(for soopremo) little boy
❊ for: soopremo
❊ title: little boy
❊ pairings: kai/d.o
❊ rating: pg
❊ warnings: slight!age gap (6 y/o kyungsoo, 11 y/o jongin)
❊ word count: 4,422
❊ summary: Jongin thought the Little Prince reappeared in the form of a six-year-old boy.
❊ a/n: Hello. ^^ You'll find that the fic is a bit lacking in proper ending, but I still think what I have so far for you will be...slightly...satisfactory? I didn't want to leave you with nothing, so let's say this is the beginning of an idea I had. Soopremo, your prompts were awesome! And while this one really gave me a run for my money, I really enjoyed where I was going with it....Anyway, please do enjoy what this is so far. It’s nothing great, but I poured so much into this haha. And message me at the end of this, when reveals are up, so that you at least can have the end. (Hopefully by then, it will be complete.) Thank you so much, my love<3 This is getting long so I will just thank the mods for being patient with me. You're all so dear. ^^
"They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes."
"Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry..."
"They are lucky," the switchman said.
- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Kim Jongin took a deep breath. The action shook his exhausted body, faltering in his intake, and left his lungs all too quickly when he exhaled. He could feel his extended fingers slipping on the studio mirror, the sweat tickle his skin as it slid down the bridge of his nose, and if he didn’t catch himself soon, he’d meet the surface with his head instead. But as he repeated this process, his breaths became steady. He had enough strength left in him to stand upright and dip his back - it cracked, bones whining in its stretch, but it felt good.
It was his only reprieve for the day, really, until he would be home. But even then he wouldn't truly find rest. Four times a week, he had the same routine: wake up at 8:00, walk to school to arrive around 9:00 and start another grueling day of learning until 3:30 in the afternoon; no time for extracurricular. He would hurry home to undress and change his uniform for another, then leave his house at the call of Mrs Oh honking to carpool to dance. And danced he did until 9:00 PM to get home after a twenty-, sometimes twenty-five-minute drive and start on his homework. He never did quite manage to stay awake past 11:00.
Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday he sacrificed. He didn't yet have to come to the studio on Saturday mornings, and for that he was thankful. He still had his weekends, but the life of a dancer was rigorous either way.
Jongin often thought that, for an eleven-year-old boy, it was too rigorous. "You're the best this studio has ever had," rang clear in his head the voice of his ballet instructor. "For a boy," she would always add, and it almost made him laugh how petulant she seemed with her posture straight and nose upturned, not a single hair misplaced in her bun. "You have to push yourself to keep being the best."
He would never say it aloud, to anyone, but Jongin was quite tired of being the best.
The light in the foyer automatically flickered on when Jongin pushed open the door and stepped in. It used to amaze him, when he was younger, and they had first moved into this marginally larger house than the last, how the entrance was suddenly illuminated without having to flick a switch. But the magic of automatic sensors had long since worn off and left him even more dejected.
Going home always brought about a sense of dread actually being home intensified. Jongin closed the door behind him as the feeling sloshed in the pit of his stomach, and he was suddenly so much more tired than when the last note had left the stereo for the night. He toed off his shoes and entered the narrow hallway, past the kitchen to the dining and living area. As he got closer, he could hear the shrill giggle of his two older sisters, and the dulcet laughter of his mother's. It all made for a high pitched sound that reached the boy's ears. The television was whispering in the background, but the girls were no longer looking at it, engaged in whatever conversation they were carrying. They must have heard his heavy foot falls for the girls turned to him and greeted him happily, energized by their discussion, before returning to bickering, probably about the best candidates on the current season of The Bachelorette. It was almost funny watching his twenty-year-old sister act like his sixteen-year-old sister.
"Hello, Jonginnie," his mother spoke to him, smiling softly at him. He was in that moment instantly revitalised by the magic of his mother's smile, a light so bright and sudden no automatic sensor could produce. "How was dance?"
Jongin opened his mouth to reply, but his mother's attention was soon stolen by his youngest older sister and brought back to the TV.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, craning her neck to peek at him. She pointed vaguely towards the kitchen, then faced the screen again. "I left food for you if you're hungry. In front of the microwave as usual."
And Jongin knew he was forgotten.
He dropped his blue duffel bag to the floor and sighed as he trudged to the kitchen. When he looked over the cold meat and rice, Jongin figured that the terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn't back because he was jealous or sour that he could only hold his mother's attention for a few seconds, or because he never really got the chance to tell her, 'I'm thinking of quitting dance.'
The door clicked open, and in stepped Mr Kim in his slacks and shiny shoes that he removed in the entrance. "Hello!" called he, and they responded enthusiastically from the living room. He would have gone right through to see them had he not heard Jongin welcome him weakly from his post in front of the microwave. He barely heard him over the hum of the instrument, the loud chatter and the dramatic music from the television, which had somehow upped in volume since Jongin entered.
His father gave him a small, forced smile as he looked at him. He was fidgeting, Jongin noticed, fingers pulling at his neat pants like he was anxious to get away. "How was dance?"
Jongin took a considerate breath before he answered, "Good." He didn't tell him that he thought of quitting dance, because his father had always been raised with the notion that a Kim never quits once he - or really, she - had started, and he had tried to ingrain the principle in his children. And Jongin figured he shouldn't be upset or sour either that his dad continued on to the living room without asking him how school went, or if the thought of quitting had ever crossed his mind, because his father had always been awkward with him. Maybe he thought he was good at talking about nothing else but dance, which was true once upon a time, but no one really noticed that he didn't talk much at all anymore. And he tried not to blame it, the awkwardness, on the fact that his father had been living with four girls before his grandma moved into a retirement home, and before he came along. He tried, too, not to be jealous when his dad asked his sisters how school went as the indicative beep, beep, beep of the microwave sounded and pulled him out of his thoughts.
With his heated food, Jongin trudged to his room silently to start on his homework, or maybe sleep off all the angsty, pre-teen feelings he shouldn't be feeling.
On Wednesday afternoons, Jongin didn't have to rush back home. He was free of dance classes, free to walk at his leisure and take in the scenery. So rarely did he ever have the time to register the change of seasons, to see his environment change with them; his year advanced in routines and end-of-season recitals only, not so much on what blanketed the floor.
Jongin liked Wednesdays because he could let his thoughts wander away from pointed toes and perfecting arabesques, and focus instead on what he would eat once he got home. There would be no one there to greet him but the silence of the house.
On Wednesdays, he could take a moment to smell the roses. Not literally, (however/though), as it was already late November, and autumn had settled over the country. The flowers were mostly withered and the leaves mostly fallen, carpeting the path home in hues of oranges and yellows and browns.
The wind was brisk, and Jongin was poorly equipped to fight it. He only wore a grey cotton hoodie with the logo of his dance studio emblazoned across the back. He tightened the strings around his neck and tucked his hands under his armpits, hoping to trap some sort of heat around his body.
Scratching absently at his sides while he walked, Jongin spotted along the way a little boy. He stood stiffly, short, stubby fingers poking through the long sleeves of his too-big navy coat. Jongin would recognize that tuft of black hair anywhere.
"Kyungsoo?"
It was his neighbour. Mrs Do often asked either him or one of his siblings to pick up her only child from the elementary school behind the middle school. She would let him walk himself home, at six-years-old, considering the short distance, but she was afraid he would purposefully stray away and get lost. On Wednesdays, Jongin would almost always pick him up.
Kyungsoo did not turn to face him or respond to the call. He was too absorbed in the balding thin tree that stood tall in front of him.
Jongin approached carefully, slowly, the crunching of leaves under the soles of his shoes alerting the little boy of his presence. He looked at the tree, then to Kyungsoo; his features were pinched in concentration, big eyes open wide while his eyebrows were scrunched together in the center. Jongin pressed a thumb between his eyebrows to soothe the lines, and that's when Kyungsoo first seemed to notice him at all, his expression staying much the same.
"You're staring at a tree," he informed him, lilt in his voice to tease him. Kyungsoo seemed to be frozen for a moment before he reacted. His tiny body shook in response, his cheeks growing pink like he was embarrassed. He flicked his gaze toward Jongin before he stalked away down the sidewalk, mumbling, hands fisted at his sides.
Jongin stood staring after Kyungsoo a moment, only half shocked by his unprovoked upset. Though quiet and shy, Kyungsoo was a strange little boy, and Jongin had spent enough time with the kid, when he used to have time, to be used to it.
But had he said something wrong? No, he thought as he looked up, was there something upsetting about this tree? He gave it a cursory glance before hurrying to catch up with Kyungsoo.
When Jongin got home, the excitement of getting there on a Wednesday faded. The door clicked behind him. The stillness of the house was not nearly as welcoming as three girls and a distant father.
He walked forward and slipped his backpack off of his shoulders, dropping it to the floor on his way to the kitchen. His steps thudded against the carpet as they fell. The clack of the cupboards created a rhythm as Jongin opened all of them looking for a bowl, even though he knew where they were kept. It clinked against the marble counter as he set it down, and the utensils rattled when he opened the drawer to take out a spoon. The fruity loops his mom would tell him to avoid fell into the bowl, the mass building until the sound died out, dish filled.
For as long as he danced around the kitchen, Jongin could pretend the sounds of his activity were other people moving about. He tried, like he did every week, not to dwell on the loneliness that wrapped around him like the cold autumn wind. (And still his sweater could not protect him against it.)
Later, Jongin realized he would never be satisfied, not even when the house was lively and bustling with family members that often forgot he was there. He tried, like he did every week, not to dwell on this reality.
"You look..."
Jongin glanced up through his bangs to see Sehun's thoughtful gaze peering down at him, brown eyes almost hidden under his own black bangs. He tapped his lips as he searched for the correct expression to describe the dark bags under Jongin's eyes, the slouch in his shoulders their ballet instructor would kill him for, and the all-around heavy aura surrounding him.
When he got it, he nodded wisely, content with his next choice of words.
"Like death."
Jongin released a groan. "I feel like death."
"I know. I just said you looked like it too."
"You know, a good friend would lie to me."
Sehun resisted the urge to roll his eyes and brought the desk behind him closer to Jongin's. It scraped loudly against the tiled floor, much to the other students' chagrin. "Yeah, well, I'm an amazing friend, then," he retorted, straddling the chair and leaning forward against the back of it, not bothered by the ruckus he was causing. "And it's my job to tell you when you look like you haven't slept in five-hundred days."
"Thanks, Oh Sehun," he said sarcastically. His friend smirked, but only for a second.
"How was dance yesterday?"
It was easy for Jongin to think that Sehun only asked because of the common interest, because none of his other friends - the few that he had - ever bothered to ask since they learned he started dancing years ago. But Sehun sounded concerned, like he wanted to know whether Jongin was thinking of quitting or not. He didn't tell him.
"Same old, same old," answered he with a frown. "I think Wednesday was my last Free Wednesday." Sehun cocked his head curiously, so Jongin explained. "Winter recital rehearsals will start to pick up. I'll have to see that old witch of a ballet teacher like every day now until Christmas."
This made Sehun laugh, the way his friend had lowered his voice and used as much disgust as he could muster to emphasize the duration of his demise. "Just think of it this way," he admonished, "after the recital you won't have to see her for the next three-hundred years." He meant the two weeks they got to celebrate the holidays - Sehun had an affinity for using hyperboles. He reached over to pat him on the shoulder just as the bell rang, announcing the end of recess. "But cheer up. Tomorrow is Saturday."
There were some weekends that started very early, and continued very slowly, leaving whole days to little boys who thought they danced too much. Time seemed to crawl forward, its perception so warped that what he thought was half a day gone by was only two hours.
It was still early morning when Jongin felt it, sitting at the desktop computer him and his siblings shared, the weight of the week hitting him like a freight train and sucking the energy right out of him. But Jongin wasn't tired only in a physical sense.
Jongin liked the distraction school provided, both during the week and during the weekend. He spent enough time lying on his bed or sitting at the shared desk just writing and catching up on assignments. He was eleven, and didn't have as much to do as his sisters, but he took great care in finishing his homework so he could reward himself with sleep, or worry-free lazy afternoons.
(Jongin used to look forward to his dance classes, but come 4:00 PM, the only thing he looked forward to the next day was the time he'd spend in school, at his small desk, not dancing.)
While school was another moment of physical rest, everything related to it was mental unrest; for when he wasn't dancing, his mind was. His thoughts sauntered and twirled to a beat unknown, moving upstage and downstage, sometimes in sync, then off-count. They scattered and left him scrambling, the audience of one not knowing where to rest his eyes. The performance would go on, die down, but the dancers never really took a bow. Jongin couldn't tell when the music would fade and the curtains would fall. He was trapped in this theater with no escape. Jongin often thought he thought too much about escaping.
Escapism. It was a new word to Jongin, one he learned and retained when his teacher said it in passing.
Sometimes, when he had time like this, he indulged in his little curiosities. And upon learning its definition, he wished so much that he could avoid reality - though he couldn't really explain why - or that his mind could be absorbed in something other than his own thoughts, or feelings he knew he shouldn't be feeling.
But the more he looked into it, the more Jongin knew he was in need of an escape. And dancing wasn't it.
Suddenly, the weekend went by too quickly, and Jongin regretted once wishing it to be over so he could escape his own thoughts.
Monday brought with it a terrible evening for him at the studio, and really he should have expected it - it was a Monday, after all, the worst day of the week. He shouldn't subscribe to that school of thought, but it was hard when he'd missed cues of a routine he'd memorized last week.
"Are you even trying?" Ms Jung spat from across the floor. "Your turns are all off, you're missing the beats, you're distracted - is this how you got your solo?"
Jongin could only grit his teeth and breathe heavily, because she was right. He wasn't dancing at his best, he wasn't focused, his movements were sluggish, and he was fumbling out of his moves like he had no control over his body.
"I could give it to someone more deserving. Is that what you want?" More deserving, she said, but not better, because he was already the best. He had to be the best. "I push you to be better than this. Wake up, Jongin! Again! From the top."
He didn't dare ask for a break to recuperate, or to lie down a moment to relieve the pain in his lower back.
Jongin could feel it, the pressure of starting again, of having no other choice but to start again, set by the eyes of fellow dancers heavy on his back, and Ms Jung's expectant gaze on him. It was the burden to excel that caged him here, in the studio, and if he cracked in front of anyone, he was sure it would be perceived as weakness, as not good enough. He had to be the best. He had to be better.
As Jongin returned to his starting position, he wondered why his best wasn't enough for anyone.
Some nights, when Mrs Oh was in a hurry to go home, she would drop Jongin off behind his project, where he could follow the dimly lit narrow path to his backyard. This never inconvenienced him. It didn't matter whether he used the front door or the back door; if his family was in the living room, to which the door gave entrance, Jongin was almost certain they wouldn't notice him then either.
He trudged along the stones that led to a small sandbox, encased by surrounding houses. He was shuffling through the grass toward his house when he spotted movement to his left. He slowed and stared into the darkness of someone's backyard. It was seemingly undisturbed, but Jongin carefully approached anyway to closer inspect. If he squinted, he could make out the outline of a silhouette, hunched forward, the crown of a tuft of black hair -
“Kyungsoo?”
The boy looked up, startled out of his wits. He narrowed his eyes at Jongin and released a strained breath. When he spoke, his voice was much quieter than Jongin’s, breathy and shaky. “You scared me.” He put his tiny hand to his heart as if to emphasize just how scared he was. Jongin thought he was lucky it was just him and not some creep that had caught him.
“What are you doing out here? It’s like 9 PM.” Kyungsoo scrambled up and dusted off his neat khaki cargo pants. He was wearing a navy V-neck knit sweater over a thin white polo that almost shone in the darkness. But Jongin was pretty sure it wasn’t enough to keep him from the night chill. “And aren’t you cold?”
“I was trying to read,” he answered in a hushed again. The older boy then noticed, as he neared the wooden fence separating them, that Kyungsoo was holding in his hand a slim book and a flashlight. “But my light went out.”
“So you decided to read in the dark? Outside? - Where are your parents? ” Kyungsoo didn’t dignify his question with an answer, instead waving his hand flippantly at him, and then stopping the motion when he realized he was being rude to someone older than him. He dipped his head in apology, but Jongin didn’t mind so much. He was just worried about the kid. “Go back inside, Kyungsoo. And sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“What? Are you locked out of your house? Did you forget the code again.”
Kyungsoo wasn’t looking at him when he answered, gaze focused instead on his empty palm. He stretched it outward, fingers flexing and tensing. “I’m looking for a clue.”
“Clue?”
When he looked up, he seemed to be blushing in embarrassment, lifting his shoulders as if to curl up on himself standing. “Can I trust you?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“You made fun of me last time,” he supplied, voice dying out each new word he added.
“I didn’t - I wasn’t trying -” he stuttered. “C’mon. You can trust me.” He tapped his shoulder. “I’m your favourite hyung,” he sing-songed, his most convincing ‘I’m trustworthy’ face on.
Kyungsoo didn’t look at all persuaded and chose not to remind him that he was the only hyung he liked, and inched closer to the fence. He leaned forward, like he was ready to share a secret with Jongin. He gestured for him to dip down, so Jongin did, anticipating what it was he had to say.
“I’m looking for Tree B-612.”
Jongin pulled away, confused. “Wasn’t it Asteroid B-612?” Kyungsoo’s eyes widened in surprise, and he became stiff again. Jongin didn’t remember where he had heard that before, but he was almost very certain that it wasn’t a tree, it was an asteroid.
“Yes,” Kyungsoo said breathlessly, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. He produced the book he’d been hiding and brandished it for Jongin to see. There, on the aggressively yellow background, in the left-hand corner, was the unmistakable, crudely drawn form of a little blond boy in green, scarf dramatically blown to the side by an imaginary wind. “You read it!”
The Little Prince. Jongin’s face twisted with extreme dislike. He’d read it alright. He’d hated it too.
“Reading that for school?”
“No.” Kyungsoo shook his head. “You read it?” he repeated in the form of a question this time.
“Oh. Yeah,” Jongin answered, “last year.”
The little boy nodded like he was very pleased to hear this news. "So you know the Prince?"
"Only what I've read of him," he admitted, shifting his weight so he was settled comfortably for the discussion he was about to have - that is until he realized just how exhausted he was and how late it had gotten. "But we'll talk about him another day. Time for bed, 'kay?"
"I'm not tired."
"Well I am. And he is, too," he pointed to the book.
Kyungsoo looked down. "He is?" Then he looked up at the black sky. "I think you're right..."
It was quiet a moment before Kyungsoo whispered good night to the stars, and looked back to Jongin to do the same to him. "Good night."
And with that he made his way back inside his house, taking care to lock the sliding doors and draw the shades. It was the last of Kyungsoo saw that night, and with a sigh, he went back home himself.
If Jongin didn't run back home at 40 km/h - which he knew was probably not humanly possible - probably (he'd look into it) - he'd be late. He'd be late, and Ms Jung would skin him alive in front of the ballerinas and ballerinos just to teach them all a lesson.
That was how he felt anyway, as Kyungsoo took three small steps for each of his average-sized ones. Still, he wasn't walking fast enough, and Jongin could tell the little boy didn't feel the haste oozing out of him as he hurried him along.
He didn't usually walk Kyungsoo home on Tuesday, but the boy had caught up to him when he was on his way. Jongin couldn't very well leave him in the dust; it would be rude and he'd probably hold it against him. So he fidgeted as he silently urged Kyungsoo to move faster so he could change, or at least gather his things and change at the studio.
"Hyung," Kyungsoo called as they neared their houses. He could see it, he just had to be in it in one minute, two max. Jongin, though distracted, hummed in response. "Is anything possible?"
"Yeah," he said, "if you put your mind to it." So he'd been told anyway. He wasn't so sure he believed that anymore. If he could get to that house and change, he would.
"Is that enough?"
"Listen, Kyungsoo, I have go home. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Is that enough?" he asked, ignoring his good bye.
"Is what enough?" Jongin asked, hoping to hurry this along.
"Believing."
A dejected sigh. "It has to be." And with that he ran home.
Breathe in. Breathe out. It was what Jongin told himself to do as he lied on the studio floor. The ground was surprisingly much colder than the humid and heavy air above him, hot with the sweat of other dancers and the dance instructors' expectations. The latter, though, still crawled under his skin, seeped through through the tips of his shoulder blades and spread out across his body until it reached his hip, where it throbbed a sharp pain. He groaned. He'd just powered through a hip hop class like nothing was wrong, even though his face and body language had conveyed his discomfort. Still, he danced and was praised, and by the end of the day, for the sake of perfection, Jongin was beginning to think they were pretending not to notice.
1. This was inspired by a few children's stories: Peter Pan, Shark Boy & Lava Girl...But it was very strongly inspired by my re-reading of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince in its original language, and then in English for fic purposes.
2. If you haven’t read The Little Prince, I strongly recommend you read it at all stages of life. c: You can find it here online. You learn something new every time.
3. I haven’t finished writing the story, but I will sometime soon as it’s something I really like. I couldn’t even give it a temporary end, because then I would have cheated. Or something. I feel bad. Again, I’m so sorry soopremo. If you can be a little patient with me, I’ll tell you how this ends…
❊ title: little boy
❊ pairings: kai/d.o
❊ rating: pg
❊ warnings: slight!age gap (6 y/o kyungsoo, 11 y/o jongin)
❊ word count: 4,422
❊ summary: Jongin thought the Little Prince reappeared in the form of a six-year-old boy.
❊ a/n: Hello. ^^ You'll find that the fic is a bit lacking in proper ending, but I still think what I have so far for you will be...slightly...satisfactory? I didn't want to leave you with nothing, so let's say this is the beginning of an idea I had. Soopremo, your prompts were awesome! And while this one really gave me a run for my money, I really enjoyed where I was going with it....Anyway, please do enjoy what this is so far. It’s nothing great, but I poured so much into this haha. And message me at the end of this, when reveals are up, so that you at least can have the end. (Hopefully by then, it will be complete.) Thank you so much, my love<3 This is getting long so I will just thank the mods for being patient with me. You're all so dear. ^^
"They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes."
"Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry..."
"They are lucky," the switchman said.
- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Kim Jongin took a deep breath. The action shook his exhausted body, faltering in his intake, and left his lungs all too quickly when he exhaled. He could feel his extended fingers slipping on the studio mirror, the sweat tickle his skin as it slid down the bridge of his nose, and if he didn’t catch himself soon, he’d meet the surface with his head instead. But as he repeated this process, his breaths became steady. He had enough strength left in him to stand upright and dip his back - it cracked, bones whining in its stretch, but it felt good.
It was his only reprieve for the day, really, until he would be home. But even then he wouldn't truly find rest. Four times a week, he had the same routine: wake up at 8:00, walk to school to arrive around 9:00 and start another grueling day of learning until 3:30 in the afternoon; no time for extracurricular. He would hurry home to undress and change his uniform for another, then leave his house at the call of Mrs Oh honking to carpool to dance. And danced he did until 9:00 PM to get home after a twenty-, sometimes twenty-five-minute drive and start on his homework. He never did quite manage to stay awake past 11:00.
Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday he sacrificed. He didn't yet have to come to the studio on Saturday mornings, and for that he was thankful. He still had his weekends, but the life of a dancer was rigorous either way.
Jongin often thought that, for an eleven-year-old boy, it was too rigorous. "You're the best this studio has ever had," rang clear in his head the voice of his ballet instructor. "For a boy," she would always add, and it almost made him laugh how petulant she seemed with her posture straight and nose upturned, not a single hair misplaced in her bun. "You have to push yourself to keep being the best."
He would never say it aloud, to anyone, but Jongin was quite tired of being the best.
The light in the foyer automatically flickered on when Jongin pushed open the door and stepped in. It used to amaze him, when he was younger, and they had first moved into this marginally larger house than the last, how the entrance was suddenly illuminated without having to flick a switch. But the magic of automatic sensors had long since worn off and left him even more dejected.
Going home always brought about a sense of dread actually being home intensified. Jongin closed the door behind him as the feeling sloshed in the pit of his stomach, and he was suddenly so much more tired than when the last note had left the stereo for the night. He toed off his shoes and entered the narrow hallway, past the kitchen to the dining and living area. As he got closer, he could hear the shrill giggle of his two older sisters, and the dulcet laughter of his mother's. It all made for a high pitched sound that reached the boy's ears. The television was whispering in the background, but the girls were no longer looking at it, engaged in whatever conversation they were carrying. They must have heard his heavy foot falls for the girls turned to him and greeted him happily, energized by their discussion, before returning to bickering, probably about the best candidates on the current season of The Bachelorette. It was almost funny watching his twenty-year-old sister act like his sixteen-year-old sister.
"Hello, Jonginnie," his mother spoke to him, smiling softly at him. He was in that moment instantly revitalised by the magic of his mother's smile, a light so bright and sudden no automatic sensor could produce. "How was dance?"
Jongin opened his mouth to reply, but his mother's attention was soon stolen by his youngest older sister and brought back to the TV.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, craning her neck to peek at him. She pointed vaguely towards the kitchen, then faced the screen again. "I left food for you if you're hungry. In front of the microwave as usual."
And Jongin knew he was forgotten.
He dropped his blue duffel bag to the floor and sighed as he trudged to the kitchen. When he looked over the cold meat and rice, Jongin figured that the terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn't back because he was jealous or sour that he could only hold his mother's attention for a few seconds, or because he never really got the chance to tell her, 'I'm thinking of quitting dance.'
The door clicked open, and in stepped Mr Kim in his slacks and shiny shoes that he removed in the entrance. "Hello!" called he, and they responded enthusiastically from the living room. He would have gone right through to see them had he not heard Jongin welcome him weakly from his post in front of the microwave. He barely heard him over the hum of the instrument, the loud chatter and the dramatic music from the television, which had somehow upped in volume since Jongin entered.
His father gave him a small, forced smile as he looked at him. He was fidgeting, Jongin noticed, fingers pulling at his neat pants like he was anxious to get away. "How was dance?"
Jongin took a considerate breath before he answered, "Good." He didn't tell him that he thought of quitting dance, because his father had always been raised with the notion that a Kim never quits once he - or really, she - had started, and he had tried to ingrain the principle in his children. And Jongin figured he shouldn't be upset or sour either that his dad continued on to the living room without asking him how school went, or if the thought of quitting had ever crossed his mind, because his father had always been awkward with him. Maybe he thought he was good at talking about nothing else but dance, which was true once upon a time, but no one really noticed that he didn't talk much at all anymore. And he tried not to blame it, the awkwardness, on the fact that his father had been living with four girls before his grandma moved into a retirement home, and before he came along. He tried, too, not to be jealous when his dad asked his sisters how school went as the indicative beep, beep, beep of the microwave sounded and pulled him out of his thoughts.
With his heated food, Jongin trudged to his room silently to start on his homework, or maybe sleep off all the angsty, pre-teen feelings he shouldn't be feeling.
On Wednesday afternoons, Jongin didn't have to rush back home. He was free of dance classes, free to walk at his leisure and take in the scenery. So rarely did he ever have the time to register the change of seasons, to see his environment change with them; his year advanced in routines and end-of-season recitals only, not so much on what blanketed the floor.
Jongin liked Wednesdays because he could let his thoughts wander away from pointed toes and perfecting arabesques, and focus instead on what he would eat once he got home. There would be no one there to greet him but the silence of the house.
On Wednesdays, he could take a moment to smell the roses. Not literally, (however/though), as it was already late November, and autumn had settled over the country. The flowers were mostly withered and the leaves mostly fallen, carpeting the path home in hues of oranges and yellows and browns.
The wind was brisk, and Jongin was poorly equipped to fight it. He only wore a grey cotton hoodie with the logo of his dance studio emblazoned across the back. He tightened the strings around his neck and tucked his hands under his armpits, hoping to trap some sort of heat around his body.
Scratching absently at his sides while he walked, Jongin spotted along the way a little boy. He stood stiffly, short, stubby fingers poking through the long sleeves of his too-big navy coat. Jongin would recognize that tuft of black hair anywhere.
"Kyungsoo?"
It was his neighbour. Mrs Do often asked either him or one of his siblings to pick up her only child from the elementary school behind the middle school. She would let him walk himself home, at six-years-old, considering the short distance, but she was afraid he would purposefully stray away and get lost. On Wednesdays, Jongin would almost always pick him up.
Kyungsoo did not turn to face him or respond to the call. He was too absorbed in the balding thin tree that stood tall in front of him.
Jongin approached carefully, slowly, the crunching of leaves under the soles of his shoes alerting the little boy of his presence. He looked at the tree, then to Kyungsoo; his features were pinched in concentration, big eyes open wide while his eyebrows were scrunched together in the center. Jongin pressed a thumb between his eyebrows to soothe the lines, and that's when Kyungsoo first seemed to notice him at all, his expression staying much the same.
"You're staring at a tree," he informed him, lilt in his voice to tease him. Kyungsoo seemed to be frozen for a moment before he reacted. His tiny body shook in response, his cheeks growing pink like he was embarrassed. He flicked his gaze toward Jongin before he stalked away down the sidewalk, mumbling, hands fisted at his sides.
Jongin stood staring after Kyungsoo a moment, only half shocked by his unprovoked upset. Though quiet and shy, Kyungsoo was a strange little boy, and Jongin had spent enough time with the kid, when he used to have time, to be used to it.
But had he said something wrong? No, he thought as he looked up, was there something upsetting about this tree? He gave it a cursory glance before hurrying to catch up with Kyungsoo.
When Jongin got home, the excitement of getting there on a Wednesday faded. The door clicked behind him. The stillness of the house was not nearly as welcoming as three girls and a distant father.
He walked forward and slipped his backpack off of his shoulders, dropping it to the floor on his way to the kitchen. His steps thudded against the carpet as they fell. The clack of the cupboards created a rhythm as Jongin opened all of them looking for a bowl, even though he knew where they were kept. It clinked against the marble counter as he set it down, and the utensils rattled when he opened the drawer to take out a spoon. The fruity loops his mom would tell him to avoid fell into the bowl, the mass building until the sound died out, dish filled.
For as long as he danced around the kitchen, Jongin could pretend the sounds of his activity were other people moving about. He tried, like he did every week, not to dwell on the loneliness that wrapped around him like the cold autumn wind. (And still his sweater could not protect him against it.)
Later, Jongin realized he would never be satisfied, not even when the house was lively and bustling with family members that often forgot he was there. He tried, like he did every week, not to dwell on this reality.
"You look..."
Jongin glanced up through his bangs to see Sehun's thoughtful gaze peering down at him, brown eyes almost hidden under his own black bangs. He tapped his lips as he searched for the correct expression to describe the dark bags under Jongin's eyes, the slouch in his shoulders their ballet instructor would kill him for, and the all-around heavy aura surrounding him.
When he got it, he nodded wisely, content with his next choice of words.
"Like death."
Jongin released a groan. "I feel like death."
"I know. I just said you looked like it too."
"You know, a good friend would lie to me."
Sehun resisted the urge to roll his eyes and brought the desk behind him closer to Jongin's. It scraped loudly against the tiled floor, much to the other students' chagrin. "Yeah, well, I'm an amazing friend, then," he retorted, straddling the chair and leaning forward against the back of it, not bothered by the ruckus he was causing. "And it's my job to tell you when you look like you haven't slept in five-hundred days."
"Thanks, Oh Sehun," he said sarcastically. His friend smirked, but only for a second.
"How was dance yesterday?"
It was easy for Jongin to think that Sehun only asked because of the common interest, because none of his other friends - the few that he had - ever bothered to ask since they learned he started dancing years ago. But Sehun sounded concerned, like he wanted to know whether Jongin was thinking of quitting or not. He didn't tell him.
"Same old, same old," answered he with a frown. "I think Wednesday was my last Free Wednesday." Sehun cocked his head curiously, so Jongin explained. "Winter recital rehearsals will start to pick up. I'll have to see that old witch of a ballet teacher like every day now until Christmas."
This made Sehun laugh, the way his friend had lowered his voice and used as much disgust as he could muster to emphasize the duration of his demise. "Just think of it this way," he admonished, "after the recital you won't have to see her for the next three-hundred years." He meant the two weeks they got to celebrate the holidays - Sehun had an affinity for using hyperboles. He reached over to pat him on the shoulder just as the bell rang, announcing the end of recess. "But cheer up. Tomorrow is Saturday."
There were some weekends that started very early, and continued very slowly, leaving whole days to little boys who thought they danced too much. Time seemed to crawl forward, its perception so warped that what he thought was half a day gone by was only two hours.
It was still early morning when Jongin felt it, sitting at the desktop computer him and his siblings shared, the weight of the week hitting him like a freight train and sucking the energy right out of him. But Jongin wasn't tired only in a physical sense.
Jongin liked the distraction school provided, both during the week and during the weekend. He spent enough time lying on his bed or sitting at the shared desk just writing and catching up on assignments. He was eleven, and didn't have as much to do as his sisters, but he took great care in finishing his homework so he could reward himself with sleep, or worry-free lazy afternoons.
(Jongin used to look forward to his dance classes, but come 4:00 PM, the only thing he looked forward to the next day was the time he'd spend in school, at his small desk, not dancing.)
While school was another moment of physical rest, everything related to it was mental unrest; for when he wasn't dancing, his mind was. His thoughts sauntered and twirled to a beat unknown, moving upstage and downstage, sometimes in sync, then off-count. They scattered and left him scrambling, the audience of one not knowing where to rest his eyes. The performance would go on, die down, but the dancers never really took a bow. Jongin couldn't tell when the music would fade and the curtains would fall. He was trapped in this theater with no escape. Jongin often thought he thought too much about escaping.
Escapism. It was a new word to Jongin, one he learned and retained when his teacher said it in passing.
Sometimes, when he had time like this, he indulged in his little curiosities. And upon learning its definition, he wished so much that he could avoid reality - though he couldn't really explain why - or that his mind could be absorbed in something other than his own thoughts, or feelings he knew he shouldn't be feeling.
But the more he looked into it, the more Jongin knew he was in need of an escape. And dancing wasn't it.
Suddenly, the weekend went by too quickly, and Jongin regretted once wishing it to be over so he could escape his own thoughts.
Monday brought with it a terrible evening for him at the studio, and really he should have expected it - it was a Monday, after all, the worst day of the week. He shouldn't subscribe to that school of thought, but it was hard when he'd missed cues of a routine he'd memorized last week.
"Are you even trying?" Ms Jung spat from across the floor. "Your turns are all off, you're missing the beats, you're distracted - is this how you got your solo?"
Jongin could only grit his teeth and breathe heavily, because she was right. He wasn't dancing at his best, he wasn't focused, his movements were sluggish, and he was fumbling out of his moves like he had no control over his body.
"I could give it to someone more deserving. Is that what you want?" More deserving, she said, but not better, because he was already the best. He had to be the best. "I push you to be better than this. Wake up, Jongin! Again! From the top."
He didn't dare ask for a break to recuperate, or to lie down a moment to relieve the pain in his lower back.
Jongin could feel it, the pressure of starting again, of having no other choice but to start again, set by the eyes of fellow dancers heavy on his back, and Ms Jung's expectant gaze on him. It was the burden to excel that caged him here, in the studio, and if he cracked in front of anyone, he was sure it would be perceived as weakness, as not good enough. He had to be the best. He had to be better.
As Jongin returned to his starting position, he wondered why his best wasn't enough for anyone.
Some nights, when Mrs Oh was in a hurry to go home, she would drop Jongin off behind his project, where he could follow the dimly lit narrow path to his backyard. This never inconvenienced him. It didn't matter whether he used the front door or the back door; if his family was in the living room, to which the door gave entrance, Jongin was almost certain they wouldn't notice him then either.
He trudged along the stones that led to a small sandbox, encased by surrounding houses. He was shuffling through the grass toward his house when he spotted movement to his left. He slowed and stared into the darkness of someone's backyard. It was seemingly undisturbed, but Jongin carefully approached anyway to closer inspect. If he squinted, he could make out the outline of a silhouette, hunched forward, the crown of a tuft of black hair -
“Kyungsoo?”
The boy looked up, startled out of his wits. He narrowed his eyes at Jongin and released a strained breath. When he spoke, his voice was much quieter than Jongin’s, breathy and shaky. “You scared me.” He put his tiny hand to his heart as if to emphasize just how scared he was. Jongin thought he was lucky it was just him and not some creep that had caught him.
“What are you doing out here? It’s like 9 PM.” Kyungsoo scrambled up and dusted off his neat khaki cargo pants. He was wearing a navy V-neck knit sweater over a thin white polo that almost shone in the darkness. But Jongin was pretty sure it wasn’t enough to keep him from the night chill. “And aren’t you cold?”
“I was trying to read,” he answered in a hushed again. The older boy then noticed, as he neared the wooden fence separating them, that Kyungsoo was holding in his hand a slim book and a flashlight. “But my light went out.”
“So you decided to read in the dark? Outside? - Where are your parents? ” Kyungsoo didn’t dignify his question with an answer, instead waving his hand flippantly at him, and then stopping the motion when he realized he was being rude to someone older than him. He dipped his head in apology, but Jongin didn’t mind so much. He was just worried about the kid. “Go back inside, Kyungsoo. And sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“What? Are you locked out of your house? Did you forget the code again.”
Kyungsoo wasn’t looking at him when he answered, gaze focused instead on his empty palm. He stretched it outward, fingers flexing and tensing. “I’m looking for a clue.”
“Clue?”
When he looked up, he seemed to be blushing in embarrassment, lifting his shoulders as if to curl up on himself standing. “Can I trust you?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“You made fun of me last time,” he supplied, voice dying out each new word he added.
“I didn’t - I wasn’t trying -” he stuttered. “C’mon. You can trust me.” He tapped his shoulder. “I’m your favourite hyung,” he sing-songed, his most convincing ‘I’m trustworthy’ face on.
Kyungsoo didn’t look at all persuaded and chose not to remind him that he was the only hyung he liked, and inched closer to the fence. He leaned forward, like he was ready to share a secret with Jongin. He gestured for him to dip down, so Jongin did, anticipating what it was he had to say.
“I’m looking for Tree B-612.”
Jongin pulled away, confused. “Wasn’t it Asteroid B-612?” Kyungsoo’s eyes widened in surprise, and he became stiff again. Jongin didn’t remember where he had heard that before, but he was almost very certain that it wasn’t a tree, it was an asteroid.
“Yes,” Kyungsoo said breathlessly, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. He produced the book he’d been hiding and brandished it for Jongin to see. There, on the aggressively yellow background, in the left-hand corner, was the unmistakable, crudely drawn form of a little blond boy in green, scarf dramatically blown to the side by an imaginary wind. “You read it!”
The Little Prince. Jongin’s face twisted with extreme dislike. He’d read it alright. He’d hated it too.
“Reading that for school?”
“No.” Kyungsoo shook his head. “You read it?” he repeated in the form of a question this time.
“Oh. Yeah,” Jongin answered, “last year.”
The little boy nodded like he was very pleased to hear this news. "So you know the Prince?"
"Only what I've read of him," he admitted, shifting his weight so he was settled comfortably for the discussion he was about to have - that is until he realized just how exhausted he was and how late it had gotten. "But we'll talk about him another day. Time for bed, 'kay?"
"I'm not tired."
"Well I am. And he is, too," he pointed to the book.
Kyungsoo looked down. "He is?" Then he looked up at the black sky. "I think you're right..."
It was quiet a moment before Kyungsoo whispered good night to the stars, and looked back to Jongin to do the same to him. "Good night."
And with that he made his way back inside his house, taking care to lock the sliding doors and draw the shades. It was the last of Kyungsoo saw that night, and with a sigh, he went back home himself.
If Jongin didn't run back home at 40 km/h - which he knew was probably not humanly possible - probably (he'd look into it) - he'd be late. He'd be late, and Ms Jung would skin him alive in front of the ballerinas and ballerinos just to teach them all a lesson.
That was how he felt anyway, as Kyungsoo took three small steps for each of his average-sized ones. Still, he wasn't walking fast enough, and Jongin could tell the little boy didn't feel the haste oozing out of him as he hurried him along.
He didn't usually walk Kyungsoo home on Tuesday, but the boy had caught up to him when he was on his way. Jongin couldn't very well leave him in the dust; it would be rude and he'd probably hold it against him. So he fidgeted as he silently urged Kyungsoo to move faster so he could change, or at least gather his things and change at the studio.
"Hyung," Kyungsoo called as they neared their houses. He could see it, he just had to be in it in one minute, two max. Jongin, though distracted, hummed in response. "Is anything possible?"
"Yeah," he said, "if you put your mind to it." So he'd been told anyway. He wasn't so sure he believed that anymore. If he could get to that house and change, he would.
"Is that enough?"
"Listen, Kyungsoo, I have go home. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Is that enough?" he asked, ignoring his good bye.
"Is what enough?" Jongin asked, hoping to hurry this along.
"Believing."
A dejected sigh. "It has to be." And with that he ran home.
Breathe in. Breathe out. It was what Jongin told himself to do as he lied on the studio floor. The ground was surprisingly much colder than the humid and heavy air above him, hot with the sweat of other dancers and the dance instructors' expectations. The latter, though, still crawled under his skin, seeped through through the tips of his shoulder blades and spread out across his body until it reached his hip, where it throbbed a sharp pain. He groaned. He'd just powered through a hip hop class like nothing was wrong, even though his face and body language had conveyed his discomfort. Still, he danced and was praised, and by the end of the day, for the sake of perfection, Jongin was beginning to think they were pretending not to notice.
1. This was inspired by a few children's stories: Peter Pan, Shark Boy & Lava Girl...But it was very strongly inspired by my re-reading of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince in its original language, and then in English for fic purposes.
2. If you haven’t read The Little Prince, I strongly recommend you read it at all stages of life. c: You can find it here online. You learn something new every time.
3. I haven’t finished writing the story, but I will sometime soon as it’s something I really like. I couldn’t even give it a temporary end, because then I would have cheated. Or something. I feel bad. Again, I’m so sorry soopremo. If you can be a little patient with me, I’ll tell you how this ends…