(for everyone) hello, goodbye, do we know each other
For: everyone
Title: hello, goodbye, do we know each other
Pairing: Jongin/Sehun, bff!Jongin/Tao
Word Count: ~6,000 words
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Warnings: none
Summary: it's hard when solving problems look like you're running away from it
Author's Note: excessive amount of apologies for mod, and for my recipient for the constant questions. this is not what i'd planned to submit, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so i hope this isn't too shabby for your royal tastes. i'm sorry i didn't use as much details as you've put, and really, i just hope this isn't too shitty :/
one
In hindsight, perhaps the change he’s gone through is for the better, Jongin, Kim thinks.
Every night, Jongin closes his eyes but he doesn’t fall asleep. He’d only surrender to the dark when his memories finish replaying everything, and somehow stops on the day Sehun, Oh leaves. Strangely enough, then he’ll fall under with a small smile.
It’s really cliche, to be honest, the story of how they begin. Jongin, thirteen, budding idol trainee, same as of Sehun.
They meet within the building, at the training room. It stinks with damp sweat, smelly socks and not-so-subtle desperation. Time is a live bomb, ticking away, and they all reek of it. They are all dressed in black, like in a funeral, when really it is an occasion worth celebrating.
Jongin doesn’t remember much of their first interaction. It’s all hazy, because he’s drunk on lack of sleep, combined with unfiltered glee. He must’ve looked like a hobo high on drug, he muses years later. The important-looking pompous adults are gone then, and the kids remain. They’re silent, because they’re blank as of where to begin. What do you say to people who, like you, have just been told congratulations, we think you deserve a spot, work hard and we’ll make you stars? It’s not like they don’t know that the road is still long, the future is still greyish black, that they can be kicked out like they’re worse than weed at the roadside. Congratulations? Does that even cut it? It sounds more mocking instead of encouraging.
But suddenly there’s an audible snort, and everyone’s attention snap towards the offender.
“Sorry,” Snort Guy looks sheepish, “brain fart.” The tall one next to him elbows him, but their smiles seem to stretch wider. He kicks the taller one, and Jongin hears an exasperated whisper that resonates along with the muffled cry of pain, a soft “hyung.”
Jongin’s pretty sure their eyes meet for one second then, but after that he’s too out of it to care. He finds a corner and thinks, he has 15 minutes to nap before he’s wanted at home.
He unceremoniously oversteps that 15 minutes, duh.
He comes to no thanks to a tentative slew of pokes at his shoulder, the right one, the side that still pulses with pain if he overdoes his movement angles. He grunts, because Mister Pokey can stop now, he’s awake.
“Huh?”
Jongin grumbles out a few choice words in response, amongst of which he’s pretty sure he’s saying things like I’m awake again, that hurts, and perhaps varying degrees of angry-slash-sleepy damns.
“It’s nine pm. Do you need to be home?” The voice sounds lower now. “Are you-- in pain?”
Jongin forces his eyes to open because he doesn’t need pity, or sympathy, or anything of the sort, not now. “No, thanks.”
Oh. Brain fart kid. Okay.
“--- Eight???!!!” Jongin jumps, crashes into the lanky figure hovering over him and the shoulder throbs harder. Shit.
“Uh. My brother can take you back first.”
Jongin blinks.
“You look like you’re late.” Jongin can’t help but to notice that Brain Fart has an unusually small pouty mouth on his otherwise solemn face. “He can take you back first. He has a bike now.” His chest puffs up, perhaps in pride, and Jongin can’t smother the giggle. Kid looks offended so Jongin offers a proper smile.
“Thanks?” Bless his manners. Kindred spirit sure doesn’t come by often nowadays, especially within entertainment companies.
They go down the stairs together in silence, and Jongin goes away on the passenger seat wordlessly too; realization comes late enough that he’d never gotten around to asking names. But he did said his thanks right? Jongin scratches his neck, feels a bit guilty before deciding that Brain Fart’s a nice kid, and he should probably get to know him next time. But when he’s safe at his doorstep, he shakes hand with the brother and finds out anyway.
“Oh Sehun. My brother.” He smiles. “You should be friends.”
So la di da becomes their story.
They’re same age friends, wow.
They’ll probably end up debuting together, cool.
They have the same ‘talent’, awesome.
They agree, over time, that overexcited Chanyeol-hyung should start talking instead of yelling, fistbump.
Unfortunately, life likes to have fun and there goes the tipping point.
It’s no one’s fault, really.
The driver lost control. Jongin is fortunate (unfortunate?) enough to be just slightly grazed by the car.
It’s just that-- the culmination of hard work and the bony stress that entails, the new undue injury; they all snowball into this big wreck and it really sucks to hear from the doctor that he’s not supposed to dance anymore. Does that even make sense?
Something about finding multiple stress fracture risk points all over his body based on the X-Ray sheets, coupled with the exposure of the continuous dull pain at his back. The pain that Jongin’s never told anyone about, not even Sehun. He thinks Sehun knows. Sehun has that furrowed eyebrow habit he does whenever he’s bothered about something, and Jongin thinks he’s seen enough to last a lifetime those past few days. Wow, maybe Sehun’s a bit psychic.
Jongin grins. Sehun’s funny.
He smiles when the doctor leaves, leaving him being hounded by different familiar faces bearing shock, sadness and disbelief. He smiles but gracefully declines when the group of fellow trainees knock on his ward door, asking permission for entry. He smiles when the doctor again takes him into the doctor’s room, made small and suffocatingly claustrophobic by stacks of papers and books and empty coffee cups all over visible length.
He doesn’t bat an eyelid and waits patiently as the lethargic doctor drags a small chair and sits next to his wheelchair. His face doesn’t change throughout the entire session. He hears, understands, and nods as the doctor tells him that it’s not the end of his world, but he’s not supposed to do intense workout anymore, lest he destroys what little function left of his spine.
The doctor backtracks then, says sorry, that his words seem to come out wrong. He pushes up his spectacles and rephrases.
“I won’t tell you that you can’t dance, because I know that even right now, dancing is your life. I will tell you that you can dance, but Jongin-ah, I don’t want you to dance as a professional.”
There’s pity in those eyes, and Jongin feels himself crack a little. His right feet taps to the beat of one of the songs the team has been practicing. Machine. He loves the electronic feel of the song, the mechanical precision he relishes in whenever they dance to the song.
“Our body is an amazing machine, well-oiled, and in theory, fit for use for a long, long time. But it’s meant to be used in moderation. And you didn’t do that. You overdid it. That’s nobody’s fault but now... now, I just need you to tone it down.”
That’s an irony, he thinks. I-ro-ni, the word he’s taught couple of weeks ago in class. This sure is amusing.
“You’re a young kid. A really young kid. You’re barely hitting sixteen, Jongin-ah.”
He leaves the session, and the hospital few days later feeling unsettled. There’s a bag of painkillers and multivitamins along with pieces of recommendation papers for his company, his parents, and his school each stashed in his bag. They learn about metaphors at school, and he’s nowhere near a good student, but at that point, it hits him-- it’s weird how he feels like his empty chest is somehow adding weight to his heart. Is that even possible?
Jongin didn’t chicken out. Much.
But he settles his papers during Sehun’s vocal classes, because he knows Sehun’ll be too swamped in trying to relax his vocal cords and struggle with pushing out notes to realize that Jongin’s in the vicinity. He says his thanks to the vice-director, shakes her hand and respectfully bows out of the company.
Then they move away.
two
Ilsan’s not even that far from Seoul geographically-wise. He can probably fit in plans of meeting Sehun a couple of times in a week if he wants to. It’ll only require a short trip on the subway line, maybe a short rumble on the bus service.
But Jongin doesn’t want to.
At first he’s too angry with himself. He alternates between thinking and yelling a lot. It’s never the debilitating, throwing things kind of anger; just the internalizing kind, mixed with your usual dose of teenage-puberty-induced hormonal state. He feels guilty at the end of the day as he replays, like he always does; he feels guilty of the scathing remark to his mother, of the ugly scowl at his dad’s basketball invitation, of the cruel jab at his eldest noona’s minuscule weight gain. He tries to ignore the feelings because the familiar free fall his tummy takes thanks to his belligerence outweighs the momentary satisfaction of getting the anger out of his system.
It also hurts. Because Jongin hears the words his family tries to hide from him. Of how sweet he usually is, and how he doesn’t deserve this. Of how good he is, and of what they should do to help him ease into it. Into his new life, they tactfully phrase it as. It’s dejavu all over again, everyday, once night has fallen and he’d sullenly retreated to his room halfway through dinner. He rests against his door and listens to the conversation, and sometimes he sobs.
Help comes disguised in the form of a subconscious betrayal.
Deep down, Jongin will never be able to justify the reason why he didn’t delete Taozi’s number.
Of course he’s changed his cellphone number. Of course he’s deleted all numbers of people from his ‘former’ life. That fit of anger is a wave to be reckoned with, he remembers with a grimace, of the ferocious animosity he’s deep drowned in at that moment. But he didn’t. He didn’t delete Taozi’s.
It’s entirely accidental, really. He’d fallen asleep with DBSK’s Happy Together song playing over and over again. He’d been doing that for a few nights then. That time, he’d assumed that by desensitizing himself to the materials, it will help stop the nightmares. If he wills his head to skip over remembering Sehun by drowning in his idols, maybe it’ll stop, but it doesn’t work.
Perhaps it was the wrong choice of song, because he can still remember the day of the music video shooting. He remembers the utter glory, his anticipation, when the notification of his participation came. Plus how the song and its lyrics makes him feel high as hell; a music video is a living testament to how close these trainees are with their debut, and the song tells him to always be happy. That thought alone gives him strength that no matter what happens, no matter how hard it is, he’ll be okay, if he smiles and live life.
But that night he wakes up, hair horrendous and eyes deep shot with interrupted sleep, because his phone is ringing incessantly, and it says Taozi on the screen, blinking like a vengeance.
“Hey.” He croaks into the phone.
“Idiot.”
“Hah.” Jongin laughs, despite himself. “Too early.”
“Fucker.”
“You cryin’?” Jongin yawns. “Wipe the snot, Namek.” He yawn-laughs again at Taozi’s indignant squeak and adds in a quiet “sorry,” like an afterthought. He bites his lips.
Silence fill between them, and it stretches uncomfortably. Jongin fists his brown puppy sheets in trepidation. “Tao-yah?”
“Practice.” Taozi sounds small. “I’ll call you later-” and just like that, hangs up on Jongin.
He’s disoriented in the sudden dark, but then his phone chimes in again--
Taozi, 0324
Sleep alot you fatass. You owe me that. Ugh my eyebags
Puzzled, he stares at his phone. How did--
74 missed calls to Taozi
Jongin feels stupidly relieved.
Taozi says they’re debuting soon. They, including Sehun.
“Trio,” Taozi grins, “with Kyungsoo, do you remember him? Scary dude, short, small--”
Jongin remembers. He’s had experience dorming with Kyungsoo in the first few months of formal practice. Kyungsoo’s a softie really, and only Jongin knows. He’s coming up empty when when he realizes that Taozi is looking at him across staticky video call in concern. So he nods and softly utters a “yeah.”
It feels weird to be talking to much to Taozi, knowing Sehun’s somewhere near, can perhaps even overhear Taozi’s girly excited squeals at his three new puppies, can even chance a peek to see what the ruckus is. He’d chosen an excellent time too; Taozi had seemed a little contemplative and pensive throughout the whole call (plus the previous sporadic 4 calls before) and Jongin’s had a sinking feeling that Sehun’s name is going to come up no matter how much he tries to deflect.
“Would’ve been better if you’re here.” Taozi looks sad. “Sehun’s not talking anymore.”
Yeah, so the puppies didn’t help. Jongin sighs. He lets Monggu lick his toes and stares at Taozi’s protruding clavicles.
Sure, at one point, that’s his goal too, debuting, but right now, he’s too busy trying to finish that stupid sheet of advanced maths so no, it doesn’t really cross his mind. Taozi is no help when it comes to school, and only laughs when Jongin makes disgusted faces on the screen.
“Won’t you talk to him?” Taozi’s such a baby.
“I can’t.” Jongin makes a show out of rearranging his papers and pens and then his books.
“He sings in his sleep. Really sad songs. Always the same one. Or on guitar. It’s ugly.” Taozi looks kind of cute with his sad pout. Damn.
“He can’t sing.” Jongin deadpans.
“Chanyeol-hyung taught him guitar. Some basic shit,” Taozi laughs mockingly, “and he’s been working extra hard for our debut. He knows he won’t sing until we’ve hit our fifth year in, if we ever do get there, hah, from the way Kyungsoo sings, I don’t think Hun-ah will ever get lines, hah, “ he still sounds derisive, “but he can do it. Most of the times he still hits off-pitch.” Taozi looks smug.
“As if you’re any better.” Jongin scribbles on his paper. He stops scribbling, and tries to decipher it. He’s written Sehun’s name in ugly cursive. He feels like puking.
“I’m the main vocal okay.” Taozi looks far prouder than he should. “Jongin-ah--”
Jongin chances a glance.
“He misses you.” Taozi’s gaze is hardened. “Talk to him.”
He never did.
Jongin knows that if he as much as see Sehun, he’ll crack and everything he’s done to stop feeling sorry for himself will hit him back in the face, a ferocious wave of self-pity.
He remembers Sehun’s tears after Sunbaenim Junmyeon, supposed to debut with Shinee, chastised him endlessly about his impassive face. Apparently idols need to appeal relentlessly to nameless fans and his empty face is non-appealing, repelling even according to said senior. Sehun’s a tough nut to crack, so he’d only let the tears drop once Junmyeon has left, when there’s only him, Jongin and Jongdae Sunbaenim in the practice room. They’re supposed to help Jongdae catch up on dancing lessons, the prized new trainee, he’d only entered training for two weeks and he’d confessed plainly, “I have two left feet. Be warned.”
At first it’s just drops of tears, but it grows into sobbing mess of hiccups as Sehun pouts and whines in a small voice of how he “always prayed every night before I sleep that Sunbaenim-deul will debut and be successful and become role models for us--”
Jongin’s eyebrows are raised, and Jongdae’s mouth is wide open. But Jongdae recovers fast and envelops bigger, taller, lankier Sehun in his arms and pats his back soothingly. Jongin shrugs when Jongdae looks at him past hunched shoulders.
They go out secretly, the three of them, and Sehun gets two servings of beef bibimbap despite their self-imposed diet. Jongdae says not to listen to Junmyeon, “because everyone has their own charms, so you just do yourself, Sehunnie, okay?”
Jongin tells Taozi later about the tears and gangs up together in mimicking Sehun’s pitiful sobs. Sehun fixes his bitch stare on them, but cracks up too anyway.
Or that one time when they run away from classes, opting to a getaway plan to the East Sea. They catch Yixing-hyung, junior choreographer nodding off asleep when they were supposed to have an early morning session with him, so they leave a note full of scraggly explanation, ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ’s and red lips, an ode to Hyuna’s song, said choreographer’s current obsession.
They giggle endlessly, from company room right until they hit the back seats of the bus, throughout the rumbling road and when they first touch the fine sand. The look on Sehun’s face is priceless. Jongin tells him that he looks like a boy ready to commit mischief, and Sehun doesn’t deny it.
“We’re breaking rules!” Sehun kicks sand at him, mouth open, gleeful.
It hurts to remember.
Jongin shakes his head, tries to ignore the heavy congested lump in his chest and focuses instead on his anatomy textbook. “Focus please,” he chastises himself, “focus, Kim Jongin.”
If he can’t shine in strenuous dancing routines, he might as well really try his best in his degree. His teachers apparently all agree that medical laboratory seems like it will gel well with him. He doesn’t really see it yet, they say, that his life didn’t end when he stops dancing. He’d just gotten introduced to another kind of life. Opening up other doors when one close, they say.
He’d gotten busted, actually. By Sehun.
Because D-3 before debut, Taozi the gigantic idiot has the oh-so-amazing idea to sneak out past Kyungsoo (“I nearly died, man, that was so very brave of me,” as Taozi jiggles in his seat) and take a train all the way up to Ilsan. Jongin begs to differ.
“Bug.” Jongin punches Taozi’s shoulder, and pouts cutely back at Taozi’s mock hurt.
It’s not the first time Taozi does it, the whole James Bond routine, so obviously it’s gotten a bit into his head, the notion did. It never fails to amuse Jongin at how accomplished Taozi feels at successfully sneaking out. But methinks he will need all the practice he can get, and Jongin says so. Taozi becomes solemn for five seconds, then squeals excitedly again.
They’re both nursing their second cup of choco bubble tea (“you remember the weirdest thing, I swear, Kim Jongin,” Taozi winks when Jongin returns to their table with the traitorous drinks, and he fights down a blush) when Jongin hears an innocent tap on the window behind them. He looks at his companion, but Taozi’s focus is entirely on his phone, watching his upcoming debut choreography. The tapping comes again, almost insistent, and Jongin has a bad feeling about it. He grimaces, but turns around anyway.
“Oh.”
There’s biting anger within Sehun’s narrowed eyes, and his lips disappear altogether. That’s all that Jongin sees anyway, because the rest of his body is cocooned within layers of t-shirt, cardigan, a jacket, a black beanie, a messy swirl of maroon muffler-- it’s barely fall. Such an elaborate try for camouflage. He’s probably stewing inside.
Sehun looks good. The boyish lanky side of him is still there. Apparently Taozi’s reports of how dark and moody Sehun looks (“he’s really handsome I want to smash his face, I itch- everyday- to do that,” complete with adequate amount of imaginary punches) are half-lies, because he looks like he’s not gone past fifteen, and they’re already eighteen now.
Sehun really is dashingly good-looking. Jongin can’t help it, cannot stop the relieved smile from spreading across his face. Taozi’s really bad with taking full frontal pictures, because nothing he’s been shown prepares him of the real vision.
The blossoming scowl enhances every single feature that Sehun has, too. It feels like he’s fifteen and a half again, stealing peeks when Sehun’s too engrossed in perfecting his angular body to the music, to the choreography, to the moment. The nose is still regal. The cheeks are pink.
“Cold?” Jongin whispers across glass and beckons for Sehun to come in. He doesn’t know what to do when Sehun shakes his head resolutely. His shoulders droop, and he’s oddly resigned. He snaps his fingers right in front of Taozi’s line of vision, and points at Sehun. Taozi looks surprised at first. And then scared. Add some anger after that.
Taozi cleans up fast, and leaves a soft kiss at Jongin’s temple. (“Sorry,” he whispers.)
There’s that thundering again, within his ribcage, and his lungs are overworked. He’s taking stabbing gasps of air, but he’s drowning still. He flips backwards in time to see Sehun’s long legs speeding away into a tiny speck of dot.
That’s the worst nightmare he can ever have, could ever hope for, and one that he still has.
(“Sorry,” Jongin bites his lips, “Sehun.”)
Even as an outsider now, Jongin can see that the trio’s debut is a dazzling affair indeed. No rookie has ever had this much details bestowed upon them when they march towards their new celebrity life.
The newly-reinstated coffee shop owner slash barista where Jongin frequents said as much too.
“That’s grand.” Minseok, Kim darkly mutters. Their eyes are all trained on the television. “I hope they’re as good.” There’s bursts of fireworks and waif female dancers come tittering onto the stage with clinical precision. He tsked at the elaborate setup onscreen before disappearing into his kitchen. “Luhan, dishes!”
Jongin keeps his attention back on his books.
three
It’s not rocket science to know why and how on earth Sehun has let himself into Jongin’s home.
The gossip boards have been shaking with excitement, foaming at their mouths with half-lies masked as the absolute truth. The uproar is a complete frenzy.
There’s bendy metal sticks all over his Welcome Home mat (“Fuck that hurts,” Jongin winces as he jumps off the mat) and yes, that’s right, that length of body on his bed is definitely Sehun’s. Jongin can only shake his head at the pile of clothes littering the floor. Sehun never did fix his habit, and he wonders how did Kyungsoo take that to.
Jongin chances a peek beyond his purple sheets covering the lump, and smiles. There’s dull thudding within him, and he’s afraid to hope.
“Your bed reeks.”
Jongin flips behind and stares at a befuddled, deliciously bedraggled sehun. Then he grins, “Nobody told you to jump in.”
Sehun snorts. “I bet it’s ages since you last sent it to the cleaners.”
“Shut up,” Jongin goes back to Pathophysiology 101 and scrunches his eyes. This doesn’t seem real, the conversation is. “Food on the table, shower attached to my room. Feel free.” He talks to his book, feels his ears flush with red. Hears Sehun grunt in affirmation, and wonder what’s next.
“This is nice.”
“Huh?” This whole nervous energy within Jongin makes him very slow with his movements. He grimaces and observes his surrounding. “The cramped surface? That shitty cheap-ass ramen?” He points at the pot they’d just wipe clean. “I think you get it better.”
“The quiet, I mean, sheesh Jonginnie.” Sehun sounds annoyed. “I haven’t had this much calm since forever.”
Jongin winces. Yeah, that sounds about right. It’s glaringly obvious how boxed in, how limited Sehun has become. Those tabloid newspapers, the online articles. It still boggles him how Sehun has managed to escape all the bloodthirsty reporters and make it in one piece to Jongin’s. Which also confuses him because--
“Did Tao give you my address?” Jongin pokes Sehun’s bony deltoid. “Where is he? Where’s Kyungsoo? How are they doing?” Sehun slaps his hand away hard, and doesn’t look too guilty or show any remorse of it.
“Stop asking about them.” Sehun grinds out. He looks angry.
“Well-”
“Stop asking about Tao. Tao this, Tao that. Stop talking about Kyungsoo. Don’t worry about the rest of the people that you used to know at the company.” Sehun’s hyperventilating. “Ask about me. Ask how I’m doing. Ask how do I feel. Ask how I feel being out there without you. Ask-”
Jongin’s got Sehun in a tight lock. Sehun’s nose smushed on his sternum, Sehun’s hands limp on his lap, Sehun’s hair and fragrance filling in his nostrils.
“You’re okay.” Jongin whispers. “I’m here.”
His heart thuds louder when he feels Sehun’s arms wind around him. Anything else can wait, maybe.
They’re back at the coffee shop, and Luhan-hyung’s wide grin and narrowed eyes are creeping Jongin out. He scowls at said man--
“Really would love it if you can tone down the eye thing,” Sehun drawls out lazily, features hidden by shoddy hair dye job by Jongin and hospital-type face mask. One hand guides Jongin at the small of his back, and his eyes are trained on the menu display, but his words are definitely aimed at Luhan.
Jongin splutters.
“Yeah, I think Jonginnie agrees with me too.” Sehun grins at him, suddenly all boyish charms. “So do you still drink something as stupid and common like the Americano or have I gotten you converted to iced choco milk with sprinkles and-- ah pearls?”
“Hazelnut!” Luhan chirps out. “Jongin likes hazelnut latte!”
Jongin shivers at the searching look he gets. “Um, pick anything. I’ll just-- be at the--” he turns wildly, “at the table, I guess.”
He’s barely set his books on the table (yes, this is a study date) when his phone rings. He glances at the screen, and swipes it open in bewildered amusement.
“Hazelnut latte, really?”
Jongin laughs, “Oh, hit me with your choco milk and pearls please, I think I’ve missed them.” He’s had them last a couple of days ago but eh, he’s not bored. Yet.
Sehun’s silent but Jongin knows he’s giggling. He can actually see it, but Sehun’s too dumb to realize that.
Sehun’s oddly bright as he hit Day 5 of his running away plan.
Jongin doesn’t have the heart to tell him how crazy things are being speculated online about his disappearance, how Taozi sends him torrential amount of text messages pleading for him to get Sehun to come back, and how uncharacteristically un-Sehun Sehun has been these past week.
Because Sehun is bright, Sehun is happy, Sehun is giggly, and Sehun shines.
Sehun doesn’t tag along to his classes because even if Jongin says nothing, he really is afraid that one of his classmates will catch Sehun at it and the rebellion thing will be down to useless. But Sehun is oddly quiet whenever he’s doing his assignment, looking up things on the Internet for his essays-- it almost feels as if Sehun is not there. Like it’s only Jongin, alone, but with a comfortable warmth that helps him work past that 2500 word counts, past that shitty 50-picture drawing of multiple bacteria----
Jongin doesn’t want to think of the future.
“Fucking hell, yeah, weekend!” Sehun rolls around in the bed.
“Please-”
“Don’t mess things up, don’t be so noisy-- geez, be alive, Jongin-ah!” Sehun’s feet kicks the air blindly and it’s adorable.
Jongin pretends to rub his temple. It feels a lot like babysitting a five-year-old.
“Hey, do you wanna do something fun today?” Jongin throws his pink highlighter pen at Sehun’s face. He only laughs when it hits the nose right smack. Sehun’s still for a moment. “I wanna show you something cool.”
Sehun’s eyes are beyond twinkling.
Of course they have to do the entire tie-cloth-around-the-eyes shebang.
“If I fall-” Sehun pouts.
“You won’t fall. I’ve got you.” Jongin’s thankful the cloth is well situated, because it suddenly feels dreadfully warm. “Now, just follow me.”
Sehun’s silent, and then with a soft smile, he says, “Always.”
They brave through three flights of stairs up before Jongin finally pulls Sehun to a halt. He whispers, “On the count of three, okay, after you hear me open the door?” Satisfied with Sehun’s excited nods, he fumbles a bit with the keys before the door creaks inward.
Silence.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought-”
“Yeah.”
“God I hate you.”
“Hah.”
Because they’re standing in a rundown, but well-maintained studio room. Jongin’s pretty proud with the dumbfounded expression Sehun has on his face.
“Score one for me.” Jongin grins. He couldn’t wipe it off his face as Sehun lightly toes off his shoes, walking across the floor almost reverently.
“Tao said-” Sehun’s slim fingers are trailing across the huge mirror that stretches across one wall, “he said you can’t dance anymore.”
“He’s right.”
“But-” Sehun whirls around, facing Jongin in a split second. “What’s this then?”
“My studio-?” Jongin’s confused because out of all, he doesn’t expect to see anger, bubbling up like molten lava on Sehun’s face. He seldom sees unmasked anger by Sehun. He stumbles backwards when Sehun comes charging at him, red, like a fierce bulldog. “Hey-”
“Tao said-” Sehun’s grip around his wrist are painful, “you can’t dance anymore.”
“Well-”
“That’s why you left.”
“No-”
“That’s why you left!”
Jongin’s utterly confused, as Sehun leaves. Again.
There’s a flurry of movements once Jongin gets home. The lights are all on, there’s banging and throwing and general noises of destruction coming from his room, and he thinks he knows why.
“Hey, Sehun-”
“Don’t talk to me-”
Sehun’s low tone sends a rippling chill within Jongin.
“Hey-” Jongin tries to grab at Sehun’s feverish hands working chaos, with all the clothes he’s trying to gather in one arm, “I’ll tell you the truth, and I will apologize, but you need to listen first.”
Sehun turns away. Stops picking clothes, unmoving.
“I can’t dance professionally. That’s all there is to it. I still dance for fun. That’s what the studio is for. That’s all it’s for.” It’s weird, but Jongin thinks he sounds resigned. Sehun doesn’t even want to look at him straight. “I left because I couldn’t dance anymore. And I thought-” there’s a lump in his throat, “I thought I’d better leave. Regroup. Figure out what’s next.”
“Bullshit.”
Jongin doesn’t flinch. “I left because I’m a bad friend.” There’s a twitch of movement. “The kind that would be so jealous of you once you debut. So I left. That’s all.”
“Shut. Up.” Sehun grinds out. His fists ball up, knuckles white.
“And I think you should go back now. Tao’s been asking for you everyday. I’ve tolerated, babied you these past few days, but now I think it’s time. For me to stop indulging you, and for you to start being responsible.” The words won’t stop spilling past Jongin’s lips, like there’s a buzz in his head that will only disappear if he unloads and if he hurts Sehun-
“I’ll understand if you want to stay angry at me, but I thought leaving was the best idea then, and I believe right now, is the best decision I made.” Jongin’s staring at something, anything, nothing across his messy room. But then-
Sehun’s eyes are beastly. Filled with animosity. Jongin half-wishes that he can stop staring, can tear himself away from the pools of anger.
“You don’t know half of it-”
“Oh, the fans? The work? The invasion of privacy?” Jongin cuts him off first, voice still eerily level. “Don’t talk as if I was never there. I was already named for debut. I was already named for main dancer spot. I already started filming teasers, for god’s sake, I was already in and out of studios for backup vocal classes-” there’s some sort of cramping pain within his stomach. “I was miles away in front of you when it comes to debuting. And what did I have to settle for? This.” He seethes. “So don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking outsider.”
There’s only the sound of the fan, rotating faithfully.
“Be glad I’m not bitter enough to rat you out to the press, to the media. Be glad that every night I go on your fansites, and I just check out your new pictures, news updates, or fucking anything, instead of blabbing about how I might’ve sighted the country’s precious Oh Sehun at lonely little Ilsan. Be glad that I buy every single fucking CDs, DVDs, whatever shit that you guys release because I thought that you guys shine, you shine like a fucking star, like you’re right where you belong-”
Sehun’s face is a fucking trophy, the utter capture of betrayal and anger and pity all mixed in one.
“So you go back to being fucking you, and let me stay here and be me.” Jongin exhales. “I’m so- tired.”
“You’re so full of yourself-”
“No, I was doing fine here, looking at you like you’re the star and I’m nobody, before you come back and mess it all up-” his eyes are blurry, shit, “so please, please, just go back. Please.”
Strike three; and the pain doesn’t even seem to be any lesser than before.
“Goodbye.” Sehun says to the front door.
“Okay.” Jongin replies.
Oh Sehun confirms the moment he’s back onscreen, of the rumours of him dating fellow company-mate Park Chanyeol’s sister, news anchor Park Yura. He says it’s true, with a blinding, happy smile.
Jongin grits his teeth, goes to class, and submits the essay he’d written with Sehun next to him at the end of the lecture.
“Hey.”
“What.” Jongin curls closer into the warmth next to him.
“I think-”
Crickets chirp loudly somewhere above them, and the waves are crashing across the shores.
“What Oh Sehun, what do you think-” Jongin groans, “please stop talking one word sentences please-”
“That was two words!”
Jongin can feel the pout, pretty much thinks he can grab it off Sehun’s face if he cares to move.
“What is it then dearest friend of all friends, Your Highness Oh Sehun.” Jongin deadpans. He grins in the dark. Who knew sleeping randomly on the beach can be this fun, eh?
“I think-”
There’s heavy warmth pressing against his sides, and Jongin’s half annoyed.
“I love you.”
goodbye
Emcee: Is Yura-sshi your first love, Sehun-sshi? [giggles]
Sehun: Ah. Maybe? [Mysterious smile]
extra plate of love, i guess
Title: hello, goodbye, do we know each other
Pairing: Jongin/Sehun, bff!Jongin/Tao
Word Count: ~6,000 words
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Warnings: none
Summary: it's hard when solving problems look like you're running away from it
Author's Note: excessive amount of apologies for mod, and for my recipient for the constant questions. this is not what i'd planned to submit, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so i hope this isn't too shabby for your royal tastes. i'm sorry i didn't use as much details as you've put, and really, i just hope this isn't too shitty :/
one
In hindsight, perhaps the change he’s gone through is for the better, Jongin, Kim thinks.
Every night, Jongin closes his eyes but he doesn’t fall asleep. He’d only surrender to the dark when his memories finish replaying everything, and somehow stops on the day Sehun, Oh leaves. Strangely enough, then he’ll fall under with a small smile.
It’s really cliche, to be honest, the story of how they begin. Jongin, thirteen, budding idol trainee, same as of Sehun.
They meet within the building, at the training room. It stinks with damp sweat, smelly socks and not-so-subtle desperation. Time is a live bomb, ticking away, and they all reek of it. They are all dressed in black, like in a funeral, when really it is an occasion worth celebrating.
Jongin doesn’t remember much of their first interaction. It’s all hazy, because he’s drunk on lack of sleep, combined with unfiltered glee. He must’ve looked like a hobo high on drug, he muses years later. The important-looking pompous adults are gone then, and the kids remain. They’re silent, because they’re blank as of where to begin. What do you say to people who, like you, have just been told congratulations, we think you deserve a spot, work hard and we’ll make you stars? It’s not like they don’t know that the road is still long, the future is still greyish black, that they can be kicked out like they’re worse than weed at the roadside. Congratulations? Does that even cut it? It sounds more mocking instead of encouraging.
But suddenly there’s an audible snort, and everyone’s attention snap towards the offender.
“Sorry,” Snort Guy looks sheepish, “brain fart.” The tall one next to him elbows him, but their smiles seem to stretch wider. He kicks the taller one, and Jongin hears an exasperated whisper that resonates along with the muffled cry of pain, a soft “hyung.”
Jongin’s pretty sure their eyes meet for one second then, but after that he’s too out of it to care. He finds a corner and thinks, he has 15 minutes to nap before he’s wanted at home.
He unceremoniously oversteps that 15 minutes, duh.
He comes to no thanks to a tentative slew of pokes at his shoulder, the right one, the side that still pulses with pain if he overdoes his movement angles. He grunts, because Mister Pokey can stop now, he’s awake.
“Huh?”
Jongin grumbles out a few choice words in response, amongst of which he’s pretty sure he’s saying things like I’m awake again, that hurts, and perhaps varying degrees of angry-slash-sleepy damns.
“It’s nine pm. Do you need to be home?” The voice sounds lower now. “Are you-- in pain?”
Jongin forces his eyes to open because he doesn’t need pity, or sympathy, or anything of the sort, not now. “No, thanks.”
Oh. Brain fart kid. Okay.
“--- Eight???!!!” Jongin jumps, crashes into the lanky figure hovering over him and the shoulder throbs harder. Shit.
“Uh. My brother can take you back first.”
Jongin blinks.
“You look like you’re late.” Jongin can’t help but to notice that Brain Fart has an unusually small pouty mouth on his otherwise solemn face. “He can take you back first. He has a bike now.” His chest puffs up, perhaps in pride, and Jongin can’t smother the giggle. Kid looks offended so Jongin offers a proper smile.
“Thanks?” Bless his manners. Kindred spirit sure doesn’t come by often nowadays, especially within entertainment companies.
They go down the stairs together in silence, and Jongin goes away on the passenger seat wordlessly too; realization comes late enough that he’d never gotten around to asking names. But he did said his thanks right? Jongin scratches his neck, feels a bit guilty before deciding that Brain Fart’s a nice kid, and he should probably get to know him next time. But when he’s safe at his doorstep, he shakes hand with the brother and finds out anyway.
“Oh Sehun. My brother.” He smiles. “You should be friends.”
So la di da becomes their story.
They’re same age friends, wow.
They’ll probably end up debuting together, cool.
They have the same ‘talent’, awesome.
They agree, over time, that overexcited Chanyeol-hyung should start talking instead of yelling, fistbump.
Unfortunately, life likes to have fun and there goes the tipping point.
It’s no one’s fault, really.
The driver lost control. Jongin is fortunate (unfortunate?) enough to be just slightly grazed by the car.
It’s just that-- the culmination of hard work and the bony stress that entails, the new undue injury; they all snowball into this big wreck and it really sucks to hear from the doctor that he’s not supposed to dance anymore. Does that even make sense?
Something about finding multiple stress fracture risk points all over his body based on the X-Ray sheets, coupled with the exposure of the continuous dull pain at his back. The pain that Jongin’s never told anyone about, not even Sehun. He thinks Sehun knows. Sehun has that furrowed eyebrow habit he does whenever he’s bothered about something, and Jongin thinks he’s seen enough to last a lifetime those past few days. Wow, maybe Sehun’s a bit psychic.
Jongin grins. Sehun’s funny.
He smiles when the doctor leaves, leaving him being hounded by different familiar faces bearing shock, sadness and disbelief. He smiles but gracefully declines when the group of fellow trainees knock on his ward door, asking permission for entry. He smiles when the doctor again takes him into the doctor’s room, made small and suffocatingly claustrophobic by stacks of papers and books and empty coffee cups all over visible length.
He doesn’t bat an eyelid and waits patiently as the lethargic doctor drags a small chair and sits next to his wheelchair. His face doesn’t change throughout the entire session. He hears, understands, and nods as the doctor tells him that it’s not the end of his world, but he’s not supposed to do intense workout anymore, lest he destroys what little function left of his spine.
The doctor backtracks then, says sorry, that his words seem to come out wrong. He pushes up his spectacles and rephrases.
“I won’t tell you that you can’t dance, because I know that even right now, dancing is your life. I will tell you that you can dance, but Jongin-ah, I don’t want you to dance as a professional.”
There’s pity in those eyes, and Jongin feels himself crack a little. His right feet taps to the beat of one of the songs the team has been practicing. Machine. He loves the electronic feel of the song, the mechanical precision he relishes in whenever they dance to the song.
“Our body is an amazing machine, well-oiled, and in theory, fit for use for a long, long time. But it’s meant to be used in moderation. And you didn’t do that. You overdid it. That’s nobody’s fault but now... now, I just need you to tone it down.”
That’s an irony, he thinks. I-ro-ni, the word he’s taught couple of weeks ago in class. This sure is amusing.
“You’re a young kid. A really young kid. You’re barely hitting sixteen, Jongin-ah.”
He leaves the session, and the hospital few days later feeling unsettled. There’s a bag of painkillers and multivitamins along with pieces of recommendation papers for his company, his parents, and his school each stashed in his bag. They learn about metaphors at school, and he’s nowhere near a good student, but at that point, it hits him-- it’s weird how he feels like his empty chest is somehow adding weight to his heart. Is that even possible?
Jongin didn’t chicken out. Much.
But he settles his papers during Sehun’s vocal classes, because he knows Sehun’ll be too swamped in trying to relax his vocal cords and struggle with pushing out notes to realize that Jongin’s in the vicinity. He says his thanks to the vice-director, shakes her hand and respectfully bows out of the company.
Then they move away.
two
Ilsan’s not even that far from Seoul geographically-wise. He can probably fit in plans of meeting Sehun a couple of times in a week if he wants to. It’ll only require a short trip on the subway line, maybe a short rumble on the bus service.
But Jongin doesn’t want to.
At first he’s too angry with himself. He alternates between thinking and yelling a lot. It’s never the debilitating, throwing things kind of anger; just the internalizing kind, mixed with your usual dose of teenage-puberty-induced hormonal state. He feels guilty at the end of the day as he replays, like he always does; he feels guilty of the scathing remark to his mother, of the ugly scowl at his dad’s basketball invitation, of the cruel jab at his eldest noona’s minuscule weight gain. He tries to ignore the feelings because the familiar free fall his tummy takes thanks to his belligerence outweighs the momentary satisfaction of getting the anger out of his system.
It also hurts. Because Jongin hears the words his family tries to hide from him. Of how sweet he usually is, and how he doesn’t deserve this. Of how good he is, and of what they should do to help him ease into it. Into his new life, they tactfully phrase it as. It’s dejavu all over again, everyday, once night has fallen and he’d sullenly retreated to his room halfway through dinner. He rests against his door and listens to the conversation, and sometimes he sobs.
Help comes disguised in the form of a subconscious betrayal.
Deep down, Jongin will never be able to justify the reason why he didn’t delete Taozi’s number.
Of course he’s changed his cellphone number. Of course he’s deleted all numbers of people from his ‘former’ life. That fit of anger is a wave to be reckoned with, he remembers with a grimace, of the ferocious animosity he’s deep drowned in at that moment. But he didn’t. He didn’t delete Taozi’s.
It’s entirely accidental, really. He’d fallen asleep with DBSK’s Happy Together song playing over and over again. He’d been doing that for a few nights then. That time, he’d assumed that by desensitizing himself to the materials, it will help stop the nightmares. If he wills his head to skip over remembering Sehun by drowning in his idols, maybe it’ll stop, but it doesn’t work.
Perhaps it was the wrong choice of song, because he can still remember the day of the music video shooting. He remembers the utter glory, his anticipation, when the notification of his participation came. Plus how the song and its lyrics makes him feel high as hell; a music video is a living testament to how close these trainees are with their debut, and the song tells him to always be happy. That thought alone gives him strength that no matter what happens, no matter how hard it is, he’ll be okay, if he smiles and live life.
But that night he wakes up, hair horrendous and eyes deep shot with interrupted sleep, because his phone is ringing incessantly, and it says Taozi on the screen, blinking like a vengeance.
“Hey.” He croaks into the phone.
“Idiot.”
“Hah.” Jongin laughs, despite himself. “Too early.”
“Fucker.”
“You cryin’?” Jongin yawns. “Wipe the snot, Namek.” He yawn-laughs again at Taozi’s indignant squeak and adds in a quiet “sorry,” like an afterthought. He bites his lips.
Silence fill between them, and it stretches uncomfortably. Jongin fists his brown puppy sheets in trepidation. “Tao-yah?”
“Practice.” Taozi sounds small. “I’ll call you later-” and just like that, hangs up on Jongin.
He’s disoriented in the sudden dark, but then his phone chimes in again--
Taozi, 0324
Sleep alot you fatass. You owe me that. Ugh my eyebags
Puzzled, he stares at his phone. How did--
74 missed calls to Taozi
Jongin feels stupidly relieved.
Taozi says they’re debuting soon. They, including Sehun.
“Trio,” Taozi grins, “with Kyungsoo, do you remember him? Scary dude, short, small--”
Jongin remembers. He’s had experience dorming with Kyungsoo in the first few months of formal practice. Kyungsoo’s a softie really, and only Jongin knows. He’s coming up empty when when he realizes that Taozi is looking at him across staticky video call in concern. So he nods and softly utters a “yeah.”
It feels weird to be talking to much to Taozi, knowing Sehun’s somewhere near, can perhaps even overhear Taozi’s girly excited squeals at his three new puppies, can even chance a peek to see what the ruckus is. He’d chosen an excellent time too; Taozi had seemed a little contemplative and pensive throughout the whole call (plus the previous sporadic 4 calls before) and Jongin’s had a sinking feeling that Sehun’s name is going to come up no matter how much he tries to deflect.
“Would’ve been better if you’re here.” Taozi looks sad. “Sehun’s not talking anymore.”
Yeah, so the puppies didn’t help. Jongin sighs. He lets Monggu lick his toes and stares at Taozi’s protruding clavicles.
Sure, at one point, that’s his goal too, debuting, but right now, he’s too busy trying to finish that stupid sheet of advanced maths so no, it doesn’t really cross his mind. Taozi is no help when it comes to school, and only laughs when Jongin makes disgusted faces on the screen.
“Won’t you talk to him?” Taozi’s such a baby.
“I can’t.” Jongin makes a show out of rearranging his papers and pens and then his books.
“He sings in his sleep. Really sad songs. Always the same one. Or on guitar. It’s ugly.” Taozi looks kind of cute with his sad pout. Damn.
“He can’t sing.” Jongin deadpans.
“Chanyeol-hyung taught him guitar. Some basic shit,” Taozi laughs mockingly, “and he’s been working extra hard for our debut. He knows he won’t sing until we’ve hit our fifth year in, if we ever do get there, hah, from the way Kyungsoo sings, I don’t think Hun-ah will ever get lines, hah, “ he still sounds derisive, “but he can do it. Most of the times he still hits off-pitch.” Taozi looks smug.
“As if you’re any better.” Jongin scribbles on his paper. He stops scribbling, and tries to decipher it. He’s written Sehun’s name in ugly cursive. He feels like puking.
“I’m the main vocal okay.” Taozi looks far prouder than he should. “Jongin-ah--”
Jongin chances a glance.
“He misses you.” Taozi’s gaze is hardened. “Talk to him.”
He never did.
Jongin knows that if he as much as see Sehun, he’ll crack and everything he’s done to stop feeling sorry for himself will hit him back in the face, a ferocious wave of self-pity.
He remembers Sehun’s tears after Sunbaenim Junmyeon, supposed to debut with Shinee, chastised him endlessly about his impassive face. Apparently idols need to appeal relentlessly to nameless fans and his empty face is non-appealing, repelling even according to said senior. Sehun’s a tough nut to crack, so he’d only let the tears drop once Junmyeon has left, when there’s only him, Jongin and Jongdae Sunbaenim in the practice room. They’re supposed to help Jongdae catch up on dancing lessons, the prized new trainee, he’d only entered training for two weeks and he’d confessed plainly, “I have two left feet. Be warned.”
At first it’s just drops of tears, but it grows into sobbing mess of hiccups as Sehun pouts and whines in a small voice of how he “always prayed every night before I sleep that Sunbaenim-deul will debut and be successful and become role models for us--”
Jongin’s eyebrows are raised, and Jongdae’s mouth is wide open. But Jongdae recovers fast and envelops bigger, taller, lankier Sehun in his arms and pats his back soothingly. Jongin shrugs when Jongdae looks at him past hunched shoulders.
They go out secretly, the three of them, and Sehun gets two servings of beef bibimbap despite their self-imposed diet. Jongdae says not to listen to Junmyeon, “because everyone has their own charms, so you just do yourself, Sehunnie, okay?”
Jongin tells Taozi later about the tears and gangs up together in mimicking Sehun’s pitiful sobs. Sehun fixes his bitch stare on them, but cracks up too anyway.
Or that one time when they run away from classes, opting to a getaway plan to the East Sea. They catch Yixing-hyung, junior choreographer nodding off asleep when they were supposed to have an early morning session with him, so they leave a note full of scraggly explanation, ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ’s and red lips, an ode to Hyuna’s song, said choreographer’s current obsession.
They giggle endlessly, from company room right until they hit the back seats of the bus, throughout the rumbling road and when they first touch the fine sand. The look on Sehun’s face is priceless. Jongin tells him that he looks like a boy ready to commit mischief, and Sehun doesn’t deny it.
“We’re breaking rules!” Sehun kicks sand at him, mouth open, gleeful.
It hurts to remember.
Jongin shakes his head, tries to ignore the heavy congested lump in his chest and focuses instead on his anatomy textbook. “Focus please,” he chastises himself, “focus, Kim Jongin.”
If he can’t shine in strenuous dancing routines, he might as well really try his best in his degree. His teachers apparently all agree that medical laboratory seems like it will gel well with him. He doesn’t really see it yet, they say, that his life didn’t end when he stops dancing. He’d just gotten introduced to another kind of life. Opening up other doors when one close, they say.
He’d gotten busted, actually. By Sehun.
Because D-3 before debut, Taozi the gigantic idiot has the oh-so-amazing idea to sneak out past Kyungsoo (“I nearly died, man, that was so very brave of me,” as Taozi jiggles in his seat) and take a train all the way up to Ilsan. Jongin begs to differ.
“Bug.” Jongin punches Taozi’s shoulder, and pouts cutely back at Taozi’s mock hurt.
It’s not the first time Taozi does it, the whole James Bond routine, so obviously it’s gotten a bit into his head, the notion did. It never fails to amuse Jongin at how accomplished Taozi feels at successfully sneaking out. But methinks he will need all the practice he can get, and Jongin says so. Taozi becomes solemn for five seconds, then squeals excitedly again.
They’re both nursing their second cup of choco bubble tea (“you remember the weirdest thing, I swear, Kim Jongin,” Taozi winks when Jongin returns to their table with the traitorous drinks, and he fights down a blush) when Jongin hears an innocent tap on the window behind them. He looks at his companion, but Taozi’s focus is entirely on his phone, watching his upcoming debut choreography. The tapping comes again, almost insistent, and Jongin has a bad feeling about it. He grimaces, but turns around anyway.
“Oh.”
There’s biting anger within Sehun’s narrowed eyes, and his lips disappear altogether. That’s all that Jongin sees anyway, because the rest of his body is cocooned within layers of t-shirt, cardigan, a jacket, a black beanie, a messy swirl of maroon muffler-- it’s barely fall. Such an elaborate try for camouflage. He’s probably stewing inside.
Sehun looks good. The boyish lanky side of him is still there. Apparently Taozi’s reports of how dark and moody Sehun looks (“he’s really handsome I want to smash his face, I itch- everyday- to do that,” complete with adequate amount of imaginary punches) are half-lies, because he looks like he’s not gone past fifteen, and they’re already eighteen now.
Sehun really is dashingly good-looking. Jongin can’t help it, cannot stop the relieved smile from spreading across his face. Taozi’s really bad with taking full frontal pictures, because nothing he’s been shown prepares him of the real vision.
The blossoming scowl enhances every single feature that Sehun has, too. It feels like he’s fifteen and a half again, stealing peeks when Sehun’s too engrossed in perfecting his angular body to the music, to the choreography, to the moment. The nose is still regal. The cheeks are pink.
“Cold?” Jongin whispers across glass and beckons for Sehun to come in. He doesn’t know what to do when Sehun shakes his head resolutely. His shoulders droop, and he’s oddly resigned. He snaps his fingers right in front of Taozi’s line of vision, and points at Sehun. Taozi looks surprised at first. And then scared. Add some anger after that.
Taozi cleans up fast, and leaves a soft kiss at Jongin’s temple. (“Sorry,” he whispers.)
There’s that thundering again, within his ribcage, and his lungs are overworked. He’s taking stabbing gasps of air, but he’s drowning still. He flips backwards in time to see Sehun’s long legs speeding away into a tiny speck of dot.
That’s the worst nightmare he can ever have, could ever hope for, and one that he still has.
(“Sorry,” Jongin bites his lips, “Sehun.”)
Even as an outsider now, Jongin can see that the trio’s debut is a dazzling affair indeed. No rookie has ever had this much details bestowed upon them when they march towards their new celebrity life.
The newly-reinstated coffee shop owner slash barista where Jongin frequents said as much too.
“That’s grand.” Minseok, Kim darkly mutters. Their eyes are all trained on the television. “I hope they’re as good.” There’s bursts of fireworks and waif female dancers come tittering onto the stage with clinical precision. He tsked at the elaborate setup onscreen before disappearing into his kitchen. “Luhan, dishes!”
Jongin keeps his attention back on his books.
three
It’s not rocket science to know why and how on earth Sehun has let himself into Jongin’s home.
The gossip boards have been shaking with excitement, foaming at their mouths with half-lies masked as the absolute truth. The uproar is a complete frenzy.
There’s bendy metal sticks all over his Welcome Home mat (“Fuck that hurts,” Jongin winces as he jumps off the mat) and yes, that’s right, that length of body on his bed is definitely Sehun’s. Jongin can only shake his head at the pile of clothes littering the floor. Sehun never did fix his habit, and he wonders how did Kyungsoo take that to.
Jongin chances a peek beyond his purple sheets covering the lump, and smiles. There’s dull thudding within him, and he’s afraid to hope.
“Your bed reeks.”
Jongin flips behind and stares at a befuddled, deliciously bedraggled sehun. Then he grins, “Nobody told you to jump in.”
Sehun snorts. “I bet it’s ages since you last sent it to the cleaners.”
“Shut up,” Jongin goes back to Pathophysiology 101 and scrunches his eyes. This doesn’t seem real, the conversation is. “Food on the table, shower attached to my room. Feel free.” He talks to his book, feels his ears flush with red. Hears Sehun grunt in affirmation, and wonder what’s next.
“This is nice.”
“Huh?” This whole nervous energy within Jongin makes him very slow with his movements. He grimaces and observes his surrounding. “The cramped surface? That shitty cheap-ass ramen?” He points at the pot they’d just wipe clean. “I think you get it better.”
“The quiet, I mean, sheesh Jonginnie.” Sehun sounds annoyed. “I haven’t had this much calm since forever.”
Jongin winces. Yeah, that sounds about right. It’s glaringly obvious how boxed in, how limited Sehun has become. Those tabloid newspapers, the online articles. It still boggles him how Sehun has managed to escape all the bloodthirsty reporters and make it in one piece to Jongin’s. Which also confuses him because--
“Did Tao give you my address?” Jongin pokes Sehun’s bony deltoid. “Where is he? Where’s Kyungsoo? How are they doing?” Sehun slaps his hand away hard, and doesn’t look too guilty or show any remorse of it.
“Stop asking about them.” Sehun grinds out. He looks angry.
“Well-”
“Stop asking about Tao. Tao this, Tao that. Stop talking about Kyungsoo. Don’t worry about the rest of the people that you used to know at the company.” Sehun’s hyperventilating. “Ask about me. Ask how I’m doing. Ask how do I feel. Ask how I feel being out there without you. Ask-”
Jongin’s got Sehun in a tight lock. Sehun’s nose smushed on his sternum, Sehun’s hands limp on his lap, Sehun’s hair and fragrance filling in his nostrils.
“You’re okay.” Jongin whispers. “I’m here.”
His heart thuds louder when he feels Sehun’s arms wind around him. Anything else can wait, maybe.
They’re back at the coffee shop, and Luhan-hyung’s wide grin and narrowed eyes are creeping Jongin out. He scowls at said man--
“Really would love it if you can tone down the eye thing,” Sehun drawls out lazily, features hidden by shoddy hair dye job by Jongin and hospital-type face mask. One hand guides Jongin at the small of his back, and his eyes are trained on the menu display, but his words are definitely aimed at Luhan.
Jongin splutters.
“Yeah, I think Jonginnie agrees with me too.” Sehun grins at him, suddenly all boyish charms. “So do you still drink something as stupid and common like the Americano or have I gotten you converted to iced choco milk with sprinkles and-- ah pearls?”
“Hazelnut!” Luhan chirps out. “Jongin likes hazelnut latte!”
Jongin shivers at the searching look he gets. “Um, pick anything. I’ll just-- be at the--” he turns wildly, “at the table, I guess.”
He’s barely set his books on the table (yes, this is a study date) when his phone rings. He glances at the screen, and swipes it open in bewildered amusement.
“Hazelnut latte, really?”
Jongin laughs, “Oh, hit me with your choco milk and pearls please, I think I’ve missed them.” He’s had them last a couple of days ago but eh, he’s not bored. Yet.
Sehun’s silent but Jongin knows he’s giggling. He can actually see it, but Sehun’s too dumb to realize that.
Sehun’s oddly bright as he hit Day 5 of his running away plan.
Jongin doesn’t have the heart to tell him how crazy things are being speculated online about his disappearance, how Taozi sends him torrential amount of text messages pleading for him to get Sehun to come back, and how uncharacteristically un-Sehun Sehun has been these past week.
Because Sehun is bright, Sehun is happy, Sehun is giggly, and Sehun shines.
Sehun doesn’t tag along to his classes because even if Jongin says nothing, he really is afraid that one of his classmates will catch Sehun at it and the rebellion thing will be down to useless. But Sehun is oddly quiet whenever he’s doing his assignment, looking up things on the Internet for his essays-- it almost feels as if Sehun is not there. Like it’s only Jongin, alone, but with a comfortable warmth that helps him work past that 2500 word counts, past that shitty 50-picture drawing of multiple bacteria----
Jongin doesn’t want to think of the future.
“Fucking hell, yeah, weekend!” Sehun rolls around in the bed.
“Please-”
“Don’t mess things up, don’t be so noisy-- geez, be alive, Jongin-ah!” Sehun’s feet kicks the air blindly and it’s adorable.
Jongin pretends to rub his temple. It feels a lot like babysitting a five-year-old.
“Hey, do you wanna do something fun today?” Jongin throws his pink highlighter pen at Sehun’s face. He only laughs when it hits the nose right smack. Sehun’s still for a moment. “I wanna show you something cool.”
Sehun’s eyes are beyond twinkling.
Of course they have to do the entire tie-cloth-around-the-eyes shebang.
“If I fall-” Sehun pouts.
“You won’t fall. I’ve got you.” Jongin’s thankful the cloth is well situated, because it suddenly feels dreadfully warm. “Now, just follow me.”
Sehun’s silent, and then with a soft smile, he says, “Always.”
They brave through three flights of stairs up before Jongin finally pulls Sehun to a halt. He whispers, “On the count of three, okay, after you hear me open the door?” Satisfied with Sehun’s excited nods, he fumbles a bit with the keys before the door creaks inward.
Silence.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought-”
“Yeah.”
“God I hate you.”
“Hah.”
Because they’re standing in a rundown, but well-maintained studio room. Jongin’s pretty proud with the dumbfounded expression Sehun has on his face.
“Score one for me.” Jongin grins. He couldn’t wipe it off his face as Sehun lightly toes off his shoes, walking across the floor almost reverently.
“Tao said-” Sehun’s slim fingers are trailing across the huge mirror that stretches across one wall, “he said you can’t dance anymore.”
“He’s right.”
“But-” Sehun whirls around, facing Jongin in a split second. “What’s this then?”
“My studio-?” Jongin’s confused because out of all, he doesn’t expect to see anger, bubbling up like molten lava on Sehun’s face. He seldom sees unmasked anger by Sehun. He stumbles backwards when Sehun comes charging at him, red, like a fierce bulldog. “Hey-”
“Tao said-” Sehun’s grip around his wrist are painful, “you can’t dance anymore.”
“Well-”
“That’s why you left.”
“No-”
“That’s why you left!”
Jongin’s utterly confused, as Sehun leaves. Again.
There’s a flurry of movements once Jongin gets home. The lights are all on, there’s banging and throwing and general noises of destruction coming from his room, and he thinks he knows why.
“Hey, Sehun-”
“Don’t talk to me-”
Sehun’s low tone sends a rippling chill within Jongin.
“Hey-” Jongin tries to grab at Sehun’s feverish hands working chaos, with all the clothes he’s trying to gather in one arm, “I’ll tell you the truth, and I will apologize, but you need to listen first.”
Sehun turns away. Stops picking clothes, unmoving.
“I can’t dance professionally. That’s all there is to it. I still dance for fun. That’s what the studio is for. That’s all it’s for.” It’s weird, but Jongin thinks he sounds resigned. Sehun doesn’t even want to look at him straight. “I left because I couldn’t dance anymore. And I thought-” there’s a lump in his throat, “I thought I’d better leave. Regroup. Figure out what’s next.”
“Bullshit.”
Jongin doesn’t flinch. “I left because I’m a bad friend.” There’s a twitch of movement. “The kind that would be so jealous of you once you debut. So I left. That’s all.”
“Shut. Up.” Sehun grinds out. His fists ball up, knuckles white.
“And I think you should go back now. Tao’s been asking for you everyday. I’ve tolerated, babied you these past few days, but now I think it’s time. For me to stop indulging you, and for you to start being responsible.” The words won’t stop spilling past Jongin’s lips, like there’s a buzz in his head that will only disappear if he unloads and if he hurts Sehun-
“I’ll understand if you want to stay angry at me, but I thought leaving was the best idea then, and I believe right now, is the best decision I made.” Jongin’s staring at something, anything, nothing across his messy room. But then-
Sehun’s eyes are beastly. Filled with animosity. Jongin half-wishes that he can stop staring, can tear himself away from the pools of anger.
“You don’t know half of it-”
“Oh, the fans? The work? The invasion of privacy?” Jongin cuts him off first, voice still eerily level. “Don’t talk as if I was never there. I was already named for debut. I was already named for main dancer spot. I already started filming teasers, for god’s sake, I was already in and out of studios for backup vocal classes-” there’s some sort of cramping pain within his stomach. “I was miles away in front of you when it comes to debuting. And what did I have to settle for? This.” He seethes. “So don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking outsider.”
There’s only the sound of the fan, rotating faithfully.
“Be glad I’m not bitter enough to rat you out to the press, to the media. Be glad that every night I go on your fansites, and I just check out your new pictures, news updates, or fucking anything, instead of blabbing about how I might’ve sighted the country’s precious Oh Sehun at lonely little Ilsan. Be glad that I buy every single fucking CDs, DVDs, whatever shit that you guys release because I thought that you guys shine, you shine like a fucking star, like you’re right where you belong-”
Sehun’s face is a fucking trophy, the utter capture of betrayal and anger and pity all mixed in one.
“So you go back to being fucking you, and let me stay here and be me.” Jongin exhales. “I’m so- tired.”
“You’re so full of yourself-”
“No, I was doing fine here, looking at you like you’re the star and I’m nobody, before you come back and mess it all up-” his eyes are blurry, shit, “so please, please, just go back. Please.”
Strike three; and the pain doesn’t even seem to be any lesser than before.
“Goodbye.” Sehun says to the front door.
“Okay.” Jongin replies.
Oh Sehun confirms the moment he’s back onscreen, of the rumours of him dating fellow company-mate Park Chanyeol’s sister, news anchor Park Yura. He says it’s true, with a blinding, happy smile.
Jongin grits his teeth, goes to class, and submits the essay he’d written with Sehun next to him at the end of the lecture.
“Hey.”
“What.” Jongin curls closer into the warmth next to him.
“I think-”
Crickets chirp loudly somewhere above them, and the waves are crashing across the shores.
“What Oh Sehun, what do you think-” Jongin groans, “please stop talking one word sentences please-”
“That was two words!”
Jongin can feel the pout, pretty much thinks he can grab it off Sehun’s face if he cares to move.
“What is it then dearest friend of all friends, Your Highness Oh Sehun.” Jongin deadpans. He grins in the dark. Who knew sleeping randomly on the beach can be this fun, eh?
“I think-”
There’s heavy warmth pressing against his sides, and Jongin’s half annoyed.
“I love you.”
goodbye
Emcee: Is Yura-sshi your first love, Sehun-sshi? [giggles]
Sehun: Ah. Maybe? [Mysterious smile]
extra plate of love, i guess