twicefolds
in
wry_me
the you I forgot
Name: the you I forgot
Pairing: YunJae / DB5K-ish
Genre: ): kind of sort of.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jaejoong wakes up in the middle of Seoul and the first thing he’s conscious of is that he’s about seven centimetres shorter and has really terrible hair.
A/N: Missing Yoochun for the sake of accuracy (he only joined a few months before debut yes?) but he has a cameo! Kind of. It's OT5 at heart, really. Another impulse-written Jaejoong-centric Yunjae fic. Impulse written is the way to go! Can you tell I haven't really researched how SM trainees spend their days? XD? And it's 1st of January New Years and not Seollal, hence why they're still working...I think. This is really really rough, semi-coherent and un-BETA'd because I should be packing for my 1.5 month trip overseas, not writing fic omg what are you doing self, but I just had to post it to be all OKAY, I WAS ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING in the afternoon. BASICALLY...please allow for some creative liberty but any factual inaccuracies being pointed out would be appreciated C:
Youngwoon = Kangin
Hyukjae = Eunhyuk
/only KPOP fan who needs to Wikipedia this, apparently
--
Jaejoong wakes up in the middle of Seoul and the first thing he’s conscious of is that he’s about seven centimetres shorter and has really terrible hair.
It’s Seoul on a dusky Monday morning, the surrounding buildings steel blue shadows in the morning light. Even after years of not being back, Jaejoong recognises this neighbourhood immediately - the overgrown shrubs peeking through the top of garden walls, the orphaned washing hung out to dry on the fifth floor of the building he’s sitting against. Number 36. His old apartment - the one he had fought tooth and nail to keep from the surly landlady whose every knock on his door brought with it chills and panic - do I have enough money for rent?
His head feels heavy, full of lead weights cushioned by cottonwool, but it’s different to the sweet pounding stickiness of the hangovers he’s used to. This feels more like he’s just been hit by a truck.
He looks down at the tattered gloves attempting to keep some heat in his palms - they’ve become fingerless gloves by use, not design. He closes his eyes and tries to remember how he got here. The story, the situations are familiar, in the way of vividly remembered dreams, flashing in and out of the fuzzy mist where awareness bleeds into sleep.
He’s at Yoochun’s villa in Korea with a rowdy bunch of friends, giggling at the New Years’ ceremonies with half the contents of the pantry spilled out on the floor between them. He’s in the dressing room, with frantic stylists struggling to fit his arm into the right holes of the avant-garde jacket and the semi-comprehensible screams of fans audible through the door. English, not Korean, because they’re not allowed, at this time of year, to be visible there. He’s in his apartment, alone, with a bottle of soju in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in another, looking out at the Tokyo skyline with the Johnny’s Entertainment Countdown playing halfheartedly in the background. He’s trying to decide whether or not he wants to change the channel to Kohaku.
A group of girls in glittery dresses and coats are staggering his way, teetering on their high heels with messy hair. Jaejoong scrambles up from his seated position by the building, intending to start walking somewhere - anywhere - but one of them shouts, “Excuse me.”
They approach him with speed he doesn’t expect, with their painful looking shoes. They don’t look particularly drunk, just giggly, but the middle one steps forward. She looks so young - barely twenty - and her mascara is smudged, but there’s a glittering curiosity in her gaze as she tucks a strand of wavy dyed-brown hair behind her ear. Jaejoong turns his gaze down instinctively, conscious of the absence of sunglasses.
“Do you know the way to the nearest bus stop?” she asks. The knowledge comes to Jaejoong with unsettling ease.
“Head straight down this road and turn right.” He never thought he’d hear this voice again - the high pitched jumble of puberty and shifting vocal chords. He cringes, embarrassed by the sound.
The girls seem unperturbed. “Thanks,” the middle one smiles. “Happy New Year.”
“What year is it?” Jaejoong asks.
“2003,” one of them says, letting out a snort of laughter. “Take care of yourself.”
Jaejoong lets out a breath that becomes white and beautiful in the morning light.
--
By all logic, he should feel really scared. He starts off by trying really, really hard to remember what he was - who he was - in January, 2003 but the years have blended into a tangle of old memories and ridiculous details, like the dancer hyung who everyone thought was a Yankee when they first debuted in Japan, and how Junsu woke everyone up that one morning thinking they had overslept but it was 1am and Changmin had punched the living daylights out of him.
This is some In Heaven shit right here.
The phone he doesn’t realise he has in his pocket rings at this point, and even Jaejoong is surprised by the sound of g.o.d’s ‘Lies’ that cuts through the morning. The caller ID is blank.
“H-Hello?” he stammers into the phone.
“Yah, Kim Jaejoong,” Heechul’s voice is full of steel. Jaejoong would say his voice sounds higher and younger too, except he hasn’t spoken to Heechul since 2009 so he can’t exactly be a good judge. “Practise starts in twenty minutes and if you arrive not warmed up, Changyeon will kill you and Youngwoon might as well. He woke up especially early for this practice. Where the hell are you?”
“I-I’m on my way,” Jaejoong says, and his statement comes out sounding more like a question.
“What? You better be on your way! What happened to you last night? Yunho says you went straight home after the New Year’s party.”
It’s around this point Jaejoong starts running.
--
Heechul is crouching in the doorway of the practice room, his shoulders heaving as he draws in breaths like he’s drowning, sweat already staining his long hair. The heavy bass of music is leaking through the closed doors. Even though the seventeen-year-old part of Jaejoong is panicking and gripping his loose dancing pants in one fist, the twenty-six-year-old Jaejoong, who’s marvelling at how much he’s forgotten about the SM training rooms, is wondering how Heechul used to look so young.
“Sorry,” Jaejoong offers weakly, as Heechul lifts up his gaze in a glare. There’s a moment that passes and then Heechul sighs. “I’m too tired to kill you. Go inside. Changyeon’s got a lecture ready but the next group is just about to start.”
“Where’s Yunho?” Jaejoong asks, the latter’s name coming out with difficulty.
“He’s with Young-woon and that other group with Kim Junsu, Lee Hyukjae and Lee Sungmin. I think they wanted to shuffle the groups again.”
There’s censure in Heechul’s tone, and that rings a familiar bell deep within Jae’s chest - the swoop of panicked uncertainty, the constant rotation and decisions which seemed to drop from high above and into the mouths of whoever was being their manager for the day. The constant rounds of goodbyes, good lucks and farewell parties for trainees who dropped out in droves, and the occasional painful confusion when someone just disappeared.
“We’re eating together for lunch,” Heechul says, and it’s a piece of information offered reluctantly, tainted by anger for the morning. “If you can get out of rehearsal in time.”
“Okay,” Jaejoong manages, before there is a bellow of, “KIM JAEJOONG!”
Jae bows one last time to Heechul in apology and enters the practice room.
--
He stumbles, dreamlike, through the rehearsal as though whoever’s playing this sick time-travel joke has hit the fast forward button, or put him on autopilot. The dancing’s awkward - he only has his younger self’s muscle memory to rely on - but Changyeon looks as tired as Jae feels and he only shouts a couple of times before dismissing him in favour of leading the next group. ‘It’s not me being kicked out if you suck’, is what he means.
He finds his way to the lunchroom slowly, taking in every inch of the training rooms, the corridors with posters of g.o.d and BoA plastered along the noticeboards. Only when an older-looking hyung passes him with a discman in hand does it occur to him how much times have changed.
The cafeteria is almost deserted, except for the rowdy group in the corner. Then one of them looks up, their eyes meet and it’s like something from a freaking movie, isn’t it, because Jung Yunho raises an arm and calls out. “Jaejoongie!”
The four boys with Yunho look up as well, and it should be something from a family reunion or something because he’s staring at Kangin, Sungmin and Eunhyuk, and the rush of fond nostalgia and pain should be enough to make him cry. Except Jaejoong’s first, knee-jerk reaction is to laugh because everyone’s hair looks ridiculous.
“You’re smiling really creepily you know,” Kangin says, giving him a punch on the arm. Seventeen year old Jaejoong is skinny and the punch hurts like hell.
“We saved you some food,” Yunho says, waving a hand over the half-eaten plate of rice and chicken, standing up and pushing back his chair as Jaejoong sits. “Changyeon just called Youngwoon and me for a dance rehearsal with another group.”
“O-Okay,” Jaejoong stammers, still reeling at the sound of Yunho’s voice, the casual brush of Yunho’s fingers against his shoulder leaving a trail of warmth. The Yunho he last remembers talking to - cold, statuesque and silent with lowered eyes - is like oil to the water that is this Yunho, his face still round, eyes still bright and his smile still radiating optimism.
They leave, and Jaejoong looks across at Sungmin and Eunhyuk. “Where’s Junsu?” he asks, then tacks a ‘ssi’ at the end of his name at their surprised stares.
“Still in the practice room,” Eunhyuk says quietly. “The voice coach…”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because there is a clatter of an opening door, echoing in the large room, and Junsu walks in, running a hand through his hair which is a shade of blonde Jaejoong knows he needs to dig up photos of for future blackmail.
But Junsu right now has a frown making a chasm in between his eyes, jaw and mouth tight with frustration. He sits down between Eunhyuk and Sungmin, facing Jaejoong, silent and glaring down at his plate. Suppressed tears are gleaming in his eyes, but he rubs at them angrily with an arm and grabs his chopsticks a little too aggressively before bowing his head and eating.
Sungmin’s reciting their training schedule and plans afterwards, in an endearing but transparently ineffective attempt to lighten the mood, but Junsu remains stony-faced and they eventually bid Jaejoong and Junsu goodbye as they leave for dance practice.
Jaejoong looks across at Junsu with his baby face, the despair of trainee seniority lining his shoulders, and wants to lean across, grab Junsu’s hand and say, “Hey. Hey. In the future, you will sing so brilliantly that you’ll sing to a sea of red, screaming devotion. I just stayed over at your billion won apartment a few days ago, we spent the night playing the Playstation, and we slept looking out at the Seoul night lights. We’ll meet an incredible guy called Park Yoochun and we’ll fight our way out of here. Wait for it. Wait for us.”
What comes out of his mouth is, “You’re amazing.”
“What?” Junsu looks up blearily, confusion written all over his face. Jaejoong resists the impulse to pinch Junsu’s cheeks.
“Your voice,” Jaejoong says, shrugging, forcing down the urge. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing. You’re going to be even more famous one day.”
Junsu laughs, short and bitter. “One day. Yeah.”
--
Jaejoong has no idea about his schedule, and there are no angry calls from people so he wanders more around the building, working his way through the empty corridors and ghostly fire exits. He knows he’s not technically allowed, but everything about today - this situation - feels temporary, like the shift back into the proper time is at his heels, snapping with gaping jaws. It makes him feel reckless, invincible.
He’s on the seventh floor, where executive decisions are made, and walking past empty offices with frosted glass walls, when he sees someone sitting by the vending machine, head bowed.
Fifteen year old Shim Changmin is gangly, awkward and he senses Jaejoong’s presence almost immediately, looking up at the latter with sharp, wary eyes. Jaejoong flinches from that gaze, raising a hand to his cheek as the painful memory of knuckle connecting with flesh flashes through his mind - those same eyes on Changmin’s older, thinner face, burning with anger, and unspoken hurt-
“Are you here to see Sukjin-hyung?” Changmin asks somewhat stiffly. “He’s talking to my parents right now.”
Jaejoong wants to take Changmin out to eat everything there is. In their anonymity, they can eat in expensive restaurants without enduring the sound of camera clicks, eat the best beef there is without the passive-aggressive jibes and insults from producers whom they had to please, and Changmin would be able to wolf down all that he liked without Insoo-hyung commanding him to diet afterwards. They would stay up drinking and laughing without having to cover up the marks of their night with caked on concealer. But Jaejoong is suddenly aware of the finite number of coins in his pockets - the familiar weight of his wallet with credit cards and cash suddenly and conspicuously absent.
Changmin is slow to warm and even slower to forgive, but give them food, quiet hours together as two friends, two brothers, two teammates and Jaejoong would be able to find an apology and Changmin might find one too. Jaejoong closes his eyes instead, opens them, then punches Changmin on the arm with all his might. The latter jerks away with a hiss, looking up at Jaejoong with a bewildered glare and clutching at the assaulted spot.
“You’re an idiot,” Jaejoong says, unable to figure out whether it’s a smile or tears trying to manifest on his face. “I’m an idiot. We’re all idiots for letting this happen and I miss you two more than you can imagine. But you’re amazing too. You’re smart, you’re talented and you were always gonna make it big, Shim Changmin, with or without us.”
He sees Changmin start in surprise at the sound of his own name, but the ache of nostalgia is finally hitting Jaejoong now so all he can do is give his fierce little maknae-to-be another shove on the shoulder (gentler this time) and take off down the stairs before Changmin can come after him.
--
Perhaps it’s because time feels like it’s speeding up as he runs down the stairs, feeling the air press against his back, but it feels like the right time to take a chance and so Jaejoong finds himself outside Yunho and Youngwoon’s practice room, listening as the beats of music are cut off abruptly.
Yunho and Youngwoon come out looking exhausted, and the surprise on Yunho’s face, as he catches sight of Jaejoong sitting by the door, turns quickly into a welcoming grin. “You’re still here!”
“Want to walk home together?” Jaejoong asks, ignoring Young-woon’s raised eyebrow and teasing smirk.
“You live several stations down the line though,” Yunho says haltingly.
Jaejoong finds himself shrugging. “I need the exercise.”
--
They’re on a train - Kim Jaejoong and Jung Yunho - and there are no screaming fans drowning them in signs and reaching hands, or belligerent bodyguards in black sunglasses shepherding them into an open van door. Jaejoong almost enjoys being pushed around by the commuters in their grey business suits and briefcases, listening to school students chattering about exam marks.
They pass an old playground half hidden amongst overgrown shrubs, but Jaejoong can see a swing, a slide and one of those climbing frames with a net, and it’s enough for him to break away from the road, walking through the grass. He can hear Yunho following, but doesn’t stop until he’s climbed to the top of the frame, sitting on the top beam of wood with his feet leaning against the net. It’s not very high - he can barely see past the line of houses - but it's enough to make him feel a little removed, a little safer. He feels the vibration of metal as Yunho clambers up with him. They sit side by side, Jaejoong on the left, Yunho on the right, just fitting on the beam.
“You okay Jaejoongie?” Yunho asks gently, the endearment so familiar on his lips. “You’ve been a bit weird today.”
“It’s been a weird day,” Jaejoong murmurs, looking sideways at Yunho’s profile, dipped in the sunlight of the afternoon. The slope of his nose, the steady blinking of his eyes, and the flash of imperfect teeth as Yunho notices his gaze, dips his head and struggles to bite back his smile. “You’re being the weird one.”
Seventeen year old Jung Yunho reaches over and clasps seventeen year old Kim Jaejoong’s hand in his own. Seventeen year old Kim Jaejoong feels his heart speed up to a thoroughly unnatural rate as he squeezes Yunho’s hand, revelling in the quiet affection and support. They are two boys against the world, side by side, looking out into the sunset with the future still undecided and time stretching forever ahead of them.
Twenty-six year old Kim Jaejoong is trying to etch this moment into his memory in ink and permanent marker, knowing it won’t stay despite it all, and trying not to cry.
Time is catching up to Jaejoong - the cold tendrils of unforgiving hours are stirring the hairs on the back of his neck and clutching at the backs of Jaejoong’s arms with the whisper of it’s time to go, time to go, the edges of space folding in on themselves.
He’s still holding Yunho’s hand.
Terrified of saying too much. Terrified of saying too little.
“Jaejoongie?” Yunho turns to him with wide eyes, and it’s just enough for Jaejoong to lift his other hand and touch Yunho’s cheek, feather-light and trembling, feeling a great shudder run through his body.
“I miss you,” he says to Yunho, voice aching with lonely, sleepless nights, wandering through the alleyways of ‘what if’s and ‘what could have been’s. “I miss us all.”
The buildings around them collapse like dominoes, a great, sudden wave of rectification that swallows him whole. The last breath Jaejoong takes in this moment is mingled with Yunho’s, in the space between them.
--
Jaejoong wakes up to 2012 in the middle of Seoul, his lungs filled with something like love.
Pairing: YunJae / DB5K-ish
Genre: ): kind of sort of.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jaejoong wakes up in the middle of Seoul and the first thing he’s conscious of is that he’s about seven centimetres shorter and has really terrible hair.
A/N: Missing Yoochun for the sake of accuracy (he only joined a few months before debut yes?) but he has a cameo! Kind of. It's OT5 at heart, really. Another impulse-written Jaejoong-centric Yunjae fic. Impulse written is the way to go! Can you tell I haven't really researched how SM trainees spend their days? XD? And it's 1st of January New Years and not Seollal, hence why they're still working...I think. This is really really rough, semi-coherent and un-BETA'd because I should be packing for my 1.5 month trip overseas, not writing fic omg what are you doing self, but I just had to post it to be all OKAY, I WAS ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING in the afternoon. BASICALLY...please allow for some creative liberty but any factual inaccuracies being pointed out would be appreciated C:
Youngwoon = Kangin
Hyukjae = Eunhyuk
/only KPOP fan who needs to Wikipedia this, apparently
--
Jaejoong wakes up in the middle of Seoul and the first thing he’s conscious of is that he’s about seven centimetres shorter and has really terrible hair.
It’s Seoul on a dusky Monday morning, the surrounding buildings steel blue shadows in the morning light. Even after years of not being back, Jaejoong recognises this neighbourhood immediately - the overgrown shrubs peeking through the top of garden walls, the orphaned washing hung out to dry on the fifth floor of the building he’s sitting against. Number 36. His old apartment - the one he had fought tooth and nail to keep from the surly landlady whose every knock on his door brought with it chills and panic - do I have enough money for rent?
His head feels heavy, full of lead weights cushioned by cottonwool, but it’s different to the sweet pounding stickiness of the hangovers he’s used to. This feels more like he’s just been hit by a truck.
He looks down at the tattered gloves attempting to keep some heat in his palms - they’ve become fingerless gloves by use, not design. He closes his eyes and tries to remember how he got here. The story, the situations are familiar, in the way of vividly remembered dreams, flashing in and out of the fuzzy mist where awareness bleeds into sleep.
He’s at Yoochun’s villa in Korea with a rowdy bunch of friends, giggling at the New Years’ ceremonies with half the contents of the pantry spilled out on the floor between them. He’s in the dressing room, with frantic stylists struggling to fit his arm into the right holes of the avant-garde jacket and the semi-comprehensible screams of fans audible through the door. English, not Korean, because they’re not allowed, at this time of year, to be visible there. He’s in his apartment, alone, with a bottle of soju in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in another, looking out at the Tokyo skyline with the Johnny’s Entertainment Countdown playing halfheartedly in the background. He’s trying to decide whether or not he wants to change the channel to Kohaku.
A group of girls in glittery dresses and coats are staggering his way, teetering on their high heels with messy hair. Jaejoong scrambles up from his seated position by the building, intending to start walking somewhere - anywhere - but one of them shouts, “Excuse me.”
They approach him with speed he doesn’t expect, with their painful looking shoes. They don’t look particularly drunk, just giggly, but the middle one steps forward. She looks so young - barely twenty - and her mascara is smudged, but there’s a glittering curiosity in her gaze as she tucks a strand of wavy dyed-brown hair behind her ear. Jaejoong turns his gaze down instinctively, conscious of the absence of sunglasses.
“Do you know the way to the nearest bus stop?” she asks. The knowledge comes to Jaejoong with unsettling ease.
“Head straight down this road and turn right.” He never thought he’d hear this voice again - the high pitched jumble of puberty and shifting vocal chords. He cringes, embarrassed by the sound.
The girls seem unperturbed. “Thanks,” the middle one smiles. “Happy New Year.”
“What year is it?” Jaejoong asks.
“2003,” one of them says, letting out a snort of laughter. “Take care of yourself.”
Jaejoong lets out a breath that becomes white and beautiful in the morning light.
--
By all logic, he should feel really scared. He starts off by trying really, really hard to remember what he was - who he was - in January, 2003 but the years have blended into a tangle of old memories and ridiculous details, like the dancer hyung who everyone thought was a Yankee when they first debuted in Japan, and how Junsu woke everyone up that one morning thinking they had overslept but it was 1am and Changmin had punched the living daylights out of him.
This is some In Heaven shit right here.
The phone he doesn’t realise he has in his pocket rings at this point, and even Jaejoong is surprised by the sound of g.o.d’s ‘Lies’ that cuts through the morning. The caller ID is blank.
“H-Hello?” he stammers into the phone.
“Yah, Kim Jaejoong,” Heechul’s voice is full of steel. Jaejoong would say his voice sounds higher and younger too, except he hasn’t spoken to Heechul since 2009 so he can’t exactly be a good judge. “Practise starts in twenty minutes and if you arrive not warmed up, Changyeon will kill you and Youngwoon might as well. He woke up especially early for this practice. Where the hell are you?”
“I-I’m on my way,” Jaejoong says, and his statement comes out sounding more like a question.
“What? You better be on your way! What happened to you last night? Yunho says you went straight home after the New Year’s party.”
It’s around this point Jaejoong starts running.
--
Heechul is crouching in the doorway of the practice room, his shoulders heaving as he draws in breaths like he’s drowning, sweat already staining his long hair. The heavy bass of music is leaking through the closed doors. Even though the seventeen-year-old part of Jaejoong is panicking and gripping his loose dancing pants in one fist, the twenty-six-year-old Jaejoong, who’s marvelling at how much he’s forgotten about the SM training rooms, is wondering how Heechul used to look so young.
“Sorry,” Jaejoong offers weakly, as Heechul lifts up his gaze in a glare. There’s a moment that passes and then Heechul sighs. “I’m too tired to kill you. Go inside. Changyeon’s got a lecture ready but the next group is just about to start.”
“Where’s Yunho?” Jaejoong asks, the latter’s name coming out with difficulty.
“He’s with Young-woon and that other group with Kim Junsu, Lee Hyukjae and Lee Sungmin. I think they wanted to shuffle the groups again.”
There’s censure in Heechul’s tone, and that rings a familiar bell deep within Jae’s chest - the swoop of panicked uncertainty, the constant rotation and decisions which seemed to drop from high above and into the mouths of whoever was being their manager for the day. The constant rounds of goodbyes, good lucks and farewell parties for trainees who dropped out in droves, and the occasional painful confusion when someone just disappeared.
“We’re eating together for lunch,” Heechul says, and it’s a piece of information offered reluctantly, tainted by anger for the morning. “If you can get out of rehearsal in time.”
“Okay,” Jaejoong manages, before there is a bellow of, “KIM JAEJOONG!”
Jae bows one last time to Heechul in apology and enters the practice room.
--
He stumbles, dreamlike, through the rehearsal as though whoever’s playing this sick time-travel joke has hit the fast forward button, or put him on autopilot. The dancing’s awkward - he only has his younger self’s muscle memory to rely on - but Changyeon looks as tired as Jae feels and he only shouts a couple of times before dismissing him in favour of leading the next group. ‘It’s not me being kicked out if you suck’, is what he means.
He finds his way to the lunchroom slowly, taking in every inch of the training rooms, the corridors with posters of g.o.d and BoA plastered along the noticeboards. Only when an older-looking hyung passes him with a discman in hand does it occur to him how much times have changed.
The cafeteria is almost deserted, except for the rowdy group in the corner. Then one of them looks up, their eyes meet and it’s like something from a freaking movie, isn’t it, because Jung Yunho raises an arm and calls out. “Jaejoongie!”
The four boys with Yunho look up as well, and it should be something from a family reunion or something because he’s staring at Kangin, Sungmin and Eunhyuk, and the rush of fond nostalgia and pain should be enough to make him cry. Except Jaejoong’s first, knee-jerk reaction is to laugh because everyone’s hair looks ridiculous.
“You’re smiling really creepily you know,” Kangin says, giving him a punch on the arm. Seventeen year old Jaejoong is skinny and the punch hurts like hell.
“We saved you some food,” Yunho says, waving a hand over the half-eaten plate of rice and chicken, standing up and pushing back his chair as Jaejoong sits. “Changyeon just called Youngwoon and me for a dance rehearsal with another group.”
“O-Okay,” Jaejoong stammers, still reeling at the sound of Yunho’s voice, the casual brush of Yunho’s fingers against his shoulder leaving a trail of warmth. The Yunho he last remembers talking to - cold, statuesque and silent with lowered eyes - is like oil to the water that is this Yunho, his face still round, eyes still bright and his smile still radiating optimism.
They leave, and Jaejoong looks across at Sungmin and Eunhyuk. “Where’s Junsu?” he asks, then tacks a ‘ssi’ at the end of his name at their surprised stares.
“Still in the practice room,” Eunhyuk says quietly. “The voice coach…”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because there is a clatter of an opening door, echoing in the large room, and Junsu walks in, running a hand through his hair which is a shade of blonde Jaejoong knows he needs to dig up photos of for future blackmail.
But Junsu right now has a frown making a chasm in between his eyes, jaw and mouth tight with frustration. He sits down between Eunhyuk and Sungmin, facing Jaejoong, silent and glaring down at his plate. Suppressed tears are gleaming in his eyes, but he rubs at them angrily with an arm and grabs his chopsticks a little too aggressively before bowing his head and eating.
Sungmin’s reciting their training schedule and plans afterwards, in an endearing but transparently ineffective attempt to lighten the mood, but Junsu remains stony-faced and they eventually bid Jaejoong and Junsu goodbye as they leave for dance practice.
Jaejoong looks across at Junsu with his baby face, the despair of trainee seniority lining his shoulders, and wants to lean across, grab Junsu’s hand and say, “Hey. Hey. In the future, you will sing so brilliantly that you’ll sing to a sea of red, screaming devotion. I just stayed over at your billion won apartment a few days ago, we spent the night playing the Playstation, and we slept looking out at the Seoul night lights. We’ll meet an incredible guy called Park Yoochun and we’ll fight our way out of here. Wait for it. Wait for us.”
What comes out of his mouth is, “You’re amazing.”
“What?” Junsu looks up blearily, confusion written all over his face. Jaejoong resists the impulse to pinch Junsu’s cheeks.
“Your voice,” Jaejoong says, shrugging, forcing down the urge. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing. You’re going to be even more famous one day.”
Junsu laughs, short and bitter. “One day. Yeah.”
--
Jaejoong has no idea about his schedule, and there are no angry calls from people so he wanders more around the building, working his way through the empty corridors and ghostly fire exits. He knows he’s not technically allowed, but everything about today - this situation - feels temporary, like the shift back into the proper time is at his heels, snapping with gaping jaws. It makes him feel reckless, invincible.
He’s on the seventh floor, where executive decisions are made, and walking past empty offices with frosted glass walls, when he sees someone sitting by the vending machine, head bowed.
Fifteen year old Shim Changmin is gangly, awkward and he senses Jaejoong’s presence almost immediately, looking up at the latter with sharp, wary eyes. Jaejoong flinches from that gaze, raising a hand to his cheek as the painful memory of knuckle connecting with flesh flashes through his mind - those same eyes on Changmin’s older, thinner face, burning with anger, and unspoken hurt-
“Are you here to see Sukjin-hyung?” Changmin asks somewhat stiffly. “He’s talking to my parents right now.”
Jaejoong wants to take Changmin out to eat everything there is. In their anonymity, they can eat in expensive restaurants without enduring the sound of camera clicks, eat the best beef there is without the passive-aggressive jibes and insults from producers whom they had to please, and Changmin would be able to wolf down all that he liked without Insoo-hyung commanding him to diet afterwards. They would stay up drinking and laughing without having to cover up the marks of their night with caked on concealer. But Jaejoong is suddenly aware of the finite number of coins in his pockets - the familiar weight of his wallet with credit cards and cash suddenly and conspicuously absent.
Changmin is slow to warm and even slower to forgive, but give them food, quiet hours together as two friends, two brothers, two teammates and Jaejoong would be able to find an apology and Changmin might find one too. Jaejoong closes his eyes instead, opens them, then punches Changmin on the arm with all his might. The latter jerks away with a hiss, looking up at Jaejoong with a bewildered glare and clutching at the assaulted spot.
“You’re an idiot,” Jaejoong says, unable to figure out whether it’s a smile or tears trying to manifest on his face. “I’m an idiot. We’re all idiots for letting this happen and I miss you two more than you can imagine. But you’re amazing too. You’re smart, you’re talented and you were always gonna make it big, Shim Changmin, with or without us.”
He sees Changmin start in surprise at the sound of his own name, but the ache of nostalgia is finally hitting Jaejoong now so all he can do is give his fierce little maknae-to-be another shove on the shoulder (gentler this time) and take off down the stairs before Changmin can come after him.
--
Perhaps it’s because time feels like it’s speeding up as he runs down the stairs, feeling the air press against his back, but it feels like the right time to take a chance and so Jaejoong finds himself outside Yunho and Youngwoon’s practice room, listening as the beats of music are cut off abruptly.
Yunho and Youngwoon come out looking exhausted, and the surprise on Yunho’s face, as he catches sight of Jaejoong sitting by the door, turns quickly into a welcoming grin. “You’re still here!”
“Want to walk home together?” Jaejoong asks, ignoring Young-woon’s raised eyebrow and teasing smirk.
“You live several stations down the line though,” Yunho says haltingly.
Jaejoong finds himself shrugging. “I need the exercise.”
--
They’re on a train - Kim Jaejoong and Jung Yunho - and there are no screaming fans drowning them in signs and reaching hands, or belligerent bodyguards in black sunglasses shepherding them into an open van door. Jaejoong almost enjoys being pushed around by the commuters in their grey business suits and briefcases, listening to school students chattering about exam marks.
They pass an old playground half hidden amongst overgrown shrubs, but Jaejoong can see a swing, a slide and one of those climbing frames with a net, and it’s enough for him to break away from the road, walking through the grass. He can hear Yunho following, but doesn’t stop until he’s climbed to the top of the frame, sitting on the top beam of wood with his feet leaning against the net. It’s not very high - he can barely see past the line of houses - but it's enough to make him feel a little removed, a little safer. He feels the vibration of metal as Yunho clambers up with him. They sit side by side, Jaejoong on the left, Yunho on the right, just fitting on the beam.
“You okay Jaejoongie?” Yunho asks gently, the endearment so familiar on his lips. “You’ve been a bit weird today.”
“It’s been a weird day,” Jaejoong murmurs, looking sideways at Yunho’s profile, dipped in the sunlight of the afternoon. The slope of his nose, the steady blinking of his eyes, and the flash of imperfect teeth as Yunho notices his gaze, dips his head and struggles to bite back his smile. “You’re being the weird one.”
Seventeen year old Jung Yunho reaches over and clasps seventeen year old Kim Jaejoong’s hand in his own. Seventeen year old Kim Jaejoong feels his heart speed up to a thoroughly unnatural rate as he squeezes Yunho’s hand, revelling in the quiet affection and support. They are two boys against the world, side by side, looking out into the sunset with the future still undecided and time stretching forever ahead of them.
Twenty-six year old Kim Jaejoong is trying to etch this moment into his memory in ink and permanent marker, knowing it won’t stay despite it all, and trying not to cry.
Time is catching up to Jaejoong - the cold tendrils of unforgiving hours are stirring the hairs on the back of his neck and clutching at the backs of Jaejoong’s arms with the whisper of it’s time to go, time to go, the edges of space folding in on themselves.
He’s still holding Yunho’s hand.
Terrified of saying too much. Terrified of saying too little.
“Jaejoongie?” Yunho turns to him with wide eyes, and it’s just enough for Jaejoong to lift his other hand and touch Yunho’s cheek, feather-light and trembling, feeling a great shudder run through his body.
“I miss you,” he says to Yunho, voice aching with lonely, sleepless nights, wandering through the alleyways of ‘what if’s and ‘what could have been’s. “I miss us all.”
The buildings around them collapse like dominoes, a great, sudden wave of rectification that swallows him whole. The last breath Jaejoong takes in this moment is mingled with Yunho’s, in the space between them.
--
Jaejoong wakes up to 2012 in the middle of Seoul, his lungs filled with something like love.