(for yeo_ubi) All Roads, They Lead Me Here part i
For: yeo-ubi
Title: All Roads, They Lead Me Here
Genre: Romance, humour
Rating: PG-13
Side-Pairing(s): Taohun
Length: 36,600 words
Summary: Every weekend, Jongin goes out dancing in the streets, be it hail or shine. It is the only thing he ever wants to do.
Notes: Well this got out of hand real quickly;;; I hope I fulfilled the prompt to your satisfaction, I’m sorry it turned out to be this long. Thank you to my lovely betas for putting up with me. And I’m sorry for the Taylor Swift references… I can’t help it…
There is a chaos to the way Kim Jongin dances. A dash of prodigy, a hint of otherworldly, that little gasp on the brink of something amazing just about to happen, and an excessive amount of just him and the hardwood floors and large mirrors and music beats, grounding. It’s mostly because of practise, it’s all practise. But no, people don’t learn to dance like that, Jongin.
His friend Sehun used to say to him over a fizzing can of coke, “you dance to make the instructors happy, to make them satisfied so you get nice recommendations and a sliver of limelight. The way you dance, I think they’ll pull their hair out before even thinking of making you dance in the front.”
Jongin had met Sehun back in middle school, during Thursday dance classes tucked in before hagwon started. His parents had started enforcing stricter lines on what he was supposed to achieve at school, and had taken away half of his dance sessions and scrapping jazz altogether. As far as Jongin was concerned, those Thursday sessions were the only times when his existence truly came into focus.
Jongin dances with a taste of intimacy and sweet desperation. He dances like there might’ve been some choreography he was taught to follow but he’s losing control of it. He had garnered a reputation of a hopeless case, forever standing out during group performances for his style of dancing. The instructors absolutely despised him.
He began street dancing on weekends for some breathing space. His parents were up in his neck on how his grades were, to say the least, unimpressive, and the ninety-minute block a week of dancing started to slip through his fingers like hourglass sand. He would feign an interest to head to the state library for project reasons, sneak a set of speakers in his backpack, then board the train to the city by himself in search of a tiny spot for him to perform in. On good days, Sehun would join him and they’d pull out their favourite choreos, glimmer of freestyle breaking out of their skin when the moment is just right and golden.
In terms of it just being a hobby, Jongin was breaking all sorts of limits. He found every possible chance to dance; in the middle of class, in the shower, in the hallways. He joined all the school productions and always performed as the featured dancer. Any dance-offs, he’d be front and centre. In his high school the girls called him Golden Boy, The Korean Michael Jackson. His deskmate Chanyeol called him obsessed.
Dancing was not a hobby for Jongin but habitual.
He can feel it all, the falling into like falling in tune, in a haze of rust. He is transported back to his first dance class, flash of blue leotards in the wide wall mirrors. His mother insisted on him taking up something more socially rewarding (like soccer or taekwondo following Jongin’s prep friends) but Jongin had stolen his sister’s Michael Jackson video tapes and, then, there was nothing he wanted more than to be able to do the moonwalk.
He took jazz then ballet for a year and six months before strongly refusing to go to lessons because it interfered with his Sunday evening naptimes. His mother, with the help of one or two unwilling sisters, began forcefully pulling up his tights whilst carrying him into the car, and then forced into desperate measures, agreed to a poodle if he continued dance like the good boy they wanted him to be. This was all on Mrs Kim’s part a duty to discipline her youngest and only son, whom so far had showed spoilt and ungrateful tendencies.
It must’ve been fate (Michael Jackson or dancing; they became too mutually related). Aside from that childhood blip, he took to dancing with an ease and offhand nonchalance that the world only sees through a TV screen- a film about a child prodigy who grows up to be heartbreakingly beautiful, stuns the universe for seven or so years, then dies unfairly young.
This is however not that type of story, but it did begin with a hushed count-in and a single figure in a room of mirrors, creating a hundred other single figures, eyes closed, head swimming in ever-playing music.
--
It’s Saturday, calm and pastel light. Jongin wakes up at seven on the dot. Chanyeol and Sehun are still hung-over from staying up late trying to meet the deadline of an assignment, a mess of quarter-full mugs and loose leaf all over the dining table as an aftermath. Sehun is passed out on the couch and Chanyeol is in Sehun’s bed; two very tall, very disarrayed giants in university.
Jongin eats breakfast leaning against the fridge, avoiding all of the dog magnets and coupons tacked on. He chews on a banana, a cup of hot milo on the counter within arm’s reach, and fights the urge to fall back into sleep by shuffling on his feet, gliding across the kitchen tiles on his bare tip-toes. Big Bang is playing in his head though he can’t remember the lyrics, but he knows the beats and where to pop his shoulder. Somethingsomethingsomethingsomething sorry I’m a bad boy.
The microwave clock reads eighteen-past-seven, train at thirty-eight, give or take a few minutes from foot traffic on the way there. Jongin’s not a slow walker but he knows clocks in the dorm run slow, actually clocks that are anywhere but the train station run slow, so he shrugs on his bag heavy with speakers and an energy drink, and heads out. Just as he opens the door Sehun stirs in his slumber, but he doesn’t wake up.
He takes a quick doze on the train ride and wakes by the second last stop. This isn’t a well-timed instinct than it is routine. He’s got his earphones and Jongin rubs his eyes every other minute, maneuvering through the jittery weekend crowd and looking at the pros-and-cons of his usual dance spots.
There is the large block of pavement in front of Seoul plaza, just at the entrance of city hall station by the little water fountains. Here he can do a bit of floor movement, and the space is wide enough that people won’t try to squeeze past him and trip over his speakers.
The junction by an open air Gong Cha café in Myeong-dong is always a good hit, especially since the ladies working there and generally all around that area enjoy a little contemporary performance from the usual indie busker that sweeps by more often than not, and they’re generous with the change they toss in Jongin’s snapback. A bit crowded and stuffy, but the atmosphere makes up for it.
Atop the Han River boardwalk is more quiet and slow, with calmer and polite people enjoying the scenery. Here Jongin digs into his ballet roots, displaying long sweeping port de bras and controlled pirouettes. He doesn’t come here often, preferring the sizzling air of a lively street, and the boardwalk security is constantly chasing him out when he creates a blockage of spectators, but every once in a while, when he’s dressed in loose cotton and the weather’s a breezy mild, he’s there, ballet fingers breaking the sunlight.
Spread throughout Hongdae are snippets of cracked pavement his body is very familiar with, automatically clicking into place at the hustle and bustle. Here it’s commercial, old fashion hip-hop, and the school girls out and about absolutely adore him, taking videos and pictures to upload on their blogs, tagging it as ‘cute dancer oppa ♡♡’ and at the same time generously dropping change from their expensive drinks into his snapback. He performs here when his ego is in need of a little pick-me-up, and suspiciously here is also where Sehun tends to join him the most, making the girls swoon even harder.
There are other spots: most station exits are a good bet, providing a nice colourful backdrop of graffiti; by the entrances of banks when his performance motivation is more on the currency side; and sometimes he might aggravate dance crews at the big spots and be coerced into a battle, in which Jongin would win by style but lose by lack of squad enthusiasm.
Jongin goes with Myeong-dong today, something about the lightness in the air making it feel perfect for some contemporary. He boards another transit straight there, creating a playlist on his phone. The songs are smooth r&b, some pop-ballads, ambient electronics, and jazz. He’s running a thousand different routines in his head, some escaping into his fingertips, into his heels, into the curve of his shoulders, and he’s dancing to the beat of his footsteps.
The sun has barely peeked over the cafés and pop-up stores when Jongin is finished setting up; two wireless speakers connected to his phone on the wings, a leopard print snapback up front, ready to collect change, and him in the centre, head down, eyes closed, morning air washing his lungs. Finger snap, soft chords, and he’s off, tracing the music in wide circles on the pavement with a pointed toe.
The routine he’s picturing in his head is from a performance he saw once on stage. A lone dancer in black, red satin fabric billowing all around the ground, trying to drown him. But Jongin was never that good at following choreography, so he drifts to another set of movements that are a watered down version of the rhythmic gymnast routines he sometimes watches online. And then something else, and then he’s not following choreo at all, just moving to the music, like a curtain in the breeze.
The shops around him begin opening and the first shift comes out to watch for a while, still too early to accept customers. The girls manning the Gong Cha set up the parasol tables and sing along to the songs, accidentally stopping their work altogether to enjoy Jongin’s performance.
The song changes, the day progresses, sunlight turns his shadow into a dial. People come by and stop for a minute, squinting into the glare of summer, Jongin’s silhouette burning into the back of their eyelids. They toss coins and bills into his snapback and Jongin smiles bashfully, face red from exertion and shyness, even after all this time.
He takes breaks every few songs, especially towards mid-afternoon when the sun is particularly harsh. He buys ice tea, leans against the counter and has a chat with the baristas, then returns with new fervour.
As soon he knows, it’s nearing half-past three and he’s wrapping up. He finishes his last song with a loud, triumphant grunt. His audience cheers, snapback tipping with the amount of silver coins, and he bows in gratitude, sweat polishing the bronze of his skin.
Jongin comes back to the dorm and it’s become part of the Arctic Circle, the chill from the vents stirring the sweat on his forehead when he opens the door. Summer boils on apathetically outside the apartment complex. It’s Sehun probably; because Sehun has this affinity for the extreme cold and his soul all but festers in the iciness from the air-conditioner. Further encouraged by the fact that Sehun fries in the slightest of sun. They’re always getting complaints from the dorm wardens about their electrical usage, Chanyeol out of the kindness of his heart taking initiative and smiling apologetically, flipping the bird behind his back at Sehun.
Nothing stirs in the dorm, a frozen wasteland with Jongin’s feet practically hissing each time he steps on the tiles. From Sehun’s room comes a soft melody - Girl’s day or something - and Chanyeol’s door is open showing the room empty and unbelievably messy. The sweat on Jongin’s neck has dried to an uncomfortable layer of filth.
“Honey, I’m home,” Jongin calls out.
“Yeah, whatever,” comes a muffled reply from Sehun.
“Is Yeol at the library?” he asks out of courtesy. He knows Chanyeol is at the library, he’s never anywhere else on the weekends unless he’s hanging with Baekhyun (studying most likely) or visiting home.
“Obviously.”
Jongin tinkers around in the fridge and fishes out McDonalds leftovers from yesterday, takes a peek inside, and chucks it in the microwave. A hard thump from Sehun’s room, “Hey are you making food?”
Jongin hums, scrunching his toes because he forgot to wear socks. A draft brushes by his ankles and Sehun is by his side, craning his neck to whatever Jongin might have on his hands. He scowls, to which Jongin flicks his forehead.
“Liar, there’s no food,” Sehun whines.
“Make your own, or call for some Chinese or something.”
Sehun slumps dramatically onto Jongin’s shoulders (that bastard, stealing three centimetres from him in the span of half a year), “I can’t, my eyes hurt from reading about capillaries. Did you know that if you take all your veins and laid them out to measure,” Sehun leans into Jongin’s ear, breath like frostbite, “you’d die.”
Jongin shimmies him away, the beep of the microwave sending him into determined movement. “Nice.”
Stick fingers pry a chicken nugget from the brown soggy bag before Jongin can even think. They lean against the counter, heads against the top cabinets. These dorm rooms don’t really accommodate the upper average of South Korea’s height spectrum.
“You know what else is nice?” Sehun says, holding the chicken nugget like a wineglass, “not having classes during summer break. You know who has classes during summer break? Me and Chanyeol. You know who doesn’t have summer classes, and who truly should be appreciating the ability to experience the word and title ‘nice’?” Sehun grins, a push away from lunacy, “Kim Jogging Shoes fucking dance dance revolution princess Jongin.”
Jongin toasts his chicken nugget, “amen to that.”
Sehun clomps down on his nugget, and for the first time in a while Jongin sees the exhaustion tugging on his bottom lashes, the bloated cheeks, break-outs dotting his jawline. Sehun’s hands are trembling minutely when he places them on the counter top.
The silence between them is bleary. It brings Jongin back to those Thursday evening dance classes in high school, both of them sweaty and all danced-out, back against the mirrors and legs spread out useless on the hardwood floor, nothing - not even words - between them but a can of soda from the vending machine out back.
Now, they look just the same, save for their legs a few inches longer and Sehun’s horrible middle parting. Except it’s not the same, because one of them is still dancing whilst the other one quit four years ago.
“Hey,” Jongin’s voice is raspy, sudden influx of drowsiness slowing his system down “Sometime, you should come out with me again. Out in Hongdae, near that tteokbokki street vendor. It’s still there you know, with the same ahjumma. Whenever I get food there she asks about you.”
Sehun is looking at his hands, a small smile on the corner of his lips, “I remember. What does she say?”
“’Where’s that friend of yours with the terrible dye job? Is he well? Are you still friends? He should eat more, he won’t be able to survive winter being that skinny,’” Jongin chuckles, tapping his head against the top counter to stay awake.
Sehun hums, closing his eyes. He furrows his eyebrows, looks like he’s about to say something significant. Instead, “I think I’ll take a nap.”
They break apart, Sehun retreating to his room and Jongin eating the rest of his meal. Pain flares through his hip suddenly, catching Jongin off-guard, snaking round to the base of his spine and then shooting to his shoulder blades. He holds his breath, squeezing his eyes shut until it passes. It’s happened before, but not since a long time.
Half a minute passes and the pain has subsided to an afterthought, but Jongin’s extra careful with his posture. He gently rubs his sides and begins heading to the shower, passing by Sehun’s room, door ajar. He doesn’t dawdle, but he steals a quick look, spotting a mess of white paper sheets, curtains quarter drawn, and clothes suffocating the floor. That little slice is slammed shut with Sehun muttering piss off.
As he readies for a nice shower, Jongin tries to push away the nostalgia of the good ol’ days but it’s no use. He remembers it all crystal clear, how towards the end of high school Sehun would toss away his textbooks and take the weekend train with Jongin to perform on the streets. How during breaks they’d buy street vendor food and do their homework on the plastic tables and chairs with the ahjumma kindly refilling their ice teas for free.
Jongin showers quickly, and when he gets out he hears a faint but familiar dance track from Sehun’s room.
--
Though it seems otherwise, Jongin does in fact study and do his homework and attend university lectures and all that jazz. His marks are fair, maybe not as spectacular as Chanyeol’s or Sehun's but he gets by, he’s not failing.
Weekdays he spends hard at work, writing his notes and having productive, educational discussions with his classmates. He’ll be at the library with Chanyeol and Sehun way into the night, pouring over textbooks and required reading, sobbing both internally and externally at the assignments and generally scraping by in a stressed heap. He doesn’t spend even a single second jamming (with exceptions of the subconscious foot tap and hip sway).
Jongin still has expectations to fulfil after all. It takes more than three years of no longer living at home to shake off the iron grip of parents.
It’s easier for Jongin, however, because he’s overshadowed by two over-achieving sisters. Growing up as the only little boy of the household, he’s been spoilt beyond belief. Everything he does is tinged with festivity, a dance recital, a good report card, a lame birthday card written last-minute. Even his misfortunes - falling ill, bad breakup, dance injury, his family would circle around him and coo it all away. Our Jongin, they’d pout, our Jongin, don’t get hurt or we’ll hurt too.
Although his parents had cut out his dancing time when he was younger they still left plenty. When they discovered Jongin’s weekend street performances, they shrugged, metaphorically ruffled his hair and muttered, kids, what can you do you know?
Sehun suffered much worse, his parents taking away dancing entirely and setting him on a course of The Respectable Son of the Oh Family, monitoring his schoolwork, sending him to tutor after private tutor. Sehun didn’t make a drama out of it, simply submitting quietly, jaw clenched and eyes wet.
Jongin did.
He grabbed at Sehun’s shirt, bunched it all up in his trembling fist and screamed, silent. Tears, angry and sad (are they both not the same thing in the end?), salty on the corners of his mouth. He didn’t understand how anyone could just let go of something they love and not fight for it. Don’t you want to dance?
Sehun had forcefully wrenched Jongin’s hands away, furiously wiping at his own eyes. It doesn’t matter anymore, Jongin. I can’t have everything I want in the world.
But dancing was the world to Jongin.
--
The sidewalks are beginning to flood. His shoes are wet and everyone is ducking into restaurants, dripping and dishevelled. Waves push up to his ankles from the cars still gunning down the roads, and if he were to set up now the speakers would probably short circuit and electrocute anyone within a ten meter radius. His hair is sticking into strands and they keep getting into his eyes as he shoulders his backpack, scanning the shops for something but they’re all bursting at the seams with shivering couples. Jongin bites his lips; the subway is ages away.
The rain beats down in a deafening frenzy. Jongin hesitates by the front of the bank, because he’s sure an establishment with speckled marble floors and a professional low-murmur quietude wouldn’t appreciate a drenched boy loitering in the lobby. When he enters, the double takes from concierge and the official-looking men and women in suits make Jongin’s insides shrivel up into a prune. Thankfully they don’t kick him out at first sight, so he mentally shrinks as to attract less attention and quickly dials up Chanyeol’s number behind a potted plant.
His ringback tone goes on forever, “My Jongin, how are you?”
“Well,” Jongin whispers because he’s sure the entire floor can hear everything he’s saying, “I’m kinda-“
“Wait!” Chanyeol booms, turning the line into static for a few moments, “Let me guess! The city’s flooded, and you’re clinging onto a floating taxi, trying to save pedestrians and at the same time breakdancing-“
“Yeol, can we like, not, right now?”
“Or is another company representative hunting you down in Hongdae and you need a major road diversion by that snapback store-“
“Dude please,” Jongin snaps, harsh softness, “I need a favour.” Behind him looms the frightening monotone of a professional environment.
Chanyeol snickers, “does this favour involve me in direct contact with my car?”
“Maybe. Okay, whatever, yes. Can you give me a lift?” Jongin shivers, air-con blowing directly into his wet hair.
A sigh from the other end, “I would absolutely love to Jogging Shoes, but I’m at my sister’s place for another hour or so. Really really sorry. You can try Sehun, or call a cab?”
Oh man, oh man, what a struggle he’s gotten himself into. “Can’t, forgot my wallet. But, all good. I’ll just, uh, wait this storm out in the Shinhan building,” Jongin whispers, “please save me.”
Jongin shoots a glance over his shoulder and there are several curious gazes directed towards his wet back. A young woman manning counter seven meets his eyes and she looks back at the phone in her hands, flustered. A bright flash lights up the glass entrance screens, water already soaking up the corners of the grey carpet, followed by a loud clap of thunder.
“Okay okay, chill. I’ll find a way to leave by ten-to, and if not I’ll get Sehun to help make your escape. Good, my man?”
Jongin whines a little, “damn. Okay, yeah, thanks man.”
Jongin hangs up first and slumps forward against the white-speckled walls. He did see this coming, several times this morning in fact; on the weather report, an offhand remark from Sehun about bringing an umbrella, and sheer common sense from his childhood about not going outside during the monsoon season. He shakes droplets of rainwater out of his fringe like a wet puppy, wondering whether or not he has to pay to use the seats in this building.
“Excuse me,” a quiet voice from behind, followed by an ominous hush across the lobby. Jongin freezes, hair rising on the back of his neck. He turns around, flinches at a loud thunder crash.
Before him stands a man a head shorter - Jongin tilts his head down and the man’s jaw twitches - immaculately dressed, hair coiffed to the side politely stylish, full-moon eyes staring Jongin speechless.
“You’re the boy always dancing outside, right?” the man questions, gaze unwavering. Jongin swallows and wipes his hands on his jeans, stomach coiling in intimidation. Really what’s the point of Jongin’s bursting 182cm when he cowers in face of anyone with a hard glare? He’s like one of those dirty alley cats that got taken in by a chipper family of four and got domesticated to the bone, and then abandoned, left to fend for himself amongst other cats that all look like him but know how to snap a bird’s neck given the chance.
“Yeah- yes, sir,” Jongin says, straightening his posture and gaining a few centimetres above the man.
The man nods, “Well, you’re getting the floor wet.”
Jongin’s breath hitches, slightly dizzy with the man’s cologne curling all around him, “I’m so so so so sorry- I’ll leave right now-“
“Really?” the other says, thick eyebrows in an amused arch, “into that mess outside?”
Duh, obviously no, calm the sass. “Um…”
The man’s hard-set expression flickers, forehead loosening, lips parting, “I can give you lift, that’s why I came over to your, uh, hiding spot here. I was about to leave anyway.”
“Oh,” Jongin’s head reels, accidentally lets out a loud sneeze, “thank you, but I wouldn’t want to trouble you or anything.”
The man shakes his head, “None at all, I’m just giving you a hand. Also, I’m not going to jump you once we’re alone if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Uh, now I am.”
A quiet, business laugh, “if you really don’t want to, but a bit of a heads up, this storm’s predicted to go into the evening, and I don’t think anyone’s going to offer a ride anytime soon.”
That sounds very much like a threat to Jongin, and he’s slightly scared of this short man, but a lift does sound sweet right now. He bites his lips, chapped from the A/C, “Okay, yes, thank you so much.”
The man smiles like he knew this was going to be the answer after all, “This way, then.”
Jongin only manages to get wetter as they make their way through the basement car park, an inch of water sloshing about. The man- oh wait.
“So, uh, my name’s Jongin,” he says, only to be drowned out by the echo of rain. He tries again, shouting.
The man turns around, distress about the water only shown through his clenched fists, “I’m Kyungsoo.” He’s shouting too, but it’s deeper, more controlled.
“Kyungsoo,” he repeats, more to himself. It’s nice and fitting, hard start to a soft fall.
They reach the car frantically, Jongin sprinting when Kyungsoo points it out and splashing water everywhere. He ends up with the entirety of his calves drenched, gingerly getting into the passenger seat whilst apologizing.
Kyungsoo clicks his tongue, slides the key in and turns it, settling into driving position swiftly.
He has both hands on the wheel, attention squarely upfront and between them is the inevitable awkward silence, fashionably late. Jongin leans back onto the seat, silently admiring the plush black leather, trying not to fall into a nap because that always happens when he stops moving.
Kyungsoo’s hand darts away from the wheel and presses a button on the radio, something English beginning to play at a low volume. “So, what made you think you could brave the storm today?”
The windshield is a watercolour palette, “Tradition, essentially. I’ve been street dancing every weekend since the year started, and breaking that streak would be like stopping a League game halfway, get what I mean?”
“No.”
“You know, League of Legends? Well anyway, I didn’t think the rain would be this bad.”
Kyungsoo hums, voice drifting to join the song currently playing, crisp and breathy, and says, “Every weekend? Aren’t you still in school?”
Jongin taps his fingers on the dash, pulls the sun visor down and checks his reflection - he looks pale, lips chapped and hair beginning to dry in a dishevelled manner. “Yeah, last year of university. But my grades are okay, and I’m keeping up with the curriculum. Dancing in the streets is just something I’m hardwired to do, you know? I’ve been doing it for so long I feel like I just can’t do anything else on the weekends.”
Kyungsoo purses his lips (they look very soft and un-chapped, a clear distinction showing how he’s got himself together whereas Jongin is stumbling all over the place), and pulls into the highway, eagle eyes on the road and back rigid, whisking the air with an expensive scent. A silver Rolex sits on the small of his pale wrist - Jongin squints to read a one twenty-something.
“So,” Kyungsoo says, “where to?”
Jongin states vaguely the whereabouts of the dorm, unsure of the exact address, but Kyungsoo nods and says he knows where it is, bless. Jongin begins bouncing his legs to the beat of the song.
“Do you ever stop moving?”
Jongin laughs, embarrassed, “not really. I’ll fall asleep if I stop moving.”
“How do you even survive class?”
“Uh, I don’t? I get called out about how noisy and fidgety I am at least twice a day. It’s a real problem.”
Quiet for a long time. The music bridges the silence. Jongin watches the other cars on the highway slice through the water.
After a while they reach a familiar junction, Jongin barely able to see the signs pointing to the dorm building through the downpour. Jongin quickly pulls put his phone to text Chanyeol about the change in plans, getting an immediate ok :( in response.
Pulling up to the dorm entrance in no time, Jongin sinks back into his chair for one last moment of dryness and comfort. “Thanks man- uh-Kyungsoo-shhi. Sorry for the trouble.”
Kyungsoo offers a polite smile, picture-perfect professionalism, “Check the weather forecast next time. And prioritize, there are other things more worth-wile than tradition.”
He remembers that small smile as he runs through the curtains of rain. As he taps his student card at the entrance: rich scent of cologne, as he waits in the elevator: heavy silver Rolex reading one twenty-something, as he leans against the door of his dorm: there are other things more worth-wile than tradition.
--
Jongin has a tendency of feeling immensely sleepy despite having slept an excessive amount, feeling tired an hour into his day, probably in the middle of a catastrophic disaster of the millennium, and this grates on much of his roommates' nerves. Mainly Sehun, because Chanyeol has no capability for feeling intense emotions before ten o’clock.
“Just get out, loser.” Sehun kicks him under the dining table at Jongin complaining about how tired he is for the nth time, “Get out so I can continue my sixth all-nighter in a row trying to get through my damn class. I don’t want your weak ass stinking up the place.”
Jongin shuffles out of the dorm half-awake, Sehun slamming the door loud enough to keep him awake until he reaches the elevator. It’s obviously a sign of natural selection, that if not Jongin sleeping himself into an accident then his heart will pump itself out of blood. Or something. Sehun’s the medical student not Jongin.
It’s still raining as unforgiving as ever, but according to Ms Lee on the morning weather it’s an 80% chance of rain today, and by mathematical substitution if there’s 24 hours in a day and 80% is like 19.2 hours a day of raining (Jongin found this out via his calculator app), and the day is already at nine o’clock; taking into consideration how it always (this is legit guesstimation) rains at night, then that little sliver of not-rain must occur sometime between the hours of now and before night. This is why you go to school kids.
He makes it to the station exit at Yeouido and runs into a block of city-goers finding refuge from the monsoon. The downpour is immense, stinking the air with a heady scent. He fumes to himself, pushes through the crowd muttering apologies and, taking the largest most comical gulp of air, barrels through the curtain of rain arm over face.
During this picturesque moment, with water getting into his everything and the world muting into the thuds of thousands of water droplets crashing into Seoul’s surface, Jongin begins to contemplate. The scene plays in slow motion, camera zooming into Jongin’s wet white blouse (he’d hoped for some ballet time by the Han, one hundred percent manly), background music the Flower Duet.
Yesterday he had been caught in the rain, after many blaring warnings that he brushed off because he’s oblivious like that. It had been a shamble, especially after getting home and taking a shower, realized that he had no appetite to eat the dinner Chanyeol had prepared (absolutely out of character, because Chanyeol under all that dumb is an amazing cook that only showcases his talents whenever he’s not busy studying which is never). Reason: he was two-thirds on his way to a fever, and Chanyeol had to fight Sehun for control over the thermostat so Jongin wouldn’t contract something terminal overnight. Sehun, future doctor, seethed and hid in his room, shouting through the walls at them both to just Google for a quick fix. Pardon the irony.
Fast forward to today, Chanyeol had overslept as he always does whenever Sunday rolls around, and Sehun had released Jongin into the wild much to the better judgment of both (he’s already praying for Sehun’s future patients). Now, the fever that which had hidden itself most successfully throughout the morning has returned kicking and screaming, and Jongin feels that his skin isn’t really his skin, and something is stabbing relentlessly at his forehead. Any moment now he might throw up.
The camera pulls back, time speeds up, record scratch cutting the soundtrack. Jongin’s running very blindly through the rain, past couples and businessmen under the safety of umbrellas, to that oasis of a spot by the bank’s entrance, in perfect view of all the warm cafes and restaurants.
He doesn’t notice he’s at the bank, or really running to the bank until he’s at his dancing spot, looking like he just emerged from three showers and a bath with his clothes on. It’s not the bank he’s worried about as much as the dancing spot in front of it, because that’s all that really matters in the end: he fought, tooth and nail, to be able to dance at his sacred spot, and if not for Mother Nature, would have done so.
Someone clears their throat behind him. “Excuse me, Jongin-sshi?”
Jongin turns around slowly, breathing laboured and skin on fire. He recognizes the man - Kyungsoo - after a few moments of him trying to get his head to not hurt. “Hello, Kyungsoo-sshi.”
Kyungsoo’s tucked under a somber-black umbrella, quizzical expression on his face. “I… am surprised to see you again so soon. You’re drenched to the bone.”
Jongin nods.
“Are you alright? You look very pale.”
Jongin keeps staring at Kyungsoo, state of self currently extremely fragile. He feels like he might pass out at any sudden movement.
The tips of Kyungsoo’s ears darken significantly, and he changes his attention on something to the bottom left of the ground. Jongin can barely make out a tuft of black hair - Jongin is moving his eyes unbelievably slowly and gently - belonging to a little boy by Kyungsoo’s side, an arm sporting a silver Rolex on his tiny shoulder. “Minseok and I were about to have brunch, if you’d like to join us.”
A kid? Kyungsoo looks way too young to already have a four-ish year-old. He also looks way to goody goody to have been a teenage father. But that’s none of Jongin’s business, and Jongin just so desperately wants to be taken care of right now that if Kyungsoo was a dad, then hey, he’d probably know some stuff about nursing a sick kid. Perfect solution to Jongin’s predicament.
So Jongin nods his head, closing his eyes to avoid a dizzy onslaught, “I’d love to. Also I think I’m kinda sick.”
A sigh, “dear oh dear.”
They make it to a yum cha restaurant without a single droplet of rain on anyone. The staff takes a glance at Kyungsoo and immediately waves their group to a table on the second floor despite a queue, Jongin whistling appreciatively in his head. Life goals.
Kyungsoo and Minseok both sit down calmly and fancily, aristocratic air laced into their presence. Jongin simply slumps onto his chair, squinting his eyes at the bowl of prawn crackers at the centre of the table. All around them is the excited chatter of Sunday brunch, trolleys of food wheeled around and casual Cantonese exchanged.
Minseok is talking quietly to Kyungsoo, muddled sentences said with an oddly professional manner, voice too weak against the loud atmosphere. They both glance at Jongin, Siamese synchronicity, and return to their formal conversation. Jongin falls into a quick nap meanwhile, a loud, ominous heartbeat in his ears.
“Excuse me, mister?” a small, high-pitched voice drags him back to the present. Minseok is looking at him with wet, puppy eyes.
Jongin blinks, tries a smile, ending up sending the back of his head into a painful disarray, “Yeah?”
Minseok swallows, looking at Kyungsoo nervously, and then says, “Hello, my name is Kim Minseok. I go to Namsan International Kindergarten.”
Jongin is breathing slowly, body tense and frozen. From the corner of his vision Kyungsoo is inspecting him questioningly. “Hey, Minseok. I’m Kim Jongin. I go to Hanyang University.”
Minseok avoids eye contact with Jongin after that, preferring to ponder about whatever little kids ponder about with his eyes on his lap. Not that Jongin minds - speaking, even just a single word, takes so much out of him.
A cart of steaming dim sum comes rolling by, Kyungsoo picking out the dishes and having them arranged neatly on the table. He then stands up, pats down his already neat and creaseless pants, begins to pour tea for everyone. Minseok says a very professional thank you whilst Jongin whispers a thanks, probably drowned out by the restaurant chatter.
“Jongin,” Kyungsoo prods gently, “do you want me to arrange a ride home?”
Jongin groans, muttering a nah. It’ll be just like yesterday: Sehun would be god knows where, and Chanyeol would be out pursuing his own life, too busy with work or sister or something.
An exasperated sigh, “And I told you only yesterday to think about consequences. I suppose this fever of sort is from the rain yesterday. Yet you still have the audacity to come out again, and for what?”
If Jongin were in a good condition, he would blush and fidget in his chair, glaring at Kyungsoo because whatever mom, I can do what I want. But now, he doesn’t really care about that as much as his splitting migraine. Jongin really is on the verge of falling asleep now, the thick aroma of food making him slightly nauseous. How the things you love hurt you most in the end.
“Jongin,” suddenly Kyungsoo’s voice is right by ear, a cold hand brushing aside his clammy hair and pressing against his forehead. It’s soothing to the senses. “What have you done to yourself?”
“Hyung, is Jongin alright?” Minseok asks, voice far away.
“Jongin is actually a baby and shouldn’t be allowed out into the world.” Kyungsoo removes his hand from Jongin’s forehead and he still has enough pride to suppress his disappointed groan at the loss, because whoa that’s super gay.
“Huh?” Minseok questions again.
“It’s okay, just eat your food,” Kyungsoo reassures.
Drifting in and out of consciousness is Jongin’s second favourite state of being, right behind full on out-cold sleep. It would be bliss right now if not for the constant throbs of pain in his temples and the perpetual might-vomit-might-not feeling in the back of his throat. Yeah, this is wakeup call enough, Jongin’s never going out into the rain ever again for as long as he lives.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Kyungsoo’s voice is low and pleasant (his general presence is soothing to the touch, no homo), “I’m gonna send you home.”
“Nooo,” Jongin groans, “you don’t have to really. I’ll just text my friend…” Talking proves extra strenuous.
“Stop talking,” Kyungsoo instructs, deadpan.
Sure, yeah, he’ll stop talking. He feels like death is humping his brain at the moment anyway.
“Hello, Junmyeon-hyung,” Kyungsoo is speaking to someone on the phone, or maybe the whole Minseok thing had been a prank on Jongin and that kid is actually a dwarf named Junmyeon, “I’m so sorry for calling. I ran into someone I knew and he’s very unwell at the moment. I need to send him home. Yeah- yeah. You’re still at the office, yeah? I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you,” nervous, stiff laughter, “thanks, bye.”
A shaky, exhausted sigh. Kyungsoo’s been sighing all afternoon, and Jongin feels very much like an asshole for ruining someone’s Sunday.
“Minseok, your dad’s coming over for a bit while I send Jongin home,” Kyungsoo tells Minseok (ok so not a prank), to which the kid replies with an excited, “really?” His mouth sounds stuffed with food.
“Yes, really,” Kyungsoo sounds like he’s smiling, “and don’t talk with your mouth full.”
When Kyungsoo puts his hand on Jongin’s shoulder as a signal to wake up and go, Jongin’s in a numb state of semi-consciousness not fully aware of anything that is happening. Someone is trying to move him from his resting position and he cringes away. He gets a light tap on his left cheek, in the muffle of sound surrounding him he hears a laugh. What the hell, is someone trying to mess with Jongin’s sleeping body?
“Jongin,” Kyungsoo’s voice breaks through, “come on. Let’s go.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen him so still,” a stranger comments.
Kyungsoo huffs, now almost slapping Jongin. “I swear to god Jongin if you don’t move right now I will cut you.”
He sounds so serious it shocks Jongin awake, squinting into the light. He groans, and at the glower Kyungsoo gives him, obediently stands up and blindly bows to whoever was talking to Kyungsoo.
They make the precarious trip through the rain again but this time Jongin’s essentially sleep walking and leaning against Kyungsoo like that poor little man is a pillar. Jongin, a soft spot for anyone shorter than him, makes a reminder to apologize later when he’s made sure what will comes out of his mouth are words and not puke.
“You’re more maintenance than Minseok and he’s a toddler for goodness sake,” Kyungsoo’s car is parked right outside the bank, looking luxurious in the rain, “what am I, a taxi driver? And to think I found you cute.”
To Jongin all Kyungsoo is saying is just a string of noises. He’s pushed into the car (geez, he’s a patient) and the door is banged shut before he can even get his feet inside. In a flash, Kyungsoo is in the driver’s seat, the car is turned on and ready for action, and they are on the highway. Even in Jongin’s sick haze he can feel the black aura radiating off of Kyungsoo, and he’s certain that he’s never felt so intimidated in his life.
Jongin falls asleep immediately upon the calming purr of the car engine. When he wakes up, it’s from Kyungsoo once again not so gently slapping him awake, looking like a ruffled owl, jaw twitching.
“Kyungsoo?” he asks, confused from his nap.
“Get out. We’re here.”
“O-“ deep breath, “oka-“ deep breath, “okay.”
Kyungsoo exits the car groaning oh my god and zips to the other side to lug Jongin out. He pulls Jongin by the armpits with a laboured huff, but Jongin is actually pretty heavy (muscles, baby) and they topple to the wet ground.
“Fuck this, fuck you, fuck you so much,” Kyungsoo stands up in disbelief at his soaked cuffs, and lifts Jongin across his shoulders to begin their perilous journey to the dorm room.
Security opens up for them, concerned but Kyungsoo’s expression cuts them off before any questions can be asked. Jongin is moaning in pain from everything and Kyungsoo is spitting out profanities at him, struggling to support all of Jongin’s weight. The elevator takes them up to the third floor, and Jongin has to whisper his dorm room number because he’s actually legit going to faint. Salvation is so near.
The world decides to throw another obstacle from the pits of hell because answering the door is the devil himself.
“Um,” Sehun says.
“Is this your roommate?” Kyungsoo sounds extremely agitated but yet still professionally calm.
“Yeah.”
“May I drop him off inside?”
“Sure.”
And so two worlds collide. Kyungsoo dumps him on the couch, letting out a large breath of air. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Yeah,” Sehun stands by the foot of the couch.
“Can you please turn it to a warmer temperature, Jongin’s terribly unwell. Fever from the rain, and I presume this cold shock. Make sure he doesn’t leave this place to go dancing until he’s healthy again. Lock the doors. And the windows as well, who knows what he’ll do.”
“Okay.”
“And he has to drink water. Feed him chicken soup with plenty of vegetables. It strikes me that Jongin might be the type to not eat vegetables. Make. Sure. He. Eats. His. Vegetables.”
“I will.”
Kyungsoo sighs, looks at Jongin writhing on the couch, and reaches into his back pocket to get out a brown leather wallet. “Here’s my card,” he hands a minimalistic white thing to a dumbfounded, slightly scared Sehun, “let me know if he disappears tomorrow. God forbid he does.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be going now. Remember the soup.”
“I will,” then Sehun adds a bit helplessly, “I’m a med student.”
Kyungsoo shakes his head, slipping on his oxfords. Sehun rushes to open the door for him. “What are you kids even doing at university these days?”
Kyungsoo leaves with sharp footsteps and Sehun shuts the door quietly, leaning his back against it and sliding down into a fetal crouch. “Jongin, I don’t know who that was, but I’ve never been more fucking scared in my entire life. It’s like he sucked all the light in the room, and I’ll never feel happy again.”
From the couch, Jongin groans in pain.
--
A week passes, in bed, in the library, working in the supermarket, dinner back home with the family, movie night with the gang. Jongin is a superstar healer and is up and running by Tuesday, all remnants of his sickness being the dried ice patches in the rubbish bin. Chanyeol and Sehun’s summer classes comes to an early finish when half the professors also catch a fever, Sehun getting a bit emotional and hugging Jongin with tears streaming down his cheeks, breaking away with a wet kiss to his forehead.
Kyungsoo texts him a lot asking about his health progress, warning about weather changes and fruits he should eat. It’s oddly endearing, Jongin getting a smile whenever his phone chimes and it’s a text about the benefits of freshly squeezed orange juice versus commercial carton crap.
It’s great for the dorm to finally feel stress-free and festive about summer break. There’s a party going on almost every other night in the building, and they end up leaving each one hella turnt and ready to kiss the next passerby that says hi. Sehun and Jongin finally get to bust out some smooth moves together in the living-room-slash-mosh-pit and it’s just like old times again.
Soon enough weekend comes around and Jongin wakes up at seven on the dot, head clear and body moving in accordance to the schedule. He decides to invite Sehun along but that kid is nowhere in the dorm - probably asleep in the aftermath of some great rave on the fifth floor.
Today is the Seoul Plaza, right by those little fountains families like to bring their children to. Jongin takes a selfie of himself dousing his head in one of the sprays and sends it Kyungsoo, captioning I’ll be dancing here till 3:30 if u wanna come by, hoping that his new friend would come to watch.
He dances to an array of styles here, but he likes experimenting particularly with some floor work and B-boy moves because of the amount of space he has to work with. When he spins on the ground and kicks his way up to an upright position the kids all wow in amazement, mesmerized. Even though the rain only washed away one weekend of him dancing it felt like forever since he had last street performed. He can almost feel the rust cracking his joints when he pops.
He performs straight through the afternoon in zest, not even stopping for a drink but incorporating it into the choreography; playing it in his hands like a hat, tossing it in the air to catch it as he poses in a one-handed freeze, legs twisted in the air. Of course his stamina gives way eventually, Jongin just collapsing onto the ground as if to make snow angel, panting loudly. The crowd that has gathered laughs and claps. For a few moments the next track played on alone, feeble against the roar of traffic.
The concrete burns at the touch of Jongin’s skin.
“Jongin.”
He squints into the blinding blue sky, someone invading his dancing space and casting a shadow on his heaving torso.
“You came,” Jongin breathes out and collapses back onto the ground.
Kyungsoo places an ice cold drink by his head. “I was in town. And I wanted to see with my own eyes that you’re well.”
Jongin chuckles and rolls over, cheek up against the plastic cup brimming with condensation. “Not at all to see me dance?”
“Watching you dance is a given.”
“I’m good, aren’t I?”
“Please,” Kyungsoo scoffs. “Get up, you’ll burn yourself.”
He does, sluggishly, and is met with the top of Kyungsoo’s styled hair. His charcoal grey blazer is slung over a shoulder, stark white dress shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. His cheeks are flushed.
Finding refuge from the sun is plenty hard when all the spots are eaten up by couples out on their Saturday date. They end up ducking into a Thai restaurant, Jongin sculling his drink hastily and tossing it into the trash can.
“I see your health has definitely improved from the last time I saw you,” Kyungsoo says as he places a napkin on his lap.
Jongin grins. “Sickness is no match for the great Kim Jongin. And the soup recipes you sent me were so goddamn delicious.”
“Especially with that med-student friend of yours. I don’t trust him at all to be able to properly take care of you.”
“Sehun? Yeah, he’s a major loser. But apparently you scared him shitless so he’s been putting his doctor knowledge to good use.”
Kyungsoo laughs, suddenly looking five years younger. “I’m glad. You kids these days have no responsibility.”
Jongin hesitates, gnaws on his lips, then asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
Kyungsoo shakes his head in tiny spurts, “It’s fine. I’m twenty-three.”
Jongin’s eyebrows fly off his face, “Are you serious? I’m twenty-two!”
It’s Kyungsoo’s turn to be shocked. “Really? But you’re, like, ten.”
“And you’re, like, thirty-eight.”
“I don’t look that old, do I?”
“No no no,” Jongin waves that accusation away, “I just didn’t think you’d be so near my age. I mean, you already have an office job and drive a really nice car and wear fancy clothes.”
Kyungsoo chuckles once, shoulders bouncing. “I graduated early and had connections. I’m a mechatronic technician, I work at EXO.”
“EXO?” Jongin whistles, “You’re doing nice. Is that why you’re loaded?”
“That’s really all you care about?” Kyungsoo looks at Jongin pointedly, “But yes. I’m specialized.”
“Damn, so posh.”
“But I work practically every day, and it’s back-aching computer work nine-to-five. Seriously, this is first time I’d gotten sun since god knows when.”
The waiter takes their order and they contemplate over the menu for a bit, in the end Jongin just ordered whatever Kyungsoo did because his knowledge of food only extended to fast food and low-budget Chinese. Jongin gets up to pour the chilled water as the younger of the two.
“How long have you been dancing?” Kyungsoo asks, staring at Jongin.
Jongin hums, getting nostalgic about the old days again. “Since forever, or at least since I was four or five. I took ballet and jazz, and then contemporary and hip-hop when I started middle school. I had to stop nearly all of them because of classes though, and I don’t do them at all now that I’m in uni. Street-dancing, I’ve been doing since I was fifteen, as many weekends I could spare I would take the train to the city and perform everywhere.”
“Are you going to keep dancing, even as a job, I mean? Like audition for a company and debut in a boy band?”
“Pfffft,” Jongin snickers, “nah. I’ve been hunted down by a few companies, but I always say no. I don’t wanna be an idol. They don’t sleep, like, at all.”
“Which companies have approached you?”
“A few I can’t remember, and SM Ent-“
“SM Entertainment wanted you? And you declined? Are you out of your mind?”
“I only dance free,” Jongin shrugs his shoulders, pouting. “And I’m not into the whole training period and scandal over everything type of lifestyle. SM is intense dude, like have you seen Taemin dance live? I can’t be as good as that.”
Kyungsoo looks stunned, eyes in full bloom. “What are you talking about? You’re an amazing dancer.”
Jongin blushes and clears his throat. “You’ve only seen me dance once.”
“Not true. I keep on stumbling into your performances nearly every weekend. I’ve watched you dance ballet on the Han a few weeks back when I was walking around. Whenever I go out for lunch with some colleagues at Myeong-dong, you’re always there, disturbing the streets. I’ve stayed behind to watch your performances. When I drive by some streets I’d see you with a ring of people watching in awe. Don’t ever say you’re not as good, Jongin, you’re unbelievably good.”
Jongin looked down at his fingers, speechless and unable to meet Kyungsoo’s intense gaze. He’s never been on the receiving end of such a weighty compliment. His face is fully red now, and all he can muster is a small, lame thank you.
The food arrives looking and smelling like the food of the gods and Jongin, unable to start any conversation, goes straight for it, wasting no effort in table etiquette. He steals a peek at Kyungsoo and he’s eating politely like the definition of adult, but his cheeks are dusted pink and the tips of his ears are beet red. Of course, it must be embarrassing as well to compliment someone to death.
But what Kyungsoo did touch on strikes something in Jongin; an old argument he tends to suppress. What is he going to do with dancing? If it’s not for the sake of a future career is it just going to be a hobby until his legs give way and he’s too old and weak to even stand? At this point he shakes his head and thinks about nothing, not wanting to deal with it.
He’s got ages to think about the future.
part ii | part iii | part iv
Title: All Roads, They Lead Me Here
Genre: Romance, humour
Rating: PG-13
Side-Pairing(s): Taohun
Length: 36,600 words
Summary: Every weekend, Jongin goes out dancing in the streets, be it hail or shine. It is the only thing he ever wants to do.
Notes: Well this got out of hand real quickly;;; I hope I fulfilled the prompt to your satisfaction, I’m sorry it turned out to be this long. Thank you to my lovely betas for putting up with me. And I’m sorry for the Taylor Swift references… I can’t help it…
There is a chaos to the way Kim Jongin dances. A dash of prodigy, a hint of otherworldly, that little gasp on the brink of something amazing just about to happen, and an excessive amount of just him and the hardwood floors and large mirrors and music beats, grounding. It’s mostly because of practise, it’s all practise. But no, people don’t learn to dance like that, Jongin.
His friend Sehun used to say to him over a fizzing can of coke, “you dance to make the instructors happy, to make them satisfied so you get nice recommendations and a sliver of limelight. The way you dance, I think they’ll pull their hair out before even thinking of making you dance in the front.”
Jongin had met Sehun back in middle school, during Thursday dance classes tucked in before hagwon started. His parents had started enforcing stricter lines on what he was supposed to achieve at school, and had taken away half of his dance sessions and scrapping jazz altogether. As far as Jongin was concerned, those Thursday sessions were the only times when his existence truly came into focus.
Jongin dances with a taste of intimacy and sweet desperation. He dances like there might’ve been some choreography he was taught to follow but he’s losing control of it. He had garnered a reputation of a hopeless case, forever standing out during group performances for his style of dancing. The instructors absolutely despised him.
He began street dancing on weekends for some breathing space. His parents were up in his neck on how his grades were, to say the least, unimpressive, and the ninety-minute block a week of dancing started to slip through his fingers like hourglass sand. He would feign an interest to head to the state library for project reasons, sneak a set of speakers in his backpack, then board the train to the city by himself in search of a tiny spot for him to perform in. On good days, Sehun would join him and they’d pull out their favourite choreos, glimmer of freestyle breaking out of their skin when the moment is just right and golden.
In terms of it just being a hobby, Jongin was breaking all sorts of limits. He found every possible chance to dance; in the middle of class, in the shower, in the hallways. He joined all the school productions and always performed as the featured dancer. Any dance-offs, he’d be front and centre. In his high school the girls called him Golden Boy, The Korean Michael Jackson. His deskmate Chanyeol called him obsessed.
Dancing was not a hobby for Jongin but habitual.
He can feel it all, the falling into like falling in tune, in a haze of rust. He is transported back to his first dance class, flash of blue leotards in the wide wall mirrors. His mother insisted on him taking up something more socially rewarding (like soccer or taekwondo following Jongin’s prep friends) but Jongin had stolen his sister’s Michael Jackson video tapes and, then, there was nothing he wanted more than to be able to do the moonwalk.
He took jazz then ballet for a year and six months before strongly refusing to go to lessons because it interfered with his Sunday evening naptimes. His mother, with the help of one or two unwilling sisters, began forcefully pulling up his tights whilst carrying him into the car, and then forced into desperate measures, agreed to a poodle if he continued dance like the good boy they wanted him to be. This was all on Mrs Kim’s part a duty to discipline her youngest and only son, whom so far had showed spoilt and ungrateful tendencies.
It must’ve been fate (Michael Jackson or dancing; they became too mutually related). Aside from that childhood blip, he took to dancing with an ease and offhand nonchalance that the world only sees through a TV screen- a film about a child prodigy who grows up to be heartbreakingly beautiful, stuns the universe for seven or so years, then dies unfairly young.
This is however not that type of story, but it did begin with a hushed count-in and a single figure in a room of mirrors, creating a hundred other single figures, eyes closed, head swimming in ever-playing music.
--
It’s Saturday, calm and pastel light. Jongin wakes up at seven on the dot. Chanyeol and Sehun are still hung-over from staying up late trying to meet the deadline of an assignment, a mess of quarter-full mugs and loose leaf all over the dining table as an aftermath. Sehun is passed out on the couch and Chanyeol is in Sehun’s bed; two very tall, very disarrayed giants in university.
Jongin eats breakfast leaning against the fridge, avoiding all of the dog magnets and coupons tacked on. He chews on a banana, a cup of hot milo on the counter within arm’s reach, and fights the urge to fall back into sleep by shuffling on his feet, gliding across the kitchen tiles on his bare tip-toes. Big Bang is playing in his head though he can’t remember the lyrics, but he knows the beats and where to pop his shoulder. Somethingsomethingsomethingsomething sorry I’m a bad boy.
The microwave clock reads eighteen-past-seven, train at thirty-eight, give or take a few minutes from foot traffic on the way there. Jongin’s not a slow walker but he knows clocks in the dorm run slow, actually clocks that are anywhere but the train station run slow, so he shrugs on his bag heavy with speakers and an energy drink, and heads out. Just as he opens the door Sehun stirs in his slumber, but he doesn’t wake up.
He takes a quick doze on the train ride and wakes by the second last stop. This isn’t a well-timed instinct than it is routine. He’s got his earphones and Jongin rubs his eyes every other minute, maneuvering through the jittery weekend crowd and looking at the pros-and-cons of his usual dance spots.
There is the large block of pavement in front of Seoul plaza, just at the entrance of city hall station by the little water fountains. Here he can do a bit of floor movement, and the space is wide enough that people won’t try to squeeze past him and trip over his speakers.
The junction by an open air Gong Cha café in Myeong-dong is always a good hit, especially since the ladies working there and generally all around that area enjoy a little contemporary performance from the usual indie busker that sweeps by more often than not, and they’re generous with the change they toss in Jongin’s snapback. A bit crowded and stuffy, but the atmosphere makes up for it.
Atop the Han River boardwalk is more quiet and slow, with calmer and polite people enjoying the scenery. Here Jongin digs into his ballet roots, displaying long sweeping port de bras and controlled pirouettes. He doesn’t come here often, preferring the sizzling air of a lively street, and the boardwalk security is constantly chasing him out when he creates a blockage of spectators, but every once in a while, when he’s dressed in loose cotton and the weather’s a breezy mild, he’s there, ballet fingers breaking the sunlight.
Spread throughout Hongdae are snippets of cracked pavement his body is very familiar with, automatically clicking into place at the hustle and bustle. Here it’s commercial, old fashion hip-hop, and the school girls out and about absolutely adore him, taking videos and pictures to upload on their blogs, tagging it as ‘cute dancer oppa ♡♡’ and at the same time generously dropping change from their expensive drinks into his snapback. He performs here when his ego is in need of a little pick-me-up, and suspiciously here is also where Sehun tends to join him the most, making the girls swoon even harder.
There are other spots: most station exits are a good bet, providing a nice colourful backdrop of graffiti; by the entrances of banks when his performance motivation is more on the currency side; and sometimes he might aggravate dance crews at the big spots and be coerced into a battle, in which Jongin would win by style but lose by lack of squad enthusiasm.
Jongin goes with Myeong-dong today, something about the lightness in the air making it feel perfect for some contemporary. He boards another transit straight there, creating a playlist on his phone. The songs are smooth r&b, some pop-ballads, ambient electronics, and jazz. He’s running a thousand different routines in his head, some escaping into his fingertips, into his heels, into the curve of his shoulders, and he’s dancing to the beat of his footsteps.
The sun has barely peeked over the cafés and pop-up stores when Jongin is finished setting up; two wireless speakers connected to his phone on the wings, a leopard print snapback up front, ready to collect change, and him in the centre, head down, eyes closed, morning air washing his lungs. Finger snap, soft chords, and he’s off, tracing the music in wide circles on the pavement with a pointed toe.
The routine he’s picturing in his head is from a performance he saw once on stage. A lone dancer in black, red satin fabric billowing all around the ground, trying to drown him. But Jongin was never that good at following choreography, so he drifts to another set of movements that are a watered down version of the rhythmic gymnast routines he sometimes watches online. And then something else, and then he’s not following choreo at all, just moving to the music, like a curtain in the breeze.
The shops around him begin opening and the first shift comes out to watch for a while, still too early to accept customers. The girls manning the Gong Cha set up the parasol tables and sing along to the songs, accidentally stopping their work altogether to enjoy Jongin’s performance.
The song changes, the day progresses, sunlight turns his shadow into a dial. People come by and stop for a minute, squinting into the glare of summer, Jongin’s silhouette burning into the back of their eyelids. They toss coins and bills into his snapback and Jongin smiles bashfully, face red from exertion and shyness, even after all this time.
He takes breaks every few songs, especially towards mid-afternoon when the sun is particularly harsh. He buys ice tea, leans against the counter and has a chat with the baristas, then returns with new fervour.
As soon he knows, it’s nearing half-past three and he’s wrapping up. He finishes his last song with a loud, triumphant grunt. His audience cheers, snapback tipping with the amount of silver coins, and he bows in gratitude, sweat polishing the bronze of his skin.
Jongin comes back to the dorm and it’s become part of the Arctic Circle, the chill from the vents stirring the sweat on his forehead when he opens the door. Summer boils on apathetically outside the apartment complex. It’s Sehun probably; because Sehun has this affinity for the extreme cold and his soul all but festers in the iciness from the air-conditioner. Further encouraged by the fact that Sehun fries in the slightest of sun. They’re always getting complaints from the dorm wardens about their electrical usage, Chanyeol out of the kindness of his heart taking initiative and smiling apologetically, flipping the bird behind his back at Sehun.
Nothing stirs in the dorm, a frozen wasteland with Jongin’s feet practically hissing each time he steps on the tiles. From Sehun’s room comes a soft melody - Girl’s day or something - and Chanyeol’s door is open showing the room empty and unbelievably messy. The sweat on Jongin’s neck has dried to an uncomfortable layer of filth.
“Honey, I’m home,” Jongin calls out.
“Yeah, whatever,” comes a muffled reply from Sehun.
“Is Yeol at the library?” he asks out of courtesy. He knows Chanyeol is at the library, he’s never anywhere else on the weekends unless he’s hanging with Baekhyun (studying most likely) or visiting home.
“Obviously.”
Jongin tinkers around in the fridge and fishes out McDonalds leftovers from yesterday, takes a peek inside, and chucks it in the microwave. A hard thump from Sehun’s room, “Hey are you making food?”
Jongin hums, scrunching his toes because he forgot to wear socks. A draft brushes by his ankles and Sehun is by his side, craning his neck to whatever Jongin might have on his hands. He scowls, to which Jongin flicks his forehead.
“Liar, there’s no food,” Sehun whines.
“Make your own, or call for some Chinese or something.”
Sehun slumps dramatically onto Jongin’s shoulders (that bastard, stealing three centimetres from him in the span of half a year), “I can’t, my eyes hurt from reading about capillaries. Did you know that if you take all your veins and laid them out to measure,” Sehun leans into Jongin’s ear, breath like frostbite, “you’d die.”
Jongin shimmies him away, the beep of the microwave sending him into determined movement. “Nice.”
Stick fingers pry a chicken nugget from the brown soggy bag before Jongin can even think. They lean against the counter, heads against the top cabinets. These dorm rooms don’t really accommodate the upper average of South Korea’s height spectrum.
“You know what else is nice?” Sehun says, holding the chicken nugget like a wineglass, “not having classes during summer break. You know who has classes during summer break? Me and Chanyeol. You know who doesn’t have summer classes, and who truly should be appreciating the ability to experience the word and title ‘nice’?” Sehun grins, a push away from lunacy, “Kim Jogging Shoes fucking dance dance revolution princess Jongin.”
Jongin toasts his chicken nugget, “amen to that.”
Sehun clomps down on his nugget, and for the first time in a while Jongin sees the exhaustion tugging on his bottom lashes, the bloated cheeks, break-outs dotting his jawline. Sehun’s hands are trembling minutely when he places them on the counter top.
The silence between them is bleary. It brings Jongin back to those Thursday evening dance classes in high school, both of them sweaty and all danced-out, back against the mirrors and legs spread out useless on the hardwood floor, nothing - not even words - between them but a can of soda from the vending machine out back.
Now, they look just the same, save for their legs a few inches longer and Sehun’s horrible middle parting. Except it’s not the same, because one of them is still dancing whilst the other one quit four years ago.
“Hey,” Jongin’s voice is raspy, sudden influx of drowsiness slowing his system down “Sometime, you should come out with me again. Out in Hongdae, near that tteokbokki street vendor. It’s still there you know, with the same ahjumma. Whenever I get food there she asks about you.”
Sehun is looking at his hands, a small smile on the corner of his lips, “I remember. What does she say?”
“’Where’s that friend of yours with the terrible dye job? Is he well? Are you still friends? He should eat more, he won’t be able to survive winter being that skinny,’” Jongin chuckles, tapping his head against the top counter to stay awake.
Sehun hums, closing his eyes. He furrows his eyebrows, looks like he’s about to say something significant. Instead, “I think I’ll take a nap.”
They break apart, Sehun retreating to his room and Jongin eating the rest of his meal. Pain flares through his hip suddenly, catching Jongin off-guard, snaking round to the base of his spine and then shooting to his shoulder blades. He holds his breath, squeezing his eyes shut until it passes. It’s happened before, but not since a long time.
Half a minute passes and the pain has subsided to an afterthought, but Jongin’s extra careful with his posture. He gently rubs his sides and begins heading to the shower, passing by Sehun’s room, door ajar. He doesn’t dawdle, but he steals a quick look, spotting a mess of white paper sheets, curtains quarter drawn, and clothes suffocating the floor. That little slice is slammed shut with Sehun muttering piss off.
As he readies for a nice shower, Jongin tries to push away the nostalgia of the good ol’ days but it’s no use. He remembers it all crystal clear, how towards the end of high school Sehun would toss away his textbooks and take the weekend train with Jongin to perform on the streets. How during breaks they’d buy street vendor food and do their homework on the plastic tables and chairs with the ahjumma kindly refilling their ice teas for free.
Jongin showers quickly, and when he gets out he hears a faint but familiar dance track from Sehun’s room.
--
Though it seems otherwise, Jongin does in fact study and do his homework and attend university lectures and all that jazz. His marks are fair, maybe not as spectacular as Chanyeol’s or Sehun's but he gets by, he’s not failing.
Weekdays he spends hard at work, writing his notes and having productive, educational discussions with his classmates. He’ll be at the library with Chanyeol and Sehun way into the night, pouring over textbooks and required reading, sobbing both internally and externally at the assignments and generally scraping by in a stressed heap. He doesn’t spend even a single second jamming (with exceptions of the subconscious foot tap and hip sway).
Jongin still has expectations to fulfil after all. It takes more than three years of no longer living at home to shake off the iron grip of parents.
It’s easier for Jongin, however, because he’s overshadowed by two over-achieving sisters. Growing up as the only little boy of the household, he’s been spoilt beyond belief. Everything he does is tinged with festivity, a dance recital, a good report card, a lame birthday card written last-minute. Even his misfortunes - falling ill, bad breakup, dance injury, his family would circle around him and coo it all away. Our Jongin, they’d pout, our Jongin, don’t get hurt or we’ll hurt too.
Although his parents had cut out his dancing time when he was younger they still left plenty. When they discovered Jongin’s weekend street performances, they shrugged, metaphorically ruffled his hair and muttered, kids, what can you do you know?
Sehun suffered much worse, his parents taking away dancing entirely and setting him on a course of The Respectable Son of the Oh Family, monitoring his schoolwork, sending him to tutor after private tutor. Sehun didn’t make a drama out of it, simply submitting quietly, jaw clenched and eyes wet.
Jongin did.
He grabbed at Sehun’s shirt, bunched it all up in his trembling fist and screamed, silent. Tears, angry and sad (are they both not the same thing in the end?), salty on the corners of his mouth. He didn’t understand how anyone could just let go of something they love and not fight for it. Don’t you want to dance?
Sehun had forcefully wrenched Jongin’s hands away, furiously wiping at his own eyes. It doesn’t matter anymore, Jongin. I can’t have everything I want in the world.
But dancing was the world to Jongin.
--
The sidewalks are beginning to flood. His shoes are wet and everyone is ducking into restaurants, dripping and dishevelled. Waves push up to his ankles from the cars still gunning down the roads, and if he were to set up now the speakers would probably short circuit and electrocute anyone within a ten meter radius. His hair is sticking into strands and they keep getting into his eyes as he shoulders his backpack, scanning the shops for something but they’re all bursting at the seams with shivering couples. Jongin bites his lips; the subway is ages away.
The rain beats down in a deafening frenzy. Jongin hesitates by the front of the bank, because he’s sure an establishment with speckled marble floors and a professional low-murmur quietude wouldn’t appreciate a drenched boy loitering in the lobby. When he enters, the double takes from concierge and the official-looking men and women in suits make Jongin’s insides shrivel up into a prune. Thankfully they don’t kick him out at first sight, so he mentally shrinks as to attract less attention and quickly dials up Chanyeol’s number behind a potted plant.
His ringback tone goes on forever, “My Jongin, how are you?”
“Well,” Jongin whispers because he’s sure the entire floor can hear everything he’s saying, “I’m kinda-“
“Wait!” Chanyeol booms, turning the line into static for a few moments, “Let me guess! The city’s flooded, and you’re clinging onto a floating taxi, trying to save pedestrians and at the same time breakdancing-“
“Yeol, can we like, not, right now?”
“Or is another company representative hunting you down in Hongdae and you need a major road diversion by that snapback store-“
“Dude please,” Jongin snaps, harsh softness, “I need a favour.” Behind him looms the frightening monotone of a professional environment.
Chanyeol snickers, “does this favour involve me in direct contact with my car?”
“Maybe. Okay, whatever, yes. Can you give me a lift?” Jongin shivers, air-con blowing directly into his wet hair.
A sigh from the other end, “I would absolutely love to Jogging Shoes, but I’m at my sister’s place for another hour or so. Really really sorry. You can try Sehun, or call a cab?”
Oh man, oh man, what a struggle he’s gotten himself into. “Can’t, forgot my wallet. But, all good. I’ll just, uh, wait this storm out in the Shinhan building,” Jongin whispers, “please save me.”
Jongin shoots a glance over his shoulder and there are several curious gazes directed towards his wet back. A young woman manning counter seven meets his eyes and she looks back at the phone in her hands, flustered. A bright flash lights up the glass entrance screens, water already soaking up the corners of the grey carpet, followed by a loud clap of thunder.
“Okay okay, chill. I’ll find a way to leave by ten-to, and if not I’ll get Sehun to help make your escape. Good, my man?”
Jongin whines a little, “damn. Okay, yeah, thanks man.”
Jongin hangs up first and slumps forward against the white-speckled walls. He did see this coming, several times this morning in fact; on the weather report, an offhand remark from Sehun about bringing an umbrella, and sheer common sense from his childhood about not going outside during the monsoon season. He shakes droplets of rainwater out of his fringe like a wet puppy, wondering whether or not he has to pay to use the seats in this building.
“Excuse me,” a quiet voice from behind, followed by an ominous hush across the lobby. Jongin freezes, hair rising on the back of his neck. He turns around, flinches at a loud thunder crash.
Before him stands a man a head shorter - Jongin tilts his head down and the man’s jaw twitches - immaculately dressed, hair coiffed to the side politely stylish, full-moon eyes staring Jongin speechless.
“You’re the boy always dancing outside, right?” the man questions, gaze unwavering. Jongin swallows and wipes his hands on his jeans, stomach coiling in intimidation. Really what’s the point of Jongin’s bursting 182cm when he cowers in face of anyone with a hard glare? He’s like one of those dirty alley cats that got taken in by a chipper family of four and got domesticated to the bone, and then abandoned, left to fend for himself amongst other cats that all look like him but know how to snap a bird’s neck given the chance.
“Yeah- yes, sir,” Jongin says, straightening his posture and gaining a few centimetres above the man.
The man nods, “Well, you’re getting the floor wet.”
Jongin’s breath hitches, slightly dizzy with the man’s cologne curling all around him, “I’m so so so so sorry- I’ll leave right now-“
“Really?” the other says, thick eyebrows in an amused arch, “into that mess outside?”
Duh, obviously no, calm the sass. “Um…”
The man’s hard-set expression flickers, forehead loosening, lips parting, “I can give you lift, that’s why I came over to your, uh, hiding spot here. I was about to leave anyway.”
“Oh,” Jongin’s head reels, accidentally lets out a loud sneeze, “thank you, but I wouldn’t want to trouble you or anything.”
The man shakes his head, “None at all, I’m just giving you a hand. Also, I’m not going to jump you once we’re alone if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Uh, now I am.”
A quiet, business laugh, “if you really don’t want to, but a bit of a heads up, this storm’s predicted to go into the evening, and I don’t think anyone’s going to offer a ride anytime soon.”
That sounds very much like a threat to Jongin, and he’s slightly scared of this short man, but a lift does sound sweet right now. He bites his lips, chapped from the A/C, “Okay, yes, thank you so much.”
The man smiles like he knew this was going to be the answer after all, “This way, then.”
Jongin only manages to get wetter as they make their way through the basement car park, an inch of water sloshing about. The man- oh wait.
“So, uh, my name’s Jongin,” he says, only to be drowned out by the echo of rain. He tries again, shouting.
The man turns around, distress about the water only shown through his clenched fists, “I’m Kyungsoo.” He’s shouting too, but it’s deeper, more controlled.
“Kyungsoo,” he repeats, more to himself. It’s nice and fitting, hard start to a soft fall.
They reach the car frantically, Jongin sprinting when Kyungsoo points it out and splashing water everywhere. He ends up with the entirety of his calves drenched, gingerly getting into the passenger seat whilst apologizing.
Kyungsoo clicks his tongue, slides the key in and turns it, settling into driving position swiftly.
He has both hands on the wheel, attention squarely upfront and between them is the inevitable awkward silence, fashionably late. Jongin leans back onto the seat, silently admiring the plush black leather, trying not to fall into a nap because that always happens when he stops moving.
Kyungsoo’s hand darts away from the wheel and presses a button on the radio, something English beginning to play at a low volume. “So, what made you think you could brave the storm today?”
The windshield is a watercolour palette, “Tradition, essentially. I’ve been street dancing every weekend since the year started, and breaking that streak would be like stopping a League game halfway, get what I mean?”
“No.”
“You know, League of Legends? Well anyway, I didn’t think the rain would be this bad.”
Kyungsoo hums, voice drifting to join the song currently playing, crisp and breathy, and says, “Every weekend? Aren’t you still in school?”
Jongin taps his fingers on the dash, pulls the sun visor down and checks his reflection - he looks pale, lips chapped and hair beginning to dry in a dishevelled manner. “Yeah, last year of university. But my grades are okay, and I’m keeping up with the curriculum. Dancing in the streets is just something I’m hardwired to do, you know? I’ve been doing it for so long I feel like I just can’t do anything else on the weekends.”
Kyungsoo purses his lips (they look very soft and un-chapped, a clear distinction showing how he’s got himself together whereas Jongin is stumbling all over the place), and pulls into the highway, eagle eyes on the road and back rigid, whisking the air with an expensive scent. A silver Rolex sits on the small of his pale wrist - Jongin squints to read a one twenty-something.
“So,” Kyungsoo says, “where to?”
Jongin states vaguely the whereabouts of the dorm, unsure of the exact address, but Kyungsoo nods and says he knows where it is, bless. Jongin begins bouncing his legs to the beat of the song.
“Do you ever stop moving?”
Jongin laughs, embarrassed, “not really. I’ll fall asleep if I stop moving.”
“How do you even survive class?”
“Uh, I don’t? I get called out about how noisy and fidgety I am at least twice a day. It’s a real problem.”
Quiet for a long time. The music bridges the silence. Jongin watches the other cars on the highway slice through the water.
After a while they reach a familiar junction, Jongin barely able to see the signs pointing to the dorm building through the downpour. Jongin quickly pulls put his phone to text Chanyeol about the change in plans, getting an immediate ok :( in response.
Pulling up to the dorm entrance in no time, Jongin sinks back into his chair for one last moment of dryness and comfort. “Thanks man- uh-Kyungsoo-shhi. Sorry for the trouble.”
Kyungsoo offers a polite smile, picture-perfect professionalism, “Check the weather forecast next time. And prioritize, there are other things more worth-wile than tradition.”
He remembers that small smile as he runs through the curtains of rain. As he taps his student card at the entrance: rich scent of cologne, as he waits in the elevator: heavy silver Rolex reading one twenty-something, as he leans against the door of his dorm: there are other things more worth-wile than tradition.
--
Jongin has a tendency of feeling immensely sleepy despite having slept an excessive amount, feeling tired an hour into his day, probably in the middle of a catastrophic disaster of the millennium, and this grates on much of his roommates' nerves. Mainly Sehun, because Chanyeol has no capability for feeling intense emotions before ten o’clock.
“Just get out, loser.” Sehun kicks him under the dining table at Jongin complaining about how tired he is for the nth time, “Get out so I can continue my sixth all-nighter in a row trying to get through my damn class. I don’t want your weak ass stinking up the place.”
Jongin shuffles out of the dorm half-awake, Sehun slamming the door loud enough to keep him awake until he reaches the elevator. It’s obviously a sign of natural selection, that if not Jongin sleeping himself into an accident then his heart will pump itself out of blood. Or something. Sehun’s the medical student not Jongin.
It’s still raining as unforgiving as ever, but according to Ms Lee on the morning weather it’s an 80% chance of rain today, and by mathematical substitution if there’s 24 hours in a day and 80% is like 19.2 hours a day of raining (Jongin found this out via his calculator app), and the day is already at nine o’clock; taking into consideration how it always (this is legit guesstimation) rains at night, then that little sliver of not-rain must occur sometime between the hours of now and before night. This is why you go to school kids.
He makes it to the station exit at Yeouido and runs into a block of city-goers finding refuge from the monsoon. The downpour is immense, stinking the air with a heady scent. He fumes to himself, pushes through the crowd muttering apologies and, taking the largest most comical gulp of air, barrels through the curtain of rain arm over face.
During this picturesque moment, with water getting into his everything and the world muting into the thuds of thousands of water droplets crashing into Seoul’s surface, Jongin begins to contemplate. The scene plays in slow motion, camera zooming into Jongin’s wet white blouse (he’d hoped for some ballet time by the Han, one hundred percent manly), background music the Flower Duet.
Yesterday he had been caught in the rain, after many blaring warnings that he brushed off because he’s oblivious like that. It had been a shamble, especially after getting home and taking a shower, realized that he had no appetite to eat the dinner Chanyeol had prepared (absolutely out of character, because Chanyeol under all that dumb is an amazing cook that only showcases his talents whenever he’s not busy studying which is never). Reason: he was two-thirds on his way to a fever, and Chanyeol had to fight Sehun for control over the thermostat so Jongin wouldn’t contract something terminal overnight. Sehun, future doctor, seethed and hid in his room, shouting through the walls at them both to just Google for a quick fix. Pardon the irony.
Fast forward to today, Chanyeol had overslept as he always does whenever Sunday rolls around, and Sehun had released Jongin into the wild much to the better judgment of both (he’s already praying for Sehun’s future patients). Now, the fever that which had hidden itself most successfully throughout the morning has returned kicking and screaming, and Jongin feels that his skin isn’t really his skin, and something is stabbing relentlessly at his forehead. Any moment now he might throw up.
The camera pulls back, time speeds up, record scratch cutting the soundtrack. Jongin’s running very blindly through the rain, past couples and businessmen under the safety of umbrellas, to that oasis of a spot by the bank’s entrance, in perfect view of all the warm cafes and restaurants.
He doesn’t notice he’s at the bank, or really running to the bank until he’s at his dancing spot, looking like he just emerged from three showers and a bath with his clothes on. It’s not the bank he’s worried about as much as the dancing spot in front of it, because that’s all that really matters in the end: he fought, tooth and nail, to be able to dance at his sacred spot, and if not for Mother Nature, would have done so.
Someone clears their throat behind him. “Excuse me, Jongin-sshi?”
Jongin turns around slowly, breathing laboured and skin on fire. He recognizes the man - Kyungsoo - after a few moments of him trying to get his head to not hurt. “Hello, Kyungsoo-sshi.”
Kyungsoo’s tucked under a somber-black umbrella, quizzical expression on his face. “I… am surprised to see you again so soon. You’re drenched to the bone.”
Jongin nods.
“Are you alright? You look very pale.”
Jongin keeps staring at Kyungsoo, state of self currently extremely fragile. He feels like he might pass out at any sudden movement.
The tips of Kyungsoo’s ears darken significantly, and he changes his attention on something to the bottom left of the ground. Jongin can barely make out a tuft of black hair - Jongin is moving his eyes unbelievably slowly and gently - belonging to a little boy by Kyungsoo’s side, an arm sporting a silver Rolex on his tiny shoulder. “Minseok and I were about to have brunch, if you’d like to join us.”
A kid? Kyungsoo looks way too young to already have a four-ish year-old. He also looks way to goody goody to have been a teenage father. But that’s none of Jongin’s business, and Jongin just so desperately wants to be taken care of right now that if Kyungsoo was a dad, then hey, he’d probably know some stuff about nursing a sick kid. Perfect solution to Jongin’s predicament.
So Jongin nods his head, closing his eyes to avoid a dizzy onslaught, “I’d love to. Also I think I’m kinda sick.”
A sigh, “dear oh dear.”
They make it to a yum cha restaurant without a single droplet of rain on anyone. The staff takes a glance at Kyungsoo and immediately waves their group to a table on the second floor despite a queue, Jongin whistling appreciatively in his head. Life goals.
Kyungsoo and Minseok both sit down calmly and fancily, aristocratic air laced into their presence. Jongin simply slumps onto his chair, squinting his eyes at the bowl of prawn crackers at the centre of the table. All around them is the excited chatter of Sunday brunch, trolleys of food wheeled around and casual Cantonese exchanged.
Minseok is talking quietly to Kyungsoo, muddled sentences said with an oddly professional manner, voice too weak against the loud atmosphere. They both glance at Jongin, Siamese synchronicity, and return to their formal conversation. Jongin falls into a quick nap meanwhile, a loud, ominous heartbeat in his ears.
“Excuse me, mister?” a small, high-pitched voice drags him back to the present. Minseok is looking at him with wet, puppy eyes.
Jongin blinks, tries a smile, ending up sending the back of his head into a painful disarray, “Yeah?”
Minseok swallows, looking at Kyungsoo nervously, and then says, “Hello, my name is Kim Minseok. I go to Namsan International Kindergarten.”
Jongin is breathing slowly, body tense and frozen. From the corner of his vision Kyungsoo is inspecting him questioningly. “Hey, Minseok. I’m Kim Jongin. I go to Hanyang University.”
Minseok avoids eye contact with Jongin after that, preferring to ponder about whatever little kids ponder about with his eyes on his lap. Not that Jongin minds - speaking, even just a single word, takes so much out of him.
A cart of steaming dim sum comes rolling by, Kyungsoo picking out the dishes and having them arranged neatly on the table. He then stands up, pats down his already neat and creaseless pants, begins to pour tea for everyone. Minseok says a very professional thank you whilst Jongin whispers a thanks, probably drowned out by the restaurant chatter.
“Jongin,” Kyungsoo prods gently, “do you want me to arrange a ride home?”
Jongin groans, muttering a nah. It’ll be just like yesterday: Sehun would be god knows where, and Chanyeol would be out pursuing his own life, too busy with work or sister or something.
An exasperated sigh, “And I told you only yesterday to think about consequences. I suppose this fever of sort is from the rain yesterday. Yet you still have the audacity to come out again, and for what?”
If Jongin were in a good condition, he would blush and fidget in his chair, glaring at Kyungsoo because whatever mom, I can do what I want. But now, he doesn’t really care about that as much as his splitting migraine. Jongin really is on the verge of falling asleep now, the thick aroma of food making him slightly nauseous. How the things you love hurt you most in the end.
“Jongin,” suddenly Kyungsoo’s voice is right by ear, a cold hand brushing aside his clammy hair and pressing against his forehead. It’s soothing to the senses. “What have you done to yourself?”
“Hyung, is Jongin alright?” Minseok asks, voice far away.
“Jongin is actually a baby and shouldn’t be allowed out into the world.” Kyungsoo removes his hand from Jongin’s forehead and he still has enough pride to suppress his disappointed groan at the loss, because whoa that’s super gay.
“Huh?” Minseok questions again.
“It’s okay, just eat your food,” Kyungsoo reassures.
Drifting in and out of consciousness is Jongin’s second favourite state of being, right behind full on out-cold sleep. It would be bliss right now if not for the constant throbs of pain in his temples and the perpetual might-vomit-might-not feeling in the back of his throat. Yeah, this is wakeup call enough, Jongin’s never going out into the rain ever again for as long as he lives.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Kyungsoo’s voice is low and pleasant (his general presence is soothing to the touch, no homo), “I’m gonna send you home.”
“Nooo,” Jongin groans, “you don’t have to really. I’ll just text my friend…” Talking proves extra strenuous.
“Stop talking,” Kyungsoo instructs, deadpan.
Sure, yeah, he’ll stop talking. He feels like death is humping his brain at the moment anyway.
“Hello, Junmyeon-hyung,” Kyungsoo is speaking to someone on the phone, or maybe the whole Minseok thing had been a prank on Jongin and that kid is actually a dwarf named Junmyeon, “I’m so sorry for calling. I ran into someone I knew and he’s very unwell at the moment. I need to send him home. Yeah- yeah. You’re still at the office, yeah? I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you,” nervous, stiff laughter, “thanks, bye.”
A shaky, exhausted sigh. Kyungsoo’s been sighing all afternoon, and Jongin feels very much like an asshole for ruining someone’s Sunday.
“Minseok, your dad’s coming over for a bit while I send Jongin home,” Kyungsoo tells Minseok (ok so not a prank), to which the kid replies with an excited, “really?” His mouth sounds stuffed with food.
“Yes, really,” Kyungsoo sounds like he’s smiling, “and don’t talk with your mouth full.”
When Kyungsoo puts his hand on Jongin’s shoulder as a signal to wake up and go, Jongin’s in a numb state of semi-consciousness not fully aware of anything that is happening. Someone is trying to move him from his resting position and he cringes away. He gets a light tap on his left cheek, in the muffle of sound surrounding him he hears a laugh. What the hell, is someone trying to mess with Jongin’s sleeping body?
“Jongin,” Kyungsoo’s voice breaks through, “come on. Let’s go.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen him so still,” a stranger comments.
Kyungsoo huffs, now almost slapping Jongin. “I swear to god Jongin if you don’t move right now I will cut you.”
He sounds so serious it shocks Jongin awake, squinting into the light. He groans, and at the glower Kyungsoo gives him, obediently stands up and blindly bows to whoever was talking to Kyungsoo.
They make the precarious trip through the rain again but this time Jongin’s essentially sleep walking and leaning against Kyungsoo like that poor little man is a pillar. Jongin, a soft spot for anyone shorter than him, makes a reminder to apologize later when he’s made sure what will comes out of his mouth are words and not puke.
“You’re more maintenance than Minseok and he’s a toddler for goodness sake,” Kyungsoo’s car is parked right outside the bank, looking luxurious in the rain, “what am I, a taxi driver? And to think I found you cute.”
To Jongin all Kyungsoo is saying is just a string of noises. He’s pushed into the car (geez, he’s a patient) and the door is banged shut before he can even get his feet inside. In a flash, Kyungsoo is in the driver’s seat, the car is turned on and ready for action, and they are on the highway. Even in Jongin’s sick haze he can feel the black aura radiating off of Kyungsoo, and he’s certain that he’s never felt so intimidated in his life.
Jongin falls asleep immediately upon the calming purr of the car engine. When he wakes up, it’s from Kyungsoo once again not so gently slapping him awake, looking like a ruffled owl, jaw twitching.
“Kyungsoo?” he asks, confused from his nap.
“Get out. We’re here.”
“O-“ deep breath, “oka-“ deep breath, “okay.”
Kyungsoo exits the car groaning oh my god and zips to the other side to lug Jongin out. He pulls Jongin by the armpits with a laboured huff, but Jongin is actually pretty heavy (muscles, baby) and they topple to the wet ground.
“Fuck this, fuck you, fuck you so much,” Kyungsoo stands up in disbelief at his soaked cuffs, and lifts Jongin across his shoulders to begin their perilous journey to the dorm room.
Security opens up for them, concerned but Kyungsoo’s expression cuts them off before any questions can be asked. Jongin is moaning in pain from everything and Kyungsoo is spitting out profanities at him, struggling to support all of Jongin’s weight. The elevator takes them up to the third floor, and Jongin has to whisper his dorm room number because he’s actually legit going to faint. Salvation is so near.
The world decides to throw another obstacle from the pits of hell because answering the door is the devil himself.
“Um,” Sehun says.
“Is this your roommate?” Kyungsoo sounds extremely agitated but yet still professionally calm.
“Yeah.”
“May I drop him off inside?”
“Sure.”
And so two worlds collide. Kyungsoo dumps him on the couch, letting out a large breath of air. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Yeah,” Sehun stands by the foot of the couch.
“Can you please turn it to a warmer temperature, Jongin’s terribly unwell. Fever from the rain, and I presume this cold shock. Make sure he doesn’t leave this place to go dancing until he’s healthy again. Lock the doors. And the windows as well, who knows what he’ll do.”
“Okay.”
“And he has to drink water. Feed him chicken soup with plenty of vegetables. It strikes me that Jongin might be the type to not eat vegetables. Make. Sure. He. Eats. His. Vegetables.”
“I will.”
Kyungsoo sighs, looks at Jongin writhing on the couch, and reaches into his back pocket to get out a brown leather wallet. “Here’s my card,” he hands a minimalistic white thing to a dumbfounded, slightly scared Sehun, “let me know if he disappears tomorrow. God forbid he does.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be going now. Remember the soup.”
“I will,” then Sehun adds a bit helplessly, “I’m a med student.”
Kyungsoo shakes his head, slipping on his oxfords. Sehun rushes to open the door for him. “What are you kids even doing at university these days?”
Kyungsoo leaves with sharp footsteps and Sehun shuts the door quietly, leaning his back against it and sliding down into a fetal crouch. “Jongin, I don’t know who that was, but I’ve never been more fucking scared in my entire life. It’s like he sucked all the light in the room, and I’ll never feel happy again.”
From the couch, Jongin groans in pain.
--
A week passes, in bed, in the library, working in the supermarket, dinner back home with the family, movie night with the gang. Jongin is a superstar healer and is up and running by Tuesday, all remnants of his sickness being the dried ice patches in the rubbish bin. Chanyeol and Sehun’s summer classes comes to an early finish when half the professors also catch a fever, Sehun getting a bit emotional and hugging Jongin with tears streaming down his cheeks, breaking away with a wet kiss to his forehead.
Kyungsoo texts him a lot asking about his health progress, warning about weather changes and fruits he should eat. It’s oddly endearing, Jongin getting a smile whenever his phone chimes and it’s a text about the benefits of freshly squeezed orange juice versus commercial carton crap.
It’s great for the dorm to finally feel stress-free and festive about summer break. There’s a party going on almost every other night in the building, and they end up leaving each one hella turnt and ready to kiss the next passerby that says hi. Sehun and Jongin finally get to bust out some smooth moves together in the living-room-slash-mosh-pit and it’s just like old times again.
Soon enough weekend comes around and Jongin wakes up at seven on the dot, head clear and body moving in accordance to the schedule. He decides to invite Sehun along but that kid is nowhere in the dorm - probably asleep in the aftermath of some great rave on the fifth floor.
Today is the Seoul Plaza, right by those little fountains families like to bring their children to. Jongin takes a selfie of himself dousing his head in one of the sprays and sends it Kyungsoo, captioning I’ll be dancing here till 3:30 if u wanna come by, hoping that his new friend would come to watch.
He dances to an array of styles here, but he likes experimenting particularly with some floor work and B-boy moves because of the amount of space he has to work with. When he spins on the ground and kicks his way up to an upright position the kids all wow in amazement, mesmerized. Even though the rain only washed away one weekend of him dancing it felt like forever since he had last street performed. He can almost feel the rust cracking his joints when he pops.
He performs straight through the afternoon in zest, not even stopping for a drink but incorporating it into the choreography; playing it in his hands like a hat, tossing it in the air to catch it as he poses in a one-handed freeze, legs twisted in the air. Of course his stamina gives way eventually, Jongin just collapsing onto the ground as if to make snow angel, panting loudly. The crowd that has gathered laughs and claps. For a few moments the next track played on alone, feeble against the roar of traffic.
The concrete burns at the touch of Jongin’s skin.
“Jongin.”
He squints into the blinding blue sky, someone invading his dancing space and casting a shadow on his heaving torso.
“You came,” Jongin breathes out and collapses back onto the ground.
Kyungsoo places an ice cold drink by his head. “I was in town. And I wanted to see with my own eyes that you’re well.”
Jongin chuckles and rolls over, cheek up against the plastic cup brimming with condensation. “Not at all to see me dance?”
“Watching you dance is a given.”
“I’m good, aren’t I?”
“Please,” Kyungsoo scoffs. “Get up, you’ll burn yourself.”
He does, sluggishly, and is met with the top of Kyungsoo’s styled hair. His charcoal grey blazer is slung over a shoulder, stark white dress shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. His cheeks are flushed.
Finding refuge from the sun is plenty hard when all the spots are eaten up by couples out on their Saturday date. They end up ducking into a Thai restaurant, Jongin sculling his drink hastily and tossing it into the trash can.
“I see your health has definitely improved from the last time I saw you,” Kyungsoo says as he places a napkin on his lap.
Jongin grins. “Sickness is no match for the great Kim Jongin. And the soup recipes you sent me were so goddamn delicious.”
“Especially with that med-student friend of yours. I don’t trust him at all to be able to properly take care of you.”
“Sehun? Yeah, he’s a major loser. But apparently you scared him shitless so he’s been putting his doctor knowledge to good use.”
Kyungsoo laughs, suddenly looking five years younger. “I’m glad. You kids these days have no responsibility.”
Jongin hesitates, gnaws on his lips, then asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
Kyungsoo shakes his head in tiny spurts, “It’s fine. I’m twenty-three.”
Jongin’s eyebrows fly off his face, “Are you serious? I’m twenty-two!”
It’s Kyungsoo’s turn to be shocked. “Really? But you’re, like, ten.”
“And you’re, like, thirty-eight.”
“I don’t look that old, do I?”
“No no no,” Jongin waves that accusation away, “I just didn’t think you’d be so near my age. I mean, you already have an office job and drive a really nice car and wear fancy clothes.”
Kyungsoo chuckles once, shoulders bouncing. “I graduated early and had connections. I’m a mechatronic technician, I work at EXO.”
“EXO?” Jongin whistles, “You’re doing nice. Is that why you’re loaded?”
“That’s really all you care about?” Kyungsoo looks at Jongin pointedly, “But yes. I’m specialized.”
“Damn, so posh.”
“But I work practically every day, and it’s back-aching computer work nine-to-five. Seriously, this is first time I’d gotten sun since god knows when.”
The waiter takes their order and they contemplate over the menu for a bit, in the end Jongin just ordered whatever Kyungsoo did because his knowledge of food only extended to fast food and low-budget Chinese. Jongin gets up to pour the chilled water as the younger of the two.
“How long have you been dancing?” Kyungsoo asks, staring at Jongin.
Jongin hums, getting nostalgic about the old days again. “Since forever, or at least since I was four or five. I took ballet and jazz, and then contemporary and hip-hop when I started middle school. I had to stop nearly all of them because of classes though, and I don’t do them at all now that I’m in uni. Street-dancing, I’ve been doing since I was fifteen, as many weekends I could spare I would take the train to the city and perform everywhere.”
“Are you going to keep dancing, even as a job, I mean? Like audition for a company and debut in a boy band?”
“Pfffft,” Jongin snickers, “nah. I’ve been hunted down by a few companies, but I always say no. I don’t wanna be an idol. They don’t sleep, like, at all.”
“Which companies have approached you?”
“A few I can’t remember, and SM Ent-“
“SM Entertainment wanted you? And you declined? Are you out of your mind?”
“I only dance free,” Jongin shrugs his shoulders, pouting. “And I’m not into the whole training period and scandal over everything type of lifestyle. SM is intense dude, like have you seen Taemin dance live? I can’t be as good as that.”
Kyungsoo looks stunned, eyes in full bloom. “What are you talking about? You’re an amazing dancer.”
Jongin blushes and clears his throat. “You’ve only seen me dance once.”
“Not true. I keep on stumbling into your performances nearly every weekend. I’ve watched you dance ballet on the Han a few weeks back when I was walking around. Whenever I go out for lunch with some colleagues at Myeong-dong, you’re always there, disturbing the streets. I’ve stayed behind to watch your performances. When I drive by some streets I’d see you with a ring of people watching in awe. Don’t ever say you’re not as good, Jongin, you’re unbelievably good.”
Jongin looked down at his fingers, speechless and unable to meet Kyungsoo’s intense gaze. He’s never been on the receiving end of such a weighty compliment. His face is fully red now, and all he can muster is a small, lame thank you.
The food arrives looking and smelling like the food of the gods and Jongin, unable to start any conversation, goes straight for it, wasting no effort in table etiquette. He steals a peek at Kyungsoo and he’s eating politely like the definition of adult, but his cheeks are dusted pink and the tips of his ears are beet red. Of course, it must be embarrassing as well to compliment someone to death.
But what Kyungsoo did touch on strikes something in Jongin; an old argument he tends to suppress. What is he going to do with dancing? If it’s not for the sake of a future career is it just going to be a hobby until his legs give way and he’s too old and weak to even stand? At this point he shakes his head and thinks about nothing, not wanting to deal with it.
He’s got ages to think about the future.
part ii | part iii | part iv