his best.
There are just under fifty trainees in the entire company, and most of them have nothing else to go home to, no fallback plan, no safety net. Woolim makes no promises, and every day Dongwoo spends in front of a mirror, straighting and tightening his limbs and learning the dances of thousands of senior idol groups, he gets a bit older and the future feels much further away. He lives in a room which is perpetually empty, what with Sunggyu-hyung living in the recording studio and Yeondo crashing on a couch outside the tiny dance room, waiting for his half hour in front of the mirror. Comparatively, Dongwoo thinks he’s a sham. He sleeps in his bed for at least four hours a night and goes out with friends every so often, watching the others run laps around the neighborhood trying to lose just another few pounds more than the person in front of him.
At night he takes his diary out of the backpack holding his collection of plastic weapons against the loneliness of Seoul and lists out everything he wishes he could do just a bit better than Lee Howon.
∞
Dongwoo and Hoya are given special rapping lessons with Mithra. Dongwoo’s not sure why that’s fair, because Hoya is good at everything, but he bites his lip and watches Hoya out of the corner of his eyes and wishes that everything wasn’t a competition, that Dongwoo wasn’t so worried about being the one left out of the group rumored to debut at the start of that summer. They all know that Woolim doesn’t have enough money to debut more than one group at a time, and in two years it will be too late for Dongwoo to do much of anything at all. There is an expiry date on idols.
He confides in Mithra later, when the man is leaning into the wall, knocking back a beer as Dongwoo runs through yet another practice with Hoya and the company’s dance troupe in preparation for Epik High’s comeback with “Run.” They take a break three hours in, and Dongwoo is slightly relieved when even Hoya seems to be stumbling, blinking away perspiration and curling against the corner fan.
“What am I doing? What am I supposed to be doing?”
Mithra gives him a Look, which could either mean shut the fuck up and get back to dancing or I am too drunk for this or even I am not drunk enough for this. Dongwoo's avoided the guy for too long to know on first glance--he’d always seemed sort of weird, sort of like the guys he was told never to associate with in school. After a moment, though, Mithra just shrugs.
“I just watch Tablo. I make sure that everything he doesn’t do, I do for him.”
Dongwoo stares. Somehow, it wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear. His thighs ache, muscles spasming and cramping alternatively, and he's sure that everyone can hear the whining noises his stomach keeps making. And, as always, he's desperately tired and lost and confused, unsure if he's moving backwards or forwards or nowhere at all. He’s come from nothing for nothing, it seems.
“Kim Sunggyu will probably be debuting,” Mithra adds. “Watch that kid. He’s someone to hold onto. To hold up.” And then: “It’s different when you become teammates. I promise.”
Absolutely not the point, Dongwoo writes when he sees Sunggyu stagger into their dorm room, reeking of ddukbokki and sweat. I didn’t come here to be someone’s best friend. I’m supposed to be better than that.
Hair sticks against Sunggyu’s forehead when he sleeps. It’s a very unattractive look.
∞
Dongwoo returns to the dorms immediately after lunch, unsettled. He hadn’t expected to win a place in Infinite.
He takes out his notebook and tries to list his greatest strengths as an idol--the things he can do, what he’ll bring to the team, how he can convince Sunggyu that he’s not just another kid who can dance only to a handful of beats and ride on a chorus. He’s not sure why he cares, but Sunggyu does not come back to the dorms that evening.
He’s too good for me, Dongwoo puts down instead. He’s too far ahead. Dongwoo thinks of Mithra and crosses out the lines furiously.
I hate him.
Dongwoo knows that there are groups which debut with only one member who can sing--a single talent carrying the rest of them through live performances, masking hurried pants and desperate mimes. And eventually, Dongwoo knows, those groups destroy themselves and are left with nothing when their star leaves them behind. Sunggyu is the sort of guy to do exactly that, Dongwoo thinks. All of them lack a certain kind of loyalty.
Something lodges itself in his throat. It’s hard to get it out. He tears out the page and rips it into tiny shreds and wonders if teamwork is supposed to feel this miserable.
∞
Over the next few months, Sunggyu works them hard but works himself harder. He’s a terrible dancer and lacks any sense of natural grace, but he demands that they all join him in the studio at six in the morning for practice. It’s clear, when they get there, that he’s been there for hours, that he hasn’t eaten, that the glazed look on his face is not disinterest, it’s exhaustion. His voice is rough around the edges, but Sunggyu belts out every single note in practice, louder than the backing track, even. Dongwoo finds himself in awe of Sunggyu’s dedication and willpower and scrambles to meet the bar that Sunggyu sets. It’s high.
It’s doable, somehow.
Their teamwork doesn’t seem to improve; Sunggyu and Woohyun disagree sharply, and for all of their frustration with Sunggyu’s draconian practice schedules, the rest side with him in every instance, willing to wake up early and train until just past the point of collapse.
“God, I am sick of your attitude,” Sungjong says one evening, glaring at Woohyun out of the corners of his eyes. “You do realize that your success depends on our success is well.”
“Ignore him,” Hoya offers.
“But seriously. All he does is come in and talk about how we have to learn to play along with him in front of the variety’s production staff, how he knows better because he did one stupid modelling--”
“Sungjong.”
“And he doesn’t even--”
“Sungjong.”
Sunggyu is quiet in the corner, all eyes and ears, back curved against the wall. Dongwoo wonders if this is how groups fall apart. His fingers clench. We didn’t even debut.
“You don’t even like us,” Sungjong says. “And we’re supposed to pretend to be best friends for the next few years? We have to live on top of each other?”
Woohyun shrugs. “You’re a good actor.”
Hoya seems to notice his discomfort, and slides over to where Dongwoo is sitting, hand warm on Dongwoo’s shoulder. “This is how friendships are built,” Hoya whispers softly into his ear. “Get it out now before it becomes dangerous. Hyung knows what he’s doing. It’s okay.”
Dongwoo wishes he had Hoya’s easy confidence. He wishes that every day didn’t look more and more like an ending, like a bottomless future, an empty concert hall. He watches Hoya shrug back into himself, and Sunggyu stay very, very still.
Later, he tugs at the tails of Sunggyu’s shirt. “Are you sure we should let this happen?”
Sunggyu pauses, and Dongwoo realizes how Sunggyu doesn’t look all that much older than himself. He has a funny face and his eyes are bit too small and his nose is too flat and he looks tired.
“You worry too much, Dongwoo. It’ll be fine. Sungjong needs to learn that we all want this just as much as he does.”
“Sungjong? Don’t you mean--”
“Woohyun? No, Woohyun knows. Woohyun wants this just as much as I do.” Sunggyu looks up at the ceiling, and Dongwoo sees that every inch of his shirt is stained with sweat. He can count the hours of practice in the rings of darkness around Sunggyu’s neck. “Woohyun won’t ever let go. He’s not the one to worry about.”
Sunggyu’s voice is soft and honest and sounds nothing like it did months ago over that lunch. He stumbles when he steps forward, and Dongwoo rushes to grab at his shoulder.
Dongwoo takes a deep breath. Every friendship begins with hesitation, he thinks, and Sunggyu can’t always look up at the ceiling. “So. Who do you really prefer, hyung? Mithra or Tablo?”
Sunggyu laughs, and Dongwoo thinks that he understands.
∞
Unlike other groups, they always train together and it’s always in front of a mirror. They dance until they collapse, and even then Hoya will get up and run through the choreography all over again to show everyone exactly what to do, the angle their arms should be bent, the proper way to slide backwards on the heels of their feet. Dongwoo keeps a running log of his mistakes; the accompanying commentary is implicit. They are a team. His errors are theirs too, and Dongwoo never wants to be burden. Especially not to Sunggyu.
Sunggyu decides to room with Woohyun, which is fair, Dongwoo thinks, because Woohyun has become Sunggyu’s second hand, his most trusted confident. For all that they fight (and they do, bitterly. The walls are not very thick), Sunggyu trusts Woohyun to run practices when he has to meet with their managers, when he collapses and needs to be taken to the hospital for an IV, returning with yet another series of prescriptive pills that Sunggyu just shoves into his bottom drawer and forgets about.
Woohyun sees their future as clearly as Sunggyu, sometimes, and Dongwoo wonders if he’s doing something wrong, since all he can see when he closes his eyes is Sunggyu’s squinted approval and a tight, tired smile. Dongwoo thinks that Mithra’s advice might have ruined him.
He misses the soft shuffle of Sunggyu’s feet into their room late at night; Myungsoo’s snores are not nearly as satisfying or motivating a substitute. So sometimes he grabs a blanket and curls into a corner of the common area, waiting for Sunggyu to stagger home from vocal practice, arm slung over Woohyun’s shoulder, conversing softly, careful not to wake anyone else up.
“You’re back?”
“Why aren’t you asleep?”
Dongwoo indicates his journal. “Just. Writing a bit.”
Sometimes Woohyun tsks impatiently and leaves Sunggyu alone with Dongwoo, stomping off into their room. Sometimes Sunggyu doesn’t smile apologetically and follow him, asking Dongwoo to catch up on his rest--sometimes Sunggyu will roll his eyes and Dongwoo chest tightens uncomfortably and Sunggyu slides his feet under the blanket and says, “tell me what you’re writing about.”
“It’s nothing interesting.”
“I always mean to ask,” Sunggyu says regretfully, voice slightly hoarse. “Just. I never find the time.”
“I know.”
Friendship starts with a breathless moment of indecision, Dongwoo knows, but is supposed to continue just a bit more smoothly after that. Dongwoo doesn’t know why this is so difficult.
“I finished tabling our expenses this month, hyung.” So you don’t have to.
“I noticed.” And then much, much later, cheek against Dongwoo’s shoulder, “thank you.”
∞
Sunggyu shoots him looks when they’re out and Dongwoo slips away from conversation to note what he’s eaten that day, sometimes with a helping of that was too much, I need to be more careful, eyeing Woohyun’s trim figure and Youngjun-hyung’s glowing approval. And when Sunggyu slides into the seat next to him, eyes peering over Dongwoo’s shoulder, Dongwoo snaps the book shut, stomach churning, throat tight.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Sunggyu frowns. “You didn’t eat dinner last night either. And I know you’ve been skipping breakfast.”
His palm is hot against Dongwoo’s forearm, and Dongwoo can feel Sunggyu’s pulse thrum through his wrist. Dongwoo breathes out shakily. “I’ll do better.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
And Dongwoo clutches the notebook to his stomach and laughs about diets and muscles and beating Woohyun at his own game and tries not to let his chest explode out of his tanktop. Woohyun smiles from five feet away, curling his fingers into hearts and posing for their fans pressing their noses into the glass windows of the coffee shop. Dongwoo tries not to notice that Sunggyu is smiling as well, eyes on the back of Woohyun’s head, relaxed and confident. Dongwoo takes a deep breath and remembers the key to synchronization.
“But really, hyung--I’ll do better.”
“I know.”
∞
“I ask because I worry, you realize. I don’t always know what you’re thinking.”
Dongwoo stretches casually, top riding up along his stomach. They’re the only two without schedules for the day, and Sunggyu wanted him up early to run through the choreography for “Nothing’s Over” for the thousandth time. He’s been waiting for the others to leave, wanting nothing but the soft quiet between him and Sunggyu when they’re alone, when Sunggyu is the only hyung in the room, when Dongwoo is the closest he has to a friend, a chingu.
“Why don’t you just laugh?”
Sunggyu brings over a cup of coffee and settles on the floor beside Dongwoo, legs folded. “Hmm?”
“During interviews. On that variety show. If you laugh, it’ll be easier--they won’t ask you as many questions.”
“I’m the leader. I should be the one talking, making sure--”
Dongwoo watches the stiff line of Sunggyu’s spine, the depth of the bags under his eyes. He wonders if Woohyun ever tells Sunggyu to just go to bed, to finally sleep, to let the world go for a few hours and pick it back up in the morning. It will still be there for you, Dongwoo wants to say. You don’t need to build an empire in a day. Even Rome started with just a single stone.
Sunggyu’s clothes fit him oddly. They are too big in the shoulder and they don’t match his temperament. Dongwoo wants to--
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” Sunggyu says finally, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Can you just--”
Dongwoo cuts him off. “You make great coffee, hyung. Much better than Sungyeol.”
He can’t answer that question.
∞
Sunggyu does not sleep in his room anymore, and Dongwoo doesn’t manage to stay awake every night waiting for him, hoping for a few moments of the sort of quiet only two people can share, so Myungsoo becomes an accidental part of life. Myungsoo snores and takes a while to rub the sleep out of his eyes and stumbles around for a bit and it’s almost eerie how perfectly the two of them are suited as roommates. Myungsoo pretends not to notice Dongwoo’s toy collection, and Dongwoo tries not to say anything too acerbic or cutting about the lack of variation in Myungsoo’s wardrobe.
So when Myungsoo packs half his clothes and jets off to Japan for a days at a time, Dongwoo worries at a fingernail with his teeth and realizes that he hasn’t slept in a room on his own in years. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.
Is this how it’ll feel when it’s all over? Just me and four walls? I wish--
Dongwoo quickly turns the page when he hears a knock at the door. “Yeah?”
“Can I sleep here tonight?”
Sometimes Dongwoo wonders if Sunggyu buys the world’s ugliest pajamas on purpose. “Of course,” he says, voice a bit strangled. “I’ll. Uhm. Move those figurines.”
“It’s fine. Our room’s just as bad.” Sunggyu drags his comforter through the door and then closes it, knob clicking into place behind him. “So what have you been writing?”
Our room. Dongwoo flips onto his stomach. “Did you come in here just to ask?”
“I thought you might miss having a roommate.”
Dongwoo swallows dryly. “I might just get more sleep with Myungsoo gone.”
He closes his eyes and hears Sunggyu rearrange his blanket, flopping down, and laugh a bit breathlessly. It’s an unexpected sort of sound that he rarely gets to hear outside of the silences they share. It’s a bit awkward and shrill and it suits Sunggyu perfectly.
“Are you ever going to let me look at it?”
Sunggyu does not need to read a chronicle of the slow deterioration of Dongwoo’s health. He doesn’t need to see how many meals they all skip, how many hours of the day they lose in the name of synchronization. How lonely Dongwoo used to be.
Dongwoo opens his eyes. Sunggyu’s face is just a bit too close.
He knows, Dongwoo thinks. It’s taken Dongwoo himself a bit longer to get there, to realize that this isn’t friendship, but this also isn’t like the fights that Sunggyu and Woohyun seem to have, releasing pent-up enmity. He finally figures out that his chest is contracting just to protect his heart. The muscle seems to be beating uncontrollably.
Dongwoo leans a bit closer himself. It’s all too easy. It all makes sense. Mithra is a giant fucking liar.
“Don’t worry,” Sunggyu says, after. “I know.”
∞
Today’s list is of the trinkets Dongwoo has in his backpack. The repetition of known variables is calming. Sunggyu’s hand finds his thigh in the car, and Dongwoo carefully finishes his sentence before shoving his diary back into his rucksack.
“You didn’t eat breakfast.”
“Sorry.”
Sunggyu’s fingers trace circles into his hip. Dongwoo tries to regulate his breathing. “Don’t apologize. What were you writing about today?”
Myungsoo groans in his sleep, kicking Sungyeol in the shins. Hoya’s headphones leak traces of hip hop into the car, and Sungjong’s head lolls limply. Woohyun drools into his shoulder.
Sunggyu kicks at Dongwoo’s foot playfully. “Is it that important?”
Dongwoo’s head buzzes. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, this time. It feels like the rush of blood in his chest and the surge of adrenaline and something else below his navel. It feels like--
“A prediction,” he whispers over the tension of seven boys and one dream. This is teamwork.
“Hmm?”
“We’ll be okay today. We’ll be great. We might even win an award.”
Sunggyu laughs, but the curve of his spine relaxes slightly and Dongwoo is amazed that no one else has ever noticed how easy Sunggyu is to please. “You think?”
Dongwoo leans closer. This is not teamwork.
“Yeah. I do.”
There’s a difference.
∞
a/n: thank you reifica. i wish there were words in the universe that meant more than "love" so i could wear out their meanings by peppering you with them endlessly.
Rating: pg
Word count: 3284
Summary: Sometimes "teamwork" is just a fancy sort of euphemism.
the chronicles of myopia
if a thing loves, it is infinite
william blake
∞
The announcement comes almost as a shock--the five of them are rounded up and told that Sungyeol and Sungjong would be stepping in, and Yeondo-hyung would be leaving. Hoya purses his mouth and wonders if they’ve have to learn all of their choreography all over again, and Woohyun kicks at the table angrily. Dongwoo wonders why any of them care--it’s not like they’ve worked particularly well together for the past three months, but there’s lunch, which is a bonus, even if it’s just chicken breasts with a small side salad. Their newly appointed leader, Kim Sunggyu, is quiet, leaning against a wall, food untouched.
“I expect perfection,” he says after they’re all finished and the staff members have left to attend a planning meeting. “I expect each one of you to work harder than you ever have. I’ve watched all of you--I know that most of you can’t sing, half of you can’t dance, and all of us are awkward around the camera. That’s unacceptable. Starting today, we’re a team.”
Dongwoo feels dread pooling in his chest; Sunggyu might be whispering, but every criticism is precise and serrated. This is not the boy they’ve been training with--the one who did exactly as Yeondo said, eyes low and hands balled. Even Hoya’s hands are clenched under the table, and Hoya has always been the trainee Dongwoo thought would go the farthest out of all of them, who has always needed the least direction.
“You didn’t answer me. That’s unacceptable. You understand?”
“Yes.”
Their answers are staggered, some softer than others. Sunggyu looks furious. It’s probably even more disconcerting than his perpetual silence.
“Yes.”
∞
It begins when Dongwoo realizes that he can’t dance in the streets forever, that someday, something will have to give. So he makes the rounds of all of the entertainment companies, and is summarily rejected, until he’s given a thumbs up with Woolim. He joins with a boy named Lee Howon who puts Dongwoo’s talent to shame, and is stuck in a dorm overrun by desperation and told to try his best.
There are just under fifty trainees in the entire company, and most of them have nothing else to go home to, no fallback plan, no safety net. Woolim makes no promises, and every day Dongwoo spends in front of a mirror, straighting and tightening his limbs and learning the dances of thousands of senior idol groups, he gets a bit older and the future feels much further away. He lives in a room which is perpetually empty, what with Sunggyu-hyung living in the recording studio and Yeondo crashing on a couch outside the tiny dance room, waiting for his half hour in front of the mirror. Comparatively, Dongwoo thinks he’s a sham. He sleeps in his bed for at least four hours a night and goes out with friends every so often, watching the others run laps around the neighborhood trying to lose just another few pounds more than the person in front of him.
At night he takes his diary out of the backpack holding his collection of plastic weapons against the loneliness of Seoul and lists out everything he wishes he could do just a bit better than Lee Howon.
∞
Dongwoo and Hoya are given special rapping lessons with Mithra. Dongwoo’s not sure why that’s fair, because Hoya is good at everything, but he bites his lip and watches Hoya out of the corner of his eyes and wishes that everything wasn’t a competition, that Dongwoo wasn’t so worried about being the one left out of the group rumored to debut at the start of that summer. They all know that Woolim doesn’t have enough money to debut more than one group at a time, and in two years it will be too late for Dongwoo to do much of anything at all. There is an expiry date on idols.
He confides in Mithra later, when the man is leaning into the wall, knocking back a beer as Dongwoo runs through yet another practice with Hoya and the company’s dance troupe in preparation for Epik High’s comeback with “Run.” They take a break three hours in, and Dongwoo is slightly relieved when even Hoya seems to be stumbling, blinking away perspiration and curling against the corner fan.
“What am I doing? What am I supposed to be doing?”
Mithra gives him a Look, which could either mean shut the fuck up and get back to dancing or I am too drunk for this or even I am not drunk enough for this. Dongwoo's avoided the guy for too long to know on first glance--he’d always seemed sort of weird, sort of like the guys he was told never to associate with in school. After a moment, though, Mithra just shrugs.
“I just watch Tablo. I make sure that everything he doesn’t do, I do for him.”
Dongwoo stares. Somehow, it wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear. His thighs ache, muscles spasming and cramping alternatively, and he's sure that everyone can hear the whining noises his stomach keeps making. And, as always, he's desperately tired and lost and confused, unsure if he's moving backwards or forwards or nowhere at all. He’s come from nothing for nothing, it seems.
“Kim Sunggyu will probably be debuting,” Mithra adds. “Watch that kid. He’s someone to hold onto. To hold up.” And then: “It’s different when you become teammates. I promise.”
Absolutely not the point, Dongwoo writes when he sees Sunggyu stagger into their dorm room, reeking of ddukbokki and sweat. I didn’t come here to be someone’s best friend. I’m supposed to be better than that.
Hair sticks against Sunggyu’s forehead when he sleeps. It’s a very unattractive look.
∞
Dongwoo returns to the dorms immediately after lunch, unsettled. He hadn’t expected to win a place in Infinite.
He takes out his notebook and tries to list his greatest strengths as an idol--the things he can do, what he’ll bring to the team, how he can convince Sunggyu that he’s not just another kid who can dance only to a handful of beats and ride on a chorus. He’s not sure why he cares, but Sunggyu does not come back to the dorms that evening.
He’s too good for me, Dongwoo puts down instead. He’s too far ahead. Dongwoo thinks of Mithra and crosses out the lines furiously.
I hate him.
Dongwoo knows that there are groups which debut with only one member who can sing--a single talent carrying the rest of them through live performances, masking hurried pants and desperate mimes. And eventually, Dongwoo knows, those groups destroy themselves and are left with nothing when their star leaves them behind. Sunggyu is the sort of guy to do exactly that, Dongwoo thinks. All of them lack a certain kind of loyalty.
Something lodges itself in his throat. It’s hard to get it out. He tears out the page and rips it into tiny shreds and wonders if teamwork is supposed to feel this miserable.
∞
Over the next few months, Sunggyu works them hard but works himself harder. He’s a terrible dancer and lacks any sense of natural grace, but he demands that they all join him in the studio at six in the morning for practice. It’s clear, when they get there, that he’s been there for hours, that he hasn’t eaten, that the glazed look on his face is not disinterest, it’s exhaustion. His voice is rough around the edges, but Sunggyu belts out every single note in practice, louder than the backing track, even. Dongwoo finds himself in awe of Sunggyu’s dedication and willpower and scrambles to meet the bar that Sunggyu sets. It’s high.
It’s doable, somehow.
Their teamwork doesn’t seem to improve; Sunggyu and Woohyun disagree sharply, and for all of their frustration with Sunggyu’s draconian practice schedules, the rest side with him in every instance, willing to wake up early and train until just past the point of collapse.
“God, I am sick of your attitude,” Sungjong says one evening, glaring at Woohyun out of the corners of his eyes. “You do realize that your success depends on our success is well.”
“Ignore him,” Hoya offers.
“But seriously. All he does is come in and talk about how we have to learn to play along with him in front of the variety’s production staff, how he knows better because he did one stupid modelling--”
“Sungjong.”
“And he doesn’t even--”
“Sungjong.”
Sunggyu is quiet in the corner, all eyes and ears, back curved against the wall. Dongwoo wonders if this is how groups fall apart. His fingers clench. We didn’t even debut.
“You don’t even like us,” Sungjong says. “And we’re supposed to pretend to be best friends for the next few years? We have to live on top of each other?”
Woohyun shrugs. “You’re a good actor.”
Hoya seems to notice his discomfort, and slides over to where Dongwoo is sitting, hand warm on Dongwoo’s shoulder. “This is how friendships are built,” Hoya whispers softly into his ear. “Get it out now before it becomes dangerous. Hyung knows what he’s doing. It’s okay.”
Dongwoo wishes he had Hoya’s easy confidence. He wishes that every day didn’t look more and more like an ending, like a bottomless future, an empty concert hall. He watches Hoya shrug back into himself, and Sunggyu stay very, very still.
Later, he tugs at the tails of Sunggyu’s shirt. “Are you sure we should let this happen?”
Sunggyu pauses, and Dongwoo realizes how Sunggyu doesn’t look all that much older than himself. He has a funny face and his eyes are bit too small and his nose is too flat and he looks tired.
“You worry too much, Dongwoo. It’ll be fine. Sungjong needs to learn that we all want this just as much as he does.”
“Sungjong? Don’t you mean--”
“Woohyun? No, Woohyun knows. Woohyun wants this just as much as I do.” Sunggyu looks up at the ceiling, and Dongwoo sees that every inch of his shirt is stained with sweat. He can count the hours of practice in the rings of darkness around Sunggyu’s neck. “Woohyun won’t ever let go. He’s not the one to worry about.”
Sunggyu’s voice is soft and honest and sounds nothing like it did months ago over that lunch. He stumbles when he steps forward, and Dongwoo rushes to grab at his shoulder.
Dongwoo takes a deep breath. Every friendship begins with hesitation, he thinks, and Sunggyu can’t always look up at the ceiling. “So. Who do you really prefer, hyung? Mithra or Tablo?”
Sunggyu laughs, and Dongwoo thinks that he understands.
∞
Unlike other groups, they always train together and it’s always in front of a mirror. They dance until they collapse, and even then Hoya will get up and run through the choreography all over again to show everyone exactly what to do, the angle their arms should be bent, the proper way to slide backwards on the heels of their feet. Dongwoo keeps a running log of his mistakes; the accompanying commentary is implicit. They are a team. His errors are theirs too, and Dongwoo never wants to be burden. Especially not to Sunggyu.
Sunggyu decides to room with Woohyun, which is fair, Dongwoo thinks, because Woohyun has become Sunggyu’s second hand, his most trusted confident. For all that they fight (and they do, bitterly. The walls are not very thick), Sunggyu trusts Woohyun to run practices when he has to meet with their managers, when he collapses and needs to be taken to the hospital for an IV, returning with yet another series of prescriptive pills that Sunggyu just shoves into his bottom drawer and forgets about.
Woohyun sees their future as clearly as Sunggyu, sometimes, and Dongwoo wonders if he’s doing something wrong, since all he can see when he closes his eyes is Sunggyu’s squinted approval and a tight, tired smile. Dongwoo thinks that Mithra’s advice might have ruined him.
He misses the soft shuffle of Sunggyu’s feet into their room late at night; Myungsoo’s snores are not nearly as satisfying or motivating a substitute. So sometimes he grabs a blanket and curls into a corner of the common area, waiting for Sunggyu to stagger home from vocal practice, arm slung over Woohyun’s shoulder, conversing softly, careful not to wake anyone else up.
“You’re back?”
“Why aren’t you asleep?”
Dongwoo indicates his journal. “Just. Writing a bit.”
Sometimes Woohyun tsks impatiently and leaves Sunggyu alone with Dongwoo, stomping off into their room. Sometimes Sunggyu doesn’t smile apologetically and follow him, asking Dongwoo to catch up on his rest--sometimes Sunggyu will roll his eyes and Dongwoo chest tightens uncomfortably and Sunggyu slides his feet under the blanket and says, “tell me what you’re writing about.”
“It’s nothing interesting.”
“I always mean to ask,” Sunggyu says regretfully, voice slightly hoarse. “Just. I never find the time.”
“I know.”
Friendship starts with a breathless moment of indecision, Dongwoo knows, but is supposed to continue just a bit more smoothly after that. Dongwoo doesn’t know why this is so difficult.
“I finished tabling our expenses this month, hyung.” So you don’t have to.
“I noticed.” And then much, much later, cheek against Dongwoo’s shoulder, “thank you.”
∞
Sunggyu shoots him looks when they’re out and Dongwoo slips away from conversation to note what he’s eaten that day, sometimes with a helping of that was too much, I need to be more careful, eyeing Woohyun’s trim figure and Youngjun-hyung’s glowing approval. And when Sunggyu slides into the seat next to him, eyes peering over Dongwoo’s shoulder, Dongwoo snaps the book shut, stomach churning, throat tight.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Sunggyu frowns. “You didn’t eat dinner last night either. And I know you’ve been skipping breakfast.”
His palm is hot against Dongwoo’s forearm, and Dongwoo can feel Sunggyu’s pulse thrum through his wrist. Dongwoo breathes out shakily. “I’ll do better.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
And Dongwoo clutches the notebook to his stomach and laughs about diets and muscles and beating Woohyun at his own game and tries not to let his chest explode out of his tanktop. Woohyun smiles from five feet away, curling his fingers into hearts and posing for their fans pressing their noses into the glass windows of the coffee shop. Dongwoo tries not to notice that Sunggyu is smiling as well, eyes on the back of Woohyun’s head, relaxed and confident. Dongwoo takes a deep breath and remembers the key to synchronization.
“But really, hyung--I’ll do better.”
“I know.”
∞
“I ask because I worry, you realize. I don’t always know what you’re thinking.”
Dongwoo stretches casually, top riding up along his stomach. They’re the only two without schedules for the day, and Sunggyu wanted him up early to run through the choreography for “Nothing’s Over” for the thousandth time. He’s been waiting for the others to leave, wanting nothing but the soft quiet between him and Sunggyu when they’re alone, when Sunggyu is the only hyung in the room, when Dongwoo is the closest he has to a friend, a chingu.
“Why don’t you just laugh?”
Sunggyu brings over a cup of coffee and settles on the floor beside Dongwoo, legs folded. “Hmm?”
“During interviews. On that variety show. If you laugh, it’ll be easier--they won’t ask you as many questions.”
“I’m the leader. I should be the one talking, making sure--”
Dongwoo watches the stiff line of Sunggyu’s spine, the depth of the bags under his eyes. He wonders if Woohyun ever tells Sunggyu to just go to bed, to finally sleep, to let the world go for a few hours and pick it back up in the morning. It will still be there for you, Dongwoo wants to say. You don’t need to build an empire in a day. Even Rome started with just a single stone.
Sunggyu’s clothes fit him oddly. They are too big in the shoulder and they don’t match his temperament. Dongwoo wants to--
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” Sunggyu says finally, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Can you just--”
Dongwoo cuts him off. “You make great coffee, hyung. Much better than Sungyeol.”
He can’t answer that question.
∞
Sunggyu does not sleep in his room anymore, and Dongwoo doesn’t manage to stay awake every night waiting for him, hoping for a few moments of the sort of quiet only two people can share, so Myungsoo becomes an accidental part of life. Myungsoo snores and takes a while to rub the sleep out of his eyes and stumbles around for a bit and it’s almost eerie how perfectly the two of them are suited as roommates. Myungsoo pretends not to notice Dongwoo’s toy collection, and Dongwoo tries not to say anything too acerbic or cutting about the lack of variation in Myungsoo’s wardrobe.
So when Myungsoo packs half his clothes and jets off to Japan for a days at a time, Dongwoo worries at a fingernail with his teeth and realizes that he hasn’t slept in a room on his own in years. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.
Is this how it’ll feel when it’s all over? Just me and four walls? I wish--
Dongwoo quickly turns the page when he hears a knock at the door. “Yeah?”
“Can I sleep here tonight?”
Sometimes Dongwoo wonders if Sunggyu buys the world’s ugliest pajamas on purpose. “Of course,” he says, voice a bit strangled. “I’ll. Uhm. Move those figurines.”
“It’s fine. Our room’s just as bad.” Sunggyu drags his comforter through the door and then closes it, knob clicking into place behind him. “So what have you been writing?”
Our room. Dongwoo flips onto his stomach. “Did you come in here just to ask?”
“I thought you might miss having a roommate.”
Dongwoo swallows dryly. “I might just get more sleep with Myungsoo gone.”
He closes his eyes and hears Sunggyu rearrange his blanket, flopping down, and laugh a bit breathlessly. It’s an unexpected sort of sound that he rarely gets to hear outside of the silences they share. It’s a bit awkward and shrill and it suits Sunggyu perfectly.
“Are you ever going to let me look at it?”
Sunggyu does not need to read a chronicle of the slow deterioration of Dongwoo’s health. He doesn’t need to see how many meals they all skip, how many hours of the day they lose in the name of synchronization. How lonely Dongwoo used to be.
Dongwoo opens his eyes. Sunggyu’s face is just a bit too close.
He knows, Dongwoo thinks. It’s taken Dongwoo himself a bit longer to get there, to realize that this isn’t friendship, but this also isn’t like the fights that Sunggyu and Woohyun seem to have, releasing pent-up enmity. He finally figures out that his chest is contracting just to protect his heart. The muscle seems to be beating uncontrollably.
Dongwoo leans a bit closer himself. It’s all too easy. It all makes sense. Mithra is a giant fucking liar.
“Don’t worry,” Sunggyu says, after. “I know.”
∞
Today’s list is of the trinkets Dongwoo has in his backpack. The repetition of known variables is calming. Sunggyu’s hand finds his thigh in the car, and Dongwoo carefully finishes his sentence before shoving his diary back into his rucksack.
“You didn’t eat breakfast.”
“Sorry.”
Sunggyu’s fingers trace circles into his hip. Dongwoo tries to regulate his breathing. “Don’t apologize. What were you writing about today?”
Myungsoo groans in his sleep, kicking Sungyeol in the shins. Hoya’s headphones leak traces of hip hop into the car, and Sungjong’s head lolls limply. Woohyun drools into his shoulder.
Sunggyu kicks at Dongwoo’s foot playfully. “Is it that important?”
Dongwoo’s head buzzes. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, this time. It feels like the rush of blood in his chest and the surge of adrenaline and something else below his navel. It feels like--
“A prediction,” he whispers over the tension of seven boys and one dream. This is teamwork.
“Hmm?”
“We’ll be okay today. We’ll be great. We might even win an award.”
Sunggyu laughs, but the curve of his spine relaxes slightly and Dongwoo is amazed that no one else has ever noticed how easy Sunggyu is to please. “You think?”
Dongwoo leans closer. This is not teamwork.
“Yeah. I do.”
There’s a difference.
∞
a/n: thank you reifica. i wish there were words in the universe that meant more than "love" so i could wear out their meanings by peppering you with them endlessly.