the tricky part is to come back home (1/2) (daebak story hyung)
Title: the tricky part is to come back home
Anon alias: daebak story hung
Character(s)/Pairing (Fandom): Rain/Joon (MBLAQ)
Clichés: vacations & holidays, If only you'd notice me: Yearning and obliviousness, physical imperfections, vulnerability
Rating: R
Wordcount: 15 000~
Summary: A spring spent in Berlin, during which Rain is much more clueless than he seems and Joon feels with his stomach.
Warnings: Creepy power dynamics?
Changsun takes off in late April. It’s the first time he’s been on a plane and his ears pop terribly, his hands clenched on the arm rests and his knees locked together. He’s terrified, sure, and his body aches from yesterday’s training session, made worse by how tightly his family-and Cheolyong- had hugged him at the airport, but it does nothing to quell the excitement that bubbles in his stomach.
After they’re in the air properly it’s easier to breathe and he manages to calm down enough to get drowsy. The anti-nausea medication his mother had forced on him that morning probably didn’t hurt either and he drifts off to sleep, dreams of Berlin and finally getting everything he’s ever wanted.
--
At first, Changsun hadn’t been able to figure out why he'd even gotten through at the audition if Jihoon couldn’t stand him, but when the other trainees commented on his fine jawline, his straight nose, his pretty smile, he figured it out quickly enough. Changsun bowed his head in thanks and tried to forget about pas de deux and pirouettes, about the way he'd felt acting or dancing at his audition. That stuff isn’t important now anyway.
What’s important is working out- getting built. Jihoon told him, about six months into his trainee period when it had been decided he was going to debut in a group, how important a good body was. It was more important than singing or dancing right now, so Changsun had to focus. He had to do well at something.-his singing is pretty far behind the others’, and his dancing doesn’t seem to impress Jihoon anymore.
The first time he’d danced in front of Jihoon, he’d smiled at Changsun in a way he’s never smiled since, wide and honest, tinged with something like surprise. Changsun had saved that smile and the way he’d felt after seeing it. He’d tucked it up inside his head and sometimes, when he wasn’t careful, when he felt so tired, he let himself pull it out and feel that way again. Bright and humming with energy, like he could do anything and it’d be brilliant no matter what.
Now, even if Cheondong’s several beats behind the rest of them or Cheolyong isn’t completing his turns properly, it’s Changsun who has to stay behind after they all go home, who sweats through set after set of workout clothes because Jihoon can pick up on the smallest mistake. He doesn’t mind the extra work, not really, since it gives him an off-chance at seeing Jihoon smile at him that way again.
It’s just tiring, that’s all, and it leaves him with less time or energy to follow the workout schedule Jihoon had the trainers prepare. Changsun can get back on track though. He knows he can.
Jihoon must have some kind of sixth sense about him slacking off, because he appears in the training room one evening when Changsun is deadlifting, without even the few minutes warning they usually receive before he comes to supervise.
Through the large mirror lining the wall in front of him, dotted with sweaty handprints and scuff marks from their increasingly sloppy late night dance practices, he can see Cheolyong slouched against the far wall, listlessly throwing balled up scraps of paper at Changsun's back. He's taken to following Changsun everywhere he goes lately-not that they're ever apart for long regardless- between training and sharing a dorm. Changsun doesn't mind-in fact he sort of like it. It’s just that it's nice to know someone always wants to be around him, even it if it’s mostly because Cheolyong misses Eunah.
Changsun’s missed weights the past few days thanks to extra vocal lessons, so today he takes the, heavier than he’s accustomed to. He lifts them a few times experimentally, watching his biceps and pecs flex in the mirror, relishing the burning that’s already begun in his shoulders. He’ll regret it tomorrow morning, maybe even later tonight, but for now it’s satisfying to feel the results of all his work. God knows his abs aren’t showing any results.
Changsun's mind is just slipping into the comfortable blankness he associates with physical exertion when he sees Cheolyong suddenly slide up the wall into a standing position, chirping a wobbly, "Hi, Jihoon-hyung."
And just like that, there’s Jihoon lounging in the far corner, near the door, arms crossed like he's been standing there the entire time. He nods once at Cheolyong and once at Changsun, who stumbles, "Hi hyung."
Jihoon's arrival startles him, shifting the position of his body, and his shoulders bow slightly under the strain of the weights.
He doesn't hesitate in his lifting though, takes care not to show the discomfort on his face. It must’ve been apparent in his voice though, because Jihoon’s eyes narrow minutely and he moves from his position against the doorjamb fluidly, stalking toward Changsun like some sort of big cat.
Changsun has time to meet Cheolyong’s eyes, for them to exchange telepathic oh shits, before Jihoon is behind him, eyes unusually bright from over Changsun’ shoulders in the mirror. He’s at least a head taller than Changsun and seems twice as wide, silent and imposing as the day he first introduced himself-- as if he’d even needed to. Everyone knows who Jihoon is, who Rain is. He does everything-music, dance, dramas, even American movies.
If Changsun wants to be like that one day-and he does, oh god he does-he’s got to take all Jihoon’s advice, no matter how little sense it makes. It probably makes perfect sense and Changsun’s just understanding it wrong anyway.
He keeps lifting, forcing his breath to even out and his head down, until he feels palms pressing on his back. Jihoon’s hands are huge and heavy on his shoulder blades. He keeps them there for a long, still moment in which Changsun can’t repress a shiver.
“Your posture needs work,” Jihoon says finally, and then he’s stepping away, his hands leaving traces of heat on Changsun’s back.
Changsun regains the ability to move and nods firmly then bows to him. Jihoon smiles easily at Cheolyong, saying “You’re practicing your rapping, right Mir?”
He waves in their general direction and he’s gone. It’s like Changsun’s been smacked in the face.
Cheolyong allows him a few moments to mull over Jihoon’s words and then pushes off the wall toward Changsun, tries to take the weights out of his hand.
“Come on hyung, you’ve done enough tonight. Chicken?” Cheolyong grins. “My treat!”
Changsun holds tight. “You heard him, Cheolyong. I’ve got some more work to do.”
Cheolyong huffs a sigh, “Hyung, your posture is, like, perfect. Why won’t you listen to me?”
He turns away from Cheolyong, facing the practice room mirror once more. He puffs his chest out and straightens his back, lifting experimentally “When you’re a world famous performer like hyung, I will. I’ll see you at the dorms later, okay?”
He can practically hear Cheolyong rolling his eyes as he leaves. Changsun doesn’t want to argue with him, but as he frowns at himself in the mirror, he can tell that Jihoon’s right. He heaves the weights upward again.
-
The track ends and Changsun collapses from his pose, sweating, and slumps on the floor.
Jihoon, to their surprise, claps. “That was very good, boys. You’re improving. Nearly perfect-” a small smile grows on the one half of Changsun’s face that isn’t too tired to form an expression “But we all know nearly isn’t good enough. I’m sure you’ll continue to improve at practice tomorrow morning.”
They groan collectively and Jihoon mimics them, laughing a little. Changsun stays immobile, too exhausted to move, until Seungho grabs his arm and tugs him clumsily to his feet. Changsun rests his damp forehead against the unbelievably soft fabric of Seungho’s sweatshirt as they shuffle to gather their gear and leave, dreaming of a long, hot shower and his bunkbed.
“Joon, can you stay behind for a few moments.”
Changsun sleepily assumes Seungho’s speaking to him until he lift his head of his shoulder and realizes Seungho his looking at him, concern clear in his heavy eyes. The other boys look at him like what have you done now. Changsun just shrugs and watches as they shuffle uneasily out of the room, Cheolyong especially dragging his feet.
Seeing him lingering at the door, Jihoon smiles indulgently, “Don’t worry, you’ll have him back in a few minutes. He’ll catch up.” As the door swings shut, he addresses Changsun, “Take a seat.”
Changsun slumps onto the floor in front of Jihoon’s chair, eyes on his sneakers.
“Don’t look so grim. I’m not punishing you or anything,” Jihoon laughs, as though he’d never think of making Changsun practice the same step til 3 AM or run scales through his lunch break.
“You’ve heard about my new American movie, yes?” Um, thinks Changsun. If he hadn’t heard it on every news channel or variety show ever, even if it hadn’t been all Cheolhook and the rest of the company could talk about since the casting was announced; well, Changsun’s always had a good ear for news about Jihoon.
He just nods in the general direction of his own feet.
“I think you should send in a tape,” Jihoon says.
Changsun blinks at him.
“To audition. As an actor,” Jihooon explains slowly. “For the younger version of my role. There will be speaking in English, so you would have to practice hard, but- I think you should try out.”
He blinks again. Then: “I- what? Are you serious?”
“You wanted to act, didn’t you?”
“Yes, more than-yes, hyung!” The smile on his face feels huge and Jihoon answers it with something like his first smile, one that gives Changsun his do-anything feeling again. “I’ll definitely do it. Thank you so much.”
As he says it, Jihoon’s smile changes. Something behind his eyes closes off and he replies, “You don’t need to thank me, Joon.” He leans over, pats Changsun awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
-
Changsun tries to be realistic. He knows his chances of getting the part are basically zero; it’s a Real Hollywood Movie and the most acting he’s done are a couple CFs and some school drama productions, but for the next few months, even after Jihoon has left for Berlin, he has sweaty palms and butterflies in his stomach every time he answers his phone.
He dancing alone in the practice room, freestyling more than practicing any real steps or routine, when his phone rings. It’s I’m Coming and he’s heard it maybe three times in his life.
“Jihoon-hyung,” he gasps into the phone. “What’s wrong?”
“Hello to you too, Joon.” Jihoon doesn’t sound panicked or angry. He actually sounds sort of bemused.
Changsun remembers himself then, “Oh, hi. How’s Berlin?”
“Busy. I’ve got a small apartment to myself here, but I spend most of my time working.”
“How’s the movie?”
“I’m actually calling about that. We were talking about the part you auditioned for and-” The pause is excruciatingly long. Changsun feels nervous, then hopeful, then doomed, before Jihoon says, “They want you to play Young Raizo.”
To his immediate shame, Changsun bursts into surprised tears.
“Really?” He sobs, wiping frantically at his face. His legs are shaking a little and he bounces on his soles, trying to regain his composure.
“Yes!” Jihoon’s laugh crackles through the phone. “Can you believe, they think we look alike?”
Changsun laughs then, but he’s hardly complaining.
“Hyung, oh my god-this is-um, should I call them?”
“They were going to call you tonight but I wanted to-anyway, they’ll call you tomorrow. You’ll start physical training next week. Congratulations.”
“Hyung! Oh my god, I have to tell my mom. I have to tell the members. Thank you, oh my god--”
“I’ll see you soon, Joon.” The phone clicks and Jihoon’s gone.
Changsun looks, elated, around the empty practice room and allows himself one ecstatic pirouette before he starts making phone calls. It still feels like he’s spinning hours later.
--
Changsun drags his feet out of security. Clutching his script and his English and German phrase books, his stomach grumbles-he’d awoken on the plane to find he’d slept through his meal and through a showing of the third Pirates of the Carribean movie. Starving and having missed watching Johnny Depp is not how he’d pictured starting his- he can’t call it a vacation; he’s working after all, but his stomach feels the way it did on his first trip to Seoul as a kid.
Berlin is ancient-looking, with what seems like miles of open air. The morning is crisp as he shuffles behind the driver, out into the street. They speak in broken, accented English to each other, the driver trying to explain Mitte to him as Changsun frantically tries to fix his bedhead in the car mirror. Most of what he says goes in one ear and out the other, because one of his sideburns refuses to lie flat no matter how he tugs it.
A harried-looking blonde woman is waiting when he arrives at what is definitely not a hotel. Things can’t be that different in Europe.She greets him in accented Korean before barking in German into a headset.
“This-is this where I’m staying?” he asks, nervous smile on his face.
She laughs shortly. “No, this is the studio. I’m Leonie, Rain’s PA. Leave your bags in the car and follow me.”
The interior of the building seems bigger than it did on the outside, with high, black ceilings and wires running everywhere on the floor. There are cameras and boom mikes and official-looking people. wearing headsets like Leonie’s, hurrying around. The whole thing begins to seem real for the first time, but Changsun still can’t quite believe his luck.
They find Jihoon slumped in one of those chairs with his name scrawled across the back, sound asleep despite the flurry of activity around him.
Changsun takes a moment to study him. It’s been a month or so since Jihoon left for Korea, but he almost looks like another person. His shoulders are enormous, the thermal he wears stretched taut across his back, and his hair hangs long over his face. He looks incredibly tired.
Then Leonie touches his shoulder and he jerks awake. He looks soft and vulnerable, his eyes half-opened and dazed, for about half a second before he blinks once. He opens his eyes again and adjusts moves upright in the chair, focusing on Changsun.
“Hey,” he rasps, actually seeming glad to see Changsun. “It’s been a while.” He climbs down from the chair in a single smooth movement, claps Changsun on the back and says, “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Jihoon leads him through a dizzying array of hallways and sets, introduces him to a variety of writers, costumers, coordinators, actors, producers, most of whom nod at him absently before conversing with Jihoon in broken Korean or rapid English, both of which Changsun can barely follow. He smiles so much that his jaw begins to ache, says Yes and Thank you so many times they almost lose their meanings.
He’s just beginning to feel awkward enough that the magic of being on a real movie set with real actors and real cameras is wearing off. He feels like a pet dog, trailing Jihoon from room to room and he’s freaking starving.
That’s when he follows Jihoon into a room filled with a long buffet table and people sitting around, eating trays of food. It smells like noodles and tomatoes and his mouth is watering completely. He’s picturing marching over and grabbing some food right off somebody’s plate when Jihoon nudges him in the side. “There’s someone you should meet.”
Jihoon speaks in English to Leonie,“Can you call Anna over, please?” Then he steps away, leaving Changsun to stand awkwardly in the centre of the cafeteria, looking at no one in particular.
The assistant walks over to the banquet table, speaking to a girl with a short black bob. She abandons her plate of noodles, which Changsun ogles enviously, and heads toward them.
“This is Anna Sawai,” Leonie announces. “You’ll be working mostly with her. She’s playing Kiriko.”
Changsun waves and smiles in what he hopes is a completely confident, not-nervous-at-all manner. I’m going to kiss her, he can’t stop himself from thinking. They’re going to film me kissing her loads of times.
"Hello Joon. Nice to meet you," Anna smiles, full and lovely. Her English is slow and careful, easier for him to understand. "I am glad to work with you. Let's speak to each other in English for practice. Okay?"
"Okay," Changsun manages. She's pretty and even better than that, she seems nice. He’d even go so far as to call her friendly, which is more he can say for anyone else he's met today.
It seems like she's waiting for more from him, her head tilted expectantly. He smiles again and tries to think of something suave to say, when a man in a headset rushes up and tugs on her arm, saying something which is indecipherable to him.
"I have to go now Joon, but I will see you tomorrow." He bows deeply and she bows back without blinking. She turns to go and, as she's leaving, throws over her shoulder a conciliatory, "And don't worry about your hair. They cut mine also."
He stares at her retreating back, his feeling of relief at a friendly face dissipating rapidly as he processes what she said, hands adjusting his sideburns absently. He takes his English phrasebook from his bag and flips through it. The precise sentence isn't there but he checks the words cut, hair, and worry. They’re enough for him to get thoroughly alarmed.
He whips his head around and finds Jihoon chatting with Leonie across the room. He rushes over and, in an act of rudeness that would have embarrassed him for life in a normal situation, interrupts the conversation in Korean. "Hyung," he starts, panicked. "What did she mean about my hair?"
“Ah, yes I forgot to tell you before I left.” Jihoon takes his shoulder, pulling him aside. “Young Raizo is like a monk, so- he has a shaved head.”
“What?” Changsun hisses. “They can’t. I’ll look so stupid.”
Jihoon frowns “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s for the role.”
Changsun hands fly to his head protectively.
“It’ll help you get into character, okay? And you’ll stop fiddling with your hair all the time.”
“Hyung, I don’t want to-” he starts to whine, but Jihoon interrupts him before he has the chance to say something completely rude.
“You’re tired.” Jihoon allows. “I’ll take you home and you’ll sleep on it.”
Changsun’s guessing Jihoon doesn’t mean his hotel room.
Contrary to Jihoon’s claim, his apartment is huge. It’s two levels, at the top of an apartment building, stacked down the street with other buildings like books on a shelf. There’s an elevator to take them all the way to the top, but Jihoon insists they take the stairs.
“It’s a good way to keep pushing ourselves,” he explains. Changsun nods uneasily.
The kitchen’s small, but connects to a large balcony on the rooftop with a small gym set up for them to use on days off. He has his own room, with a full double bed and two giant pillows that he wants to collapse into and sleep for upward of eight hours.
Still, it seems like something’s missing. The apartment is silent, no constant chatter or cellphone ringtone blaring. Changsun figures it out.
“Where’s Cheolhook-hyung?”
“He’s not coming. We don’t need a manager while we’re filming. It’s just you and me.”
Changsun can’t help but gape at him. Who’s going to wake them up in the morning and order them food? There’s no one to make sure he’s practicing his English or working out?
“We’re just like any other actors here,” Jihoon reminds him.”No special treatment.”
“Oh,” Changsun mumbles. “That’s- good.”
And he’s got to admit, it’s going to be kind of awesome, rooming with just Jihoon for three months. Given enough time Changsun can make anyone like him, even Jihoon.
Jihoon ushers him onto the small sofa, then says, “I have an idea.”
Uh-oh. “Okay?” Changsun says tentatively. “Does it involve sleeping?”
Jihoon chuckles dryly, “I was thinking about the best way to show how committed you are right off the bat.”
“I know all my lines already, hyung,” Changsun yawns. The sofa is dangerously comfortable and he flops back into it.
“Actually, it was more along the lines of coming to work tomorrow morning with your head already shaved.”
“But you said I could sleep on it!”
“Everyone will be impressed, I promise,” Jihoon wheedles. “It’ll demonstrate your work ethic.”
“You practiced this speech, hyung, didn’t you?”
Jihoon just smiles.
And that’s how Changsun ends up sitting on the edge on the tub in his new bathroom, Jihoon standing behind him, about to take a pair of kitchen scissors to his hair.
He starts chopping haphazardly and chunks of dark hair fall onto Changsun’s shoulders and lap as he watches, horrified. When he twists around to look in the bathroom mirror, he realizes they’ve finally found something Jihoon is bad at.
“Oh my god, just shave it all off, please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the buzz of the electric razor. A hands braces around the back of his neck and he jumps a little in surprise.
“Stay still,” Jihoon murmurs. “Don’t you trust me?” His hand is hot, squeezing lightly on Changsun’s neck.
“Mmhm,” he manages.
He feels the vibration all through his skull, but the feeling of the hair falling off his head is kind of refreshing. He loses himself a little in the sensation, content to let Jihoon work, and then it’s over before he realizes it. His head is bare.
“Done. Open your eyes.”
He complies and turns again to face the mirror. He looks awful. His ears stick out terribly and make him look so much younger, like a goblin or something. He grimaces at his reflection.
Jihoon reaches down, runs a palm slowly over the stubble on his head, getting rid of any excess hair. His hand spans across the entirety of Changsun’s scalp, his middle fingertip brushing over Changsun’s ear.
Changsun inhales in an audible rush, exhales in a noticeable shiver. His scalp is apparently very sensitive. “Thanks, hyung.” He struggles to keep his voice even.
“You need sleep.” Jihoon’s voice sounds lower than normal. “I’ll wake you up tomorrow morning for work.”
Changsun takes a final look at himself in the mirror after Jihoon goes. He runs an experimental hand across his scalp. It doesn’t feel the same.
-
The crisp morning air produces a new, uncomfortable feeling; his entire scalp is chilled. Like a refrigerated boiled egg, he thinks miserably-Jihoon had fixed him breakfast, thin slices of chicken bacon and a single boiled egg, a cup of black coffee.
The cold spreads to the rest of his body quickly, despite the boots and oversized hoodie he’s wearing. Even the heated leather seats of the car the studio sent can’t entirely dispel the chill, but he squirms up against them regardless, trying to sneak some extra sleep.
“Yah- ” he jerks back to semi-awareness at a sudden pressure and slide of fabric over his forehead. Jihoon’s eyebrows are raised in challenge as he touches his head. “Oh Hyung-”
He’s wearing Jihoon’s beanie. “It’s okay, I’m not-” he starts, tugging the beanie up off his head.
Jihoon scoffs and pulls it back down over Changsun’s ears. “Please, you clearly need it more than I do. Now will you stop wiggling? I need to get in character.”
Getting in character for Jihoon apparently means sitting very still, in total silence, which bores the hell out of Changsun. Normally he’d be tempted to ask questions about the large buildings they pass in the car or to try to get Jihoon to listen to whatever song he’s got stuck in his head, but today he settles for tucking his iPod earbuds up under Jihoon’s beanie and smiling a little as he watches Berlin pass by. The glass is still frosty but he feels warmer already.
-
The reality of working on a film set is decidedly different from Changsun’s many fantasies. It consists of almost as much physical training as he did in the months before flying out, practicing his English pronunciation, and endless rehearsing with Anna, wherein one of them bursts into giggles before, during, or after their kiss. He hasn’t yet done any on camera work, aside from his screen test, and he’s beginning to doubt he ever will.
Jihoon, on the other hand, is filming non-stop. He’s up and out of the apartment by the time Changsun wakes and the one time he’d forced himself to wait up until Jihoon had returned, he’d had to suffer through the next day having not slept til 4 AM. He develops a fervent love of coffee-flavoured energy drinks which Jihoon frowns at but never comments on, when he catches Changsun downing them.
The truth is that he misses home. He misses his members, his family. Nothing feels right here. He can’t understand half of what people say to him and Jihoon keeps him on a steady diet of eggs, salmon, and chicken breast.
“If I’m cooking for you, you eat what I eat.” Jihoon offers him a handful of cashews when he complains of hunger while they’re eating silently in the cafeteria, early in the first week. They get stuck in his teeth as he munches on them; leave him sucking his teeth for the rest of the day.
He’d kill for some rice or some egg noodles. He has daydreams about kimchi.
Somehow he sees less of Jihoon in Berlin than he did Seoul. It’s too quiet, eating the breakfast Jihoon leaves for him in the morning or flipping through his English lessons at night. Anna’s the only other person he really talks to, aside from his trainers or tutors or Leonie when he’s trying to get ahold of Jihoon. She’s smart and funny and has way more experience acting, but they speak English together. He misses feeling easy with his words, speaking quickly, without worrying about being understood. He misses speaking Korean.
So when the martial arts trainer offer him some extra early morning sessions, he agrees. He won’t mind getting up earlier, he thinks, and Jihoon might even appreciate the company on the drive to and from work.
The first day with his new schedule, he wakes up without being prompted and fixes the coffee, showered and waiting at the kitchen table when Jihoon shuffles into the room. He grunts a “Morning” at Changsun and puts two eggs into the pot rather than one and that’s it.
In order to ride home with Jihoon he has to stay onset for a few hours longer than usual, but he kind of likes it. Leonie lets him watch Jihoon film and he learns a lot about the way everything works. It’s useful for when he starts filming, he reasons, plus it’s a more interesting way to decompress than trying to pay attention to the dull books Jihoon gave him to study from at home.
He doesn’t realize he’s dozing in Jihoon’s chair until he’s nudged awake. Jihoon’s hair is half pulled back and he’s got his coat on already. “Time to go,” he says and Changsun follows him sleepily to the car.
He doesn’t remember making it to bed that night, but when he wakes early the next morning, he feels as tired as ever. When he enters the kitchen, Jihoon is already seated and eating.
“Morning, hyung,” he says, a little confused. There’s no plate laid out for him.
“I was talking to the trainers,” Jihoon says not unkindly, eyes on his food. “And they said you can probably work out using the gym here instead of going into work every day.”
“Oh,” Changsun says. His cheeks feel hot. “That’s nice of them?”
He’d sort of figured Jihoon wanted the company too. But it was totally fine that he didn’t. Changsun couldn’t blame him. He did tend to talk too much. It probably interrupted his focus and--
“So,” Jihoon smiles, cutting into his chicken, “You can go back to bed. I’ll leave some food for you.”
Changsun shrugs and smiles weakly, “Alright.” He leaves Jihoon in the kitchen, his stomach feeling empty in a way that isn’t exactly hunger as he slumps into bed.
-
When he wakes again later in the day, he doesn’t particularly feel like rehearsing or lifting. It’s rainy out anyway and he doesn’t want to get wet on the balcony. He makes a weak attempt at practicing his English as he forces himself to swallow the dry chicken Jihoon left for him, before abandoning it in favour of the sofa and flicking through the TV morosely.
And maybe Changsun’s a little hurt by Jihoon ditching him like that, but he falls asleep to the hum of German advertisements onscreen and when he wakes up, it’s dark and he realizes he’s wasted the entire day.
He pictures Jihoon coming home and asking how his workout went, how is English is coming along. He tries and fails to imagine lying to him. He imagines the disappointed, irritated look on Jihoon’s face and promptly decides that the persistent feeling in his stomach must be hunger.
There’s nothing but salmon and chicken in the fridge, but he can barely cook and, honestly, the thought of eating a bite more of either makes him nauseous. He wants something with actual flavour for once.
Changsun shrugs on his jacket, pockets his German phrasebook, and takes the stairs two at a time. It’s not like Jihoon will even notice he’s gone.
It’s still sprinkling a little outside and he pulls his hood up as he hits the street. He doesn’t know where he’s heading precisely, just that he’s in search of food and some is bound to turn up eventually. Cash isn’t a problem. He’s barely spent any of the money he’d exchanged for Euros before leaving Seoul.
Changsun hadn’t realized how late it was. Most restaurants are closing already for the night and he’s beginning to feel chilled when he recognizes two English words on a green-painted sign. Oscar Wilde is a writer Changsun has heard of and the lights in the pub are still on, so he steps inside.
The interior is chock full of people, humming with noise and energy. Changsun warms up almost instantly. He slides onto the only empty stool at the bar and thumbs through a menu the smiling bartender hands him. To his surprise, it’s in English so he manages to order a hamburger and, with a guilty thrill, a pint of Guinness, without much trouble.
There’s a football match on a large screen across the room and he watches it with interest as he makes short work of the burger and fries. He’d thought about playing in school, but his dance instructor had recommended against it-- wouldn’t want to endanger his precious ankles in any way. If only she knew what the sort of stuff he practiced every day now.
One of the teams scores halfway through his second pint and Changsun lets out a surprised whoop, catching the attention of a group of guys who look about his age, sitting to his left, who join his cheer.
“Good taste,” one of them grins, in thickly-accented English-Irish, he’d guess-and raises his own glass.
“Thank you,” Changsun grins back in English, and he sees the understanding dawn quickly despite the guy’s drunken state.
“Name’s Craig. Where you from, buddy?”
He introduces himself as Changsun, explains about leaving Korea to come film the movie and in turn, Craig introduces Changsun to his three friends, university students taking a tour of Europe before heading home for the summer, who proceed to buy him a pitcher of lager, as well as something terrifying called an Irish Car Bomb.
He’s having the most fun he’s had since coming to Berlin, laughing at things he doesn’t particularly understand, but he knows enough to tell the guys are laughing with him, not at him. He feels comfortable here, more at home than he does in that stupid apartment. He’s tired of Jihoon and his weird silences and that creepy thing his eyes do when he gets angry.
Then I’m Coming blares over the chatter in the pub. It takes him a few moments to realize that makes no sense and a few more to fumble the phone the studio lent him out of his pocket. “ ’Llo?” he mumbles, straining to hear the voice on the other end. It ends up being much easier than expect.
“Where the hell are you?” Jihoon barks.
Fuck. Nausea rises in his stomach. “Out,” Changsun mumbles.
“For fuck's sake, Joon. It's two in the morning.”
Craig pours him another glass of lager. “Yeah well, I got tired of waiting for you. I wanted to have some fun for once-“
"Are you drunk?" Jihoon hisses into the phone, appalled.
“What's it to you,” he can hear himself slur, what a fucking idiot.
"You're a fucking idiot is what. You’re supposed to be training, you have work tomorrow- Jesus Christ, where are you-- I'm coming to get you.”
“In a pub,” Changsun says petulantly. He suppresses an instinctive hyung. “Don't come here.”
“The name of the pub, Joon. I’d ask you for the address but you probably have no fucking clue where you are.”
“Who’s that,” Craig hoots. “That your girlfriend?”
“No!” The switch between English and Korean is making his head spin.
“No?” Jihoon echoes in English, sounding appalled.
“Not you, hyung. I was just- it’s the Oscar Wilde. On Friedrichstrasse. Please don’t come.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes. If you aren’t outside waiting for me when I get there, I’m sending you home,” Jihoon theatens.
Changsun opens his mouth to protest but is met with a dial tone.
Well, shit. He scrambles off his stool, steadying himself on the bar as he stands, and leaves what is at least enough money to cover the bill behind. Craig and his friends watch him, bemused. His English has deteriorated proportionate to the amount of alcohol he’s had but he manages, “I have to go thank you bye!” and rushes out the door.
There’s no sign of Jihoon outside as he leaves the pub and despite the still-damp air, he doesn’t feel like going back inside. His hands are clammy, steadily growing colder, when someone approaches him from behind.
“Hyung,” he says, spinning around, apology on the tip of his tongue.
It’s definitely not Jihoon. It’s a heavy-set bearded man, reeking of alchohol and muttering in German.
Changsun’s phrasebook is in his pocket, but he’d rather not make any sudden movements toward it. “No German,” he says in slow English.
The man holds a lit cigarette out toward him and in a hoarse, extremely guttural voice, says, “Try.”
Changsun cocks his head at that, considering the situation. If he’s rebelling he might as well go all the way. He hasn’t had a cigarette since he was still in school, but he can remember how cooled, how cinematic it looked. He shrugs to himself and reaches out.
It’s then that he hears the splash of tires through puddles and a taxi pulls up behind them. One door swings open and Jihoon’s voice emanates from it, toneless. “Get in. Now.”
Changsun freezes, his arm in midair, and stumbles toward the curb. “Bye,” he calls to the drunk as he slides into the back seat. He watches through the window as the man fumbles and the cigarette drops onto the wet pavement, fizzles out.
Inside is dead silent, not even a radio to ease the tension. Jihoon is staring straight ahead, his shoulders tight and his fists clenched.
“Hyung,“ he starts. Jihoon’s eyes, dark and shining in the streetlights, flick to him minutely and he flinches. He doesn’t try to talk again.
Instead he tries to breathe evenly, to keep from throwing up at the sharp, fast turns the taxi makes. He almost fails when they shriek to a stop in front of the apartment building. Jihoon’s paying and they’re out, the taxi peeling away, before he can even process what’s happening.
When he trips on the way inside and Jihoon has to catch him by the elbow he bites down on his lower lip, hard. Jihoon doesn’t release his arm or pause in his steps, just tugs him in.
He’s trying to prepare himself for the dizzying task of climbing the stairs in his state, when Jihoon hits the up button on the elevator. He almost speaks, but catches himself, reconsidering given Jihoon’s tight grip on his arm. Changsun swears he can feel the heat of Jihoon’s anger pouring through his hand and through Changsun’s jacket.
The ride in the elevator goes on forever. Normally he’d be elated at the chance to skip the stairs, but tonight he wishes for the distraction.
The front isn't even fully closed when Jihoon starts yelling at him.
“You are so unbelievably irresponsible, Joon. You’ve just jeopardized your entire career, I hope you know that.” Jihoon’s face contorts as he shouts, making him look almost ugly. His eyes seem unnaturally bright. “I really thought you were better than this, Joon. I should send you home. What the hell is wrong-”
“I was tired of eating chicken!” he howls over Jihoon’s voice. Jihoon pauses, his jaw clenching. For one insane moment, Changsun thinks Jihoon’s going to laugh.
Instead, he takes a deep breath and continues with his rant. “Are you a child? What were you thinking-wandering around on the streets at night like that?”
“I can defend myself,” Changsun argues, still wearing his sneakers and jacket. “You’re not the only one with mixed training.”
“Okay, high-kicking someone who’s holding a gun sounds like a brilliant idea, Joon. Great plan!“If you had just told me you wanted to go out, I would’ve gone with you. What was I supposed to think, coming home and you weren’t here?”
It’s Changsun who almost laughs, then. As if Jihoon is ever around or talks to him enough for Changsun to ask him something like that. “Maybe I got tired of waiting for you. I'm not your wife,” Changsun spits.
Instead of the smack he fully expects to get as soon as the words leave his lips: Jihoon barks a laugh. It comes out strange, high and strained-sounding. "No, you're sure as hell not."
Jihoon is glaring at a space on the wall behind Changsun, but won't fucking look at him and all that beer has just made him feel even worse, like the lowest fucking thing on the planet, like the kind of person Jihoon wouldn’t give a shit about, so he can't help it when he asks: “Why do you hate me, hyung?”
And just like that, Jihoon’s eyes snap to him, focusing in that scary bright way again.
"Why is everything I do so wrong?" Even in his current state, Changsun can tell he sounds totally pathetic. He’s pretty sure he’s pouting too. He knows it makes him look all of eight years old, if he’s being generous, but he can’t help it. His lip just kind of- juts out of its own accord.
Then, when Jihoon's eyes soften, it's Changsun who can't meet his. He looks at his feet, the sticky beer splatter that's probably going to stain the red swoosh on his Nikes. He can hear the refrigerator buzzing from the kitchen and Jihoon’s breath, shallow and slightly quickened. They’re quiet for a long moment and when Changsun realizes this isn’t getting anywhere he says, “You can finish yelling at me in the morning. I’m going to-“
“I don’t hate you, Changsun.” The name hits him in the chest, sounding oddly tentative, and leaves a strange ache behind. It’s the first time Jihoon’s said his real name in almost a year.
“I wish I did sometimes.” Jihoon takes a step away from the wall, toward him, his face pained. “It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.”
Changsun feels unsteady on his feet all of a sudden. He wants to sit down or take a bath or go to sleep.
“Why?” His voice is so quiet that it’s almost inaudible, forcing Jihoon to take another step toward him.
“Because,” Jihoon’s standing in front of him, his eyes as big and bright as they’ve ever been. He pauses, seems unable to continue.
Changsun is very very still.
Then Jihoon is leaning forward, moving closer than Changsun had even thought possible. Jihoon’s lips are warm and full and chapped. Jihoon breathes out one light puff on Changsun’s mouth and gasps it back in. Jihoon is surprisingly gentle, his index finger twitching slightly from its place on Changsun’s jaw.
And Jihoon is kissing him.
I must taste like beer is the first thing Changsun thinks, horrified.
Then, before he has a chance to think much else, Jihoon wrenches away, head down and face hidden by a curtain of dark hair. He backs up several steps, toward the stairs, without looking at Changsun. “Go to bed,” he whispers, voice hard, and takes the stairs two at a time.
-
When Changsun first wakes up, morning light blinding him from a crack in between his curtains, he’s pretty sure he got curb-stomped while he slept.
There are a few blissful moments of excruciating head pain before last night starts coming back to him in flashes: the slam of the front door, the tense curl of Jihoon’s shoulders, his hand hot on Changsun’s jaw and--
And the way Jihoon wouldn’t meet his eyes after, the way he ordered Changsun to bed and Changsun just went, his brain paralyzed by the kiss.
Then the nausea kicks in.
He’s struggling up in bed, trying to make it to the bathroom in time, when he catches sight of something on his bedside table that makes him pause. A glass of water that, when he reaches out to grasp it, is room-temperature, and two aspirins resting beside his lamp and alarm clock, like they’ve been there forever.
Changsun knows they haven’t though-he’d lain on his side and watched minutes, then hours tick by on his alarm clock last, still drunk and his heart still pounding. Actually, the only thing he doesn’t remember about the previous night is falling asleep.
Changsun doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but, as he’s hunched over the toilet tryingly vainly to be sick, he’s pretty sure Jihoon is the only person who could’ve left them there. Unless there’s some sort of German serial-burglar who breaks into homes and leaves painkillers for wasted popstars-in-training. That’s if he’s even a trainee anymore, it occurs to him suddenly, recalling Jihoon’s threats-no, promises last night. The thought is enough to finally make his stomach heave and bile rise.
Surprisingly, vomiting makes Changsun feel much better- in retrospect, it’s something he should’ve done last night, were he in his right mind. He heaves experimentally a few times but nothing comes up and he uses shaking hands on the toilet seat to prop himself up, staggering back to bed and tumbling in.
He stares at the aspirin on the bedside table suspiciously for a few moments before reaching out and downing them. They stick in the back of his throat, sweeter than Korean aspirin, but he washes them down with a single, tentative sip of room-temperature water. The clock flashes 6:30 AM at him so he tugs his blankets all the way over his head, cocooning himself. He can wallow for a bit longer.
And maybe he was right about the German burglar, because he jolts awake what seems like minutes later to the sound of a door slamming. Jihoon’s on set, he knows, and anyone else would have called before coming-- if for some reason they’d actually wanted Joon for something.
He creeps cautiously out of the bedroom, clutching one of his wooden training sticks, the only defense weapon he could find on such short notice.
“Oh hyung,” Changsun yelps, dropping his stick in favour of covering his mouth. He still hasn’t brushed his teeth so his breath must be toxic. Jihoon’s turned away from him at the kitchen counter. The light from the balcony door makes him squint.
“I see you’re still alive,” Jihoon comments wryly. “Did you just wake up?”
“Yes, what’s the, um?”
“Oh, it’s just some extra food the set caterer had left over.” His tone is casual, but his words sort of run together. “Shooting was cancelled today and food should never go to waste. So I agreed to bring it home.”
Changsun’s stomach emits a surprised grumble as Jihoon continues. “But I can’t eat this unhealthy stuff because of my training. Since you never work out like you’re supposed to, I guess it doesn’t make a difference what you eat.”
Changsun winces until Jihoon lays out a dish of kimchi jigae and rice on the table. Then he gapes.
“You know you can’t sleep the day away just because you don’t have work,” Jihoon scolds. “Eat up and shower, we’re going out.” He’s not yelling, but he’s not meeting Changsun’s eyes either.
“Thank you, hyung.” Changsun finally manages to complete a full sentence as he slumps at the kitchen table and promptly starts shoveling the food down his throat. It, unsurprisingly, tastes amazing. He’s pretty sure he’s groaning in pleasure.
Jihoon makes a vague noise of assent in his direction and heads for the front door again. “Be ready by the time I get back.”
-
With the kimchi in his system, Changsun instantly feels better, his hangover fading so much as to become negligible. He feels like a recharged battery, powering through dishwashing and his shower. He’s waiting in front of the apartment building when Jihoon appears down the street, pushing to bicycles.
It seems like the situation’s about to turn into one of Jihoon’s bizarre lessons, so Changsun takes his chance to apologize.
“Listen, hyung, about last night, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done or said what I did and-I really want to be here, I swear. Don’t send me home-I’ll do anything-“
Jihoon scoffs, “Calm down, Joon. I’m not making you bike home. I just thought this would be a different way to exercise and a good way to get to know the city better.”
“So-- you’re not mad?” Changsun asks, voice soft and careful in case it somehow reminds Jihoon of last night’s insurrection. Maybe his entire life isn’t over after all.
Jihoon sighs. “No, I’m not mad.” As soon as he says it the tension drains out of Changsun like a plug being pulled, but Jihoon doesn’t hesitate before adding, “I’m just disappointed.”
Which is much, much worse, and if the smirk Jihoon fails to hide as he mounts his bike is anything to go by, Jihoon knows it too.
Jihoon’s ten feet down the street before Changsun can blink and he scrambles onto his bike, calling out as he pedals to catch up, “I promise I won’t do it again!” His body still feels a little shaky and hungover. His legs tremble slightly as he pumps his feet and his hands are clammy on the handlebars, but he’s not going to let Jihoon get away without admitting to being nice for once.
Jihoon doesn’t turn around. Changsun’s actually pretty sure he starts cycling faster the more Changsun calls his name, so he eventually he gives up and pedals just hard enough to ride to follow right behind him.
After a few terrifying blocks of weaving through cars and sidewalks-it’s lunchtime and the streets are bustling with groups of people heading into and emerging from restaurants- they pull up along the Spree. It’s sort of gorgeous outside, sunny enough that it brings his headache back around and makes him wish he’d worn sunglasses like Jihoon.
Still: there’s a slight wind so that he doesn’t sweat and grassy patches here and there, where pretty girls are sunning themselves, all pale glowing skin and long messy hair to distract from the slight discomfort easily enough. He’s glancing at them so casually that when Jihoon slows suddenly in front of him, he almost collides with Jihoon’s rear tire.
“How does Tiergarten Park sound?”Jihoon asks. Changsun has no idea what that is but he nods, content to follow the weaving of Jihoon’s bike. Probably some place he was supposed to study in Jihoon’s guide book.
Changsun’s almost reaching the limits of his post-hangover energy when Jihoon skids to a stop under a massive tree in a semi-secluded area of the park. He dismounts from his bike and balances it on the kickstand. Changsun throws himself off his and it tumbles into the grass behind him. He’s tired enough that he ignores Jihoon’s frown and splays himself out under the tree.
He’s content to lie there, sunning himself, pulling out blades of grass here and there, for a while, but he inevitably gets bored. Jihoon’s stretched out on his back a foot away, his sunglasses on. Changsun can’t tell if he’s asleep.
He decides to risk it. “Hyungggg.”
Jihoon twitches and echoes, “Joonnnn?”
“Do you think your movie or GI Joe will be more popular?”
Jihoon smiles at the sky. “Is this your way of asking if I think I’m better than Lee Byunghun?”
“Hyung, seriously,” he insists.
“Okay,” Jihoon mulls it over. “Seriously, GI Joe is an established franchise and has a much bigger budget. Their cast is more famous than ours. It will probably be a more popular movie. But,” he interjects, “Byunghun-hyung has a small part as a villain and I play the lead role as a hero.” He grins. “Does that answer your question?”
Changsun nods. “And you, Joon,” Jihoon asks slyly. “Who do you prefer?”
“Actually,” Changsun equivocates, “Johnny Depp is my favourite actor.”
Jihoon scowls.
“Johnny Depp has made some very poor choices,” he lectures, propping himself up on his elbows. “You should admire someone who keeps challenging himself. Not someone who keeps playing the same part over and over.”
Maybe he’s got sunstroke, because Changsun can’t help but tease, “Oh like you?” as if he doesn’t think the sun shines out Jihoon’s ass.
The laughter bubbles out of him, unbidden, at Jihoon’s wounded expression. He covers his mouth in an attempt to stifle it, but that only makes him giggle harder.
Jihoon laughs with him then, head thrown back and hair swinging. He smiles, full and white and unaware, so utterly Jihoon, not a trace of Rain in him. Changsun feels something clenching in his chest, bright and exploding. It’s that invincible feeling again.
Then, Jihoon pushes his sunglasses up onto his head. He looks back at Changsun and doesn’t look away. Changsun leans forward on his knees.
I am going to kiss him, Changsun thinks dimly. I want to kiss him.
They’re in the middle of a public park in a foreign country and there are people scattered all around and he’s going to kiss Jihoon, he realizes. There’s nothing he can do it about it. It’s inevitable. So he leans forward.
“Rain?” a voice chirps and Changsun’s entire body convulses in surprise. He falls back onto the grass.
The sun is temporarily blocked out and when he looks up there’s hair and breasts and smiling face looming over him.
She speaks broken English with a German accent enough to ask for an autograph and picture and a hug. Enough for Jihoon to become Rain again, humouring her.
Just like that, the moment is gone, along with Changsun’s momentary insanity. He lies in the grass with his earbuds in and his arms crossed over his face as Jihoon speaks to the fan, willing the flush in his cheeks to disappear.
When Jihoon tugs one of his earbuds out and says, “It’s getting late. I have to meet some people for dinner.” Changsun sits up, dazed, to find the fan gone. If the burgeoning redness on his forearms is anything to go by, she’s been gone for a while.
They mount their bikes in silence and head back, the comfortable mood for earlier long dead.
I didn’t even do anything, he wants to whine at Jihoon’s receding back, but planning to do something is almost as bad as doing it, he knows. They send people to jail for that stuff all the time.
He finds himself sitting on the couch, recounting a long and rambling story, mostly made-up, about a rumoured “bicycle mafia” in Berlin as Jihoon putters around the apartment, getting ready. He doesn’t react to anything Changsun is saying- Changsun doubts he’s even listening, but somehow he can’t stop himself from talking just to fill the silence. It’s like word vomit.
“I’m not sending you home,” Jihoon says off-handedly, pulling on a blazer. He checks the shoulders, picks an invisible piece of fluff off the sleeve, and grins, quick and bright, as he steps out the door. “Just don’t get drunk again.”
part 2
Anon alias: daebak story hung
Character(s)/Pairing (Fandom): Rain/Joon (MBLAQ)
Clichés: vacations & holidays, If only you'd notice me: Yearning and obliviousness, physical imperfections, vulnerability
Rating: R
Wordcount: 15 000~
Summary: A spring spent in Berlin, during which Rain is much more clueless than he seems and Joon feels with his stomach.
Warnings: Creepy power dynamics?
Changsun takes off in late April. It’s the first time he’s been on a plane and his ears pop terribly, his hands clenched on the arm rests and his knees locked together. He’s terrified, sure, and his body aches from yesterday’s training session, made worse by how tightly his family-and Cheolyong- had hugged him at the airport, but it does nothing to quell the excitement that bubbles in his stomach.
After they’re in the air properly it’s easier to breathe and he manages to calm down enough to get drowsy. The anti-nausea medication his mother had forced on him that morning probably didn’t hurt either and he drifts off to sleep, dreams of Berlin and finally getting everything he’s ever wanted.
--
At first, Changsun hadn’t been able to figure out why he'd even gotten through at the audition if Jihoon couldn’t stand him, but when the other trainees commented on his fine jawline, his straight nose, his pretty smile, he figured it out quickly enough. Changsun bowed his head in thanks and tried to forget about pas de deux and pirouettes, about the way he'd felt acting or dancing at his audition. That stuff isn’t important now anyway.
What’s important is working out- getting built. Jihoon told him, about six months into his trainee period when it had been decided he was going to debut in a group, how important a good body was. It was more important than singing or dancing right now, so Changsun had to focus. He had to do well at something.-his singing is pretty far behind the others’, and his dancing doesn’t seem to impress Jihoon anymore.
The first time he’d danced in front of Jihoon, he’d smiled at Changsun in a way he’s never smiled since, wide and honest, tinged with something like surprise. Changsun had saved that smile and the way he’d felt after seeing it. He’d tucked it up inside his head and sometimes, when he wasn’t careful, when he felt so tired, he let himself pull it out and feel that way again. Bright and humming with energy, like he could do anything and it’d be brilliant no matter what.
Now, even if Cheondong’s several beats behind the rest of them or Cheolyong isn’t completing his turns properly, it’s Changsun who has to stay behind after they all go home, who sweats through set after set of workout clothes because Jihoon can pick up on the smallest mistake. He doesn’t mind the extra work, not really, since it gives him an off-chance at seeing Jihoon smile at him that way again.
It’s just tiring, that’s all, and it leaves him with less time or energy to follow the workout schedule Jihoon had the trainers prepare. Changsun can get back on track though. He knows he can.
Jihoon must have some kind of sixth sense about him slacking off, because he appears in the training room one evening when Changsun is deadlifting, without even the few minutes warning they usually receive before he comes to supervise.
Through the large mirror lining the wall in front of him, dotted with sweaty handprints and scuff marks from their increasingly sloppy late night dance practices, he can see Cheolyong slouched against the far wall, listlessly throwing balled up scraps of paper at Changsun's back. He's taken to following Changsun everywhere he goes lately-not that they're ever apart for long regardless- between training and sharing a dorm. Changsun doesn't mind-in fact he sort of like it. It’s just that it's nice to know someone always wants to be around him, even it if it’s mostly because Cheolyong misses Eunah.
Changsun’s missed weights the past few days thanks to extra vocal lessons, so today he takes the, heavier than he’s accustomed to. He lifts them a few times experimentally, watching his biceps and pecs flex in the mirror, relishing the burning that’s already begun in his shoulders. He’ll regret it tomorrow morning, maybe even later tonight, but for now it’s satisfying to feel the results of all his work. God knows his abs aren’t showing any results.
Changsun's mind is just slipping into the comfortable blankness he associates with physical exertion when he sees Cheolyong suddenly slide up the wall into a standing position, chirping a wobbly, "Hi, Jihoon-hyung."
And just like that, there’s Jihoon lounging in the far corner, near the door, arms crossed like he's been standing there the entire time. He nods once at Cheolyong and once at Changsun, who stumbles, "Hi hyung."
Jihoon's arrival startles him, shifting the position of his body, and his shoulders bow slightly under the strain of the weights.
He doesn't hesitate in his lifting though, takes care not to show the discomfort on his face. It must’ve been apparent in his voice though, because Jihoon’s eyes narrow minutely and he moves from his position against the doorjamb fluidly, stalking toward Changsun like some sort of big cat.
Changsun has time to meet Cheolyong’s eyes, for them to exchange telepathic oh shits, before Jihoon is behind him, eyes unusually bright from over Changsun’ shoulders in the mirror. He’s at least a head taller than Changsun and seems twice as wide, silent and imposing as the day he first introduced himself-- as if he’d even needed to. Everyone knows who Jihoon is, who Rain is. He does everything-music, dance, dramas, even American movies.
If Changsun wants to be like that one day-and he does, oh god he does-he’s got to take all Jihoon’s advice, no matter how little sense it makes. It probably makes perfect sense and Changsun’s just understanding it wrong anyway.
He keeps lifting, forcing his breath to even out and his head down, until he feels palms pressing on his back. Jihoon’s hands are huge and heavy on his shoulder blades. He keeps them there for a long, still moment in which Changsun can’t repress a shiver.
“Your posture needs work,” Jihoon says finally, and then he’s stepping away, his hands leaving traces of heat on Changsun’s back.
Changsun regains the ability to move and nods firmly then bows to him. Jihoon smiles easily at Cheolyong, saying “You’re practicing your rapping, right Mir?”
He waves in their general direction and he’s gone. It’s like Changsun’s been smacked in the face.
Cheolyong allows him a few moments to mull over Jihoon’s words and then pushes off the wall toward Changsun, tries to take the weights out of his hand.
“Come on hyung, you’ve done enough tonight. Chicken?” Cheolyong grins. “My treat!”
Changsun holds tight. “You heard him, Cheolyong. I’ve got some more work to do.”
Cheolyong huffs a sigh, “Hyung, your posture is, like, perfect. Why won’t you listen to me?”
He turns away from Cheolyong, facing the practice room mirror once more. He puffs his chest out and straightens his back, lifting experimentally “When you’re a world famous performer like hyung, I will. I’ll see you at the dorms later, okay?”
He can practically hear Cheolyong rolling his eyes as he leaves. Changsun doesn’t want to argue with him, but as he frowns at himself in the mirror, he can tell that Jihoon’s right. He heaves the weights upward again.
-
The track ends and Changsun collapses from his pose, sweating, and slumps on the floor.
Jihoon, to their surprise, claps. “That was very good, boys. You’re improving. Nearly perfect-” a small smile grows on the one half of Changsun’s face that isn’t too tired to form an expression “But we all know nearly isn’t good enough. I’m sure you’ll continue to improve at practice tomorrow morning.”
They groan collectively and Jihoon mimics them, laughing a little. Changsun stays immobile, too exhausted to move, until Seungho grabs his arm and tugs him clumsily to his feet. Changsun rests his damp forehead against the unbelievably soft fabric of Seungho’s sweatshirt as they shuffle to gather their gear and leave, dreaming of a long, hot shower and his bunkbed.
“Joon, can you stay behind for a few moments.”
Changsun sleepily assumes Seungho’s speaking to him until he lift his head of his shoulder and realizes Seungho his looking at him, concern clear in his heavy eyes. The other boys look at him like what have you done now. Changsun just shrugs and watches as they shuffle uneasily out of the room, Cheolyong especially dragging his feet.
Seeing him lingering at the door, Jihoon smiles indulgently, “Don’t worry, you’ll have him back in a few minutes. He’ll catch up.” As the door swings shut, he addresses Changsun, “Take a seat.”
Changsun slumps onto the floor in front of Jihoon’s chair, eyes on his sneakers.
“Don’t look so grim. I’m not punishing you or anything,” Jihoon laughs, as though he’d never think of making Changsun practice the same step til 3 AM or run scales through his lunch break.
“You’ve heard about my new American movie, yes?” Um, thinks Changsun. If he hadn’t heard it on every news channel or variety show ever, even if it hadn’t been all Cheolhook and the rest of the company could talk about since the casting was announced; well, Changsun’s always had a good ear for news about Jihoon.
He just nods in the general direction of his own feet.
“I think you should send in a tape,” Jihoon says.
Changsun blinks at him.
“To audition. As an actor,” Jihooon explains slowly. “For the younger version of my role. There will be speaking in English, so you would have to practice hard, but- I think you should try out.”
He blinks again. Then: “I- what? Are you serious?”
“You wanted to act, didn’t you?”
“Yes, more than-yes, hyung!” The smile on his face feels huge and Jihoon answers it with something like his first smile, one that gives Changsun his do-anything feeling again. “I’ll definitely do it. Thank you so much.”
As he says it, Jihoon’s smile changes. Something behind his eyes closes off and he replies, “You don’t need to thank me, Joon.” He leans over, pats Changsun awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
-
Changsun tries to be realistic. He knows his chances of getting the part are basically zero; it’s a Real Hollywood Movie and the most acting he’s done are a couple CFs and some school drama productions, but for the next few months, even after Jihoon has left for Berlin, he has sweaty palms and butterflies in his stomach every time he answers his phone.
He dancing alone in the practice room, freestyling more than practicing any real steps or routine, when his phone rings. It’s I’m Coming and he’s heard it maybe three times in his life.
“Jihoon-hyung,” he gasps into the phone. “What’s wrong?”
“Hello to you too, Joon.” Jihoon doesn’t sound panicked or angry. He actually sounds sort of bemused.
Changsun remembers himself then, “Oh, hi. How’s Berlin?”
“Busy. I’ve got a small apartment to myself here, but I spend most of my time working.”
“How’s the movie?”
“I’m actually calling about that. We were talking about the part you auditioned for and-” The pause is excruciatingly long. Changsun feels nervous, then hopeful, then doomed, before Jihoon says, “They want you to play Young Raizo.”
To his immediate shame, Changsun bursts into surprised tears.
“Really?” He sobs, wiping frantically at his face. His legs are shaking a little and he bounces on his soles, trying to regain his composure.
“Yes!” Jihoon’s laugh crackles through the phone. “Can you believe, they think we look alike?”
Changsun laughs then, but he’s hardly complaining.
“Hyung, oh my god-this is-um, should I call them?”
“They were going to call you tonight but I wanted to-anyway, they’ll call you tomorrow. You’ll start physical training next week. Congratulations.”
“Hyung! Oh my god, I have to tell my mom. I have to tell the members. Thank you, oh my god--”
“I’ll see you soon, Joon.” The phone clicks and Jihoon’s gone.
Changsun looks, elated, around the empty practice room and allows himself one ecstatic pirouette before he starts making phone calls. It still feels like he’s spinning hours later.
--
Changsun drags his feet out of security. Clutching his script and his English and German phrase books, his stomach grumbles-he’d awoken on the plane to find he’d slept through his meal and through a showing of the third Pirates of the Carribean movie. Starving and having missed watching Johnny Depp is not how he’d pictured starting his- he can’t call it a vacation; he’s working after all, but his stomach feels the way it did on his first trip to Seoul as a kid.
Berlin is ancient-looking, with what seems like miles of open air. The morning is crisp as he shuffles behind the driver, out into the street. They speak in broken, accented English to each other, the driver trying to explain Mitte to him as Changsun frantically tries to fix his bedhead in the car mirror. Most of what he says goes in one ear and out the other, because one of his sideburns refuses to lie flat no matter how he tugs it.
A harried-looking blonde woman is waiting when he arrives at what is definitely not a hotel. Things can’t be that different in Europe.She greets him in accented Korean before barking in German into a headset.
“This-is this where I’m staying?” he asks, nervous smile on his face.
She laughs shortly. “No, this is the studio. I’m Leonie, Rain’s PA. Leave your bags in the car and follow me.”
The interior of the building seems bigger than it did on the outside, with high, black ceilings and wires running everywhere on the floor. There are cameras and boom mikes and official-looking people. wearing headsets like Leonie’s, hurrying around. The whole thing begins to seem real for the first time, but Changsun still can’t quite believe his luck.
They find Jihoon slumped in one of those chairs with his name scrawled across the back, sound asleep despite the flurry of activity around him.
Changsun takes a moment to study him. It’s been a month or so since Jihoon left for Korea, but he almost looks like another person. His shoulders are enormous, the thermal he wears stretched taut across his back, and his hair hangs long over his face. He looks incredibly tired.
Then Leonie touches his shoulder and he jerks awake. He looks soft and vulnerable, his eyes half-opened and dazed, for about half a second before he blinks once. He opens his eyes again and adjusts moves upright in the chair, focusing on Changsun.
“Hey,” he rasps, actually seeming glad to see Changsun. “It’s been a while.” He climbs down from the chair in a single smooth movement, claps Changsun on the back and says, “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Jihoon leads him through a dizzying array of hallways and sets, introduces him to a variety of writers, costumers, coordinators, actors, producers, most of whom nod at him absently before conversing with Jihoon in broken Korean or rapid English, both of which Changsun can barely follow. He smiles so much that his jaw begins to ache, says Yes and Thank you so many times they almost lose their meanings.
He’s just beginning to feel awkward enough that the magic of being on a real movie set with real actors and real cameras is wearing off. He feels like a pet dog, trailing Jihoon from room to room and he’s freaking starving.
That’s when he follows Jihoon into a room filled with a long buffet table and people sitting around, eating trays of food. It smells like noodles and tomatoes and his mouth is watering completely. He’s picturing marching over and grabbing some food right off somebody’s plate when Jihoon nudges him in the side. “There’s someone you should meet.”
Jihoon speaks in English to Leonie,“Can you call Anna over, please?” Then he steps away, leaving Changsun to stand awkwardly in the centre of the cafeteria, looking at no one in particular.
The assistant walks over to the banquet table, speaking to a girl with a short black bob. She abandons her plate of noodles, which Changsun ogles enviously, and heads toward them.
“This is Anna Sawai,” Leonie announces. “You’ll be working mostly with her. She’s playing Kiriko.”
Changsun waves and smiles in what he hopes is a completely confident, not-nervous-at-all manner. I’m going to kiss her, he can’t stop himself from thinking. They’re going to film me kissing her loads of times.
"Hello Joon. Nice to meet you," Anna smiles, full and lovely. Her English is slow and careful, easier for him to understand. "I am glad to work with you. Let's speak to each other in English for practice. Okay?"
"Okay," Changsun manages. She's pretty and even better than that, she seems nice. He’d even go so far as to call her friendly, which is more he can say for anyone else he's met today.
It seems like she's waiting for more from him, her head tilted expectantly. He smiles again and tries to think of something suave to say, when a man in a headset rushes up and tugs on her arm, saying something which is indecipherable to him.
"I have to go now Joon, but I will see you tomorrow." He bows deeply and she bows back without blinking. She turns to go and, as she's leaving, throws over her shoulder a conciliatory, "And don't worry about your hair. They cut mine also."
He stares at her retreating back, his feeling of relief at a friendly face dissipating rapidly as he processes what she said, hands adjusting his sideburns absently. He takes his English phrasebook from his bag and flips through it. The precise sentence isn't there but he checks the words cut, hair, and worry. They’re enough for him to get thoroughly alarmed.
He whips his head around and finds Jihoon chatting with Leonie across the room. He rushes over and, in an act of rudeness that would have embarrassed him for life in a normal situation, interrupts the conversation in Korean. "Hyung," he starts, panicked. "What did she mean about my hair?"
“Ah, yes I forgot to tell you before I left.” Jihoon takes his shoulder, pulling him aside. “Young Raizo is like a monk, so- he has a shaved head.”
“What?” Changsun hisses. “They can’t. I’ll look so stupid.”
Jihoon frowns “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s for the role.”
Changsun hands fly to his head protectively.
“It’ll help you get into character, okay? And you’ll stop fiddling with your hair all the time.”
“Hyung, I don’t want to-” he starts to whine, but Jihoon interrupts him before he has the chance to say something completely rude.
“You’re tired.” Jihoon allows. “I’ll take you home and you’ll sleep on it.”
Changsun’s guessing Jihoon doesn’t mean his hotel room.
Contrary to Jihoon’s claim, his apartment is huge. It’s two levels, at the top of an apartment building, stacked down the street with other buildings like books on a shelf. There’s an elevator to take them all the way to the top, but Jihoon insists they take the stairs.
“It’s a good way to keep pushing ourselves,” he explains. Changsun nods uneasily.
The kitchen’s small, but connects to a large balcony on the rooftop with a small gym set up for them to use on days off. He has his own room, with a full double bed and two giant pillows that he wants to collapse into and sleep for upward of eight hours.
Still, it seems like something’s missing. The apartment is silent, no constant chatter or cellphone ringtone blaring. Changsun figures it out.
“Where’s Cheolhook-hyung?”
“He’s not coming. We don’t need a manager while we’re filming. It’s just you and me.”
Changsun can’t help but gape at him. Who’s going to wake them up in the morning and order them food? There’s no one to make sure he’s practicing his English or working out?
“We’re just like any other actors here,” Jihoon reminds him.”No special treatment.”
“Oh,” Changsun mumbles. “That’s- good.”
And he’s got to admit, it’s going to be kind of awesome, rooming with just Jihoon for three months. Given enough time Changsun can make anyone like him, even Jihoon.
Jihoon ushers him onto the small sofa, then says, “I have an idea.”
Uh-oh. “Okay?” Changsun says tentatively. “Does it involve sleeping?”
Jihoon chuckles dryly, “I was thinking about the best way to show how committed you are right off the bat.”
“I know all my lines already, hyung,” Changsun yawns. The sofa is dangerously comfortable and he flops back into it.
“Actually, it was more along the lines of coming to work tomorrow morning with your head already shaved.”
“But you said I could sleep on it!”
“Everyone will be impressed, I promise,” Jihoon wheedles. “It’ll demonstrate your work ethic.”
“You practiced this speech, hyung, didn’t you?”
Jihoon just smiles.
And that’s how Changsun ends up sitting on the edge on the tub in his new bathroom, Jihoon standing behind him, about to take a pair of kitchen scissors to his hair.
He starts chopping haphazardly and chunks of dark hair fall onto Changsun’s shoulders and lap as he watches, horrified. When he twists around to look in the bathroom mirror, he realizes they’ve finally found something Jihoon is bad at.
“Oh my god, just shave it all off, please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the buzz of the electric razor. A hands braces around the back of his neck and he jumps a little in surprise.
“Stay still,” Jihoon murmurs. “Don’t you trust me?” His hand is hot, squeezing lightly on Changsun’s neck.
“Mmhm,” he manages.
He feels the vibration all through his skull, but the feeling of the hair falling off his head is kind of refreshing. He loses himself a little in the sensation, content to let Jihoon work, and then it’s over before he realizes it. His head is bare.
“Done. Open your eyes.”
He complies and turns again to face the mirror. He looks awful. His ears stick out terribly and make him look so much younger, like a goblin or something. He grimaces at his reflection.
Jihoon reaches down, runs a palm slowly over the stubble on his head, getting rid of any excess hair. His hand spans across the entirety of Changsun’s scalp, his middle fingertip brushing over Changsun’s ear.
Changsun inhales in an audible rush, exhales in a noticeable shiver. His scalp is apparently very sensitive. “Thanks, hyung.” He struggles to keep his voice even.
“You need sleep.” Jihoon’s voice sounds lower than normal. “I’ll wake you up tomorrow morning for work.”
Changsun takes a final look at himself in the mirror after Jihoon goes. He runs an experimental hand across his scalp. It doesn’t feel the same.
-
The crisp morning air produces a new, uncomfortable feeling; his entire scalp is chilled. Like a refrigerated boiled egg, he thinks miserably-Jihoon had fixed him breakfast, thin slices of chicken bacon and a single boiled egg, a cup of black coffee.
The cold spreads to the rest of his body quickly, despite the boots and oversized hoodie he’s wearing. Even the heated leather seats of the car the studio sent can’t entirely dispel the chill, but he squirms up against them regardless, trying to sneak some extra sleep.
“Yah- ” he jerks back to semi-awareness at a sudden pressure and slide of fabric over his forehead. Jihoon’s eyebrows are raised in challenge as he touches his head. “Oh Hyung-”
He’s wearing Jihoon’s beanie. “It’s okay, I’m not-” he starts, tugging the beanie up off his head.
Jihoon scoffs and pulls it back down over Changsun’s ears. “Please, you clearly need it more than I do. Now will you stop wiggling? I need to get in character.”
Getting in character for Jihoon apparently means sitting very still, in total silence, which bores the hell out of Changsun. Normally he’d be tempted to ask questions about the large buildings they pass in the car or to try to get Jihoon to listen to whatever song he’s got stuck in his head, but today he settles for tucking his iPod earbuds up under Jihoon’s beanie and smiling a little as he watches Berlin pass by. The glass is still frosty but he feels warmer already.
-
The reality of working on a film set is decidedly different from Changsun’s many fantasies. It consists of almost as much physical training as he did in the months before flying out, practicing his English pronunciation, and endless rehearsing with Anna, wherein one of them bursts into giggles before, during, or after their kiss. He hasn’t yet done any on camera work, aside from his screen test, and he’s beginning to doubt he ever will.
Jihoon, on the other hand, is filming non-stop. He’s up and out of the apartment by the time Changsun wakes and the one time he’d forced himself to wait up until Jihoon had returned, he’d had to suffer through the next day having not slept til 4 AM. He develops a fervent love of coffee-flavoured energy drinks which Jihoon frowns at but never comments on, when he catches Changsun downing them.
The truth is that he misses home. He misses his members, his family. Nothing feels right here. He can’t understand half of what people say to him and Jihoon keeps him on a steady diet of eggs, salmon, and chicken breast.
“If I’m cooking for you, you eat what I eat.” Jihoon offers him a handful of cashews when he complains of hunger while they’re eating silently in the cafeteria, early in the first week. They get stuck in his teeth as he munches on them; leave him sucking his teeth for the rest of the day.
He’d kill for some rice or some egg noodles. He has daydreams about kimchi.
Somehow he sees less of Jihoon in Berlin than he did Seoul. It’s too quiet, eating the breakfast Jihoon leaves for him in the morning or flipping through his English lessons at night. Anna’s the only other person he really talks to, aside from his trainers or tutors or Leonie when he’s trying to get ahold of Jihoon. She’s smart and funny and has way more experience acting, but they speak English together. He misses feeling easy with his words, speaking quickly, without worrying about being understood. He misses speaking Korean.
So when the martial arts trainer offer him some extra early morning sessions, he agrees. He won’t mind getting up earlier, he thinks, and Jihoon might even appreciate the company on the drive to and from work.
The first day with his new schedule, he wakes up without being prompted and fixes the coffee, showered and waiting at the kitchen table when Jihoon shuffles into the room. He grunts a “Morning” at Changsun and puts two eggs into the pot rather than one and that’s it.
In order to ride home with Jihoon he has to stay onset for a few hours longer than usual, but he kind of likes it. Leonie lets him watch Jihoon film and he learns a lot about the way everything works. It’s useful for when he starts filming, he reasons, plus it’s a more interesting way to decompress than trying to pay attention to the dull books Jihoon gave him to study from at home.
He doesn’t realize he’s dozing in Jihoon’s chair until he’s nudged awake. Jihoon’s hair is half pulled back and he’s got his coat on already. “Time to go,” he says and Changsun follows him sleepily to the car.
He doesn’t remember making it to bed that night, but when he wakes early the next morning, he feels as tired as ever. When he enters the kitchen, Jihoon is already seated and eating.
“Morning, hyung,” he says, a little confused. There’s no plate laid out for him.
“I was talking to the trainers,” Jihoon says not unkindly, eyes on his food. “And they said you can probably work out using the gym here instead of going into work every day.”
“Oh,” Changsun says. His cheeks feel hot. “That’s nice of them?”
He’d sort of figured Jihoon wanted the company too. But it was totally fine that he didn’t. Changsun couldn’t blame him. He did tend to talk too much. It probably interrupted his focus and--
“So,” Jihoon smiles, cutting into his chicken, “You can go back to bed. I’ll leave some food for you.”
Changsun shrugs and smiles weakly, “Alright.” He leaves Jihoon in the kitchen, his stomach feeling empty in a way that isn’t exactly hunger as he slumps into bed.
-
When he wakes again later in the day, he doesn’t particularly feel like rehearsing or lifting. It’s rainy out anyway and he doesn’t want to get wet on the balcony. He makes a weak attempt at practicing his English as he forces himself to swallow the dry chicken Jihoon left for him, before abandoning it in favour of the sofa and flicking through the TV morosely.
And maybe Changsun’s a little hurt by Jihoon ditching him like that, but he falls asleep to the hum of German advertisements onscreen and when he wakes up, it’s dark and he realizes he’s wasted the entire day.
He pictures Jihoon coming home and asking how his workout went, how is English is coming along. He tries and fails to imagine lying to him. He imagines the disappointed, irritated look on Jihoon’s face and promptly decides that the persistent feeling in his stomach must be hunger.
There’s nothing but salmon and chicken in the fridge, but he can barely cook and, honestly, the thought of eating a bite more of either makes him nauseous. He wants something with actual flavour for once.
Changsun shrugs on his jacket, pockets his German phrasebook, and takes the stairs two at a time. It’s not like Jihoon will even notice he’s gone.
It’s still sprinkling a little outside and he pulls his hood up as he hits the street. He doesn’t know where he’s heading precisely, just that he’s in search of food and some is bound to turn up eventually. Cash isn’t a problem. He’s barely spent any of the money he’d exchanged for Euros before leaving Seoul.
Changsun hadn’t realized how late it was. Most restaurants are closing already for the night and he’s beginning to feel chilled when he recognizes two English words on a green-painted sign. Oscar Wilde is a writer Changsun has heard of and the lights in the pub are still on, so he steps inside.
The interior is chock full of people, humming with noise and energy. Changsun warms up almost instantly. He slides onto the only empty stool at the bar and thumbs through a menu the smiling bartender hands him. To his surprise, it’s in English so he manages to order a hamburger and, with a guilty thrill, a pint of Guinness, without much trouble.
There’s a football match on a large screen across the room and he watches it with interest as he makes short work of the burger and fries. He’d thought about playing in school, but his dance instructor had recommended against it-- wouldn’t want to endanger his precious ankles in any way. If only she knew what the sort of stuff he practiced every day now.
One of the teams scores halfway through his second pint and Changsun lets out a surprised whoop, catching the attention of a group of guys who look about his age, sitting to his left, who join his cheer.
“Good taste,” one of them grins, in thickly-accented English-Irish, he’d guess-and raises his own glass.
“Thank you,” Changsun grins back in English, and he sees the understanding dawn quickly despite the guy’s drunken state.
“Name’s Craig. Where you from, buddy?”
He introduces himself as Changsun, explains about leaving Korea to come film the movie and in turn, Craig introduces Changsun to his three friends, university students taking a tour of Europe before heading home for the summer, who proceed to buy him a pitcher of lager, as well as something terrifying called an Irish Car Bomb.
He’s having the most fun he’s had since coming to Berlin, laughing at things he doesn’t particularly understand, but he knows enough to tell the guys are laughing with him, not at him. He feels comfortable here, more at home than he does in that stupid apartment. He’s tired of Jihoon and his weird silences and that creepy thing his eyes do when he gets angry.
Then I’m Coming blares over the chatter in the pub. It takes him a few moments to realize that makes no sense and a few more to fumble the phone the studio lent him out of his pocket. “ ’Llo?” he mumbles, straining to hear the voice on the other end. It ends up being much easier than expect.
“Where the hell are you?” Jihoon barks.
Fuck. Nausea rises in his stomach. “Out,” Changsun mumbles.
“For fuck's sake, Joon. It's two in the morning.”
Craig pours him another glass of lager. “Yeah well, I got tired of waiting for you. I wanted to have some fun for once-“
"Are you drunk?" Jihoon hisses into the phone, appalled.
“What's it to you,” he can hear himself slur, what a fucking idiot.
"You're a fucking idiot is what. You’re supposed to be training, you have work tomorrow- Jesus Christ, where are you-- I'm coming to get you.”
“In a pub,” Changsun says petulantly. He suppresses an instinctive hyung. “Don't come here.”
“The name of the pub, Joon. I’d ask you for the address but you probably have no fucking clue where you are.”
“Who’s that,” Craig hoots. “That your girlfriend?”
“No!” The switch between English and Korean is making his head spin.
“No?” Jihoon echoes in English, sounding appalled.
“Not you, hyung. I was just- it’s the Oscar Wilde. On Friedrichstrasse. Please don’t come.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes. If you aren’t outside waiting for me when I get there, I’m sending you home,” Jihoon theatens.
Changsun opens his mouth to protest but is met with a dial tone.
Well, shit. He scrambles off his stool, steadying himself on the bar as he stands, and leaves what is at least enough money to cover the bill behind. Craig and his friends watch him, bemused. His English has deteriorated proportionate to the amount of alcohol he’s had but he manages, “I have to go thank you bye!” and rushes out the door.
There’s no sign of Jihoon outside as he leaves the pub and despite the still-damp air, he doesn’t feel like going back inside. His hands are clammy, steadily growing colder, when someone approaches him from behind.
“Hyung,” he says, spinning around, apology on the tip of his tongue.
It’s definitely not Jihoon. It’s a heavy-set bearded man, reeking of alchohol and muttering in German.
Changsun’s phrasebook is in his pocket, but he’d rather not make any sudden movements toward it. “No German,” he says in slow English.
The man holds a lit cigarette out toward him and in a hoarse, extremely guttural voice, says, “Try.”
Changsun cocks his head at that, considering the situation. If he’s rebelling he might as well go all the way. He hasn’t had a cigarette since he was still in school, but he can remember how cooled, how cinematic it looked. He shrugs to himself and reaches out.
It’s then that he hears the splash of tires through puddles and a taxi pulls up behind them. One door swings open and Jihoon’s voice emanates from it, toneless. “Get in. Now.”
Changsun freezes, his arm in midair, and stumbles toward the curb. “Bye,” he calls to the drunk as he slides into the back seat. He watches through the window as the man fumbles and the cigarette drops onto the wet pavement, fizzles out.
Inside is dead silent, not even a radio to ease the tension. Jihoon is staring straight ahead, his shoulders tight and his fists clenched.
“Hyung,“ he starts. Jihoon’s eyes, dark and shining in the streetlights, flick to him minutely and he flinches. He doesn’t try to talk again.
Instead he tries to breathe evenly, to keep from throwing up at the sharp, fast turns the taxi makes. He almost fails when they shriek to a stop in front of the apartment building. Jihoon’s paying and they’re out, the taxi peeling away, before he can even process what’s happening.
When he trips on the way inside and Jihoon has to catch him by the elbow he bites down on his lower lip, hard. Jihoon doesn’t release his arm or pause in his steps, just tugs him in.
He’s trying to prepare himself for the dizzying task of climbing the stairs in his state, when Jihoon hits the up button on the elevator. He almost speaks, but catches himself, reconsidering given Jihoon’s tight grip on his arm. Changsun swears he can feel the heat of Jihoon’s anger pouring through his hand and through Changsun’s jacket.
The ride in the elevator goes on forever. Normally he’d be elated at the chance to skip the stairs, but tonight he wishes for the distraction.
The front isn't even fully closed when Jihoon starts yelling at him.
“You are so unbelievably irresponsible, Joon. You’ve just jeopardized your entire career, I hope you know that.” Jihoon’s face contorts as he shouts, making him look almost ugly. His eyes seem unnaturally bright. “I really thought you were better than this, Joon. I should send you home. What the hell is wrong-”
“I was tired of eating chicken!” he howls over Jihoon’s voice. Jihoon pauses, his jaw clenching. For one insane moment, Changsun thinks Jihoon’s going to laugh.
Instead, he takes a deep breath and continues with his rant. “Are you a child? What were you thinking-wandering around on the streets at night like that?”
“I can defend myself,” Changsun argues, still wearing his sneakers and jacket. “You’re not the only one with mixed training.”
“Okay, high-kicking someone who’s holding a gun sounds like a brilliant idea, Joon. Great plan!“If you had just told me you wanted to go out, I would’ve gone with you. What was I supposed to think, coming home and you weren’t here?”
It’s Changsun who almost laughs, then. As if Jihoon is ever around or talks to him enough for Changsun to ask him something like that. “Maybe I got tired of waiting for you. I'm not your wife,” Changsun spits.
Instead of the smack he fully expects to get as soon as the words leave his lips: Jihoon barks a laugh. It comes out strange, high and strained-sounding. "No, you're sure as hell not."
Jihoon is glaring at a space on the wall behind Changsun, but won't fucking look at him and all that beer has just made him feel even worse, like the lowest fucking thing on the planet, like the kind of person Jihoon wouldn’t give a shit about, so he can't help it when he asks: “Why do you hate me, hyung?”
And just like that, Jihoon’s eyes snap to him, focusing in that scary bright way again.
"Why is everything I do so wrong?" Even in his current state, Changsun can tell he sounds totally pathetic. He’s pretty sure he’s pouting too. He knows it makes him look all of eight years old, if he’s being generous, but he can’t help it. His lip just kind of- juts out of its own accord.
Then, when Jihoon's eyes soften, it's Changsun who can't meet his. He looks at his feet, the sticky beer splatter that's probably going to stain the red swoosh on his Nikes. He can hear the refrigerator buzzing from the kitchen and Jihoon’s breath, shallow and slightly quickened. They’re quiet for a long moment and when Changsun realizes this isn’t getting anywhere he says, “You can finish yelling at me in the morning. I’m going to-“
“I don’t hate you, Changsun.” The name hits him in the chest, sounding oddly tentative, and leaves a strange ache behind. It’s the first time Jihoon’s said his real name in almost a year.
“I wish I did sometimes.” Jihoon takes a step away from the wall, toward him, his face pained. “It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.”
Changsun feels unsteady on his feet all of a sudden. He wants to sit down or take a bath or go to sleep.
“Why?” His voice is so quiet that it’s almost inaudible, forcing Jihoon to take another step toward him.
“Because,” Jihoon’s standing in front of him, his eyes as big and bright as they’ve ever been. He pauses, seems unable to continue.
Changsun is very very still.
Then Jihoon is leaning forward, moving closer than Changsun had even thought possible. Jihoon’s lips are warm and full and chapped. Jihoon breathes out one light puff on Changsun’s mouth and gasps it back in. Jihoon is surprisingly gentle, his index finger twitching slightly from its place on Changsun’s jaw.
And Jihoon is kissing him.
I must taste like beer is the first thing Changsun thinks, horrified.
Then, before he has a chance to think much else, Jihoon wrenches away, head down and face hidden by a curtain of dark hair. He backs up several steps, toward the stairs, without looking at Changsun. “Go to bed,” he whispers, voice hard, and takes the stairs two at a time.
-
When Changsun first wakes up, morning light blinding him from a crack in between his curtains, he’s pretty sure he got curb-stomped while he slept.
There are a few blissful moments of excruciating head pain before last night starts coming back to him in flashes: the slam of the front door, the tense curl of Jihoon’s shoulders, his hand hot on Changsun’s jaw and--
And the way Jihoon wouldn’t meet his eyes after, the way he ordered Changsun to bed and Changsun just went, his brain paralyzed by the kiss.
Then the nausea kicks in.
He’s struggling up in bed, trying to make it to the bathroom in time, when he catches sight of something on his bedside table that makes him pause. A glass of water that, when he reaches out to grasp it, is room-temperature, and two aspirins resting beside his lamp and alarm clock, like they’ve been there forever.
Changsun knows they haven’t though-he’d lain on his side and watched minutes, then hours tick by on his alarm clock last, still drunk and his heart still pounding. Actually, the only thing he doesn’t remember about the previous night is falling asleep.
Changsun doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but, as he’s hunched over the toilet tryingly vainly to be sick, he’s pretty sure Jihoon is the only person who could’ve left them there. Unless there’s some sort of German serial-burglar who breaks into homes and leaves painkillers for wasted popstars-in-training. That’s if he’s even a trainee anymore, it occurs to him suddenly, recalling Jihoon’s threats-no, promises last night. The thought is enough to finally make his stomach heave and bile rise.
Surprisingly, vomiting makes Changsun feel much better- in retrospect, it’s something he should’ve done last night, were he in his right mind. He heaves experimentally a few times but nothing comes up and he uses shaking hands on the toilet seat to prop himself up, staggering back to bed and tumbling in.
He stares at the aspirin on the bedside table suspiciously for a few moments before reaching out and downing them. They stick in the back of his throat, sweeter than Korean aspirin, but he washes them down with a single, tentative sip of room-temperature water. The clock flashes 6:30 AM at him so he tugs his blankets all the way over his head, cocooning himself. He can wallow for a bit longer.
And maybe he was right about the German burglar, because he jolts awake what seems like minutes later to the sound of a door slamming. Jihoon’s on set, he knows, and anyone else would have called before coming-- if for some reason they’d actually wanted Joon for something.
He creeps cautiously out of the bedroom, clutching one of his wooden training sticks, the only defense weapon he could find on such short notice.
“Oh hyung,” Changsun yelps, dropping his stick in favour of covering his mouth. He still hasn’t brushed his teeth so his breath must be toxic. Jihoon’s turned away from him at the kitchen counter. The light from the balcony door makes him squint.
“I see you’re still alive,” Jihoon comments wryly. “Did you just wake up?”
“Yes, what’s the, um?”
“Oh, it’s just some extra food the set caterer had left over.” His tone is casual, but his words sort of run together. “Shooting was cancelled today and food should never go to waste. So I agreed to bring it home.”
Changsun’s stomach emits a surprised grumble as Jihoon continues. “But I can’t eat this unhealthy stuff because of my training. Since you never work out like you’re supposed to, I guess it doesn’t make a difference what you eat.”
Changsun winces until Jihoon lays out a dish of kimchi jigae and rice on the table. Then he gapes.
“You know you can’t sleep the day away just because you don’t have work,” Jihoon scolds. “Eat up and shower, we’re going out.” He’s not yelling, but he’s not meeting Changsun’s eyes either.
“Thank you, hyung.” Changsun finally manages to complete a full sentence as he slumps at the kitchen table and promptly starts shoveling the food down his throat. It, unsurprisingly, tastes amazing. He’s pretty sure he’s groaning in pleasure.
Jihoon makes a vague noise of assent in his direction and heads for the front door again. “Be ready by the time I get back.”
-
With the kimchi in his system, Changsun instantly feels better, his hangover fading so much as to become negligible. He feels like a recharged battery, powering through dishwashing and his shower. He’s waiting in front of the apartment building when Jihoon appears down the street, pushing to bicycles.
It seems like the situation’s about to turn into one of Jihoon’s bizarre lessons, so Changsun takes his chance to apologize.
“Listen, hyung, about last night, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done or said what I did and-I really want to be here, I swear. Don’t send me home-I’ll do anything-“
Jihoon scoffs, “Calm down, Joon. I’m not making you bike home. I just thought this would be a different way to exercise and a good way to get to know the city better.”
“So-- you’re not mad?” Changsun asks, voice soft and careful in case it somehow reminds Jihoon of last night’s insurrection. Maybe his entire life isn’t over after all.
Jihoon sighs. “No, I’m not mad.” As soon as he says it the tension drains out of Changsun like a plug being pulled, but Jihoon doesn’t hesitate before adding, “I’m just disappointed.”
Which is much, much worse, and if the smirk Jihoon fails to hide as he mounts his bike is anything to go by, Jihoon knows it too.
Jihoon’s ten feet down the street before Changsun can blink and he scrambles onto his bike, calling out as he pedals to catch up, “I promise I won’t do it again!” His body still feels a little shaky and hungover. His legs tremble slightly as he pumps his feet and his hands are clammy on the handlebars, but he’s not going to let Jihoon get away without admitting to being nice for once.
Jihoon doesn’t turn around. Changsun’s actually pretty sure he starts cycling faster the more Changsun calls his name, so he eventually he gives up and pedals just hard enough to ride to follow right behind him.
After a few terrifying blocks of weaving through cars and sidewalks-it’s lunchtime and the streets are bustling with groups of people heading into and emerging from restaurants- they pull up along the Spree. It’s sort of gorgeous outside, sunny enough that it brings his headache back around and makes him wish he’d worn sunglasses like Jihoon.
Still: there’s a slight wind so that he doesn’t sweat and grassy patches here and there, where pretty girls are sunning themselves, all pale glowing skin and long messy hair to distract from the slight discomfort easily enough. He’s glancing at them so casually that when Jihoon slows suddenly in front of him, he almost collides with Jihoon’s rear tire.
“How does Tiergarten Park sound?”Jihoon asks. Changsun has no idea what that is but he nods, content to follow the weaving of Jihoon’s bike. Probably some place he was supposed to study in Jihoon’s guide book.
Changsun’s almost reaching the limits of his post-hangover energy when Jihoon skids to a stop under a massive tree in a semi-secluded area of the park. He dismounts from his bike and balances it on the kickstand. Changsun throws himself off his and it tumbles into the grass behind him. He’s tired enough that he ignores Jihoon’s frown and splays himself out under the tree.
He’s content to lie there, sunning himself, pulling out blades of grass here and there, for a while, but he inevitably gets bored. Jihoon’s stretched out on his back a foot away, his sunglasses on. Changsun can’t tell if he’s asleep.
He decides to risk it. “Hyungggg.”
Jihoon twitches and echoes, “Joonnnn?”
“Do you think your movie or GI Joe will be more popular?”
Jihoon smiles at the sky. “Is this your way of asking if I think I’m better than Lee Byunghun?”
“Hyung, seriously,” he insists.
“Okay,” Jihoon mulls it over. “Seriously, GI Joe is an established franchise and has a much bigger budget. Their cast is more famous than ours. It will probably be a more popular movie. But,” he interjects, “Byunghun-hyung has a small part as a villain and I play the lead role as a hero.” He grins. “Does that answer your question?”
Changsun nods. “And you, Joon,” Jihoon asks slyly. “Who do you prefer?”
“Actually,” Changsun equivocates, “Johnny Depp is my favourite actor.”
Jihoon scowls.
“Johnny Depp has made some very poor choices,” he lectures, propping himself up on his elbows. “You should admire someone who keeps challenging himself. Not someone who keeps playing the same part over and over.”
Maybe he’s got sunstroke, because Changsun can’t help but tease, “Oh like you?” as if he doesn’t think the sun shines out Jihoon’s ass.
The laughter bubbles out of him, unbidden, at Jihoon’s wounded expression. He covers his mouth in an attempt to stifle it, but that only makes him giggle harder.
Jihoon laughs with him then, head thrown back and hair swinging. He smiles, full and white and unaware, so utterly Jihoon, not a trace of Rain in him. Changsun feels something clenching in his chest, bright and exploding. It’s that invincible feeling again.
Then, Jihoon pushes his sunglasses up onto his head. He looks back at Changsun and doesn’t look away. Changsun leans forward on his knees.
I am going to kiss him, Changsun thinks dimly. I want to kiss him.
They’re in the middle of a public park in a foreign country and there are people scattered all around and he’s going to kiss Jihoon, he realizes. There’s nothing he can do it about it. It’s inevitable. So he leans forward.
“Rain?” a voice chirps and Changsun’s entire body convulses in surprise. He falls back onto the grass.
The sun is temporarily blocked out and when he looks up there’s hair and breasts and smiling face looming over him.
She speaks broken English with a German accent enough to ask for an autograph and picture and a hug. Enough for Jihoon to become Rain again, humouring her.
Just like that, the moment is gone, along with Changsun’s momentary insanity. He lies in the grass with his earbuds in and his arms crossed over his face as Jihoon speaks to the fan, willing the flush in his cheeks to disappear.
When Jihoon tugs one of his earbuds out and says, “It’s getting late. I have to meet some people for dinner.” Changsun sits up, dazed, to find the fan gone. If the burgeoning redness on his forearms is anything to go by, she’s been gone for a while.
They mount their bikes in silence and head back, the comfortable mood for earlier long dead.
I didn’t even do anything, he wants to whine at Jihoon’s receding back, but planning to do something is almost as bad as doing it, he knows. They send people to jail for that stuff all the time.
He finds himself sitting on the couch, recounting a long and rambling story, mostly made-up, about a rumoured “bicycle mafia” in Berlin as Jihoon putters around the apartment, getting ready. He doesn’t react to anything Changsun is saying- Changsun doubts he’s even listening, but somehow he can’t stop himself from talking just to fill the silence. It’s like word vomit.
“I’m not sending you home,” Jihoon says off-handedly, pulling on a blazer. He checks the shoulders, picks an invisible piece of fluff off the sleeve, and grins, quick and bright, as he steps out the door. “Just don’t get drunk again.”
part 2