[2PM; ot6] for it's the moon they are after
title: for it's the moon they are after
pairing: ot6
rating: pg-13
~2,9k
a/n: idk what to do with this anymore. thank you ongew and emmyxogast. i love you.
You have to be afraid in order to be called brave; have to hold something you’re scared of losing in your palms with weak, bony fingers desperate not to let anything slip away between cracks and bones, to say you’ve seen it all. Braveness is a lot of things but it’s not dry cheeks and lips pressed into a tight line with your head held high.
Junsu is a patient today. There’s a light-blue hospital gown on the bed, neatly folded, waiting for him to put it on; to trace his fingers along the fabric, smooth out creases with his hands, blue veins barely visible underneath skin. A clear glass of water is waiting for him next to the bed but the clock on the wall is impatient, always ticking away. If time were to ever stop, though, he thinks this would be it, this moment tucked away from the rest of the world with four crisp white walls towering over him. Junsu likes to call it “routine maintenance” for the word’s lack of subtlety but almost cruel frankness, because this is nothing if not that. They will fix him, keep him going -hide tiny scratches with a layer of wax, change the oil so he’ll run more smoothly- because this is a hospital and they are doctors and doctors fix people who are broken, people like Junsu. This time it’s his knee but the last time was his face, and the next will be his heart.
“Did you come here alone, Kim Junsu-sshi?” It’s the nurse standing at the doorjamb asking, dressed in a light-blue uniform with her hair pulled back to a neat bun. She looks so young, Junsu thinks, and puts on his nicest and warmest smile just to watch her get flustered, pink tinting the high of her cheeks.
“Yes,” he answers, “I came here alone.” And the nurse bows at that, juts something down on her chart and mutters an excuse to flee the scene to give Junsu some privacy. He watches the way she carries herself, footsteps a bit uncertain yet light and blithe somehow.
He digs out his phone and sees an unread text message from one of the guys.
we’ll come around later tonight
Junsu sighs as he texts back an “okay”, and goes through the hospital protocol; he puts on the gown and tries not to look too dead.
;;
Junsu is a singer today as he lets his voice vibrate in the air, deep and warm, hitting every note. The hand holding the mic is clammy and everything feels real, like it’s supposed to, on this small stage downtown Daegu. At the age of sixteen, Junsu’s singing about love and heartbreak knowing nothing about either one because this isn’t Seoul with its beautiful people to fall in love with madly, deeply and recklessly -- this is Daegu.
He ends up winning the competition because people love his voice.
“Congratulations! Our company would like to train you to become a real singer. We can make your dream happen.”
And Junsu thinks finally, finally.
;;
It’s their debut stage and this is what he’s been waiting for all his life; what they’ve been waiting for since they greeted each other with an awkward hello, hi, annyeonghaseyo, let’s get along. There are the seven of them standing in line, shaking with limbs that have turned too long and numb from excitement (that grows with every intake of air), and fear, anticipation as a thin layer of cold sweat on pale skin. Junho says he feels like throwing up any minute now and Jay has a hand on his back whispering something along the lines of “It’s okay, Junho-yah. We’re gonna rock the stage, we’re gonna become the best” and Junsu thinks that yes, yes.
They will make everyone remember their names by the end of this broadcast.
And later that night, when the lights are turned off and there are only broken souls wandering on the streets, the seven of them will sneak out of their dorm in old, worn soft sneakers and pajama bottoms and baggy tees. They’ll go to a food stall down the street and order a few dishes of spicy chicken to celebrate life, and pay the ahjumma using an awkward dance (right there in the middle of the street) along with wrinkled 5,000 won bills. Junsu will feel happiness bubbling over and he’ll try to hold a hand on his mouth to stop laughter from escaping but it’s kind of useless because that right there, is everything he’s ever dreamed of.
;;
Junsu is a composer today as he pushes back his glasses with a precise movement. There are many blank sheets of paper crowding the desk and then a few with small waves sketched on them, grey curves against white.
“I’ve never seen the sea before.” Junsu speaks with a shaky voice, because it feels like the wind might just take them away to the sea if he’s not cautious enough. He hugs himself a little tighter staring at big waves hitting the rocky shore.
“I grew up by the sea,” Wooyoung says and smiles like it’s not this black night-sky he’s seeing, but the bright sun and pretty, fluffy clouds and children playing in the sand and fishermen taking their boats back to shore, coming home after a long day. Junsu thinks he could imagine it play out in front of his eyes: a younger, much more naive Wooyoung with dreams that even Busan couldn’t hold back.
“Can you tell me what it was like?” Junsu nudges his scarf with his jaw, pulling thick fabric to cover sore skin and bruises, traces of Seoul (and maybe his dreams, too).
Wooyoung’s smile stretches. “I could write a song about it,” he says, and Junsu reckons someday, one day.
There’s a song about love by the ocean, about going and coming back time after time to the person you love.
;;
There’s a message from his parents on his phone waiting to be read but he’s busy -he’s trying to record a song, everything needs to be perfect- he can’t right now. Later, he tells himself. Later. Later.
Later, he will read it and reply them that yes, he’s well and yes, he’s eating three meals a day and getting enough sleep to keep going. The boys are getting along just fine, they don’t need to worry about him; he’s invincible, they’re invincible.
Later, he will make them proud and bring home a golden record framed in an extravagant yet tasteful manner. “I’m finally a real artist, finally,” he will beam at them, smiling so hard it hurts more than it should because the doctor screwed his jaw too tight.
“Let’s try it again, hyung. I can take it higher than that.” Junsu speaks, fingers skimming the music sheets. The glass separating two rooms isn’t thick enough to mute out quiet pleas coming from five grown men standing on the other side. They’re not begging, but it’s close to that.
Later, he’ll think back to all of this and feel regret tugging his hair, scratching his skin red and raw, but there’s no passion there.
;;
It’s close to 1 a.m. when he decides to sneak out through a window of their bedroom. The boys are asleep, everyone tired after another day of recording that sadistic show they like to call entertainment, and Junsu can feel his heartbeat going above hundred. There’s this girl, this beautiful girl with long black hair - that smells like strawberries and vanilla - he’s in love with. She’s an upcoming singer too, trying to weave her way into the business with smiling eyes and pink lips. Junsu’s never felt like this before, so it must be love. It must be, because he’s risking all the hard work he’s poured into this life in Seoul just to be with her for one night, to gaze at the stars and whisper sweet words into her ear.
But when months later their ways split -she goes to the right and crosses the ocean to conquer Japan with other beautiful people to meet and greet and other guys to stargaze with, while he stays behind- Junsu comes out wiser. At least he’d like to think that way as he watches the water boil on their mini stove with fifteen packs -the giants always eat more than 1 pack- of ramen placed next to it.
“Hyuuuung~” It’s Jinwoon, fresh from the shower with dark hair dripping water onto the floor, pouting. “I’m staaaaarving.”
“Dinner’s ready in a bit, Jinwoon-ah.” He says, a hand coming up to ruffle the younger boy’s hair, fingers running through thick, black curls.
In a bit, he tells himself before those words turn into a single, finally, like years before and years later.
;;
Junsu was born to do this; to stand on stage with five other men, to share his dream with them and let them take glimpses of vivid colours and shadows made out of his thirst for recognition. He was born to shine bright on stage, stare at the big lights in the eye and not cower under their malicious stare. He turns to his right and sees sweat-drenched men and women, singers and dancers, with a permanent smile plastered on their faces doing the thing they do best; performing.
“Hyung! Come here!” It’s a shirtless Chansung skipping towards him, skin too pale yet the look on his face so carefree and untroubled. This, Junsu thinks, is what makes Seoul his home when he opens his arms to welcome Chansung, awkward yet right, somehow, at the same time.
;;
Junho says he’s sorry, says he’d come back if he could but there are people who need him here; children that grow happy at the sight of an old football and the man kicking it. But it’s not like I don’t need you here. They say he’s got weird eyes, but it’s okay because his eyes are special; they smile, too, they tell him. He cries during the phone call, tired and breathless sobs breaking through his thin voice, and Junsu finds it hard to understand every word because they’re all twisted by sadness, loose strings everywhere he looks.
“It’s okay,” he says, because even with the six of them together, they cannot beat death. “You sound tired. Try to get some sleep, Junho-yah.”
“But hyung-” Junho half-whines, and Junsu can picture him there, in his tent, gripping the phone like a lost child. “I should be there with you and the guys.”
“It’s okay,” Junsu repeats like a broken record, “It’s okay,” and feels tired boneless.
Nichkhun calls the next day around noon because last night was too soon and no one calls the person whose dad’s just passed away in the morning anyway. Junsu can picture him sleepless, tossing in his bed all night, mind creating incoherent strings of Thai, Korean and English. Yet when spoken, Nichkhun’s words are carefully picked, each with a purpose to console, to share the pain, to make it go away -- he says stuff like “Your dad is in a better place now. Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t see it coming. Hey, hey, hey-ssshh” in awfully perfect Korean, when he really means, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here”. Junsu finds himself wanting to break something - may it be Nichkhun’s perfected front, or the vase they keep in the living room - to see them fall apart, shards everywhere to step on.
“Hyung,” Chansung calls for him, and then there are strong arms wrapped around his frame before he can say, No, it’s okay. I’m fine, really am, just, fine. It’s all but quiet tears wetting the shoulder of the t-shirt he’s wearing with arms still too tight around him, and a heart trying to break through ribcage, crack open ivory bones to colour them red. Junsu wants to feel thankful for having someone who’s ready to shed tears for him but he’s not strong enough, so instead, jealousy is all he feels for the years Chansung gets to spend with his family; with his dad, his mom, his older brother, and all the laughs they’ll share together as themselves.
“Let’s give him some privacy, guys.” Taecyeon speaks on the other side of his bedroom door, and Junsu knows he understands the best because he always does out of the six of them.
In fact, Taecyeon understands everyone he’s ever loved because they all leave their imprint in his heart, already holding more that it can take. Junsu smiles, packing his bag as if he’s going on a weekend holiday and not to some funeral, his dad’s funeral, when he hears retreating footsteps and three heartbeats louder than the music they make. If he’s persistent enough, he can almost hear three other ones, miles and miles away, thumping hollow and slow, yet persistently enough, just to reach his heart.
Later on, he’d find Taecyeon standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall next to their front door, a little clueless with words and actions because after all this time, after everything, Taecyeon still manages to hold onto his naivety like a small child clutching his mother’s hand.
“I’m coming with you.” It’s a whisper that holds a promise of better times and forevers.
They’re not invincible, Junsu knows this, but with Taecyeon he wants to believe otherwise.
;;
It’s a huge honour to be standing on this stage all by himself. The spotlight is shining only on him, and the audience are sitting in their seats, singing along to the song he’s performing. Some day, Junsu thinks, some day he’ll perform his self-written song like this and people can’t help but stop and watch his performance. Their breath will hitch and get stuck in their throats because he’s just that good. It’s not the song that remains immortal, though; it’s the singer.
And yet, there’s something about taking someone else’s song and making it your own, changing the beat and taking the performance further, that makes Junsu’s fingers itch to hold onto something, a hand with a strong pulse under the thin skin of wrists -- and he realizes something that’d been so obvious right from the start.
That there’s nothing better than watching Nichkhun playing the piano on stage, voice a little shaky because no matter how professional he is, his shell cracks sometimes. (But then backstage, they’re all watching over him, thinking us against the world, maybe.)
That there’s nothing more amazing than a sweaty Wooyoung dancing like it’s his last time to ever follow the beat with his body, fluid movements taking over the stage, and the diamonds on his jacket sparkling, sparkling, sparkling.
That Junho’s place is on stage eyes twinkling under those lights and so happy, he’d burst into a million tiny particles if Chansung wasn’t right there, standing next to him and smiling just like when they were seventeen with longer hair, naïve and nervous to bits.
;;
He’s sipping his black coffee, its bitterness the only thing he’s tasted for days, when Wooyoung comes in and sits down next to him on the bed. Wooyoung’s body radiates warmth even if there are a few inches between their bodies and Junsu feels like this might be enough. They don’t speak for a long moment and only stare out the window, looking at the city’s skyline but not really seeing anything. When Junsu finally puts down his mug that’s turned cold long ago, he says:
“It doesn’t feel real.” His voice is not as controlled as it would normally be, but Wooyoung doesn’t seem to mind it much.
“Does anything ever, anymore.” Wooyoung speaks and Junsu knows he’s acting like this, putting up a pretense of some strong soldier with an armour to fight off enemies, only for him. He wants to tell him it’s okay to cry but who is he to tell anyone anything anymore. He’s the one whose dad has died.
When he finally finds the courage to open his cell phone, its mailbox filled with hundreds of texts long ago, he doesn’t answer anyone but reads each one anyway. It’s the least he can do when no one is expecting anything from him, he thinks, rubbing his eyes. In the bunch, there’s one from an unknown number that says:
Our forever is still valid. Remember that.
And Junsu wants to run across the hall to Wooyoung’s room and tell him that yes; there are things that still feel real, even today.
;;
Junsu’s a friend, above all, as words roll off his tongue: “Congratulations, you two deserve it, really, you do. I wish you all the best,” with a smile stretched tight on his face, happy, excited, if not utmost determined. He can hear Jiyong take a deep, patient breath on the other side of the phone and thinks, he’s going to be a great leader; the best they’ve ever seen, as Youngbae’s quiet whispers in the background make into something like “Tell him we miss him, Jiyong, tell him, tell him, tell him.”
“It’ll be over sooner than you think, Junsu-yah.” Jiyong tells him with the certainty that comes not from practice and training, but charms and this honesty he’ll only come to understand years later when it’s stiff bodies in suits of black and white and tear-stained cheeks and bony fingers reaching and curling around the mass of five men. The stage lights have never been brighter.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.”
pairing: ot6
rating: pg-13
~2,9k
a/n: idk what to do with this anymore. thank you ongew and emmyxogast. i love you.
You have to be afraid in order to be called brave; have to hold something you’re scared of losing in your palms with weak, bony fingers desperate not to let anything slip away between cracks and bones, to say you’ve seen it all. Braveness is a lot of things but it’s not dry cheeks and lips pressed into a tight line with your head held high.
Junsu is a patient today. There’s a light-blue hospital gown on the bed, neatly folded, waiting for him to put it on; to trace his fingers along the fabric, smooth out creases with his hands, blue veins barely visible underneath skin. A clear glass of water is waiting for him next to the bed but the clock on the wall is impatient, always ticking away. If time were to ever stop, though, he thinks this would be it, this moment tucked away from the rest of the world with four crisp white walls towering over him. Junsu likes to call it “routine maintenance” for the word’s lack of subtlety but almost cruel frankness, because this is nothing if not that. They will fix him, keep him going -hide tiny scratches with a layer of wax, change the oil so he’ll run more smoothly- because this is a hospital and they are doctors and doctors fix people who are broken, people like Junsu. This time it’s his knee but the last time was his face, and the next will be his heart.
“Did you come here alone, Kim Junsu-sshi?” It’s the nurse standing at the doorjamb asking, dressed in a light-blue uniform with her hair pulled back to a neat bun. She looks so young, Junsu thinks, and puts on his nicest and warmest smile just to watch her get flustered, pink tinting the high of her cheeks.
“Yes,” he answers, “I came here alone.” And the nurse bows at that, juts something down on her chart and mutters an excuse to flee the scene to give Junsu some privacy. He watches the way she carries herself, footsteps a bit uncertain yet light and blithe somehow.
He digs out his phone and sees an unread text message from one of the guys.
we’ll come around later tonight
Junsu sighs as he texts back an “okay”, and goes through the hospital protocol; he puts on the gown and tries not to look too dead.
;;
Junsu is a singer today as he lets his voice vibrate in the air, deep and warm, hitting every note. The hand holding the mic is clammy and everything feels real, like it’s supposed to, on this small stage downtown Daegu. At the age of sixteen, Junsu’s singing about love and heartbreak knowing nothing about either one because this isn’t Seoul with its beautiful people to fall in love with madly, deeply and recklessly -- this is Daegu.
He ends up winning the competition because people love his voice.
“Congratulations! Our company would like to train you to become a real singer. We can make your dream happen.”
And Junsu thinks finally, finally.
;;
It’s their debut stage and this is what he’s been waiting for all his life; what they’ve been waiting for since they greeted each other with an awkward hello, hi, annyeonghaseyo, let’s get along. There are the seven of them standing in line, shaking with limbs that have turned too long and numb from excitement (that grows with every intake of air), and fear, anticipation as a thin layer of cold sweat on pale skin. Junho says he feels like throwing up any minute now and Jay has a hand on his back whispering something along the lines of “It’s okay, Junho-yah. We’re gonna rock the stage, we’re gonna become the best” and Junsu thinks that yes, yes.
They will make everyone remember their names by the end of this broadcast.
And later that night, when the lights are turned off and there are only broken souls wandering on the streets, the seven of them will sneak out of their dorm in old, worn soft sneakers and pajama bottoms and baggy tees. They’ll go to a food stall down the street and order a few dishes of spicy chicken to celebrate life, and pay the ahjumma using an awkward dance (right there in the middle of the street) along with wrinkled 5,000 won bills. Junsu will feel happiness bubbling over and he’ll try to hold a hand on his mouth to stop laughter from escaping but it’s kind of useless because that right there, is everything he’s ever dreamed of.
;;
Junsu is a composer today as he pushes back his glasses with a precise movement. There are many blank sheets of paper crowding the desk and then a few with small waves sketched on them, grey curves against white.
“I’ve never seen the sea before.” Junsu speaks with a shaky voice, because it feels like the wind might just take them away to the sea if he’s not cautious enough. He hugs himself a little tighter staring at big waves hitting the rocky shore.
“I grew up by the sea,” Wooyoung says and smiles like it’s not this black night-sky he’s seeing, but the bright sun and pretty, fluffy clouds and children playing in the sand and fishermen taking their boats back to shore, coming home after a long day. Junsu thinks he could imagine it play out in front of his eyes: a younger, much more naive Wooyoung with dreams that even Busan couldn’t hold back.
“Can you tell me what it was like?” Junsu nudges his scarf with his jaw, pulling thick fabric to cover sore skin and bruises, traces of Seoul (and maybe his dreams, too).
Wooyoung’s smile stretches. “I could write a song about it,” he says, and Junsu reckons someday, one day.
There’s a song about love by the ocean, about going and coming back time after time to the person you love.
;;
There’s a message from his parents on his phone waiting to be read but he’s busy -he’s trying to record a song, everything needs to be perfect- he can’t right now. Later, he tells himself. Later. Later.
Later, he will read it and reply them that yes, he’s well and yes, he’s eating three meals a day and getting enough sleep to keep going. The boys are getting along just fine, they don’t need to worry about him; he’s invincible, they’re invincible.
Later, he will make them proud and bring home a golden record framed in an extravagant yet tasteful manner. “I’m finally a real artist, finally,” he will beam at them, smiling so hard it hurts more than it should because the doctor screwed his jaw too tight.
“Let’s try it again, hyung. I can take it higher than that.” Junsu speaks, fingers skimming the music sheets. The glass separating two rooms isn’t thick enough to mute out quiet pleas coming from five grown men standing on the other side. They’re not begging, but it’s close to that.
Later, he’ll think back to all of this and feel regret tugging his hair, scratching his skin red and raw, but there’s no passion there.
;;
It’s close to 1 a.m. when he decides to sneak out through a window of their bedroom. The boys are asleep, everyone tired after another day of recording that sadistic show they like to call entertainment, and Junsu can feel his heartbeat going above hundred. There’s this girl, this beautiful girl with long black hair - that smells like strawberries and vanilla - he’s in love with. She’s an upcoming singer too, trying to weave her way into the business with smiling eyes and pink lips. Junsu’s never felt like this before, so it must be love. It must be, because he’s risking all the hard work he’s poured into this life in Seoul just to be with her for one night, to gaze at the stars and whisper sweet words into her ear.
But when months later their ways split -she goes to the right and crosses the ocean to conquer Japan with other beautiful people to meet and greet and other guys to stargaze with, while he stays behind- Junsu comes out wiser. At least he’d like to think that way as he watches the water boil on their mini stove with fifteen packs -the giants always eat more than 1 pack- of ramen placed next to it.
“Hyuuuung~” It’s Jinwoon, fresh from the shower with dark hair dripping water onto the floor, pouting. “I’m staaaaarving.”
“Dinner’s ready in a bit, Jinwoon-ah.” He says, a hand coming up to ruffle the younger boy’s hair, fingers running through thick, black curls.
In a bit, he tells himself before those words turn into a single, finally, like years before and years later.
;;
Junsu was born to do this; to stand on stage with five other men, to share his dream with them and let them take glimpses of vivid colours and shadows made out of his thirst for recognition. He was born to shine bright on stage, stare at the big lights in the eye and not cower under their malicious stare. He turns to his right and sees sweat-drenched men and women, singers and dancers, with a permanent smile plastered on their faces doing the thing they do best; performing.
“Hyung! Come here!” It’s a shirtless Chansung skipping towards him, skin too pale yet the look on his face so carefree and untroubled. This, Junsu thinks, is what makes Seoul his home when he opens his arms to welcome Chansung, awkward yet right, somehow, at the same time.
;;
Junho says he’s sorry, says he’d come back if he could but there are people who need him here; children that grow happy at the sight of an old football and the man kicking it. But it’s not like I don’t need you here. They say he’s got weird eyes, but it’s okay because his eyes are special; they smile, too, they tell him. He cries during the phone call, tired and breathless sobs breaking through his thin voice, and Junsu finds it hard to understand every word because they’re all twisted by sadness, loose strings everywhere he looks.
“It’s okay,” he says, because even with the six of them together, they cannot beat death. “You sound tired. Try to get some sleep, Junho-yah.”
“But hyung-” Junho half-whines, and Junsu can picture him there, in his tent, gripping the phone like a lost child. “I should be there with you and the guys.”
“It’s okay,” Junsu repeats like a broken record, “It’s okay,” and feels tired boneless.
Nichkhun calls the next day around noon because last night was too soon and no one calls the person whose dad’s just passed away in the morning anyway. Junsu can picture him sleepless, tossing in his bed all night, mind creating incoherent strings of Thai, Korean and English. Yet when spoken, Nichkhun’s words are carefully picked, each with a purpose to console, to share the pain, to make it go away -- he says stuff like “Your dad is in a better place now. Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t see it coming. Hey, hey, hey-ssshh” in awfully perfect Korean, when he really means, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here”. Junsu finds himself wanting to break something - may it be Nichkhun’s perfected front, or the vase they keep in the living room - to see them fall apart, shards everywhere to step on.
“Hyung,” Chansung calls for him, and then there are strong arms wrapped around his frame before he can say, No, it’s okay. I’m fine, really am, just, fine. It’s all but quiet tears wetting the shoulder of the t-shirt he’s wearing with arms still too tight around him, and a heart trying to break through ribcage, crack open ivory bones to colour them red. Junsu wants to feel thankful for having someone who’s ready to shed tears for him but he’s not strong enough, so instead, jealousy is all he feels for the years Chansung gets to spend with his family; with his dad, his mom, his older brother, and all the laughs they’ll share together as themselves.
“Let’s give him some privacy, guys.” Taecyeon speaks on the other side of his bedroom door, and Junsu knows he understands the best because he always does out of the six of them.
In fact, Taecyeon understands everyone he’s ever loved because they all leave their imprint in his heart, already holding more that it can take. Junsu smiles, packing his bag as if he’s going on a weekend holiday and not to some funeral, his dad’s funeral, when he hears retreating footsteps and three heartbeats louder than the music they make. If he’s persistent enough, he can almost hear three other ones, miles and miles away, thumping hollow and slow, yet persistently enough, just to reach his heart.
Later on, he’d find Taecyeon standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall next to their front door, a little clueless with words and actions because after all this time, after everything, Taecyeon still manages to hold onto his naivety like a small child clutching his mother’s hand.
“I’m coming with you.” It’s a whisper that holds a promise of better times and forevers.
They’re not invincible, Junsu knows this, but with Taecyeon he wants to believe otherwise.
;;
It’s a huge honour to be standing on this stage all by himself. The spotlight is shining only on him, and the audience are sitting in their seats, singing along to the song he’s performing. Some day, Junsu thinks, some day he’ll perform his self-written song like this and people can’t help but stop and watch his performance. Their breath will hitch and get stuck in their throats because he’s just that good. It’s not the song that remains immortal, though; it’s the singer.
And yet, there’s something about taking someone else’s song and making it your own, changing the beat and taking the performance further, that makes Junsu’s fingers itch to hold onto something, a hand with a strong pulse under the thin skin of wrists -- and he realizes something that’d been so obvious right from the start.
That there’s nothing better than watching Nichkhun playing the piano on stage, voice a little shaky because no matter how professional he is, his shell cracks sometimes. (But then backstage, they’re all watching over him, thinking us against the world, maybe.)
That there’s nothing more amazing than a sweaty Wooyoung dancing like it’s his last time to ever follow the beat with his body, fluid movements taking over the stage, and the diamonds on his jacket sparkling, sparkling, sparkling.
That Junho’s place is on stage eyes twinkling under those lights and so happy, he’d burst into a million tiny particles if Chansung wasn’t right there, standing next to him and smiling just like when they were seventeen with longer hair, naïve and nervous to bits.
;;
He’s sipping his black coffee, its bitterness the only thing he’s tasted for days, when Wooyoung comes in and sits down next to him on the bed. Wooyoung’s body radiates warmth even if there are a few inches between their bodies and Junsu feels like this might be enough. They don’t speak for a long moment and only stare out the window, looking at the city’s skyline but not really seeing anything. When Junsu finally puts down his mug that’s turned cold long ago, he says:
“It doesn’t feel real.” His voice is not as controlled as it would normally be, but Wooyoung doesn’t seem to mind it much.
“Does anything ever, anymore.” Wooyoung speaks and Junsu knows he’s acting like this, putting up a pretense of some strong soldier with an armour to fight off enemies, only for him. He wants to tell him it’s okay to cry but who is he to tell anyone anything anymore. He’s the one whose dad has died.
When he finally finds the courage to open his cell phone, its mailbox filled with hundreds of texts long ago, he doesn’t answer anyone but reads each one anyway. It’s the least he can do when no one is expecting anything from him, he thinks, rubbing his eyes. In the bunch, there’s one from an unknown number that says:
Our forever is still valid. Remember that.
And Junsu wants to run across the hall to Wooyoung’s room and tell him that yes; there are things that still feel real, even today.
;;
Junsu’s a friend, above all, as words roll off his tongue: “Congratulations, you two deserve it, really, you do. I wish you all the best,” with a smile stretched tight on his face, happy, excited, if not utmost determined. He can hear Jiyong take a deep, patient breath on the other side of the phone and thinks, he’s going to be a great leader; the best they’ve ever seen, as Youngbae’s quiet whispers in the background make into something like “Tell him we miss him, Jiyong, tell him, tell him, tell him.”
“It’ll be over sooner than you think, Junsu-yah.” Jiyong tells him with the certainty that comes not from practice and training, but charms and this honesty he’ll only come to understand years later when it’s stiff bodies in suits of black and white and tear-stained cheeks and bony fingers reaching and curling around the mass of five men. The stage lights have never been brighter.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.”