Boy's Don't Cry
DBSK/JYJ Junsu centric - angstish Written after seeing fancams of JYJ in Tokyo Dome February 02 2013.
Boys don’t cry.
It’s been over a year and his voice still hasn’t settled. The doctors said that it would take a year and a half at most, and time is looming closer and closer. Expectations leering and almost smothering him with each note he loses, each register that fades away like it never was, like dreams in the face of sunlight burning through the window each morning. Hyukjae says that the sun is like hope, warming and bringing light and life to the world. He doesn’t think so. To him, the sunlight is like a song. He can see it, feel it, he knows it is there, but damned if he can touch it. It doesn’t keep him from trying. Junho phones him one day, months later, when he’s been staring directly at the sun and reminds him that there are other sources of warmth. His father’s resignation tastes salty on his tongue. His mother reminds him that boys don’t cry.
As he stares at the instructor in horror after his voice breaks like his heart on a simple scale, he wonders how his dream became a nightmare, and when he stopped being a boy.
Boys don’t cry.
Yunho-hyung will be their leader. He likes that, the older dancer knows him well enough, and they can get along. Jaejoong-hyung looks distant, cold, and is a little scary, but his voice is amazing and he can recognize the hard work that the older boy has put into it to get to that point. That is the voice he will be harmonizing with, and he’s certain that even if they can’t be friends, they’ll manage to get along since Yunho-hyung and Jaejoong-hyung are inseparable already. Yoochun-hyung is a little strange, coming from America and maybe that’s why he’s so emotional. He has no trouble admitting that he’s a bit jealous of the older boy, and green-eyed monster envious of Changmin. The maknae of their group, Dong Bang Shin Ki and who decided on such a ridiculously arrogant name in the first place, seemed to breeze through auditions and practise and made it into a group to debut so quickly.
He’s happy, really, he is. He’s worked hard and it’s paid off and BoA-noona is nice and these four other boys will from this day forth be so thoroughly entangled in his hopes and joys that maybe, when he manages to get his face out from his pillow his eyes won’t be red and they can practise the choreography one more time before they’re called for make-up.
Boys don’t cry.
JiHoon-hyung was always so kind and considerate when he was having trouble with memorizing the routines or doing the right steps in the right order and making sure to give his all that he hadn’t thought twice when the older boy had pulled him forward during filming SMTown’s Summer video. When he’d been bent backwards even, he hadn’t been expecting it. A dip could lead in a number of directions, after all. He wasn’t expecting to be kissed. He really wasn’t expecting the tongue sliding along the roof of his mouth and teasing his lips, and automatically drew his arm across his face to get rid of the excess moisture. Jaejoong-hyung’s laugh was quiet, but there, and the cameras were still rolling. He’d already dressed as a girl in public before, so this wasn’t that bad. Even if it was his first kiss. He swore he’d kiss his girlfriend, and that would be his real first kiss.
Holding her hand, leaning forward, eyes closed. Watching her walk away, cheeks red from where her hand had connected solidly, he hoped it would bruise and he could blame the pain in his face and not his heart.
Boys don’t cry.
Yoochun-hyung was such a cry-baby, but he understood. This was huge. Maybe their name wasn’t ridiculously arrogant, and just…arrogant. He was grateful, truly; to the company for putting them together, to the fans with their red balloons and glow-sticks, to Yunho-hyung for being so supportive, Jaejoong-hyung for being so warm and kind, Changminnie for understanding about the whole image issues, and Yoochunnie for distracting the eyes of the people there and the cameras following and letting him lift a hand to catch a stray drop of moisture while no one was paying attention.
Then everyone’s eyes were shining. Shining so bright. Five stars in a brilliant sky reflected in a red ocean, and he shone too.
Boys don’t cry.
Jaejoong-hyung was talking to crows again, and Yunho-hyung’s sneaker wasn’t getting any better reception. Minnie was definitely having his own set of issues, and Chunnie’s homesickness sometimes made him actually sick. They were learning as best they could, and Japanese was much easier to learn than English, but that didn’t mean it was easy. He’d never been good at remembering Chinese characters, and even though the shape was the same sometimes the meaning was different. Old uncle jokes helped it all make sense, and being able to understand the sounds around him in the constant chatter of the apartment building made his breath come easier.
The soft huffs of air he couldn’t completely muffle disappeared under the spray of the shower, the wetness on his face was already explained.
Boys don’t cry.
Jaejoong-hyung said he was fine and that his adoptive mother had told him some time ago, that he wouldn’t trade his sisters or parents for the world. The group, too, was his real family, and as everyone’s hyung he did his best to be the example he never had. He sucked at it, but it wasn’t his place to say that. Instead, he made sure that Yunho-hyung didn’t nickpick as much, that he could steal Chunnie’s tears and leave him only joy to share, and that Minnie’s stomach was satisfied at midnight so their eldest could dream away the ache.
And when Jaejoong woke in the night, the abandonment and loneliness pulling him from sleep to pace the confines of their shared space, it was simple enough to slip into the practise room and whisper lullabies until the mist cleared with the dawn.
Boys don’t cry.
He had to admit that the actors did a fairly good job of mimicking the way they looked. Their stylists and the cameraman helped, making sure to never shoot them straight on. Nothing about it was straight. It was making him blush, and all they had done was kiss so far. He watched to the end anyway. It bothered him. A lot. But not for the reasons he expected it to. Only the same reasons that regular porn bothered him. All the same reasons that regular porn bothered him. Minnie had found the entire thing online, had arranged for the others to be out so he could see what the big deal was. Now he wondered. What would it be like for Chunnie to kiss him like that? To touch him, the way he was touching himself?
Watching his sin swirl down the drain, he blamed the water heater for the flush on his face and exhaustion for why he couldn’t meet Yoochun’s eyes for almost three whole weeks.
Boys don’t cry.
He thought his entire body hurt, that he was tired. The tour was so close to starting and they were so close to perfect and he just needed to push a little harder. Then he pushed too hard, felt something give that should be solid and strong, and found out what hurt really meant. Later, Yunho would cheer him on in front of the cameras and he would smile. Later, Changmin would put the last piece of chicken on his plate and say he was full and he should eat it to rebuild his strength. Later, Jaejoong would wheel him down the runway and he would wave and grin. Later, Chunnie would stand by him and their voices would blend.
Right then, on the cold, hard, dusty stage floor, he gritted his teeth and smiled as Changmin wiped up the salt-water, only sweat nothing more, from his face and waited at his side for the medic to come.
Boys don’t cry.
He’d thought he’d learned what despair was as a trainee, what alone was in Japan, shame after the fake sex tape, what tired was after two interviews and a performance in a day, pain after injuring his ankle. He thought he knew what friendship was with Hyukjae, family with DBSK, always with Junho, adoration with Cassiopeia, love with…he’d been wrong. So wrong. Two in the morning in his own apartment, parents asleep, brother in another country, Jaejoong blaming himself, Yoochun unable to breathe through his tears, Hyukjae publicly denouncing him and privately ignoring him, Cassiopeia torn asunder, the other two gone, and even his cats elsewhere, he was learning all over again.
Despair. Loneliness. Shame. Exhaustion. Pain. Sorrow. So much sorrow.
But someone had to be strong.
Boys don’t cry.
Tweets sent out in heartache. Apologize for choice of words and perceived misperception. Jaejoong’s eye weeping poison. Apologize for not taking care. Yoochun filming and losing his father. Apologize for schedules and not being there. A moment of too much becoming too public, with raised voices and fists. Apologize. Not being allowed on air for years due to a lawsuit that should have taken months. Apologize. Not feeling capable of maintaining a façade of joyous innocence. Apologize. Not being comfortable with the same ridiculous playing with and posing for a crowd as he was eight, nine, ten years ago. Apologize. Change. Apologize. Don’t change. Apologize. Head down. Apologize.
If he ever got a chance to look up again, if they saw his eyes, maybe he’d get an apology too.
Boys don’t cry.
“You look like death.”
“I’m supposed to.”
Conversations with his mother were never this blunt. With Junho, never this direct. Yoochun didn’t talk about it. Jaejoong never had a problem saying things that weren’t exactly socially graceful, but could also take a hint as long as it was the size of Tokyo Dome, and hung up a few moments later. He thought about getting up and looking in the empty fridge, thought about ordering in, thought about what used to be and where he wanted to go, thought about getting up for his work out in a little over four hours, then fell asleep on the couch. Again.
Six hours, a glass of water, a run, a change of clothes waiting, and a round of feeding his cats later, he climbed into the shower and waited for the tears to come, only to find himself drying off and dry eyed.
Boys don’t cry.
Speaking of Tokyo Dome, the red ocean was beautiful. Four years later, it was still beautiful. He wanted a picture, but Jaejoongie-hyung reminded him that it wasn't allowed. He could laugh, deciding that he'd never forget anyways. Floating in the warmth from the stage lights, the body heat of 50,000 people and more, the gold and black vinyl and polyester doing nothing to keep him cool, the scent of bleach and more hairspray filling his lungs, he sang.
This was his happy place. This place. This ocean, a body of salt-water. Tears of joy formed, filled, spilled.
Maybe this is what it meant to be a man.
Boys don’t cry.
It’s been over a year and his voice still hasn’t settled. The doctors said that it would take a year and a half at most, and time is looming closer and closer. Expectations leering and almost smothering him with each note he loses, each register that fades away like it never was, like dreams in the face of sunlight burning through the window each morning. Hyukjae says that the sun is like hope, warming and bringing light and life to the world. He doesn’t think so. To him, the sunlight is like a song. He can see it, feel it, he knows it is there, but damned if he can touch it. It doesn’t keep him from trying. Junho phones him one day, months later, when he’s been staring directly at the sun and reminds him that there are other sources of warmth. His father’s resignation tastes salty on his tongue. His mother reminds him that boys don’t cry.
As he stares at the instructor in horror after his voice breaks like his heart on a simple scale, he wonders how his dream became a nightmare, and when he stopped being a boy.
Boys don’t cry.
Yunho-hyung will be their leader. He likes that, the older dancer knows him well enough, and they can get along. Jaejoong-hyung looks distant, cold, and is a little scary, but his voice is amazing and he can recognize the hard work that the older boy has put into it to get to that point. That is the voice he will be harmonizing with, and he’s certain that even if they can’t be friends, they’ll manage to get along since Yunho-hyung and Jaejoong-hyung are inseparable already. Yoochun-hyung is a little strange, coming from America and maybe that’s why he’s so emotional. He has no trouble admitting that he’s a bit jealous of the older boy, and green-eyed monster envious of Changmin. The maknae of their group, Dong Bang Shin Ki and who decided on such a ridiculously arrogant name in the first place, seemed to breeze through auditions and practise and made it into a group to debut so quickly.
He’s happy, really, he is. He’s worked hard and it’s paid off and BoA-noona is nice and these four other boys will from this day forth be so thoroughly entangled in his hopes and joys that maybe, when he manages to get his face out from his pillow his eyes won’t be red and they can practise the choreography one more time before they’re called for make-up.
Boys don’t cry.
JiHoon-hyung was always so kind and considerate when he was having trouble with memorizing the routines or doing the right steps in the right order and making sure to give his all that he hadn’t thought twice when the older boy had pulled him forward during filming SMTown’s Summer video. When he’d been bent backwards even, he hadn’t been expecting it. A dip could lead in a number of directions, after all. He wasn’t expecting to be kissed. He really wasn’t expecting the tongue sliding along the roof of his mouth and teasing his lips, and automatically drew his arm across his face to get rid of the excess moisture. Jaejoong-hyung’s laugh was quiet, but there, and the cameras were still rolling. He’d already dressed as a girl in public before, so this wasn’t that bad. Even if it was his first kiss. He swore he’d kiss his girlfriend, and that would be his real first kiss.
Holding her hand, leaning forward, eyes closed. Watching her walk away, cheeks red from where her hand had connected solidly, he hoped it would bruise and he could blame the pain in his face and not his heart.
Boys don’t cry.
Yoochun-hyung was such a cry-baby, but he understood. This was huge. Maybe their name wasn’t ridiculously arrogant, and just…arrogant. He was grateful, truly; to the company for putting them together, to the fans with their red balloons and glow-sticks, to Yunho-hyung for being so supportive, Jaejoong-hyung for being so warm and kind, Changminnie for understanding about the whole image issues, and Yoochunnie for distracting the eyes of the people there and the cameras following and letting him lift a hand to catch a stray drop of moisture while no one was paying attention.
Then everyone’s eyes were shining. Shining so bright. Five stars in a brilliant sky reflected in a red ocean, and he shone too.
Boys don’t cry.
Jaejoong-hyung was talking to crows again, and Yunho-hyung’s sneaker wasn’t getting any better reception. Minnie was definitely having his own set of issues, and Chunnie’s homesickness sometimes made him actually sick. They were learning as best they could, and Japanese was much easier to learn than English, but that didn’t mean it was easy. He’d never been good at remembering Chinese characters, and even though the shape was the same sometimes the meaning was different. Old uncle jokes helped it all make sense, and being able to understand the sounds around him in the constant chatter of the apartment building made his breath come easier.
The soft huffs of air he couldn’t completely muffle disappeared under the spray of the shower, the wetness on his face was already explained.
Boys don’t cry.
Jaejoong-hyung said he was fine and that his adoptive mother had told him some time ago, that he wouldn’t trade his sisters or parents for the world. The group, too, was his real family, and as everyone’s hyung he did his best to be the example he never had. He sucked at it, but it wasn’t his place to say that. Instead, he made sure that Yunho-hyung didn’t nickpick as much, that he could steal Chunnie’s tears and leave him only joy to share, and that Minnie’s stomach was satisfied at midnight so their eldest could dream away the ache.
And when Jaejoong woke in the night, the abandonment and loneliness pulling him from sleep to pace the confines of their shared space, it was simple enough to slip into the practise room and whisper lullabies until the mist cleared with the dawn.
Boys don’t cry.
He had to admit that the actors did a fairly good job of mimicking the way they looked. Their stylists and the cameraman helped, making sure to never shoot them straight on. Nothing about it was straight. It was making him blush, and all they had done was kiss so far. He watched to the end anyway. It bothered him. A lot. But not for the reasons he expected it to. Only the same reasons that regular porn bothered him. All the same reasons that regular porn bothered him. Minnie had found the entire thing online, had arranged for the others to be out so he could see what the big deal was. Now he wondered. What would it be like for Chunnie to kiss him like that? To touch him, the way he was touching himself?
Watching his sin swirl down the drain, he blamed the water heater for the flush on his face and exhaustion for why he couldn’t meet Yoochun’s eyes for almost three whole weeks.
Boys don’t cry.
He thought his entire body hurt, that he was tired. The tour was so close to starting and they were so close to perfect and he just needed to push a little harder. Then he pushed too hard, felt something give that should be solid and strong, and found out what hurt really meant. Later, Yunho would cheer him on in front of the cameras and he would smile. Later, Changmin would put the last piece of chicken on his plate and say he was full and he should eat it to rebuild his strength. Later, Jaejoong would wheel him down the runway and he would wave and grin. Later, Chunnie would stand by him and their voices would blend.
Right then, on the cold, hard, dusty stage floor, he gritted his teeth and smiled as Changmin wiped up the salt-water, only sweat nothing more, from his face and waited at his side for the medic to come.
Boys don’t cry.
He’d thought he’d learned what despair was as a trainee, what alone was in Japan, shame after the fake sex tape, what tired was after two interviews and a performance in a day, pain after injuring his ankle. He thought he knew what friendship was with Hyukjae, family with DBSK, always with Junho, adoration with Cassiopeia, love with…he’d been wrong. So wrong. Two in the morning in his own apartment, parents asleep, brother in another country, Jaejoong blaming himself, Yoochun unable to breathe through his tears, Hyukjae publicly denouncing him and privately ignoring him, Cassiopeia torn asunder, the other two gone, and even his cats elsewhere, he was learning all over again.
Despair. Loneliness. Shame. Exhaustion. Pain. Sorrow. So much sorrow.
But someone had to be strong.
Boys don’t cry.
Tweets sent out in heartache. Apologize for choice of words and perceived misperception. Jaejoong’s eye weeping poison. Apologize for not taking care. Yoochun filming and losing his father. Apologize for schedules and not being there. A moment of too much becoming too public, with raised voices and fists. Apologize. Not being allowed on air for years due to a lawsuit that should have taken months. Apologize. Not feeling capable of maintaining a façade of joyous innocence. Apologize. Not being comfortable with the same ridiculous playing with and posing for a crowd as he was eight, nine, ten years ago. Apologize. Change. Apologize. Don’t change. Apologize. Head down. Apologize.
If he ever got a chance to look up again, if they saw his eyes, maybe he’d get an apology too.
Boys don’t cry.
“You look like death.”
“I’m supposed to.”
Conversations with his mother were never this blunt. With Junho, never this direct. Yoochun didn’t talk about it. Jaejoong never had a problem saying things that weren’t exactly socially graceful, but could also take a hint as long as it was the size of Tokyo Dome, and hung up a few moments later. He thought about getting up and looking in the empty fridge, thought about ordering in, thought about what used to be and where he wanted to go, thought about getting up for his work out in a little over four hours, then fell asleep on the couch. Again.
Six hours, a glass of water, a run, a change of clothes waiting, and a round of feeding his cats later, he climbed into the shower and waited for the tears to come, only to find himself drying off and dry eyed.
Boys don’t cry.
Speaking of Tokyo Dome, the red ocean was beautiful. Four years later, it was still beautiful. He wanted a picture, but Jaejoongie-hyung reminded him that it wasn't allowed. He could laugh, deciding that he'd never forget anyways. Floating in the warmth from the stage lights, the body heat of 50,000 people and more, the gold and black vinyl and polyester doing nothing to keep him cool, the scent of bleach and more hairspray filling his lungs, he sang.
This was his happy place. This place. This ocean, a body of salt-water. Tears of joy formed, filled, spilled.
Maybe this is what it meant to be a man.