Round 25: the light could ever go (but the golden age is over) (2/2)
He tucks away the production notes he’s been given, full of a night’s worth of highlighted sections and small comments adorning the columns, and closes it into the drawer. It’s dark save for the little LED light perched on his desk. He clicks it off.
Sehun leans slowly onto the backrest, allowing himself to sink into the cushion. It's ten at night, nowhere near how late he used to stay up actually moving, but his body aches a lot more than he remembers ever experiencing. He vaguely wonders, aloud, if this is what old age feels like.
It is during these nights spent cooped at home staring at the wall in front of him aimlessly, with the lights all off and only the distant ringing of a television set from somewhere else in the building to accompany him that it comes with sudden clarity how life feels like a mindless drift through a vacuum- a series of empty, hollowed-out spaces filled with nothing at all. It is a solitary journey of going through the same motions day after day.
Days spent in a tiny editing rooms, cutting and editing footage of people projecting false images of reality. Sometimes he allows himself to get lost in them, just for a little while, soaking in the worlds of make-believe, before reluctantly pulling himself out to continue the tedious task of rushing to meet broadcast time.
He thinks he may finally understand what Baekhyun had meant, all those years ago in that musty little hotel room, staring at the television set drowned out by the whistling of the wind. Sehun hadn’t felt it back then, everything else enough to mask the feeling of restlessness. Maybe they’d just been looking for different things in life.
Sometimes he convinces himself he misses the feeling of friendship, of brotherhood and of having people there to watch your back every step of the way. But deep down part of himself sees right through the lie in that. Other times he wonders if what he misses is the feeling of performing, but that same part of himself fizzles out the thought out almost immediately as a dry chuckle makes its way to his lips at the preposterousness of the thought.
It wasn’t performing. He knows he has never been like Jongin, passion for performing ruling his life, able to be energized by the sheer prospect of being in front of an audience and living out a dream. He hadn’t minded it, of course, had come to learn to enjoy it, but it was never something he lived by.
Post-exo, he hasn’t danced. Not counting that one time he was forced to as a punishment at a company party, watched by gleeful eyes waiting to see if he really was all that much. (He hears the answer to that in loud, mocking whispers afterward.)
He remembers the image of himself, limbs feeling uncoordinated and foreign, forced smile on his face as he shuffled around, trying so desperately to conjure something of decent quality. But it’s like he’s forgotten how to move. A few people chuckle and even more suppress their laughter. He hears a couple ask “Didn’t he dance in exo?”
Other times, he unlocks the storage room and spends hours in there, staring at clothes he can no longer fit into and stacks of valuable gifts he has no more use for, and wonders if that is what he craves, the thrill of fleeting wealth and watching fame multiply in tangible forms. His brain forms images of him in his twenties, spending his money as soon as he got it, unnecessary junk piling up, all for living in the thrill of the moment.
None of these sessions actually help. It’s been years, the same cycle of wondering and dissatisfaction day after day, but all he has is a cloud of denial and answers he is not willing to admit enough to himself to give.
-
Sehun is at the lobby of mbc's Ulsan studio when he meets Jongdae again. To be precise, he spots Jongdae while sliding his card into the slot in the employee gantry, in the middle of drinking his second cup of coffee of the morning. (It was a taste he’d once hated, but rushing tight deadlines meant no choice.)
Jongdae is standing by the lifts, waiting for it to descend to the level and chatting animatedly with a man Sehun assumes is his manager. He remembers, belatedly, that Jongdae’s just released a new song and is up for a comeback stage on Show Champion.
It's been a little over three years since they last saw each other, and he is dressed how Sehun remembers, shirt, tie, pants, fumbling with something on his phone, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He looks excited.
It’s been a little over three years of deliberately choosing routes he knows will cause them to not meet. Now Sehun has no idea how to act with someone he hasn’t seen in so long.
Not that he needs to see him to know what he's been up to. Jongdae switched companies and stayed in consistently in entertainment circles, maintaining headlines on news sites and magazines for his singing and image. Sehun’s happy for him. But also kind of envious.
Sehun suddenly feels grossly underdressed and subconsciously reaches a hand up to tug his blazer closer to his body. Sometimes he forgets he doesn't have cameras tracing his every move anymore, and sometimes he forgets he's the one monitoring from behind the screens.
Sometimes he remembers, and he feels mildly bitter and resentful.
He stops mid-tug, guiltily glancing to the side to see if anyone's noticed, to see if anyone's laughing or maybe thinking him to be ridiculous. It’s all in his head, really, but just in case.
Jongdae catches sight of him just as he turns to slip away. He walks over immediately, because he's Jongdae, and tiptoes to wrap an arm around half of Sehun's shoulders. It's not a tight hug like what they'were used to, and when he steps back Sehun can see the slight uncertainty in his eyes.
“-Hey, I’ve heard you worked here, but it’s the first time I’m actually seeing you while promoting,” It’s an awkward start for someone you used to be able to have arguments on fried chicken flavours with, but Sehun is grateful that it’s better than nothing.
“Uh, yeah, I’m mostly cooped up in the editing rooms.” He hopes he doesn’t sound too spiteful. He’s also surprised how easily the lie slides off his tongue, how he manages to stop the “I was avoiding you.” from slipping out.
If Jongdae feels any doubt he doesn’t show it, smile still firmly in place, eyes shining with a sort of understanding and excitement he cannot place.
“How’d you end up with this job?” Jongdae asks lightly, obviously trying to start conversation. His manager is hurrying him along, but he gestures for a little more time.
“When all you have is a half-assed degree from a broadcasting college you kind of have no choice you know?” Sehun answers, not fully intending to sound as bitter as it ends up, but not bothering to correct it either. Jongdae looks momentarily taken aback, but recovers fairly quickly, muttering an understanding “Oh.”
Then the lift bell dings and interrupts the moment. Jongdae steps back once and makes his way into the lift, bidding his goodbyes and telling Sehun that he’s glad they were able to meet. Sehun nods something to that effect.
He is called away to a production meeting almost immediately afterwards. It’s a drab little affair, nothing to do but fidget in his chair along the side of the wall, watching as the big shots discuss plans over the conference table. It is one of those meetings he has no input in but cannot skip out anyway, stuck in a vicious little cycle of mundanity and tedious repetition.
-
He leaves when his contract expires for the second time in 2022.They'd multiple discussions about it, the management making half-hearted attempts at convincing him to stay, but when May 2022 came he'd been given confidentiality agreements and legal contracts to sign before going.
They know how pointless it would be, for everyone, if he is to stay.
There's only so long you can go acting and saying things below your years before people don't find it endearing or cute anymore. There's only so long he can milk the same fresh, stone faced charm he had when he was eighteen before people call you grouchy and fast approaching old age.
Leaving the building you’ve spent too many tears and memories and time in adolescence in is a strange feeling, he discovers that day. The day itself is like any other, him with his backpack over one shoulder, passing through the sliding automatic doors of the building on his way home. Except this time home is no longer the dorm, the place already cleared up days in advance, boxes and boxes of trash sitting unopened in the apartment he’d bought a while back.
It is like leaving a part of yourself behind, closing a chapter that has already stretched on for far too long than it should. The choreographer he grew up under gives him a tight hug, telling him good luck and let’s meet up for drinks sometimes. The receptionist, a warm middle-aged lady he’s greeted every morning for the past seven years pats him on the back on his way past the reception desk, and the directors bid him a brusque goodbye, hurrying to management meetings for the next batch of trainees.
His manager gives him a fond pat on the shoulder, just before he reaches for the button. Then it really is the end.
"I'm ready for a fresh start. Do all those things I didn’t get to do, learn how to survive all over again." Kyungsoo smiles proudly as they leave together, moving towards the public carpark three blocks away. Some of the rest had left earlier, some are going to leave later, Sehun isn’t sure. Sehun sees the way Kyungsoo looks at him, waiting for a reaction. An agreement, maybe.
But Sehun keeps silent, and the smile on Kyungsoo's face falters just a tiny bit. He feels slightly bad for leaving Kyungsoo hanging, but cannot bring himself to say anything. He wishes his reason for leaving was as principled or as noble, maybe half as inspirational and hopeful. But Oh Sehun leaves because he cannot bear the pain of a slow slip from grace.
There is a car parked at the side of the road, and it horns as they near. Kyungsoo walks over, explaining that his brother has come to pick him up. He’ll be going home to rest for a while, he hasn’t been back in years. Then he’ll set off on a new life.
Just before he gets into the car, he turns around and smiles, “Hey, Sehun. I wish you the best of luck yeah, wherever life takes you.” And then he throws his bag into the backseat and slips into the car, waving his goodbyes through the glass. Sehun waves back, a faint smile on his lips, and watches the car disappear into peak hour traffic.
Sehun makes his way to his car. He hasn’t gone home in a long time either, even though “home” is less than a half hour away. Autumn is getting colder, the wind a lot stronger. He’d once said, many magazine covers ago, that it was his favourite season, that it was the perfect temperature, a perfect balance of everything.
His sweater isn’t doing a very good job at keeping him warm, but today the chill helps to keep his mind clear. He probably needs the clarity.
-
Joonmyun is in the public eye often enough. Occasionally, Sehun opens the papers, pulls up an internet browser, and sees his name splashed on a tiny section near the back or wobbling on the top search rankings before dropping off an hour later. A drunken brawl here, horrid calefare job there, a few seconds of being scrutinized before fading into obscurity.
He wonders how Joonmyun is doing, sometimes. Underneath all the controversies and tabloid news covers, how he has been coping with his life. Sometimes he imagines how enduring seven years of training for a dream that fizzles into nothing at the end of the day might feel, and feels sympathetic, almost. But now that the man is right in front of him, unnaturally anxious to talk and not looking any different, Sehun decides he doesn’t mind not knowing.
It’s somewhat frightening knowing that Joonmyun is desperate for help he cannot imagine himself being capable of giving.
“You wanted to talk about-?” He broaches the topic slowly, treading cautiously. They’re outside the hall. Sehun managed to persuade him into talking about it outside, because the hall still feels too stifling, too public. He’s not superstitious, but it feels wrong, somehow.
“I was approached to join this...reality tv show, I guess. Your station is producing it? Chance to win money and get your name out there. And I was wondering...if you’d be interested?”
His mouth forms a silent O.
“I’ve…. heard about it,” Sehun begins uneasily, “But I’m not really familiar with it,” he rushes to clarify, “Just heard the variety group mention it in passing during lunch.” Sehun knows that in all probability they’d probably mentioned it in front of him on purpose.
“It’s a really good chance. I feel like it’s fate, almost, that such an opportunity came. Would you like to join? I know I can count on you…” Joonmyun trails off. Sehun doesn’t respond, unable to comprehend why Joonmyun would approach him of all people.
“There aren’t restrictions on minimum group capacity, are there?”
“Well, no, but I was, I was thinking it would be good for us to have someone else along the way, to help each other along. We have camaraderie, don’t we?”
Sehun fills in the unspoken blanks himself. I don’t want to feel pathetic alone. I’m desperate and I don’t want to be the only one. Having you means a bigger possibility of riding on our earlier popularity. And then he gets it. Joonmyun knows he’s weak. Vulnerable.
Joonmyun knows that from its little corner in his chest, locked away under a well-adjusted box, his heart screams yes.
And suddenly everything Chanyeol had said about feeling carefree comes flooding back to him, the words echoing within the hollow of his brain. It almost hurts, the way there are two different voices saying two completely different things that relentlessly follow him. The decision doesn’t seem as clear-cut anymore.
Truthfully he doesn’t know how he might do with cameras tracing his every move once again, how to cope with knowing people are starting to watch and notice and judge all over again. He’s gotten a little used to feeling paranoid, not having his paranoia flashed out in the news and laughed at.
“We get a chance to hit it big,” Joonmyun presses, his voice sounding more urgent, pleading “it’s based on public votes, winners will have public recognition. This could be our second lucky break.” His brows are drawn up in concentration, vision trained directly on Sehun with such intensity he averts his gaze, choosing to focus on a spot on the wall, just to the side.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think-” All of a sudden he’s too young again, not ready to deal with responsibilities or making decisions, and Sehun makes to turn and find an opportunity to book it down the hallway. It scares him because he doesn’t know what decision he wants to make. Joonmyun stops him mid-step with a hand to the arm which he attempts to shake off uselessly. His mind feels like a mess right now, and the entire place feels too much to handle.
Joonmyun releases his grasp as quickly as he latches on, careful not to offend. Sehun takes the chance to leave.
“At least think about it! Think about everything we could be. Also it’s good money. Much more than you make now, I’m sure. And I can give it all to you.” That causes Sehun to pause in his tracks, ever so slightly. He makes sure to resume walking soon after, resisting the urge to throw a glance over his shoulder.
-
Sehun is in the editing room, hunched over the computer, painstakingly splitting and joining clips. His back is sore and the mug beside him long empty, ceramic cooled to the temperature of the air conditioning. But the pantry is all the way at the other end of the office and he refuses to do himself the disservice of walking the whole way across for a bland refill.
He’s spent the hours since nine am, unmoving, posture tensed and rigid, trying to cut as much footage as possible to fit into the time slot. The live shoot system has caught up to them too soon, the responsibility of getting it in on time dumped on his shoulders with the broadcast in a little less than an hour. He’s not yet done with the editing, but he’s nearing the fortieth minute, so he rewards himself with a small break, slumping into the backrest.
He closes his eyes to rest them from the numbing glare of the computer. He hasn’t been able to focus very well today, cutting too much out of scenes and joining certain takes awkwardly. He’s had to use the undo function a lot more frequently. Joonmyun’s words are etched into his mind, a weight that refuses to be shaken off.
But the deadline draws near and, letting out a long, drawn out breath, he resigns himself to finishing off the rest of the episode. A bit more to work through, and then he’s done for the day before hell begins again tomorrow.
Twenty minutes later, and with another fifteen to spare, he saves the record into a tape and sends it off to the broadcasting room. He finally lets the hunger and weariness from the whole day overcome his body. His shoulders feel locked in that hunched position, sore and stiff, and it takes a whole lot of pounding and rotating to get them to feel like they’re part of his body again.
He has to go somewhere to fill his pot-bellied, middle-aged, stomach before going home. But eating alone looks incredibly sad, and there is no one from work he is close enough to ask comfortably. He picks up his phone, shuffling through the contact list. None of them really stand out, names passing by in a quick blur, too fast for faces to be attached.
And then one of them do, a mental image conjured in that short millisecond it takes to process the words and syllables. His thumb hovers over the contact. Truth is he’d never deleted anyone off his phone, just never picked up the courage to close the small distance, reach past the mental barriers. Chanyeol would have most probably gotten off work by now.
He takes a deep breath, readying himself for the surprisingly difficult task of tapping a section of the screen. He almost wishes Chanyeol won’t pick up. Then he can convince himself he tried, and that this is something out of his control, that there is nothing to regret when there is nothing to be.
Chanyeol picks up on the first ring, “Hello? Sehun?”
Sehun can hear the hopefulness in his voice and it calms him, just a little. He tries to convince himself that it may not be so bad after all.
“Hello? I was wondering...have you eaten?” He winces at the way he manages to make everything sound awkward, and decides to press ahead blindly before he backs out, “I’ll go to where you are.” What. “But if you’ve already had-” ohmygod. His words start sounding more abrupt and clunky and he curses at himself, trying to string together a sentence that hopefully sounds more coherent and less creepy.
Chanyeol cuts him off just then, and Sehun can hear the smile in his voice as he gives him an address in Hongdae and tells him that no, he is definitely available for dinner. It’s a weird place for Chanyeol to be at, but he decides not to question it for now, and that’s how Sehun finds himself on the road past 9pm, weaving in and out metropolitan traffic as he drives towards a place he hasn’t visited in ages.
He gets to the address and finds it’s a little fairy-themed cafe. Sehun supposes it’s not very likely that Chanyeol would have found a part-time job as a fairy-waiter in the cafe, but then he spots a little crowd to the side of the entrance, gathered around the pavement. The strum of a guitar wafts through the air, and a voice he recognizes as Chanyeol’s rings out crisp in the summer night.
There is no longer any fanatical screaming or autograph requests, just a crowd gathered, slowly nodding their heads and tapping their feet along to the breezy sound of the music. Soundlessly, Sehun joins the back of the crowd, and admires the sight through the space in between people.
He doesn’t catch himself mouthing the words until it reaches the chorus and he almost breaks out into intense song, but then it sinks in. He takes a moment to realize where he’d heard the song before. It sends a strange tingly feeling across his skin.
Chanyeol finishes the song and looks up, bowing to the applause. He spots Sehun and his face lights up in greeting as he moves to pack up. Slowly the crowd disperses, and then they are alone again. Chanyeol hurries over, case already slung over a shoulder.
“Why’d you think of calling?” Then, realizing that sounds mildly offensive, he quickly rushes to explain, “I mean, I thought you wouldn’t ever call. But it’s a pleasant surprise.” He places emphasis on pleasant.
“I just...haven’t had anything except caffeine today and thought of finding someone to eat dinner with. I’m a loner in the office so I just thought about it and-”
“How about your colleagues?” Chanyeol asks, face curious as they begin to move down the street. It’s still crowded, time nothing but a number for everyone on the street. Sehun needs to be up early tomorrow to try and get a head start on editing, but for the moment he allows himself to immerse in the atmosphere.
“They don’t bother with me?” He sounds unsure of it himself, the statement coming out more like a question than he intended. He hopes the throng of people brushing by drowns out the sound as they make their way down the street.
“They don’t bother with you? Or is it just you shutting them out?” Chanyeol is skeptical now, a sort of knowing look on his face. Sehun chooses not to acknowledge the question, and Chanyeol doesn’t probe.
Sehun is very sure they have no idea where they are going, just going with the flow and moving in the general direction everyone seems to be going in. Every street they pass looks similar to him anyway, shops and lights and people, and he’d probably get lost if he was alone. Unconsciously, he sticks closer to Chanyeol.
They end up in a Japanese restaurant that Chanyeol seems to be familiar with at the corner of one of the streets. They’re settled into a seat by the window, a view of the late-night crowd - young people radiating with the knowledge of the invincibility of the youth they possess - living their lives to the fullest just past the glass divide.
Sehun reaches for the menu, distracting himself with browsing through menu photos and listlessly reading items, unsure of how to start the conversation. He opts for small talk, just so he can ease into the topic, “So you come here often?”
“Yup,” Chanyeol is engrossed with the pictures, “I told you I did something I liked on the side, and this is it. If I’m not too tired out from work i come to play a bit. It’s a pretty good feeling, relaxing after a day of work you know? And people stop by and listen and it feels even better. Kind of rewarding? I’m especially glad I decided to come today though.” He says, breaking into a grin.
Chanyeol decides on his food a lot faster than Sehun does, folding his menu close and placing his arms over it, head propped on his hands. It feels uncomfortable having someone waiting for him to stop being indecisive, so Sehun decides on the first item that his eyes fall on, quickly closing the menu and pushing it away. Chanyeol calls for the waiter and Sehun decides that the moment they finish ordering is a good time to start.
“So the other day, after you left, Joonmyun asked me about something.” Sehun starts as the waiter clears the menus away, “And I just wanted a second opinion.” He admits, and Chanyeol seems to straighten right away and signals for him to continue.
This conversation feels too much like one Sehun remembers having one too many years ago, and the feeling is weird, almost like deja vu.
“Our station is producing a show, a reality tv show, and it’s a game where ex-celebrities and people who want a second shot at the life they lost go through eliminations and..stuff.” He’s not the best at descriptions, but he tries his best to provide just enough information for Chanyeol to see what ha means. Admittedly, he’d done more research and digging after Joonmyun mentioned it, but Chanyeol doesn’t need to know that.
Their drinks arrive and Sehun finds himself attempting to cover up his nervousness by finishing half his cup at once. It doesn’t work.
He tries to omit the parts that state that participants are solely responsible for their actions, and how it sounds like a twisted idea to pit desperate people against each other in a bid to regain a life they are too deluded to leave behind. Chanyeol seems to be filling in the blanks pretty well though.
He is starting to look alarmed, eyebrows raised so high into his forehead that in any other circumstances it would have been funny. Sehun rushes through his speech, pausing only to breathe twice in between. He waits in trepidation for Chanyeol’s answer.
“No, I’m not letting you do it.” Sehun bristles at Chanyeol’s tone. Like a mother lecturing her child. He hadn’t thought he would agree easily either, but still a part of him had been hoping.
“It doesn’t affect you, either way.”
“Look, I’m saying this because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go into this knowingly.” Chanyeol is completely ignoring his drink by now, cup pushed to the side, eyes boring holes onto the top of Sehun’s head. Sehun tries to come up with a reasonable explanation, a rational argument to justify what he is saying. He’s not sure if it’s to appease Chanyeol or reassure himself, though.
“But...if I want to?” Sehun is a lot quieter now, his voice almost indistinguishable even to himself. He lifts his head slightly, and Chanyeol looks him in the eye, slowly echoing his words. “You...want to?”
“I’m just saying,” Sehun is a little annoyed, just a little spiteful, like he is seventeen again and his maturity, his decision to debut in a world that he isn’t familiar with, is being questioned, “What if?”
Chanyeol seems to genuinely think about it for a while, worry still ingrained on his face. In the interim their food arrives, and Sehun busies himself with severing his pork cutlet repeatedly. His knife scratches against the plate with a loud screech.
“I know life might be dissatisfactory for you now, but I honestly think it’s because you haven’t come to terms with what you really want yet. You think you want it, but it’s actually just- you want the memory of it. But it’s not the same anymore.” Sehun knows Chanyeol is trying to put it gently, but it just makes him even angrier.
“Let’s just..eat. I’m not making a decision yet.” His tone is final and he leaves no room for argument, shovelling the cutlet into his mouth in an attempt to force it all down like the uncomfortable atmosphere. Chanyeol reaches for his plate slowly without another word.
The rest of dinner and the walk home are a lot more silent.
-
Sehun rises from bed in the morning, choosing to spend the first five minutes of his day staring blankly at the ceiling and fidgeting in his bed to ease the process of leaving it. The calendar hanging from the wall, barely marked, helpfully tells him it’s Monday.
He's gotten used to sleeping in, a much lazier lifestyle than the rigid one he's been trained to accommodate since twelve, but one he's eased into exceptionally. It is perhaps the only part of life now that he is unperturbed by. He has to be in the editing room by nine today, so he drags himself into the bathroom.
Sehun dresses a lot more quickly nowadays, with no more need to coordinate anything. It’s ironic, actually, how things are so much faster, yet life crawls by at a much slower pace. By habit he checks the internet, hand idly sweeping a teaspoon through half-dissolved cereal when the title of the second to bottom news article catches his eye.
Baekhyun it says. Suicide, it says right after.
He doesn't remember dropping his phone. All he hears is the dull clack of plastic on ceramic, and suddenly his hand burns from hot water, but it doesn't hurt as much as it should. The sofa and tv screen come into view for a split second before his vision blurs at the edges, his mind suddenly dizzy.
It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.
It is a Monday and the usual peak hour commute can be heard all the way in his apartment, the impatient honks and the loud collective sounds of engines running from street level. It is the end of Spring in 2028 and the wind and sun are in perfect harmony, the sky impossibly clear and the air fresh. It is like every other day, and nothing feels out of place.
Everyone should be going about their lives as per usual. But everything is different.
And it makes too much sense.
-
He thinks about it a lot. He really does. It weighs down a lot more on his mind than he’d like.
But his mind’s been made, already had been right from the start. Maybe he’d just been buying time. He’ll have to get to informing sooner or later anyway, and he decides now is a good time, before he backs out. Sehun fishes his phone out from his back pocket and hesitantly types a text. His fingers feel a little numb.
“i tried thinking of it from your point of view but I’m sorry, my mind’s made up. It might be a good thing for me, we’re all looking for different things in life and this might be mine.”
Chanyeol responds soon after, a short pleading, Are you sure you know what it is exactly?
Sehun doesn’t reply, slipping the phone back into his pocket instead.
-
it’s been five weeks, and the game venue is stifling. The same studio is used, over and over, but it seems to hone in, close in on them tighter every week. Five pairs have been eliminated and it is with fear that Sehun enters the studio again. They are hanging by a hair’s breath, having narrowly avoided the last rank last week, much to Joonmyun’s frustration.
He hasn’t been taking any chances, peppering Sehun with chat messages discussing future plans in the middle of the night, obsessively putting details together. They’ve decided on a new course of action for the fifth week. They outline their plan for the day, which Joonmyun presents, very calmly and meticulously, during a private presentation.
Sehun still doesn’t quite understand, the plan a little too intricate and exhausting for him, but he thinks he’s managed to grasp one or two of the main ideas. And as long as he tags along, he will be fine. If Joonmyun’s numerous instruction texts are anything to go on, he’s devised a way to edge out the rest of them. He feels a little like a freeloader, but it’s not a foreign feeling - it’s not like he hadn’t lived years of his life like that.
Sehun remembers a text about a pre-planned scandal, rousing him at 3.15am in the morning, message tone too sharp and chirpy for the dead of the night. The articles are scheduled to go up at a specific time, all potentially career-damaging. Not just the kind that generates bad publicity; Joonmyun had managed to dig up actual instances of evading the law. That’s what he says, anyway.
Sehun has enough knowledge and experience to know that controversies are interesting, entertaining and fun for the public when they delve into private lives and scandalous gossip. But one misstep with the law or special treatment you get by being a celebrity induces anger and hate in equal amounts. Sehun has seen it be the downfall of many a group.
So at 8PM, major news portals are full of the news. A tax evasion here, drunk driving there, splashed all over the rotating headers and one-liner headers, mixed in with a couple of everyday news reports.
Sehun is slightly uncomfortable with it, it’s the furthest length they have gone to, and each week it gets progressively worse. Joonmyun has his laptop up and running, each of eight tabs open to a different news portal, refreshing every three minutes for updated statistics.
Then five minutes after the last article appeared, Sehun sees a photo of himself attached to a headline, freshly published. It starts off as one article on Naver. Then more appear, on Nate and Daum, the comment sections and view statistics rising rapidly. People start forum threads discussing it on Pann and Instiz and Oh Sehun finds himself back in the tabloids at the age of 33.
Joonmyun hadn’t said anything about this. He feels a little, just a little, betrayed.
It’s a smaller scandal, something involving relationships with a much younger girl (untrue), and a rendezvous at a dodgy motel out of town (also untrue), but when Sehun looks at Joonmyun for clarification in alarm he’s brushed off with a composed “We have to throw them off our trail. Negative publicity is better than no publicity. Small scandals can be beneficial. I have this under control.”
There’s nothing he can say to that, so he shuts up, busying himself with scrolling through the site. Two cameramen stand against two walls of the room, filming the entire process silently. They never comment on anything going on, but Sehun knows they are secretly taking it all in for sharing later, silently mocking.
There is no privacy, everything is aired, and Sehun knows Joonmyun is running a risk here. Hoping that the public will be too preoccupied with the offenses of the others to overlook the lows they've stooped to, hoping that the apparent desperation is enough to override the disgust.
He feels a little lonely. It’s nothing like what he remembers. Cameras following their every move, the nation talks about them, and his name in the search engines for a little while (next to “exo”), but there is no more excitement. Just a long, drawn out, tiredness, inching forwards little by little.
Sometimes on a run down to the grocery store, elderly folk and middle-aged women on the street point and gossip openly. There are the office ladies at lunch hour attempting to throw subtle looks at him, whispering derisively behind their palms.
He doesn’t want to be known anymore. Maybe he has been out of the camera frame for too long to adapt back into the lifestyle. Maybe it gets harder when you’re older, no longer impressionable and bright-eyed.
Sehun hasn’t contacted Chanyeol in quite a while, since the day he ignored the text. There is no doubt Chanyeol has watched the show though, the ratings reflecting a steady audience. Sehun knows competition and elimination, watching someone degrade themselves for another’s entertainment, is a hit these days, appealing to a sadistic part of the audience. But Chanyeol would have watched, if only to track his progress. (Right?)
He has lost track of how far they have gone and how much further they will have to go, the boundaries blurring into dust as competition gets tougher and the will to win stronger. It’s cheating their way to the top, every week a battle of who lies better, comes up with more elaborate schemes belying their desperation.
They can only win if they manage to tickle the fancy of the public. He can only escape by paying money he doesn’t have anymore. It’s a sealed-off maze and he does not have the energy to break through the walls.
Sehun thinks of giving up, but even after all these years, he’s just a little bit unsure.
They gather in the studio, and the results of the votes pour in, spotlights flashing on and off above each group’s platform. There are a million votes, a new high, and Sehun should be happy, maybe a part of him is, but he feels strangely unsettled. Joonmyun has his hands interlocked beside him, tensely eying the flashing images on the LCD.
Sehun closes his eyes, the beeping of sound effects ringing in his ears in stark contrast to the utter silence of the studio. Then the beeping stops and he cracks open an eye slowly. Joonmyun is smiling, the three contestants next to them marked out by a bright overhead light. They are a mix of shocked and frustrated, their facial expressions bordering on deranged.
Sehun wonders if that’s what they would have looked like if it’d been them. He can’t find a clear answer to that.
They’ve made it past. Sehun leans onto the podium for support, slowly sinking to his knees. He can hear the ending sequence begin to play and the closing statement, somewhere in the distance.
-
Sehun gets a letter in the mail two weeks into the game. They’ve just gone past the second round, and he already feels like a deadweight. Joonmyun is pouring everything into this. He wants to, but part of him is always hesitant, always not as ready.
He hasn’t shaved in two days, cooped up at home, sleeping the days and nights away. He’ll have to do it later, the broadcast is tomorrow. It really does feel vaguely like their idol days, having to be this self-conscious, and occasionally people recognize him on the street again, point him out as “that guy on the show about fame”, except this time there is no manager and no agency to control their image or to fend off attacks.
Negative publicity is better than no publicity, Sehun reminds himself.
The letter looks a little mussed up, like it somehow got lost somewhere along the post route, sent to the wrong part of the country, and has just made it’s way back. The postal stamp on it is dated more than a month ago, just a thin sheath of paper in a brown envelope. The handwriting is a little familiar.
Hey, Sehun,
I’m sending this to most people I know. Being a cheesy melodramatic sob. Just. I hope you’re doing well. I guess this is a farewell of sorts? Also an explanation. I know you’re wondering. Unless our postal system suddenly speeds up and this reaches you by tomorrow. You’ve made an impact on my life and so I wanted to make sure you’ll live well or something.
Fame was good while it lasted, but we have to learn to live without it, you know? It’s been years, but I still think about the conversation we had. I hope you remember which one I’m talking about. Remember the rush I talked about? The only thing separating life and death is the rush of knowing it’s great to be alive, the fact that getting up every morning and breathing and just setting out on daily adventures pumps adrenaline through your veins, and that was the rush I wanted to live for. It still is. But it seems pretty much impossible. I’ve tried. And now I’m tired of trying. I know very well that this isn’t the best way out, hell, it shouldn’t even be an option, but I guess this is where the divide ends for me.
You’re not looking for the adrenaline, are you, Sehun? Deep down you probably know yourself best, but I just want to remind you to think everything through. A lot of things may seem tempting but they’re really not that much. There are different phases in life, and, you know, life goes on, we have to learn to move on.
Sehun suddenly remembers that day, rain pouring onto grimy windows, and Baekhyun looking at him like he had him all figured out. He shivers a little as he shuffles into the lift, and presses the button for his floor level, leaning against the railing.
I hope you find something worthwhile, something worth living for. I hope you find something that makes you happy to be alive because the rush of living fills every cell in you when you wake up. Good luck. (Don’t do it my way, I’m pretty sure there is adrenaline involved, but you’ll probably only be able to do it once.)
Sehun wonders why the letter only reaches him now.
-
There are innumerable tabloid reports about how idols love dating on the Han River, at night, where most of the general public will not notice. It’s become more dangerous over the years, a slightly higher risk of being discovered, but Sehun is spread out over the grass on a slight slope. Chanyeol is next to him.
Neither of them speak, both silently staring at the moon, the soft ripples of the water splashing against the bay audible from there.
Sehun’s not exactly sure what kind of relationship they have. They’re not dating exactly. They can’t be. But it feels like something more than bandmates.
He was the one who proposed escaping for a while. The dorm has become a tough place to be in, the air hostile and thick. Chanyeol closes his eyes and spreads out his arms on the grass, breathing slowly out through his nose.
“I didn’t think Joonmyun would go so far, I’m sorry.” It’s a pathetic excuse to have.
“What are you apologizing for, you didn’t do anything though.” Chanyeol’s mutters, so serene and quiet his words seem to be carried through the air. Sehun’s not sure if he really is as carefree as he sounds, or if Chanyeol’s just forcing himself to get through it.
“I just feel...bad. I can’t believe it. I met him when I was fourteen and he just seemed so...intelligent and warm and I- can’t believe it. I’ve always tried to justify everything he does but it’s not working out anymore.” Sehun recalls the time, just a month before their comeback, when Joonmyun had left Baekhyun drunk on the streets after a night out, according to him, by accident, and conveniently got him featured in the tabloids.
But Joonmyun had stepped out then and shouldered responsibility like the leader he was, and Sehun had told himself that it was entirely possible he hadn’t noticed Baekhyun was missing from the van. He hadn’t been completely sober either.
That isn’t the only time. Sehun remembers how Zitao had reacted when the smoking photos were accidentally leaked. He’d always been sensitive, always been targeted, and so although it helped them stay a common forum topic for a while it had been a huge blow for him.
“You can’t really blame him though,” Chanyeol’s voice is thoughtful, “He invested so many years into this. Went against so many beliefs, and he has a lot of pride. He needs to succeed. He’s a lot more desperate than us for that because to him it is crucial.”
“It scares me that I don’t know how far he is willing to go now though.”
“Why?” Chanyeol switches to a lighthearted tone amazingly quick, a little teasing even.
“I just, wish we could stop him, I guess.” Sehun turns on his side, admiring Chanyeol’s side profile against a backdrop of lights pouring out from windows across the bank. Moments like these, when most of the city is asleep and at home, and they can finally have space to themselves like the whole world is theirs to own, feel extremely liberating.
“Me too.” Chanyeol sounds a little sad now, the rhythm of his words slower, “But what can we do?”
“Maybe we can talk him out of it? We can help him realize what he’s been doing.” Sehun suggests a little too hopefully, scrambling upwards to prop his elbows up on the grass like it’ll help him think. Many of these actions don’t really help, like how he comes to grip his pants pocket for support when nervous, but it calms him down mentally, so he does them anyway.
“No, see, the thing is, I think Joonmyun is perfectly aware of what he is doing. He knows its wrong and he does it anyway. It’s not a case of ignorance or being misguided. It’s the way his brain works you know? You did say he was intelligent.” Chanyeol states it so calmly, like a fact he’s come to accept.
Sehun shifts on the grass. He doesn’t know what Chanyeol is implying, or why Chanyeol sees something he doesn’t.
“If we had stepped in earlier it might have worked. I think I regret standing by and not doing anything. I’ve realized it’s a lot worse than if I’d actively played a part. Because I had the power to stop something when it was happening, and I could have prevented something, and I know it was happening, but I chose to sit back. So it’s fair punishment, I guess.” A lone cyclist whizzes by, shadow stretching under the streetlamps, the sound of his wheels on the gravelly path slowly fading away with the words into nothing.
Sehun suddenly realizes that he too, is guilty of that same offense. He’s never thought of it that way, but now, in retrospect, they had all been there to see the start of it. The many coincidences and set-ups, as the explanations started getting more varied and less believable.
They are the ones who allowed it to happen. Sehun feels a heavy pang of guilt nestled somewhere in his chest.
He remembers the other question bothering him, and, in an effort to distract himself, Sehun wonders aloud “Why aren’t you doing anything about the rumours. They didn’t happen. If you stood out with answers you could prove them all wrong.” He tugs his phone out of his pocket subconsciously and fiddles with the camera function, holding the phone up forty-five degrees for a throwaway selfie.
Chanyeol hums a sound instead of responding, so Sehun prods him on the side.
“Did Joonmyun know where I actually was that night though?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Sehun chooses his words carefully, wondering what Joonmyun would have done if he realized that that night, Chanyeol hadn’t spent the night outside, had, in fact, been in his room, somewhere under the covers together. That they had been careful for Chanyeol to leave early for filming the next day, long before the rest of the dorm awoke. That they have an ambiguous relationship even Sehun is unable to define.
Sehun wonders if he would have released rumours then.
He winces at the answer that comes to mind. No he wouldn’t.
“But you know, right?” Sehun clucks at the obvious, snorting a bit, “Of course, you were with me. Don’t ask rhetorical questions.”
“Then why haven’t you said anything? You could be my alibi.” Chanyeol says, jokingly, like it’s a casual comment he doesn’t take seriously himself.
But it makes Sehun fall silent, pause in the middle of restlessly pulling out a blade of grass. There is a small thudding in his chest as he realizes Chanyeol is right. A sort of sinking feeling. Everything would be solved if he’d admitted it. But he hasn’t said anything. He has too much to lose, maybe.
He feels bad. Horrible, even. Conflicted.
But Chanyeol chuckles a little, “It’s okay. I’m okay. I understand. It’s just a scandal anyway. Nothing new. We’ve had plenty of that and now true and false no longer matters. People aren’t looking for answers. They’re looking for entertainment over the dinner table, people only see what they want to see. I would have stopped you from saying anything anyway.”
One of the last buses drive past the bridge nearby, engine terribly loud in the still night. Sehun can’t shake off the burden of his words, until Chanyeol interrupts, voice a little clearer.
“But hey, promise me we won't ever allow ourselves to get sucked into that blackhole.”
“Yeah, I won’t.” A warm blush spreads across his skin.
And then, in a moment of spontaneity, he closes the distance between their bodies and scrambles onto Chanyeol’s outspread arms, settles into the embrace. Chanyeol’s arm comes to fit around his shoulders.
-
Poll
Sehun leans slowly onto the backrest, allowing himself to sink into the cushion. It's ten at night, nowhere near how late he used to stay up actually moving, but his body aches a lot more than he remembers ever experiencing. He vaguely wonders, aloud, if this is what old age feels like.
It is during these nights spent cooped at home staring at the wall in front of him aimlessly, with the lights all off and only the distant ringing of a television set from somewhere else in the building to accompany him that it comes with sudden clarity how life feels like a mindless drift through a vacuum- a series of empty, hollowed-out spaces filled with nothing at all. It is a solitary journey of going through the same motions day after day.
Days spent in a tiny editing rooms, cutting and editing footage of people projecting false images of reality. Sometimes he allows himself to get lost in them, just for a little while, soaking in the worlds of make-believe, before reluctantly pulling himself out to continue the tedious task of rushing to meet broadcast time.
He thinks he may finally understand what Baekhyun had meant, all those years ago in that musty little hotel room, staring at the television set drowned out by the whistling of the wind. Sehun hadn’t felt it back then, everything else enough to mask the feeling of restlessness. Maybe they’d just been looking for different things in life.
Sometimes he convinces himself he misses the feeling of friendship, of brotherhood and of having people there to watch your back every step of the way. But deep down part of himself sees right through the lie in that. Other times he wonders if what he misses is the feeling of performing, but that same part of himself fizzles out the thought out almost immediately as a dry chuckle makes its way to his lips at the preposterousness of the thought.
It wasn’t performing. He knows he has never been like Jongin, passion for performing ruling his life, able to be energized by the sheer prospect of being in front of an audience and living out a dream. He hadn’t minded it, of course, had come to learn to enjoy it, but it was never something he lived by.
Post-exo, he hasn’t danced. Not counting that one time he was forced to as a punishment at a company party, watched by gleeful eyes waiting to see if he really was all that much. (He hears the answer to that in loud, mocking whispers afterward.)
He remembers the image of himself, limbs feeling uncoordinated and foreign, forced smile on his face as he shuffled around, trying so desperately to conjure something of decent quality. But it’s like he’s forgotten how to move. A few people chuckle and even more suppress their laughter. He hears a couple ask “Didn’t he dance in exo?”
Other times, he unlocks the storage room and spends hours in there, staring at clothes he can no longer fit into and stacks of valuable gifts he has no more use for, and wonders if that is what he craves, the thrill of fleeting wealth and watching fame multiply in tangible forms. His brain forms images of him in his twenties, spending his money as soon as he got it, unnecessary junk piling up, all for living in the thrill of the moment.
None of these sessions actually help. It’s been years, the same cycle of wondering and dissatisfaction day after day, but all he has is a cloud of denial and answers he is not willing to admit enough to himself to give.
-
Sehun is at the lobby of mbc's Ulsan studio when he meets Jongdae again. To be precise, he spots Jongdae while sliding his card into the slot in the employee gantry, in the middle of drinking his second cup of coffee of the morning. (It was a taste he’d once hated, but rushing tight deadlines meant no choice.)
Jongdae is standing by the lifts, waiting for it to descend to the level and chatting animatedly with a man Sehun assumes is his manager. He remembers, belatedly, that Jongdae’s just released a new song and is up for a comeback stage on Show Champion.
It's been a little over three years since they last saw each other, and he is dressed how Sehun remembers, shirt, tie, pants, fumbling with something on his phone, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He looks excited.
It’s been a little over three years of deliberately choosing routes he knows will cause them to not meet. Now Sehun has no idea how to act with someone he hasn’t seen in so long.
Not that he needs to see him to know what he's been up to. Jongdae switched companies and stayed in consistently in entertainment circles, maintaining headlines on news sites and magazines for his singing and image. Sehun’s happy for him. But also kind of envious.
Sehun suddenly feels grossly underdressed and subconsciously reaches a hand up to tug his blazer closer to his body. Sometimes he forgets he doesn't have cameras tracing his every move anymore, and sometimes he forgets he's the one monitoring from behind the screens.
Sometimes he remembers, and he feels mildly bitter and resentful.
He stops mid-tug, guiltily glancing to the side to see if anyone's noticed, to see if anyone's laughing or maybe thinking him to be ridiculous. It’s all in his head, really, but just in case.
Jongdae catches sight of him just as he turns to slip away. He walks over immediately, because he's Jongdae, and tiptoes to wrap an arm around half of Sehun's shoulders. It's not a tight hug like what they'were used to, and when he steps back Sehun can see the slight uncertainty in his eyes.
“-Hey, I’ve heard you worked here, but it’s the first time I’m actually seeing you while promoting,” It’s an awkward start for someone you used to be able to have arguments on fried chicken flavours with, but Sehun is grateful that it’s better than nothing.
“Uh, yeah, I’m mostly cooped up in the editing rooms.” He hopes he doesn’t sound too spiteful. He’s also surprised how easily the lie slides off his tongue, how he manages to stop the “I was avoiding you.” from slipping out.
If Jongdae feels any doubt he doesn’t show it, smile still firmly in place, eyes shining with a sort of understanding and excitement he cannot place.
“How’d you end up with this job?” Jongdae asks lightly, obviously trying to start conversation. His manager is hurrying him along, but he gestures for a little more time.
“When all you have is a half-assed degree from a broadcasting college you kind of have no choice you know?” Sehun answers, not fully intending to sound as bitter as it ends up, but not bothering to correct it either. Jongdae looks momentarily taken aback, but recovers fairly quickly, muttering an understanding “Oh.”
Then the lift bell dings and interrupts the moment. Jongdae steps back once and makes his way into the lift, bidding his goodbyes and telling Sehun that he’s glad they were able to meet. Sehun nods something to that effect.
He is called away to a production meeting almost immediately afterwards. It’s a drab little affair, nothing to do but fidget in his chair along the side of the wall, watching as the big shots discuss plans over the conference table. It is one of those meetings he has no input in but cannot skip out anyway, stuck in a vicious little cycle of mundanity and tedious repetition.
-
He leaves when his contract expires for the second time in 2022.They'd multiple discussions about it, the management making half-hearted attempts at convincing him to stay, but when May 2022 came he'd been given confidentiality agreements and legal contracts to sign before going.
They know how pointless it would be, for everyone, if he is to stay.
There's only so long you can go acting and saying things below your years before people don't find it endearing or cute anymore. There's only so long he can milk the same fresh, stone faced charm he had when he was eighteen before people call you grouchy and fast approaching old age.
Leaving the building you’ve spent too many tears and memories and time in adolescence in is a strange feeling, he discovers that day. The day itself is like any other, him with his backpack over one shoulder, passing through the sliding automatic doors of the building on his way home. Except this time home is no longer the dorm, the place already cleared up days in advance, boxes and boxes of trash sitting unopened in the apartment he’d bought a while back.
It is like leaving a part of yourself behind, closing a chapter that has already stretched on for far too long than it should. The choreographer he grew up under gives him a tight hug, telling him good luck and let’s meet up for drinks sometimes. The receptionist, a warm middle-aged lady he’s greeted every morning for the past seven years pats him on the back on his way past the reception desk, and the directors bid him a brusque goodbye, hurrying to management meetings for the next batch of trainees.
His manager gives him a fond pat on the shoulder, just before he reaches for the button. Then it really is the end.
"I'm ready for a fresh start. Do all those things I didn’t get to do, learn how to survive all over again." Kyungsoo smiles proudly as they leave together, moving towards the public carpark three blocks away. Some of the rest had left earlier, some are going to leave later, Sehun isn’t sure. Sehun sees the way Kyungsoo looks at him, waiting for a reaction. An agreement, maybe.
But Sehun keeps silent, and the smile on Kyungsoo's face falters just a tiny bit. He feels slightly bad for leaving Kyungsoo hanging, but cannot bring himself to say anything. He wishes his reason for leaving was as principled or as noble, maybe half as inspirational and hopeful. But Oh Sehun leaves because he cannot bear the pain of a slow slip from grace.
There is a car parked at the side of the road, and it horns as they near. Kyungsoo walks over, explaining that his brother has come to pick him up. He’ll be going home to rest for a while, he hasn’t been back in years. Then he’ll set off on a new life.
Just before he gets into the car, he turns around and smiles, “Hey, Sehun. I wish you the best of luck yeah, wherever life takes you.” And then he throws his bag into the backseat and slips into the car, waving his goodbyes through the glass. Sehun waves back, a faint smile on his lips, and watches the car disappear into peak hour traffic.
Sehun makes his way to his car. He hasn’t gone home in a long time either, even though “home” is less than a half hour away. Autumn is getting colder, the wind a lot stronger. He’d once said, many magazine covers ago, that it was his favourite season, that it was the perfect temperature, a perfect balance of everything.
His sweater isn’t doing a very good job at keeping him warm, but today the chill helps to keep his mind clear. He probably needs the clarity.
-
Joonmyun is in the public eye often enough. Occasionally, Sehun opens the papers, pulls up an internet browser, and sees his name splashed on a tiny section near the back or wobbling on the top search rankings before dropping off an hour later. A drunken brawl here, horrid calefare job there, a few seconds of being scrutinized before fading into obscurity.
He wonders how Joonmyun is doing, sometimes. Underneath all the controversies and tabloid news covers, how he has been coping with his life. Sometimes he imagines how enduring seven years of training for a dream that fizzles into nothing at the end of the day might feel, and feels sympathetic, almost. But now that the man is right in front of him, unnaturally anxious to talk and not looking any different, Sehun decides he doesn’t mind not knowing.
It’s somewhat frightening knowing that Joonmyun is desperate for help he cannot imagine himself being capable of giving.
“You wanted to talk about-?” He broaches the topic slowly, treading cautiously. They’re outside the hall. Sehun managed to persuade him into talking about it outside, because the hall still feels too stifling, too public. He’s not superstitious, but it feels wrong, somehow.
“I was approached to join this...reality tv show, I guess. Your station is producing it? Chance to win money and get your name out there. And I was wondering...if you’d be interested?”
His mouth forms a silent O.
“I’ve…. heard about it,” Sehun begins uneasily, “But I’m not really familiar with it,” he rushes to clarify, “Just heard the variety group mention it in passing during lunch.” Sehun knows that in all probability they’d probably mentioned it in front of him on purpose.
“It’s a really good chance. I feel like it’s fate, almost, that such an opportunity came. Would you like to join? I know I can count on you…” Joonmyun trails off. Sehun doesn’t respond, unable to comprehend why Joonmyun would approach him of all people.
“There aren’t restrictions on minimum group capacity, are there?”
“Well, no, but I was, I was thinking it would be good for us to have someone else along the way, to help each other along. We have camaraderie, don’t we?”
Sehun fills in the unspoken blanks himself. I don’t want to feel pathetic alone. I’m desperate and I don’t want to be the only one. Having you means a bigger possibility of riding on our earlier popularity. And then he gets it. Joonmyun knows he’s weak. Vulnerable.
Joonmyun knows that from its little corner in his chest, locked away under a well-adjusted box, his heart screams yes.
And suddenly everything Chanyeol had said about feeling carefree comes flooding back to him, the words echoing within the hollow of his brain. It almost hurts, the way there are two different voices saying two completely different things that relentlessly follow him. The decision doesn’t seem as clear-cut anymore.
Truthfully he doesn’t know how he might do with cameras tracing his every move once again, how to cope with knowing people are starting to watch and notice and judge all over again. He’s gotten a little used to feeling paranoid, not having his paranoia flashed out in the news and laughed at.
“We get a chance to hit it big,” Joonmyun presses, his voice sounding more urgent, pleading “it’s based on public votes, winners will have public recognition. This could be our second lucky break.” His brows are drawn up in concentration, vision trained directly on Sehun with such intensity he averts his gaze, choosing to focus on a spot on the wall, just to the side.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think-” All of a sudden he’s too young again, not ready to deal with responsibilities or making decisions, and Sehun makes to turn and find an opportunity to book it down the hallway. It scares him because he doesn’t know what decision he wants to make. Joonmyun stops him mid-step with a hand to the arm which he attempts to shake off uselessly. His mind feels like a mess right now, and the entire place feels too much to handle.
Joonmyun releases his grasp as quickly as he latches on, careful not to offend. Sehun takes the chance to leave.
“At least think about it! Think about everything we could be. Also it’s good money. Much more than you make now, I’m sure. And I can give it all to you.” That causes Sehun to pause in his tracks, ever so slightly. He makes sure to resume walking soon after, resisting the urge to throw a glance over his shoulder.
-
Sehun is in the editing room, hunched over the computer, painstakingly splitting and joining clips. His back is sore and the mug beside him long empty, ceramic cooled to the temperature of the air conditioning. But the pantry is all the way at the other end of the office and he refuses to do himself the disservice of walking the whole way across for a bland refill.
He’s spent the hours since nine am, unmoving, posture tensed and rigid, trying to cut as much footage as possible to fit into the time slot. The live shoot system has caught up to them too soon, the responsibility of getting it in on time dumped on his shoulders with the broadcast in a little less than an hour. He’s not yet done with the editing, but he’s nearing the fortieth minute, so he rewards himself with a small break, slumping into the backrest.
He closes his eyes to rest them from the numbing glare of the computer. He hasn’t been able to focus very well today, cutting too much out of scenes and joining certain takes awkwardly. He’s had to use the undo function a lot more frequently. Joonmyun’s words are etched into his mind, a weight that refuses to be shaken off.
But the deadline draws near and, letting out a long, drawn out breath, he resigns himself to finishing off the rest of the episode. A bit more to work through, and then he’s done for the day before hell begins again tomorrow.
Twenty minutes later, and with another fifteen to spare, he saves the record into a tape and sends it off to the broadcasting room. He finally lets the hunger and weariness from the whole day overcome his body. His shoulders feel locked in that hunched position, sore and stiff, and it takes a whole lot of pounding and rotating to get them to feel like they’re part of his body again.
He has to go somewhere to fill his pot-bellied, middle-aged, stomach before going home. But eating alone looks incredibly sad, and there is no one from work he is close enough to ask comfortably. He picks up his phone, shuffling through the contact list. None of them really stand out, names passing by in a quick blur, too fast for faces to be attached.
And then one of them do, a mental image conjured in that short millisecond it takes to process the words and syllables. His thumb hovers over the contact. Truth is he’d never deleted anyone off his phone, just never picked up the courage to close the small distance, reach past the mental barriers. Chanyeol would have most probably gotten off work by now.
He takes a deep breath, readying himself for the surprisingly difficult task of tapping a section of the screen. He almost wishes Chanyeol won’t pick up. Then he can convince himself he tried, and that this is something out of his control, that there is nothing to regret when there is nothing to be.
Chanyeol picks up on the first ring, “Hello? Sehun?”
Sehun can hear the hopefulness in his voice and it calms him, just a little. He tries to convince himself that it may not be so bad after all.
“Hello? I was wondering...have you eaten?” He winces at the way he manages to make everything sound awkward, and decides to press ahead blindly before he backs out, “I’ll go to where you are.” What. “But if you’ve already had-” ohmygod. His words start sounding more abrupt and clunky and he curses at himself, trying to string together a sentence that hopefully sounds more coherent and less creepy.
Chanyeol cuts him off just then, and Sehun can hear the smile in his voice as he gives him an address in Hongdae and tells him that no, he is definitely available for dinner. It’s a weird place for Chanyeol to be at, but he decides not to question it for now, and that’s how Sehun finds himself on the road past 9pm, weaving in and out metropolitan traffic as he drives towards a place he hasn’t visited in ages.
He gets to the address and finds it’s a little fairy-themed cafe. Sehun supposes it’s not very likely that Chanyeol would have found a part-time job as a fairy-waiter in the cafe, but then he spots a little crowd to the side of the entrance, gathered around the pavement. The strum of a guitar wafts through the air, and a voice he recognizes as Chanyeol’s rings out crisp in the summer night.
There is no longer any fanatical screaming or autograph requests, just a crowd gathered, slowly nodding their heads and tapping their feet along to the breezy sound of the music. Soundlessly, Sehun joins the back of the crowd, and admires the sight through the space in between people.
He doesn’t catch himself mouthing the words until it reaches the chorus and he almost breaks out into intense song, but then it sinks in. He takes a moment to realize where he’d heard the song before. It sends a strange tingly feeling across his skin.
Chanyeol finishes the song and looks up, bowing to the applause. He spots Sehun and his face lights up in greeting as he moves to pack up. Slowly the crowd disperses, and then they are alone again. Chanyeol hurries over, case already slung over a shoulder.
“Why’d you think of calling?” Then, realizing that sounds mildly offensive, he quickly rushes to explain, “I mean, I thought you wouldn’t ever call. But it’s a pleasant surprise.” He places emphasis on pleasant.
“I just...haven’t had anything except caffeine today and thought of finding someone to eat dinner with. I’m a loner in the office so I just thought about it and-”
“How about your colleagues?” Chanyeol asks, face curious as they begin to move down the street. It’s still crowded, time nothing but a number for everyone on the street. Sehun needs to be up early tomorrow to try and get a head start on editing, but for the moment he allows himself to immerse in the atmosphere.
“They don’t bother with me?” He sounds unsure of it himself, the statement coming out more like a question than he intended. He hopes the throng of people brushing by drowns out the sound as they make their way down the street.
“They don’t bother with you? Or is it just you shutting them out?” Chanyeol is skeptical now, a sort of knowing look on his face. Sehun chooses not to acknowledge the question, and Chanyeol doesn’t probe.
Sehun is very sure they have no idea where they are going, just going with the flow and moving in the general direction everyone seems to be going in. Every street they pass looks similar to him anyway, shops and lights and people, and he’d probably get lost if he was alone. Unconsciously, he sticks closer to Chanyeol.
They end up in a Japanese restaurant that Chanyeol seems to be familiar with at the corner of one of the streets. They’re settled into a seat by the window, a view of the late-night crowd - young people radiating with the knowledge of the invincibility of the youth they possess - living their lives to the fullest just past the glass divide.
Sehun reaches for the menu, distracting himself with browsing through menu photos and listlessly reading items, unsure of how to start the conversation. He opts for small talk, just so he can ease into the topic, “So you come here often?”
“Yup,” Chanyeol is engrossed with the pictures, “I told you I did something I liked on the side, and this is it. If I’m not too tired out from work i come to play a bit. It’s a pretty good feeling, relaxing after a day of work you know? And people stop by and listen and it feels even better. Kind of rewarding? I’m especially glad I decided to come today though.” He says, breaking into a grin.
Chanyeol decides on his food a lot faster than Sehun does, folding his menu close and placing his arms over it, head propped on his hands. It feels uncomfortable having someone waiting for him to stop being indecisive, so Sehun decides on the first item that his eyes fall on, quickly closing the menu and pushing it away. Chanyeol calls for the waiter and Sehun decides that the moment they finish ordering is a good time to start.
“So the other day, after you left, Joonmyun asked me about something.” Sehun starts as the waiter clears the menus away, “And I just wanted a second opinion.” He admits, and Chanyeol seems to straighten right away and signals for him to continue.
This conversation feels too much like one Sehun remembers having one too many years ago, and the feeling is weird, almost like deja vu.
“Our station is producing a show, a reality tv show, and it’s a game where ex-celebrities and people who want a second shot at the life they lost go through eliminations and..stuff.” He’s not the best at descriptions, but he tries his best to provide just enough information for Chanyeol to see what ha means. Admittedly, he’d done more research and digging after Joonmyun mentioned it, but Chanyeol doesn’t need to know that.
Their drinks arrive and Sehun finds himself attempting to cover up his nervousness by finishing half his cup at once. It doesn’t work.
He tries to omit the parts that state that participants are solely responsible for their actions, and how it sounds like a twisted idea to pit desperate people against each other in a bid to regain a life they are too deluded to leave behind. Chanyeol seems to be filling in the blanks pretty well though.
He is starting to look alarmed, eyebrows raised so high into his forehead that in any other circumstances it would have been funny. Sehun rushes through his speech, pausing only to breathe twice in between. He waits in trepidation for Chanyeol’s answer.
“No, I’m not letting you do it.” Sehun bristles at Chanyeol’s tone. Like a mother lecturing her child. He hadn’t thought he would agree easily either, but still a part of him had been hoping.
“It doesn’t affect you, either way.”
“Look, I’m saying this because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go into this knowingly.” Chanyeol is completely ignoring his drink by now, cup pushed to the side, eyes boring holes onto the top of Sehun’s head. Sehun tries to come up with a reasonable explanation, a rational argument to justify what he is saying. He’s not sure if it’s to appease Chanyeol or reassure himself, though.
“But...if I want to?” Sehun is a lot quieter now, his voice almost indistinguishable even to himself. He lifts his head slightly, and Chanyeol looks him in the eye, slowly echoing his words. “You...want to?”
“I’m just saying,” Sehun is a little annoyed, just a little spiteful, like he is seventeen again and his maturity, his decision to debut in a world that he isn’t familiar with, is being questioned, “What if?”
Chanyeol seems to genuinely think about it for a while, worry still ingrained on his face. In the interim their food arrives, and Sehun busies himself with severing his pork cutlet repeatedly. His knife scratches against the plate with a loud screech.
“I know life might be dissatisfactory for you now, but I honestly think it’s because you haven’t come to terms with what you really want yet. You think you want it, but it’s actually just- you want the memory of it. But it’s not the same anymore.” Sehun knows Chanyeol is trying to put it gently, but it just makes him even angrier.
“Let’s just..eat. I’m not making a decision yet.” His tone is final and he leaves no room for argument, shovelling the cutlet into his mouth in an attempt to force it all down like the uncomfortable atmosphere. Chanyeol reaches for his plate slowly without another word.
The rest of dinner and the walk home are a lot more silent.
-
Sehun rises from bed in the morning, choosing to spend the first five minutes of his day staring blankly at the ceiling and fidgeting in his bed to ease the process of leaving it. The calendar hanging from the wall, barely marked, helpfully tells him it’s Monday.
He's gotten used to sleeping in, a much lazier lifestyle than the rigid one he's been trained to accommodate since twelve, but one he's eased into exceptionally. It is perhaps the only part of life now that he is unperturbed by. He has to be in the editing room by nine today, so he drags himself into the bathroom.
Sehun dresses a lot more quickly nowadays, with no more need to coordinate anything. It’s ironic, actually, how things are so much faster, yet life crawls by at a much slower pace. By habit he checks the internet, hand idly sweeping a teaspoon through half-dissolved cereal when the title of the second to bottom news article catches his eye.
Baekhyun it says. Suicide, it says right after.
He doesn't remember dropping his phone. All he hears is the dull clack of plastic on ceramic, and suddenly his hand burns from hot water, but it doesn't hurt as much as it should. The sofa and tv screen come into view for a split second before his vision blurs at the edges, his mind suddenly dizzy.
It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.
It is a Monday and the usual peak hour commute can be heard all the way in his apartment, the impatient honks and the loud collective sounds of engines running from street level. It is the end of Spring in 2028 and the wind and sun are in perfect harmony, the sky impossibly clear and the air fresh. It is like every other day, and nothing feels out of place.
Everyone should be going about their lives as per usual. But everything is different.
And it makes too much sense.
-
He thinks about it a lot. He really does. It weighs down a lot more on his mind than he’d like.
But his mind’s been made, already had been right from the start. Maybe he’d just been buying time. He’ll have to get to informing sooner or later anyway, and he decides now is a good time, before he backs out. Sehun fishes his phone out from his back pocket and hesitantly types a text. His fingers feel a little numb.
“i tried thinking of it from your point of view but I’m sorry, my mind’s made up. It might be a good thing for me, we’re all looking for different things in life and this might be mine.”
Chanyeol responds soon after, a short pleading, Are you sure you know what it is exactly?
Sehun doesn’t reply, slipping the phone back into his pocket instead.
-
it’s been five weeks, and the game venue is stifling. The same studio is used, over and over, but it seems to hone in, close in on them tighter every week. Five pairs have been eliminated and it is with fear that Sehun enters the studio again. They are hanging by a hair’s breath, having narrowly avoided the last rank last week, much to Joonmyun’s frustration.
He hasn’t been taking any chances, peppering Sehun with chat messages discussing future plans in the middle of the night, obsessively putting details together. They’ve decided on a new course of action for the fifth week. They outline their plan for the day, which Joonmyun presents, very calmly and meticulously, during a private presentation.
Sehun still doesn’t quite understand, the plan a little too intricate and exhausting for him, but he thinks he’s managed to grasp one or two of the main ideas. And as long as he tags along, he will be fine. If Joonmyun’s numerous instruction texts are anything to go on, he’s devised a way to edge out the rest of them. He feels a little like a freeloader, but it’s not a foreign feeling - it’s not like he hadn’t lived years of his life like that.
Sehun remembers a text about a pre-planned scandal, rousing him at 3.15am in the morning, message tone too sharp and chirpy for the dead of the night. The articles are scheduled to go up at a specific time, all potentially career-damaging. Not just the kind that generates bad publicity; Joonmyun had managed to dig up actual instances of evading the law. That’s what he says, anyway.
Sehun has enough knowledge and experience to know that controversies are interesting, entertaining and fun for the public when they delve into private lives and scandalous gossip. But one misstep with the law or special treatment you get by being a celebrity induces anger and hate in equal amounts. Sehun has seen it be the downfall of many a group.
So at 8PM, major news portals are full of the news. A tax evasion here, drunk driving there, splashed all over the rotating headers and one-liner headers, mixed in with a couple of everyday news reports.
Sehun is slightly uncomfortable with it, it’s the furthest length they have gone to, and each week it gets progressively worse. Joonmyun has his laptop up and running, each of eight tabs open to a different news portal, refreshing every three minutes for updated statistics.
Then five minutes after the last article appeared, Sehun sees a photo of himself attached to a headline, freshly published. It starts off as one article on Naver. Then more appear, on Nate and Daum, the comment sections and view statistics rising rapidly. People start forum threads discussing it on Pann and Instiz and Oh Sehun finds himself back in the tabloids at the age of 33.
Joonmyun hadn’t said anything about this. He feels a little, just a little, betrayed.
It’s a smaller scandal, something involving relationships with a much younger girl (untrue), and a rendezvous at a dodgy motel out of town (also untrue), but when Sehun looks at Joonmyun for clarification in alarm he’s brushed off with a composed “We have to throw them off our trail. Negative publicity is better than no publicity. Small scandals can be beneficial. I have this under control.”
There’s nothing he can say to that, so he shuts up, busying himself with scrolling through the site. Two cameramen stand against two walls of the room, filming the entire process silently. They never comment on anything going on, but Sehun knows they are secretly taking it all in for sharing later, silently mocking.
There is no privacy, everything is aired, and Sehun knows Joonmyun is running a risk here. Hoping that the public will be too preoccupied with the offenses of the others to overlook the lows they've stooped to, hoping that the apparent desperation is enough to override the disgust.
He feels a little lonely. It’s nothing like what he remembers. Cameras following their every move, the nation talks about them, and his name in the search engines for a little while (next to “exo”), but there is no more excitement. Just a long, drawn out, tiredness, inching forwards little by little.
Sometimes on a run down to the grocery store, elderly folk and middle-aged women on the street point and gossip openly. There are the office ladies at lunch hour attempting to throw subtle looks at him, whispering derisively behind their palms.
He doesn’t want to be known anymore. Maybe he has been out of the camera frame for too long to adapt back into the lifestyle. Maybe it gets harder when you’re older, no longer impressionable and bright-eyed.
Sehun hasn’t contacted Chanyeol in quite a while, since the day he ignored the text. There is no doubt Chanyeol has watched the show though, the ratings reflecting a steady audience. Sehun knows competition and elimination, watching someone degrade themselves for another’s entertainment, is a hit these days, appealing to a sadistic part of the audience. But Chanyeol would have watched, if only to track his progress. (Right?)
He has lost track of how far they have gone and how much further they will have to go, the boundaries blurring into dust as competition gets tougher and the will to win stronger. It’s cheating their way to the top, every week a battle of who lies better, comes up with more elaborate schemes belying their desperation.
They can only win if they manage to tickle the fancy of the public. He can only escape by paying money he doesn’t have anymore. It’s a sealed-off maze and he does not have the energy to break through the walls.
Sehun thinks of giving up, but even after all these years, he’s just a little bit unsure.
They gather in the studio, and the results of the votes pour in, spotlights flashing on and off above each group’s platform. There are a million votes, a new high, and Sehun should be happy, maybe a part of him is, but he feels strangely unsettled. Joonmyun has his hands interlocked beside him, tensely eying the flashing images on the LCD.
Sehun closes his eyes, the beeping of sound effects ringing in his ears in stark contrast to the utter silence of the studio. Then the beeping stops and he cracks open an eye slowly. Joonmyun is smiling, the three contestants next to them marked out by a bright overhead light. They are a mix of shocked and frustrated, their facial expressions bordering on deranged.
Sehun wonders if that’s what they would have looked like if it’d been them. He can’t find a clear answer to that.
They’ve made it past. Sehun leans onto the podium for support, slowly sinking to his knees. He can hear the ending sequence begin to play and the closing statement, somewhere in the distance.
-
Sehun gets a letter in the mail two weeks into the game. They’ve just gone past the second round, and he already feels like a deadweight. Joonmyun is pouring everything into this. He wants to, but part of him is always hesitant, always not as ready.
He hasn’t shaved in two days, cooped up at home, sleeping the days and nights away. He’ll have to do it later, the broadcast is tomorrow. It really does feel vaguely like their idol days, having to be this self-conscious, and occasionally people recognize him on the street again, point him out as “that guy on the show about fame”, except this time there is no manager and no agency to control their image or to fend off attacks.
Negative publicity is better than no publicity, Sehun reminds himself.
The letter looks a little mussed up, like it somehow got lost somewhere along the post route, sent to the wrong part of the country, and has just made it’s way back. The postal stamp on it is dated more than a month ago, just a thin sheath of paper in a brown envelope. The handwriting is a little familiar.
Hey, Sehun,
I’m sending this to most people I know. Being a cheesy melodramatic sob. Just. I hope you’re doing well. I guess this is a farewell of sorts? Also an explanation. I know you’re wondering. Unless our postal system suddenly speeds up and this reaches you by tomorrow. You’ve made an impact on my life and so I wanted to make sure you’ll live well or something.
Fame was good while it lasted, but we have to learn to live without it, you know? It’s been years, but I still think about the conversation we had. I hope you remember which one I’m talking about. Remember the rush I talked about? The only thing separating life and death is the rush of knowing it’s great to be alive, the fact that getting up every morning and breathing and just setting out on daily adventures pumps adrenaline through your veins, and that was the rush I wanted to live for. It still is. But it seems pretty much impossible. I’ve tried. And now I’m tired of trying. I know very well that this isn’t the best way out, hell, it shouldn’t even be an option, but I guess this is where the divide ends for me.
You’re not looking for the adrenaline, are you, Sehun? Deep down you probably know yourself best, but I just want to remind you to think everything through. A lot of things may seem tempting but they’re really not that much. There are different phases in life, and, you know, life goes on, we have to learn to move on.
Sehun suddenly remembers that day, rain pouring onto grimy windows, and Baekhyun looking at him like he had him all figured out. He shivers a little as he shuffles into the lift, and presses the button for his floor level, leaning against the railing.
I hope you find something worthwhile, something worth living for. I hope you find something that makes you happy to be alive because the rush of living fills every cell in you when you wake up. Good luck. (Don’t do it my way, I’m pretty sure there is adrenaline involved, but you’ll probably only be able to do it once.)
Sehun wonders why the letter only reaches him now.
-
There are innumerable tabloid reports about how idols love dating on the Han River, at night, where most of the general public will not notice. It’s become more dangerous over the years, a slightly higher risk of being discovered, but Sehun is spread out over the grass on a slight slope. Chanyeol is next to him.
Neither of them speak, both silently staring at the moon, the soft ripples of the water splashing against the bay audible from there.
Sehun’s not exactly sure what kind of relationship they have. They’re not dating exactly. They can’t be. But it feels like something more than bandmates.
He was the one who proposed escaping for a while. The dorm has become a tough place to be in, the air hostile and thick. Chanyeol closes his eyes and spreads out his arms on the grass, breathing slowly out through his nose.
“I didn’t think Joonmyun would go so far, I’m sorry.” It’s a pathetic excuse to have.
“What are you apologizing for, you didn’t do anything though.” Chanyeol’s mutters, so serene and quiet his words seem to be carried through the air. Sehun’s not sure if he really is as carefree as he sounds, or if Chanyeol’s just forcing himself to get through it.
“I just feel...bad. I can’t believe it. I met him when I was fourteen and he just seemed so...intelligent and warm and I- can’t believe it. I’ve always tried to justify everything he does but it’s not working out anymore.” Sehun recalls the time, just a month before their comeback, when Joonmyun had left Baekhyun drunk on the streets after a night out, according to him, by accident, and conveniently got him featured in the tabloids.
But Joonmyun had stepped out then and shouldered responsibility like the leader he was, and Sehun had told himself that it was entirely possible he hadn’t noticed Baekhyun was missing from the van. He hadn’t been completely sober either.
That isn’t the only time. Sehun remembers how Zitao had reacted when the smoking photos were accidentally leaked. He’d always been sensitive, always been targeted, and so although it helped them stay a common forum topic for a while it had been a huge blow for him.
“You can’t really blame him though,” Chanyeol’s voice is thoughtful, “He invested so many years into this. Went against so many beliefs, and he has a lot of pride. He needs to succeed. He’s a lot more desperate than us for that because to him it is crucial.”
“It scares me that I don’t know how far he is willing to go now though.”
“Why?” Chanyeol switches to a lighthearted tone amazingly quick, a little teasing even.
“I just, wish we could stop him, I guess.” Sehun turns on his side, admiring Chanyeol’s side profile against a backdrop of lights pouring out from windows across the bank. Moments like these, when most of the city is asleep and at home, and they can finally have space to themselves like the whole world is theirs to own, feel extremely liberating.
“Me too.” Chanyeol sounds a little sad now, the rhythm of his words slower, “But what can we do?”
“Maybe we can talk him out of it? We can help him realize what he’s been doing.” Sehun suggests a little too hopefully, scrambling upwards to prop his elbows up on the grass like it’ll help him think. Many of these actions don’t really help, like how he comes to grip his pants pocket for support when nervous, but it calms him down mentally, so he does them anyway.
“No, see, the thing is, I think Joonmyun is perfectly aware of what he is doing. He knows its wrong and he does it anyway. It’s not a case of ignorance or being misguided. It’s the way his brain works you know? You did say he was intelligent.” Chanyeol states it so calmly, like a fact he’s come to accept.
Sehun shifts on the grass. He doesn’t know what Chanyeol is implying, or why Chanyeol sees something he doesn’t.
“If we had stepped in earlier it might have worked. I think I regret standing by and not doing anything. I’ve realized it’s a lot worse than if I’d actively played a part. Because I had the power to stop something when it was happening, and I could have prevented something, and I know it was happening, but I chose to sit back. So it’s fair punishment, I guess.” A lone cyclist whizzes by, shadow stretching under the streetlamps, the sound of his wheels on the gravelly path slowly fading away with the words into nothing.
Sehun suddenly realizes that he too, is guilty of that same offense. He’s never thought of it that way, but now, in retrospect, they had all been there to see the start of it. The many coincidences and set-ups, as the explanations started getting more varied and less believable.
They are the ones who allowed it to happen. Sehun feels a heavy pang of guilt nestled somewhere in his chest.
He remembers the other question bothering him, and, in an effort to distract himself, Sehun wonders aloud “Why aren’t you doing anything about the rumours. They didn’t happen. If you stood out with answers you could prove them all wrong.” He tugs his phone out of his pocket subconsciously and fiddles with the camera function, holding the phone up forty-five degrees for a throwaway selfie.
Chanyeol hums a sound instead of responding, so Sehun prods him on the side.
“Did Joonmyun know where I actually was that night though?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Sehun chooses his words carefully, wondering what Joonmyun would have done if he realized that that night, Chanyeol hadn’t spent the night outside, had, in fact, been in his room, somewhere under the covers together. That they had been careful for Chanyeol to leave early for filming the next day, long before the rest of the dorm awoke. That they have an ambiguous relationship even Sehun is unable to define.
Sehun wonders if he would have released rumours then.
He winces at the answer that comes to mind. No he wouldn’t.
“But you know, right?” Sehun clucks at the obvious, snorting a bit, “Of course, you were with me. Don’t ask rhetorical questions.”
“Then why haven’t you said anything? You could be my alibi.” Chanyeol says, jokingly, like it’s a casual comment he doesn’t take seriously himself.
But it makes Sehun fall silent, pause in the middle of restlessly pulling out a blade of grass. There is a small thudding in his chest as he realizes Chanyeol is right. A sort of sinking feeling. Everything would be solved if he’d admitted it. But he hasn’t said anything. He has too much to lose, maybe.
He feels bad. Horrible, even. Conflicted.
But Chanyeol chuckles a little, “It’s okay. I’m okay. I understand. It’s just a scandal anyway. Nothing new. We’ve had plenty of that and now true and false no longer matters. People aren’t looking for answers. They’re looking for entertainment over the dinner table, people only see what they want to see. I would have stopped you from saying anything anyway.”
One of the last buses drive past the bridge nearby, engine terribly loud in the still night. Sehun can’t shake off the burden of his words, until Chanyeol interrupts, voice a little clearer.
“But hey, promise me we won't ever allow ourselves to get sucked into that blackhole.”
“Yeah, I won’t.” A warm blush spreads across his skin.
And then, in a moment of spontaneity, he closes the distance between their bodies and scrambles onto Chanyeol’s outspread arms, settles into the embrace. Chanyeol’s arm comes to fit around his shoulders.
-
Poll