(for yeo_ubi) All Roads, They Lead Me Here part iv
They’re sitting on the curb outside the party. Jongin had expected the place to be crawling with paparazzi but according to Zitao they had all been invited inside in the lobby because it’s too hot to hang around out here.
Out of all of them Yifan looks the most out of place; this tall brooding guy who looks like he came straight out of an anime, dressed to the nines and silver hair slicked back, sitting on the dirty sidewalk looking as lost as a toddler separated from his mother.
“Okay,” Jongin says, guilty that he’s the reason why everyone’s out here, “what now?”
Zitao is already on it. “I’ve got it all sorted guys. I rang up a good friend and he has a ride for us, arriving in a few minutes. Then, we’re heading into town to have a real party.”
Yifan furrowed his thick eyebrows, hands pulling at his collar. He says something to Zitao in mandarin, and gets a confirmation. A smile graces his lips. “Alright, good friend.”
No sooner, a pair of headlights come barreling down the street, the distinct sound of heavy bass accompanying the purr of an engine. A striking red range rover pulls up to the crew, and just like the movies, the window rolls down and the driver looks over at them, pulling sunglasses down to take a peek.
“I heard you have some Korean friends you wanted to show around town,” the man says, stumbling over his Korean.
“Yeah, and why are you wearing sunglasses at night, Yixing? You look stupid,” Zitao shoots, pulling Sehun into the darkness of the back seat. Yifan immediately hops in shotgun, greeting Yixing with a bro fist and a man hug. Jongin and Chanyeol crawl into the middle seats. The music in the car, some ambiguous dubstep track Jongin can’t help but rock his head to, is blasting loud enough that Zitao has to raise his voice.
“So, everyone, this is Zhang Yixing,” Zitao introduces. Yifan turns down the volume, though he looks like he’s jamming hard core. “Our good friend, and Asia renowned choreographer also known as Lay.”
Jongin gasps, tensing in his seat. He knows Lay, hell, everyone in the dancing community knows Lay. Even Sehun knows Lay. “No fucking way.”
Yixing goes ha, sounding like a dorky honk. “One and only. How did you get past the managers?”
“Zitao had Luhan distracting them. He’s the boss’s assistant so he can’t leave anyway. He says hi, by the way,” Yifan fills in.
Yixing pouts. “This won’t be a real party without Luhan.”
“Hey,” Zitao whines from the back. “Life of the part over here. Set the destination for The Lost Planet.”
“Where?” Chanyeol asks, fixing his sideburns.
“It’s the epitome of luxury. Everyone even worth thinking about hangs out at The Lost Planet.”
“It’s true,” Yifan and Yixing chorus from the front.
“Is it, like, a club?” Jongin questions.
“When you say it like that it sounds boring,” Zitao says. “Their drinks will be the most spectacular you’ve ever tasted and the music is perfect.” Zitao says perfect in English, purrfect.
“It’ll take your mind off of that devil,” Sehun adds. Jongin smiles at the name, and gets a hack at the back of his head.
“Who wants to be designated driver?” Zitao says. A flood of not me’s.
Yixing sighs, “I’ll drive. I don’t trust any one of you with my baby anyway.”
Yifan turns the volume back up and Jongin leans back onto his seat, grabbing out his phone to text Kyungsoo what he’s up to. He’ll send a picture too, hanging out with men all ranked in Asia’s most handsome, plus Chanyeol and Sehun.
Yifan makes a barfing noise. “You guys in the back, keep it in your pants.” Jongin hears Zitao giggle before Yifan fake barfs some more.
“Hey Chanyeol,” Jongin nudges him, trying to angle himself right for the camera, “I’m going to take a panorama for Kyungsoo. Pose.”
Chanyeol does a V sign, then an expression of shock settles on his face. “If you’re gay,” he points to Jongin, “and he’s gay,” he gestures towards Sehun in the back, “then who’s driving the car?”
“I’m not gay,” Yixing says, then more nervously, “wait, am I?”
It must be a Saturday. Jongin jerks awake to a heavy pounding in his skull. The hotel room is dead quiet, save for Chanyeol’s snoring to his side and the distant sound of morning traffic.
His body is moving against the haze and the punches to his head, realizes there’s an arm draped across his stomach big and warm. Must be Chanyeol’s - that ass - but when he opens his eyes and peels the limb away, he realises the hand is way too massive and tanned to be his friends, and that this stranger is spooning him.
Jongin squirms away quickly to not wake whoever it is up, sliding out the bed and leaning against the wall because his head is a whirlwind. Yifan was the offender, and his eyes twitch at the loss of warmth but he slumbers on, and Jongin gets down to business.
First: several cups of water. Someone’s left a jug of iced water, glass cups, and aspirin on the study table of the room, bless this angel, and Jongin skulls a few and pops two pills. Check.
Second: shower. In and out. He moans in pleasure when the hot body massages his sore back. Check.
Third: gear. Chanyeol’s got room service to expensively do the laundry, so he puts on a graphic muscle tee, shorts, and sneakers. Zitao’s suit Jongin wore last night (and to bed) lays crumpled and foul smelling on top of his suitcase. His phone is near dead so he plugs it in to charge while he scoffs a quick breakfast.
He finds Yixing sitting at the counter staring intensely at his phone, a plate with what looks like the remains of a good meal in front of him. Hesitantly, Jongin zooms to the fridge and picks through the leftovers, pulling out a bowl with what looks like half-eaten black bean noodles inside.
“Good morning, Jongin,” Yixing beams at him, fine and dandy. No sign of a hangover in sight.
“G’morning,” Jongin bows. He’s still feeling weird about the whole ‘Lay’ thing.
“I hope you’re feeling well. I left some water and aspirin on the table, did you have some?”
“Ah, yeah, I did. Thanks, man.” So Yixing’s the healing angel.
“Was Yifan annoying? He gets cuddly in his sleep and I was gonna move him to the couch but he was too heavy for me to lift,” Yixing chuckles, still smiley.
Jongin rubs the back of his neck. “It’s alright. I didn’t notice until I woke up.”
The bowl of noodles gets chucked into the microwave, and Jongin makes himself a quick cup of Milo. The kitchen and adjoining lounge begin to smell of belly-rumbling black bean.
“Where are you going?” Yixing asks, nodding at his attire and backpack.
“Street dancing. It’s become a habit for me to dance on weekends, hail or shine,” Jongin says abashedly, feeling extremely inadequate talking about dancing to this choreography god.
Yixing however widens his eyes and sits up taller. “Really? Can I come?”
“You… wanna dance… With me?”
Yixing looks scandalized. “Of course! I’ll take any opportunity to dance. And it’s been so long since I’ve street danced. I miss it a lot.”
“You used to street dance?” Jongin asks in disbelief.
“All the time, before I got involved in the music industry and all.”
Jongin stares at him, heart thumping its way up through his throat. Here is Zhang Yixing, Lay, music producer to the likes of Asia’s finest, close friends to the aristocratically suave Tao and Kris, and Lee Taemin’s favourite choreographer. And he wants to dance with Jongin. It’s every dancer’s wet dream.
“Uh- yeah. Sure. I mean, if you want-“
“Great! Let me change and check up on the guys first.” Yixing flies off, and Jongin’s left in the dust wondering how someone so talented and ethereal could still at the same time retain such a humble disposition.
They head off to a spot Yixing recommends, the whole ride through discussing dance routines and performances and Jongin is star struck beyond belief. He’s sure no one as amazing or down to Earth (or weird) as Yixing deserves to be stuck in this mortal hell. Jongin unravels his dancing history and style, and then without knowing he’s told Yixing his life story, plus the Kyungsoo dilemma. Yixing’s just such a good listener that it’s hard to stop once he’s started.
They arrive at a park, the sky for once coloured a hint of blue. Yixing leads Jongin to where the pathways intersect into a big fountain, the gold of the braiding koi fish sparkling in the sunlight.
Jongin sets up as he’s used to, speakers by the wings and dirt-ridden snapback face-down at the front. The track list is his go-to for hip hop performances. He’s jittering with nerves.
“Do you know any of my choreo?” Yixing asks.
Jongin fiddles with his hands. “Yes. I know most from your New Sound project, and all of Taemin’s solos. But, uh, I’m not that good with choreography in general. I can’t tune into the group atmosphere well.”
“That’s okay,” Yixing smiles, dimple winking. “Which is your favourite?”
It turns out that Jongin is absolutely terrible at following choreography. He tries to focus on Yixing the whole time, not losing concentration keeping his moves crisp, but then a complicated set of shoulder pops would come up and he’d close his eyes and really feel the music reverberating in the hollow of his bones and then Yixing would playfully call out to him and he’d come to, embarrassed and disorientated, like he was jolted from his sleep.
The crowd that stops by consists of mainly the elderly taking a breath by the fountain from their jog, or the odd couple on their Saturday morning date. The hip hop music is jarring to the peaceful park ambience.
They take turns doing solo dances, and watching Yixing move up close is the closest thing Jongin would experience to a spiritual phenomenon. His movements are sharp and the detail he adds to each pivot or sway has the confidence of a well-seasoned performer.
When Jongin dances he goes out of his way to change the playlist into something slower and more contemporary, and this freedom of tempo has him forgetting the world again, that Yixing is ever there. He looks to the front as each song finishes and he imagines the straight cut lines of a business suit tossing bills into his hat, but instead there’s a hoard of unfamiliar faces and Yixing, panting from the heat and exertion and grinning.
Eventually an audience of teenagers finds them, some taking videos and uploading it to the endless stream of social media platforms. After a bit they start whispering to each other, pointing at Yixing, and when the song ends a girl shyly comes up to him to ask if he’s Lay. By then, the numbers explode.
They barely make it past two o’clock before the audience gets restless. People just passing by are curious to know who’s causing the pile-up and the situation becomes dire when the noise of chatter and commotion drowns out Jongin’s little speakers. Yixing angelically bows to the crowd and greets them, before apologizing sincerely that the show’s essentially finished and thanking them for watching. Sounds like a true idol.
They rush out of there quickly as the crowds disperse and Jongin doesn’t realize how hungry he is until they’re strapped in the car and his belly is caving in. The car is filled with the sounds of the A/C on high, their laboured breaths, and Yixing’s laugh.
Yixing cards his hands through his sweaty bangs. “That is the most fun I’ve had in a while. And you were amazing! It’s hard to find a dance partner who can match up to me.” He nudges Jongin jokingly.
Jongin shakes his head. All he can think about is food.
“Why don’t join my company? I think you can do amazing things with dance,” Yixing says seriously. Jongin’s so physically and emotionally wrecked he can’t process this clearly.
“I’m sorry, I don’t wanna be an idol,” Jongin answers, feeling like he’s said this before.
“Not as an idol, Jongin. As a choreographer.”
A shock runs through Jongin’s spine. “What-”
Saved by a ringtone. Yixing slips out his phone and mutters manager, picking it up and conversing in lightspeed mandarin.
Yixing wants him to be a choreographer? Despite the fact that Jongin is positively rubbish at sticking to routines?
Before he can wallow in it deeply Yixing’s conversation is finished and he’s backing out of the parking space, a dazed gloss over his eyes. “Let’s head back before they mob us. Call Yifan to make us some food. And I was serious about that offer, think about it.”
They get back to the hotel room and Zitao bombards them with a thousand questions. Jongin’s surprised that his whole crew’s still holed up here. Immediately Jongin senses a disturbance in the air, and he whips his head to the couch where Sehun and Chanyeol are draped over, playing with something in between them.
“Jongin, Zitao brought his puppy. Her name’s Candy,” Chanyeol yells.
A surge of adrenaline runs through Jongin. “A puppy? There’s a puppy here?”
“No no no no,” Zitao grips Jongin and Yixing’s shoulders, holding them in place. “I want an explanation now. Or else you don’t get to play with Candy.”
“You wouldn’t,” Jongin breaks down. He needs to touch that puppy right now.
“We were just streetdancing,” Yixing explains. “I didn’t expect for the audience to blow up.”
“Can I play with Candy now?” Jongin asks timidly. Zitao lifts his palm in a halt.
“Have you considered modelling? Seriously,” he says instead. Jongin recognizes the business tone; monotonous and sober.
Jongin hears Sehun snort in the background. “Uh,” Jongin falters, “not really. Why?”
“I want you to model under my brand. You looked really good in the videos, very charismatic. And last night you weren’t too bad either.”
“Hey,” Yixing interjects, “I’ve already offered him to work with me in choreography.”
“He’ll earn more as a model,” Zitao retaliates. “Has he already agreed?”
“Well, no-”
“Then he can decide for himself-”
“Guys,” Jongin squeezes in. “You’re not serious, right?”
“Of course I am,” Yixing says. Zitao echoes him. It makes no sense, why would they want Jongin to be a part of their multi-million dollar companies when he himself isn’t worth anything more than a cent?
“I’m flattered, but I don’t think I’m what you guys want.”
“You’re attractive,” Zitao says just as Yixing says, “You dance amazing.”
“But…”
“Okay then, what do you want to do after you finish school?” Yixing asks. The dreaded question. In all honesty, Jongin really doesn’t know. Any vision past the end of the year is a black out. He finds himself feeling immensely inadequate, much more than he’s ever felt. Standing in this room filled with people who have aspirations or have already achieved it, he is shrinking by the minute.
“I- don’t know. I just want to dance,” he answers helplessly.
“Then be a choreographer,” Yixing suggests, beaming. Zitao huffs in frustration, and leans in close to Jongin.
“You’ll be paid more,” Zitao says slowly, articulating each word with his eyes in a scowl. Smiling nervously, Jongin coughs and backs away.
“Choreograph with you here? In Beijing?” Jongin focuses on Yixing.
He receives a long look, Yixing probably realizing how uncomfortable and perplexed Jongin is, and says, “It’s okay. Like I said, I’ll let you think about it. Just, if you really want to dance, then just do it. The offer will always be there.”
“Mine too,” Zitao quickly adds in.
They break off and Yixing dashes to the kitchen where Yifan is cooking up something smelling of black beans. Jongin releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. Thoughts about the future run around his head and stop short of driving him insane. Instead, he just feels so worn out. His appetite has disappeared.
Chanyeol and Sehun are still fooling around with Zitao’s puppy so he joins them, enthusiasm drained. He tries to shake the negativity off, but it lingers in the hollow of his chest like a time bomb, getting closer and closer to detonation.
--
On their second last day in Beijing, Jongin’s called down to the receptionist’s desk to pick up a package that is addressed to their hotel room. It’s a little black present box sealed with black duct tape and tied off with an equally black ribbon, a sticker on the side with the address and Jongin’s name in hangul, handwritten in neat office blue ink.
Only Chanyeol’s in the hotel room when Jongin returns, Sehun off on a date with Zitao somewhere or other. He opens the package, taking a guess at the contents inside and the identity of the sender.
The lid comes off and inside, arranged neatly by colour, are socks. Some in single shades, some with cartoon bows and love hearts, some with the faces of famous kpop idols. There’s a card tucked in the corner.
Here are some socks. I never see you wear any. I’ll be in Melbourne tomorrow, but I guess you already knew that. See you there. Signed, Kyungsoo.
Jongin resists the urge to squeal like a pre-pubescent girl, but his cheeks flush red hot and his heart is beating deep and equally love struck. The realization comes to him that Kyungsoo is exactly like a cat. A dog will love you regardless but a cat will tease and look like a little adorable puff but hiss and pad away, and show their love once in a blue moon. When they do show their love though, it’s as though all your misgivings have been erased and you are reborn as a new being, devoid of sins and impurity.
God he just loves it when Kyungsoo acknowledges his existence.
The socks distract him from the sound of heavy footsteps approaching his seat on the couch. A warm presence has Jongin looking up from his gift and at Chanyeol. Jongin’s stomach coils in worry at the sullen look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Jongin says, putting aside the black box.
Chanyeol exhales in amusement, light not reaching his eyes. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’ve asked that before,” Jongin tries to joke.
Chanyeol only gives a tiny smile. For a while he just breathes deeply and fidgets on the spot but then he looks at Jongin, determined. “Look- uh. I love travelling around with you guys and it’s been sick. And seeing your relationship with Kyungsoo straighten out,” Chanyeol lifts a corner of his mouth. “I hope you guys make it through whatever.”
“Chanyeol, just spit it,” Jongin chuckles.
“Uh,” Chanyeol rubs his hands all over his face, cups his cheeks. “This is so hard.”
“What is?”
“Alright- okay,” Chanyeol sighs. “I’m going back to Korea.”
Jongin’s breath hitches. “What? When?”
“Tonight.”
“Are you serious?” Jongin’s suspended in disbelief. How can it end up to this - Chanyeol being the first one to leave? “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I- just-” Chanyeol looks down to his feet. “I didn’t want to ruin the trip. And you looked happy and Sehun looked happy and, you know, what right have I got to spoil it all.”
“This is your trip too.” It’s so surreal to remember that they’ve got a life back in Seoul, that the world isn’t limited to the hotel passkey and struggling to get past the language barrier and a city map. He doesn’t want to go back, even though one day he has to eventually. This is all too soon, they’ve still got time.
“I know, and I’m sorry. But semester starts in less than a week, and I know I said I didn’t care about the start of term but you know me. You know my priorities.”
“That’s-” Jongin doesn’t have anything to rebut because everything’s true. Chanyeol may have been carefree about getting a late head start but his uni course is practically his life. How can it compete with a little holiday getaway?
“I’m really sorry. I know this meant a lot to you,” Chanyeol says, and to Jongin it sounds patronizing because there Chanyeol is, getting serious about his education and all and he’s sorry that he messed with Jongin’s pointless trip, chasing a guy around the world and dancing in the process. The truth is always unforgiving.
Jongin pulls at his shorts and shrugs. What can he do? “I can’t stop you. If this is what you want, then it’s okay. Don’t need to justify anything.”
Chanyeol’s relief is palpable. Jongin smiles something bittersweet. Chanyeol’s leaving, and even though they’ll see him again in a couple of weeks it still feels like a limb has been ripped off his body.
“We’ll drop you off at the airport. Let’s hope Zitao’s got a fancy ride he can lend us.”
Chanyeol laughs, albeit tinged with resolution. “Try not to have too much fun without me.”
Jongin can only smile in return, much too sour and fatigued to really do anything more.
--
Melbourne is cold and dreary, and maybe it’s from Chanyeol’s absence or the weather in general but Jongin’s got a heavy weight on his chest, and he finds it near impossible to breathe. Why is everything so damn quiet?
Sehun doesn’t look too well either, not a smile in sight when they check in to their hotel room and drop their suitcases in the lounge. They each have their own rooms now. He keeps checking his phone and typing something with an etch in his brows.
“Are you texting Zitao?” Jongin asks. Maybe he should text Kyungsoo as well.
“No, it’s- never mind. I’m tired, I’m going to take a nap.” Sehun places his phone back into his pockets and looks at Jongin, half expectantly, half exhausted. His skin has grown sallow and his eyes dull. Jongin shrugs and stands up, and the stillness that has wormed its way between them isn’t uncomfortable or tense, just, empty. It’s translucent and light and Jongin hasn’t felt this lethargic with his friend since a long time.
“Yeah, me too,” Jongin says.
Sehun nods. They retire to their own rooms.
This goes on for days. Sehun spends most of his time in his room, talking to Zitao on his phone or video chatting with Chanyeol (Jongin joins sometimes, but the atmosphere is tight and awkward when they’re asked how Melbourne is), and Jongin is left to his amusement. He texts Kyungsoo plenty, tries to call him sometimes, but the elder’s always busy looking over something or having meetings with someone and he gets bored waiting on the other end for an answer.
Some nights it gets so quiet Jongin can hear the rain so clearly it’s like he’s hearing it for the first time.
He dances on Thursday to escape the suffocation. The pavements are littered with puddles and the city smells like it’s smothered in a damp cloth. The rhythm of figuring out a set list and hunting a spot comes back to Jongin all at once, and for the first time since the day they touched down in Melbourne Jongin finds that he can properly inhale his lungs full.
His spot turns out to be a field of grass lining a row of shops, where a small patch of sun has escaped in between the clouds. He takes a quick picture of the general area and sends it to Kyungsoo, though he knows there’s a large chance he’ll be ignored for Real Life Work stuff.
The playlist is a cluster of dubstep and pop song remixes, as Jongin feels like his body will melt into liquid if he doesn’t get his energy up.
Before he starts he hunches over with his hands on his thighs, letting out a large sigh and trying to get his mind to align with his body. He looks around at his little spot, how he’s standing by himself in the stillness, dancing for no one really but himself. It’s always been like this; he’s always been a better solo performer than part of a team upwards of two.
Loneliness has never been an issue, but Jongin’s chest has a prick of an ache pulsing against his ribcage.
No, he can’t afford to feel lonely. Not after all these years.
The music starts and he throws himself into the beat, putting twice the effort into each move and moving so forcefully his elbows and waist crack. He’s never danced this hard before. All he can think about is the way his feet jump according to the fast tempo; the way his body slots itself snugly into the music, even down to the pads of fingers.
Jongin used to think that when he dances, everything sharpens into clarity. He could see each thought laid out perfectly for him to assess. But now it slowly becomes obvious for him that no, he doesn’t to dance to disentangle his mind and conscience.
When he dances he can’t feel anything at all but the pounding of the bass and the ripple of the melody. When he dances the world fades away and his senses numb. His physicality doesn’t exist, his thoughts don’t exist.
He dances to separate himself. He dances to run away. He dances to forget.
Sehun comes to him sooner than expected, outline rigid and toes scrunching into the cold hardwood floors. The wind outside pushes the rain to tap against the windows like pebbles.
Jongin knows what Sehun is going to say just by his posture. It mirrors Chanyeol’s on their second last day in Beijing. Now, that seems like an age away even though it’s only been a few days.
“Semester started today,” Sehun says, looking off to the side. He clenches and unclenches his jaw.
“I didn’t realize,” Jongin shrugs. The days all blend into an incomprehensible stream.
Sehun inhales deep. “My parents want me back. They’ve been harassing me about returning since last week.”
Jongin bites his bottom lip. Sehun was never going to last that long anyway. He thought Sehun would have been the first to go back, not Chanyeol. “Then I guess you have to go back.”
“I’m sorry,” Sehun mumbles. “I know how much this meant to you.”
“I swear,” annoyance surging in Jongin. “I have a life too, you know.”
Sehun looks taken aback. “That’s not what I meant.”
Jongin deflates, rubbing his head. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
Sehun purses his lips. “It’s okay, man.”
“I’m guessing your flight’s tonight?”
“Yeah.”
And Jongin nods, because what else can he do? His friends have lives and responsibilities to go back to. Jongin’s the one that’s stuck in this circle track trying to figure out what exactly is he doing, lost and confused and now, suddenly, a little bit lonely.
Jongin gives up the next morning when he wakes up to a crushing silence.
The first thing he does is dial Kyungsoo’s number. His hands are shaking beyond belief. He can hardly breathe right but Jongin’s already started speaking, about anything, about everything to fill the void left behind in the empty hotel room.
“Kyungsoo,” Jongin breathes, “Kyungsoo Kyungsoo Kyungsoo. They’ve all left; gone home. It’s just me now. I can’t,” shaky inhale, “I can’t stay here for much longer. The silence is killing me. I know you’re too busy to talk to me right now and that’s okay, you’ve got a job that you gave up singing for and Sehun’s got a university course he gave up dancing for and I- I don’t know- what I’m doing, or where I’m going, and I feel like the world is turning and everyone’s growing and I’m stuck here.
“But I still love you. I’ve only just properly started loving you so we’ve still got a long while together. I think I’m gonna go home too. This is what you want, right? For me to get serious about my education and my future and all. So I can stop bothering you, and you can stop being angry with me all the time.”
Jongin puts his phone down and stares at the screen, blinking at the string of numbers above the keypad, then locking it and getting up to pack his things.
He did not press the call button.
--
Chanyeol and Sehun are back to their flighty, strained selves by the first week of second semester. The start to school is slow but it seems they’ve straightened their backs and shed the sheen off their skin to prepare for when things get really stressful. Jongin still hasn’t gotten his sleeping pattern in check.
Jongin’s goes to class, does his assignments, stays late in the library, comes home, falls asleep to the sound of Chanyeol tapping his pen against the table outside his room, ad infinitum. He fits back into routine eventually, his bed is as welcoming as ever, Sehun’s alarm clock rings in the same melody at the same time, the dorm is freezing to the touch (though now it’s because the seasons are changing over). And if Jongin doesn’t look at the calendar still unmarked since August or his cleaned-out bank account, then it’s just like the trip didn’t happen.
Sehun starts showing up less and less in the dorm, some days even gone from the break of dawn to near midnight, and he gets even skinnier and less energetic by the hour. Jongin asks Chanyeol what’s up with that, and he says it’s because Sehun got an apprenticeship at the university hospital as a result of being the top student in his class.
It’s weird to think that this is the same guy that snuck them into an exclusive club by pretending to be a rich son of old money.
Jongin finds himself getting exhausted really easily. Nowadays he can barely survive classes with the amount of sleep he used to get, and he cuts down time staying to eat supper or playing computer games with Chanyeol to sleep early but no matter how much he gets, he still can’t pay attention in class. And it also doesn’t help at all that all day he would snatch at his phone and see if he’s got a text or call from Kyungsoo, and getting dejected when there’s no news from him. Kyungsoo hasn’t noticed his absence, but Jongin attributes it to the elder’s work life getting very busy. That doesn’t stop him from constantly checking his phone.
Sometimes Jongin thinks about the offer Yixing had given him (he’s disregarded Zitao’s completely because the chances of Jongin living the celebrity life is little to none), tosses it around in his head and looking at it in different angles. He can’t see himself getting up each day only to dance. Dancing has never been a job to Jongin, always an escape. If he associates dancing as being a chore than one day he’ll run out of passion to sustain. However, he doesn’t want to do anything else.
It drives him into a corner. Is streetdancing any different to dancing in a studio?
Saturday comes before he even has a chance to breathe. He’s pretty much sleep walking through the schedule but he has the dorm etched into his mind, can maneuver with opening his eyes every ten or so seconds. His body is sluggish and there’s a constant apprehension hovering over his head, not about anything specifically, just a feeling; like sleepiness, like a sneeze about to happen.
He chooses Hongdae only because it’s the closest. The streets are as cramped and colourful as Tokyo was. When he reaches his usual spot the ahjumma by the tteokbokki stand smiles at him, putting aside a Tupperware for him.
The playlist is a set he’s done before at the same place, but there can only be that many song combinations before things start to repeat.
The exhaustion he had felt for the past week has only intensified by the Saturday. Even though he’s back on home ground his body feels oddly out of place. The once harsh sun burning his back has now retreated behind autumn clouds, a chill in the wind that feels like a slap to the skin.
Jongin presses play and walks to his position, both feet planted on the ground and his eyes closed, waiting for the beat to kick in and trying to sift through all the routines in his head. Most of what appears behind his eyelids are Yixing’s choreography, sharp and complex. Jongin doesn’t go against it, just lets his body do what it knows best.
The routine drifts from one to another. His mind is an orange haze of base and rhythm and melody. One song ends and another one begins and Jongin doesn’t resurface until his legs give out by the nth song, collapsing onto the ground with a ragged gasp for air and the audience before him shuffle nervously, not knowing whether to clap or not. Jongin lifts his head to give a smile and reassure them that everything’s just fine, and they break into applause.
His body is worn out and the burn is familiar, somewhat soothing. He gulps down water and jumps immediately back into the music, just as the apprehension he felt in the morning starts to coil in his stomach.
The grey smudge is still just at the ends of his fingertips, never in reach. It’s strange that even though they’re technically together, Jongin still finds new ways to crave Kyungsoo. He misses Kyungsoo, not in a desperate, raging manner, but a deep and aching throb in his core, a bruise.
The song ends and another one begins and the silence in between buzzes in Jongin’s ear. He is heaving fiercely, lungs caving in. The weight of his body seems to have tripled than when he had started and his mind is melting into in his skull, skin feverish. He doesn’t think he can dance for much longer.
Home sounds nice right now, but then he thinks about how Sehun’s working late nights at the hospital and slowly but surely making his way to the future he had planned, and how Chanyeol’s in his room in a nest of papers and extra reading and persistently aiming for that high mark to make his parents proud and how Jongin would come home sweaty and exhausted and contribute nothing to the dinner conversation because he does the same thing every weekend with no goal in sight.
And then Jongin’s stomach twists and he has to sit down on the pavement to calm the disquiet pounding in his head. Late afternoon sees herds of teenagers visiting stores and buying food from the vendors and their legs crisscross in front of Jongin’s eyes like the leaves of a willow tree, blown by the wind. He doesn’t know how much time passes but he doesn’t want to go home, so he just sits in his spot, the music still playing loud and heavy, with people and their little lives shifting and changing around Jongin.
He pulls out his phone, dials Kyungsoo’s number, and places it before him. He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know what to do.
His body jolts awake on the Sunday following and he feels an ache on the back of his neck. He shuffles his legs to get out of bed but his right calf locks up in a cramp, Jongin groaning and holding his breath until the pain eases. The day that he wrecks his body beyond repair edges nearer and nearer.
Sehun is asleep on the couch, shoes tossed haphazardly by the side and one leg hanging off the ledge. He’s wearing the socks Kyungsoo gave Jongin, the one with bananas on it and this reminds Jongin to put on some socks.
The apprehensiveness he felt all through yesterday cracks over his head when he gets to his door. It pours ice cold and racks his body in shivers. Jongin leans against his doorframe to clutch at his heart. It’s as sudden and painful as a muscle strain, but Jongin cannot pinpoint the exact source of pain. He’s just hurting all over, and shaking with anxiety and exhaustion.
Is this a mood swing? Has his brain fried from overthinking? He just really wants to throw himself onto his bed and cry and convulse and throw up in between. But he also wants to go back to sleep and not think about anything at all.
Jongin picks himself back up, piece by piece, and puts on those goddamn socks, and bolts out the door before he can consider otherwise. He gets his body in motion, ignoring the exhaustion pooling near his heart but he’s still shaking like he’s drenched all over.
On the train, he’s still fighting against aftermaths of the emotional explosion when he realizes that he had left his backpack and phone at home. Jongin groans and bangs his head against the glass windows.
He leans back into his seat and stares at the black of the subway walls, flashes of light burning an afterimage. The focus of his eyes change and Jongin sees himself reflected in the glass. He still looks the same but somehow he looks different, like he’s looking at a cookie tin but now he knows that there is nothing inside. His lips are chapped and downturned.
His feet carries him out of the station and he doesn’t know where he’s going until he’s there, on the boardwalk of the Han, leaning his arms on the ledge and watching the grey waters.
In his mind he sees that early morning in Paris when he found Kyungsoo alone beside the Seine, the sliver nape of his neck soft and hazy from a distance. What was he thinking then? Do the waters look the same through his eyes, all grey and weaving and hiding an unpronounced emptiness? Did he have a hovering apprehension that he wished to drown in the river? Was he thinking of Jongin?
The same hunch of the shoulders, the same absentminded outline; does Jongin look the same from behind?
Someone taps him from behind. His first instinct is to assume it’s Kyungsoo. Turning around, he meets an old lady in a jogging suit. “Excuse me, are you dancing today?”
Jongin can’t help but blush. He doesn’t think anyone would realize it’s him, he just assumes in everyone’s mind he’s a blur of arms and legs, labelled ‘the dancing boy’. “I’m not, sorry. I forgot all my stuff at home.”
The old lady nods and smiles. “Is that why you looked so sad?”
“Did I look sad?” he blinks.
She laughs and gently rests a wrinkly hand on arm. “Do not worry too much. You can always dance tomorrow.”
She continues on her Sunday walk, Jongin leaning his back on the ledge, staring at his hands. A large breath out, he empties out his head. He imagines himself dancing in his loose cotton attire, imagines his arms reaching out further and further until he stumbles and drops onto his knees, screaming at the sky, imagines all his energy into spinning three pirouettes, and he thinks even if he had brought along his speakers and music, he wouldn’t have found the motivation to dance anyway.
Then he thinks of nothing.
His stomach growls but he has no appetite, and he spends the rest of his days walking around the city feeling all the lights and energy ebb and flow around him like tidal waves, vision blurring and coming back into focus and blurring again.
--
Fall comes, is, goes. As the school year comes to a close the workload piles higher and higher until Jongin has to force himself to go to the balcony and look at the scenery before his eyes combust from looking at pixels all day. The strain in his neck grows tighter each day, and he asks Sehun how to get rid of it to which Sehun throws him an ice pack, telling him to sit down and lean against a wall. Jongin doesn’t know if he’s serious or not but he does it anyway. Any excuse to not think about school.
It’s a rare Saturday that all three of them are at the dorm, Sehun recently spending an unprecedented amount of time at the hospital and clinic working through his apprenticeship, Chanyeol off on a million study dates with his classmates, and Jongin being generally awake and out of bed. Mostly he’s passed out in his room, unable to gather enough emotional energy to even eat.
He hasn’t gone street dancing for over two months.
Chanyeol is sitting at the dining table with his notes all highlighted colourfully and neatly, muttering percentages and income expenditures to the beat of his pen tap. Two empty cups plus a third full one rest just a little away from his reach.
Sehun is out on the balcony talking on the phone, voice muffled with the sliding door closed. The temperature these days reaches below five degrees Celsius but Sehun the ice prince only needs a thin sweater and jeans to brave it. He’s laughing dumbly at something and yelling are you serious did you actually do that.
Jongin pads out quietly and dumps himself on the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. He’s wearing socks with Taemin’s face on them, wiggling his toes and watching Taemin do body waves. He lets the sound of Chanyeol’s pen tap muttering and Sehun’s buzzing voice drift about the space. He’s been listening to silence too much recently.
“Stranger,” Chanyeol says amidst all his numbers. Jongin doesn’t notice it’s directed to him when Chanyeol follows up with, “hey, I haven’t seen you since Wednesday. I was confused, Jogging Shoes.”
Jongin hums. “Just in my room. Sleeping. Studying. You know how it is.”
“Of course it is. Our dancing queen, holed up in his chambers studying.”
“Mostly sleeping. I get really tired easily nowadays.”
Chanyeol spins the pen in his hand and drops it. “Did you just wake up? Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry,” Jongin mumbles.
“You’re not hungry?” Chanyeol sounds incredulous. He fixes hard stare at Jongin. “That’s weird.”
Jongin shrugs, turning to look at Sehun hunching over the balcony, looking at something to the right. His side profile reveals small upward curve on his lips, mouth barely moving to form his words. His words are too quiet to be heard through the glass.
Chanyeol’s voice is soft and careful when he speaks. “Are you okay?”
“What do you mean? I’m fine.”
“Well, I mean,” he hesitates, three pen taps in succession. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a while. And you haven’t gone out dancing in a long time.”
“It’s nothing serious. Just,” Jongin turns away from Sehun to the dark TV screen. “I think it’s the seasons. Seasonal affective disorder, or something.”
Chanyeol doesn’t look like he agrees. “If you’re sure.” He looks at his notes. “Have you been in touch with Kyungsoo recently?”
Kyungsoo’s face flashes before his eyes. “Not really. He’s been really busy.”
Truth to tell, Jongin hasn’t been in touch with anyone recently. He turned his phone off some time ago and hasn’t found the reason to turn it back on.
“Do you still love him?” jokingly.
A little tilt on the corner of his lips, like it’s a secret. “Of course. I’ll always love Kyungsoo, no matter what. He can ignore me for years on end and I’ll still crawl back to him.” Even with Jongin’s recent emotional slump, he knows deep in his core he still loves Kyungsoo. It’s unconditional, because no matter what happens to Jongin, Kyungsoo’s eyes are still going to be big and inquiring and his skin will always be soft and he’ll always complain about Jongin’s wellbeing.
Or so he thinks. It’s been a while since they talked after all. Jongin frowns.
Sehun’s loud laugh cuts through the sliding door into Jongin and Chanyeol’s space. He’s laughing so hard he has to take a few steps back and lean against the glass, covering his mouth. He yells into the air, Huang Zitao! You genius!
“Sehun still keeps in touch to Zitao?” Jongin says in wonder.
“They’ve been talking on the phone since Sehun had returned to dorm from Melbourne. Don’t you hear him through the walls? And they talk about the weirdest shit.”
“I didn’t realize,” Jongin mutters. He always falls asleep before Sehun comes back from the hospital and wakes up after Sehun has left. It’s surprising, how Sehun can have so much on his hands and still find the time to call Zitao and have a long chat.
Something twists in Jongin’s gut.
“I’m happy for them,” he says through a tight throat.
Chanyeol lets out a sigh and stands up, and only then does Jongin realize that Chanyeol was sitting in the wheely chair from his room.
“I’m going to make you breakfast slash lunch,” Chanyeol states, determined. “I don’t care if you’re not hungry or not. You will eat something or I will have to force feed it down your throat.”
“That’s what he said,” Jongin whispers. “And isn’t called brunch?”
“No, brunch time was an age ago. This is lunch masquerading as breakfast. I can see your cheekbones, and not in a sexy way.”
“When have you ever looked at me in a sexy way?”
“Wouldn’t you like to now.”
“Chanyeol, that’s super gay.”
“Just not for you, son.”
Jongin laughs one big HA and shakes his head at Chanyeol, to which Chanyeol gives him a shit-eating grin and finger point. “Now that, is what I want to see more.”
“Us discussing the gay agenda?”
“No. You looking happy.”
Jongin’s smile drops from his face. “I’m not depressed.”
“But you haven’t been yourself for a while either. If you wanna get scientific, go to Sehun. For me, I’m just trying to help you back up bit by bit. And to make you the best motherfucking sandwich this side of the Han.”
Jongin shakes his head and looks away, trying not to blush. This is the nicest thing someone has done for him since god knows when, and he’s very sure he doesn’t deserve a friend like Park Dumbyeol.
“Just reminding you that I’m here whenever. And Sehun too, when he’s not too busy with his supermodel boyfriend,” Chanyeol says meaningfully. Jongin’s chest blooms red, yeah, he definitely doesn’t deserve him.
“Shut up, Park,” Jongin grumbles to the ground. “Shut up before I kiss you and break my marriage vows with Kyungsoo.”
--
Jongin wakes up one Saturday morning to an unfamiliar silence in the dorm. Not the everyone’s-asleep silence or the everyone’s-studying silence, but the everyone’s-gone silence. The air is empty, simple sounds suddenly amplified to detail.
He doesn’t recall Sehun and Chanyeol saying they would be off today, and it’s not even midday. Jongin runs through the list of possibilities and draws a blank, but doesn’t stress on it too much. The dorm is unbearably cold and since he’s alone he can finally turn on the heating system.
Both Sehun and Chanyeol’s rooms have their doors wide open and despite the floors being a disastrous mix of clothes and paper, their beds are neatly made. Jongin doesn’t want to overreact but he begins to sweat a little nervously. Is something important happening today? Is it Christmas already?
His ringtone sounds softly from somewhere in his room, vibrating intensely against his table. Jongin slides across the floor to answer, only realizing after he says hello that he hasn’t turned on - let alone touch - his phone in almost a month.
“Come to Myeong-dong. We’re all here.” It’s Sehun.
“I was wondering where you guys were. How could you leave without me?” Jongin pouts.
“You didn’t move a hair when we yelled at you to wake up. So we just went out.” There’s music in the background, the hum of a voice accompanied by a guitar. Someone whoops and cheers, clapping furiously.
“I’m hurt.”
“Whatever. Just come. And don’t forget to wear socks. It’s snowing.” Sehun hangs up. Jongin looks at his phone screen and is shocked when he sees that Sehun had tried to call him several times before, and a few from Chanyeol. If they were so insistent on calling him until he picks up then they could’ve saved themselves the trouble and waited. The logic in all of this.
White speckles of dust drift by his window when he draws the blinds to his room. Jongin sniffs his clothes and cringes out of his skin. When was the last time he had purposefully dressed up to go out? It feels like he’s never done it before. Does he even remember where the train station is?
After finally deciding, yes, that that striped long sleeve is The One, slipping on a pair of black skinnies (and marvelling at how loose they are at his hips), putting on white socks with little pixel hearts (Sehun didn’t have to remind him to wear socks, it’s the one thing he doesn’t forget to do), and donning his sneakers he hasn’t worn since he stopped street dancing, he is at lost in finding a black winter coat. He only has one and it’s missing, and it aggravates him to no end because, quoting the great Oh Sehun, that would have completed the outfit. His only other winter jacket is this oversized black and white ski jacket with a ridiculous amount of fur along the rim of the hood.
He wears it reluctantly. It’ll have to do for today.
To Jongin’s surprise, he gets by finding the station and taking the right transit. He was worried that during the time he was stuck in his room he would have forgotten all basic function and memory, but he’s fine. It’s almost like he’s going out street dancing, and his body settles itself into the familiar routine. It strikes him all at once how much he has really missed the movement of having somewhere to go.
He might start going out again to street dance. He’s inching his way back to normality; baby steps.
He gets to the station exit and a freezing wind clips him in the ear, snow landing on his scalp with a tingle. He flips his hood and laughs when it cocoons his head like a cave, the fur nearly covering his entire face. They would be able to recognize him within a millisecond.
Myeong-dong is a huge area but Jongin assumes it’s at his dancing spot by that open air Gong Cha. It’s unofficially Jongin’s territory, and his friends have seen him perform there tonnes of times. He waits for the red light, walks down three streets, rounds a corner, and Jongin hears them before he sees them.
Zitao’s here. He can hear him cheering and laughing along with Sehun, talking at so loudly Jongin can hear each strand of excitement in his voice. He smiles at this, Zitao and Sehun are inseparable.
He can hear Yixing’s voice as well, curiously asking Sehun about the tourist destinations of Seoul and how accessible the area is for overseas tourists that don’t speak Korean. And then when he gets an answer, he says, Yifan let’s go to Namsan first and then visit the hot springs, to which Yifan (the whole entourage is here, how did that happen?) says I want to shop first, and then we can go do all that stuff.
They’re listening to a performance, a singer and a guitarist. Jongin predicts Chanyeol’s the one playing the guitar, but the singer has him on jittering on edge. He doesn’t want to assume it’s him, after so many months of not exchanging a single word. Simply thinking about him makes his heart clench with ache, but he just has this gut feeling it is him, because his voice is the embodiment of Kyungsoo.
His voice is like a smooth swallow of cocoa. It’s warm and husky and glides over the notes like dripping honey. It sounds like how Kyungsoo would when he’s speaking low and trying not to break the atmosphere. He sounds professional: vocal runs crisp, tone clear with a rasp at the end of phrases, strong belt and gentle falsetto. He sounds like he never gave up singing at all. He’s singing an English song, and he sings like he understands each and every word.
Jongin steps out nervously, cold feet metaphorically and literally. He almost wishes he can stand by the back and watch everyone enjoy themselves.
Chanyeol spots him first, and that bastard is wearing his black coat. “Jongin’s here,” he shouts, continuing to strum his guitar. Jongin’s thankful that the hood his jacket shrouds his head in darkness because he’s blushing like there’s no tomorrow. His stomach is drowning in flutters. Sehun, Zitao, Yifan, and Yixing look up and cheer, pumping and clapping their hands in the air. Kyungsoo open his eyes from his song, and looks at Jongin confused. Jongin does look creepy in this jacket.
Jongin walks up to them and flips his hood back, rubbing his face and looking at everyone, sheepish and puzzled. “What the hell.” He shares a look with Kyungsoo and smiles, unable to hold his blush. Kyungsoo is looking at him with a smile that transforms into a smirk when he growls out a note. It sends Jongin into a tizzy.
“Just sit down and enjoy the show,” Sehun says, patting the spot of ground in front of him with his foot.
Jongin sinks down onto the pavement, eyes on Kyungsoo’s grip around the microphone. The speakers by his side are loud but up close like this, he can still hear Kyungsoo’s voice, raw behind the microphone. Kyungsoo’s gaze flicks from the audience all round to Chanyeol on the guitar, but he keeps glancing back on Jongin and his eyes smile into crescents.
Even with all this commotion Jongin’s still got an inkling of apprehension in his chest, and an exhaustion tugging on his eyelids. He doesn’t jump immediately to the music as he’d used to, but with each nudge of Sehun’s foot behind him and fleeting glance Kyungsoo sends him, he’s slowly picking himself back up.
For once he can see the world stand still by his side, he can see the crisscross of different lives finally intersecting altogether. And he’s right in the middle of it all.
Kyungsoo finishes his song and immediately walks over to dump himself all over Jongin’s lap, despite Chanyeol looking like he wants to play another song. He leans in and he’s never seen Kyungsoo’s face this close before in such bright light.
“I’ve been waiting,” one of them says.
“I know,” the other replies. “Me too.”
part i | part ii | part iii