Round 8: Your Every Desire (TEAM AU - Part 1/5)
Title: Your Every Desire
Team: AU! Awesomely ultimate.
Rating: PG-13, warnings for some themes of domestic abuse.
Fandom: 2PM
Pairing: Slight Nichkhun/Wooyoung
Summary: A strange new shop has opened up at the end of Wooyoung's street. It's everything Wooyoung never knew he wanted.
Author's Note: Thank you very much to those who helped look over parts of my story for me and gave me encouragement for this. Actually, I'd like to apologize to everyone, because I only had enough time to get half the fic beta'd, so I'm really sorry for any typos or errors you might come across. I take full responsibility of those. Feel free to chuck tomatoes. If you are thinking, "Holy crap, this author is nuts writing so many parts; it sure as heck better not suck," then I am inclined to agree with you on both counts, my friend. Thanks in advance for reading. *high-five*
Prompt Used: Chu~ by f(x)
This can’t be happening, Wooyoung thinks, as he clutches Jaebeom’s unconscious body a little tighter in his lap.
It can’t be.
This has to be some sick dream of Wooyoung’s, because that’s the most logical explanation for all of this. Things like bartered hearts and songs that weave spells and shops that can read people’s wishes, these don’t happen in real life. That’s all make-believe stuff. Storybook fodder. Possible only in the imagination.
And yet, here is Wooyoung, holding a dying man in his arms, as their ride speeds towards a shop housing a mysterious shopkeeper who Wooyoung knows is the only person able to help them.
It’s unbelievable. Just like everything else that has happened to Wooyoung in the past few weeks.
In their seats on Wooyoung’s left side, Junho and Chansung are in between yelling at Taecyeon and gaping at Jaebeom. They’re scared. All they know is that Jaebeom looks ready to die, and for some reason, they are not taking him to the hospital.
They don’t understand that Jaebeom can’t be helped at the hospital.
Wooyoung does though, he understands; he knows what Jaebeom needs, and he knows where to get it, but he’s still scared. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this scared before, not even during any fights with his father, not on any stage, not even that one time Nichkhun had yelled at him. They’re racing against the clock right now, Jaebeom is dying and Nichkhun’s shop is falling apart (what do you think will happen to the shopkeeper) and it’s Wooyoung’s fault because he should have known, he should have realized -- how could he have spent so much time with both Nichkhun and Jaebeom and not seen --
Fuck, Wooyoung thinks. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“Nichkhun?” Junho is asking, voice high and alarmed. “Knows Jaebeom hyung?”
“Yeah--" Wooyoung manages to say, but doesn’t get any further than that because Jaebeom’s head flops heavily onto Wooyoung’s shoulder and his pulse, his weak, erratic pulse, which has been beating weakly under Wooyoung’s palm all this time, skips, flutters, and disappears entirely.
Oh, Wooyoung thinks. No. No.
This can’t be -- Jaebeom can’t be --
This isn’t how the story is supposed to end.
But this isn’t a story. This is life, and in life, no one is guaranteed a happily ever after. Least of all Wooyoung. And yet -- and yet, Wooyoung can’t help but think, it’s still not over. They can still make it. He won’t let it finish here. Wooyoung has been plagued non-stop with impossible things the past few weeks, so what’s one more? Wooyoung caused this, and he can fix this.
He squeezes his eyes shut and forcefully dredges up his memory, everything that has happened to him leading up to this point, and Wooyoung remembers --
one
A few things to know about Jang Wooyoung:
First. Wooyoung doesn't love easily. It takes time for him to warm up to others, if he bothers to do it at all, and even after that, it takes time for others to get adjusted to him too. For some reason, people assume that Wooyoung's a "nice guy" and are inevitably surprised to find that he is not.
Second. Wooyoung may not be a nice guy, but in his opinion, he's far from horrible. It's just that from first glance at Wooyoung's pleasant face, people automatically assume that Wooyoung's personality has a matching pleasantness. Which it doesn't. This usually disappoints people, but Wooyoung could care less. It isn't Wooyoung's fault if they judge by appearances.
Third. Those who Wooyoung does care about and in turn are okay with Wooyoung, these people are rare and far between. Sometimes Wooyoung wonders if there is something wrong with him, after all, since everyone around him seems to have a nice sphere of social connections and Wooyoung can count the number of friends he has with one hand. Save some time: Wooyoung's got two. Two friends.
Fourth. All this may make Wooyoung sound a bit cold-hearted, but this goes back to the "nice guy" misconception and the judging-a-book-by-its-cover metaphorical crap. Because neither of Wooyoung's two friends would hesitate to reveal how stupid and childish Wooyoung can be sometimes, if he's in the mood. Wooyoung is like the earth: he's a sharp rock with a melted core, and although he's got way more layers of hard than soft, the fact is that the softness exists, and can be found, if anyone bothered to look deep enough. Example. Wooyoung's favourite books are those old, romantic legends -- those stories featuring knights and their destinies, fantastical settings and supernatural powers, which, quite frankly, are nothing but bloodied-up, testosterone-injected fairy tales, and fine, Wooyoung acknowledges this even if he’s not proud of it. That's why no one but his friends and his grandmother know about his secret collection of novelettes, nearly decomposing with age, hidden under his mattress at home.
Of course it's lame, but Wooyoung can't help liking them. He likes their simplicity, their one-dimensional morals. The protagonists in those stories make everything seem so easy. Work hard, and anything is possible. Trust in yourself, and you can become better. An ordinary boy can become a hero. Magic is real, destiny is true. Good people always get a happy ending.
Fifth. Wooyoung still believes in fairy tales. Not even his grandmother knows this.
The new shop at the end of the road has been open for about two weeks now and Wooyoung still has yet to pay it a visit. Every day he walks past the shop twice, once on his way to school and once on his way home, and although he can clearly see the assortment of knick-knacks lined up in the store window (vases and globes and small, decorated boxes), he still has no idea what exactly the shop sells. What kind of name is Dreamhouse for a store, anyway? It's way too sugary for Wooyoung's tastes. The first time he'd read the plaque hanging above the shop door, he'd immediately thought of dolls and doilies and other frilly things that girls probably loved; he'd turned away quickly, losing interest. Whoever the shop is supposed to appeal to, it isn't him.
Wooyoung has good intuition. A few days after the shop opens, he notices a change in his usual walk home. A trip that would usually take him at most twenty minutes had extended to almost thirty because of the pedestrian traffic; specifically, the appearance of a large crowd where there was none before, walking slowly in front of him, taking up all of the sidewalk space, giggling and completely ignorant of Wooyoung's attempts to politely bypass them. Girls. Lots and lots of school girls. All headed to the Dreamhouse shop. At first there had been only two or four of them (girls always travelled in pairs, and Wooyoung never understood this, but he liked the neatness of it), but as time passed, the numbers grew, and now there seems to be up to twenty girls who travelled home with Wooyoung daily. This would have been great, if any of them actually talked to Wooyoung. Instead, they're busy talking about the new store, and the apparently really cute store manager.
There's a young man with a bright orange apron who Wooyoung sees puttering about the inside of the store from time to time (in fact, he's the only person Wooyoung has ever seen working there) and Wooyoung wonders if this is the person all the girls seem to be going crazy over. Recently he's found himself getting annoyed on the guy's behalf, because it seems like lots of girls go into the shop, talk with the apron-guy, then leave, without buying anything. Had it been Wooyoung's family store people were loitering around in just to get a good look at Wooyoung's face, he'd be frustrated. But from the brief glimpses of the apron-guy as he walks by the store, Wooyoung has never seen anything but a smile on the other boy's face. For some reason, that's a little frustrating, too.
It isn't long before more people start going to the shop and rumours start spreading about the strange person working there. Rumours like, he's foreign, he can barely speak Korean, and he's living by himself and manages the store on his own. There are less believable ones too, ones that say he's got some secret power that makes all the girls fall for him, that he's got some sixth sense that allows him to take one look at you when you walk in the shop and immediately know what you're looking for, that his shop is crazy: it sells anything and everything you want, and you don't even have to pay with money.
"It's a pawn shop, you mean," Wooyoung clarifies, when Chansung recounts all this to him over lunch one day. "It's got a little of everything, so you can find anything."
"Yeah, but not just that," Chansung says, waving a hand. "Like, Kwonnie, right? He went in with Sunye yesterday, and she got these earrings, and Kwon was like, oh, it would be so nice if you could have a matching belt, or whatever, and then the guy -- the shopkeeper -- goes to his storeroom and pulls out a matching belt. Just like that."
Wooyoung looks at Junho. Junho looks at Chansung. "So?" Junho asks. "The guy has sets of accessories."
"Okay, yeah, but he does that kind of thing with everyone," Chansung says. "Whatever people mention, he just has it. It's weird. Even Jinwoon thinks it's weird."
"Jinwoon went to the shop too?"
"Yeah, he got a new pair of drumsticks there. He traded his favourite scarf for them, but he says they're the best sticks he's ever used. Really good balance or something."
Junho turns to Wooyoung. "Do you believe all this stuff? You live on the same street; you must have visited there before."
Wooyoung scoffs. "Why would I bother? There's nothing I need I can't get at our place or the mall."
"How -- how about a sense of curiousity," Chansung suggests, grinning.
"If I wanted the ability to be amused at everything, I'd just act like you for a day," Wooyoung snipes.
"Oh, by the way, Wooyoung," Junho says. "Can you make it to dance practise today? Your dad's not going to ground you again, is he?"
"I'll be there," Wooyoung says firmly. "He can't ground me if he doesn't see me leave the house."
Junho sighs. "Wouldn't you prefer talking to him instead? So you don't have to sneak out all the time?"
"He doesn't understand," Wooyoung says, absently folding his paper lunch bag into a neat square. "It'd be a waste of time." At Junho's skeptical look, he adds, "Don't worry about me. It's fine."
"Wooyoungie's a big boy, Junho," Chansung pipes up. "Just let him do the mature thing of crawling out his window late at night so his parents won't catch him breaking his curfew."
Wooyoung gives him a shove. "Shut up. Not everyone has such lax parents as you do, Mr. I Hang Out When I Want To, Where I Want To."
"Hah, yeah," Chansung grins. "You're missing out, Woodong." His tone of voice suggests certain lewd or indecent dealings, and Junho sighs again. Thankfully, the school bell rings, signalling the end of lunch, so Chansung is kept from further elaborating on what exactly he gets up to whenever and wherever he wants.
As they make their way back to class, Wooyoung's mind is crowded. Half of it is planning the escape plan for tonight so he can make it to dance practise at the community centre (what time will they finish eating dinner, what time will Wooyoung finish his homework, will his grandmother turn in early, are any of his mother's favourite shows on tonight and how loud will they be, when does his father leave for his late shift at the factory, and more importantly, when will he come back), and the other half is imaging how different Wooyoung's life would be, if his family was more like Chansung's.
Chansung's spoiled. He doesn't realize it, but he is. Not in the material sense. In the general sense. In the way that he's free to do what he feels like. Chansung is tall, strong and handsome, and is good at acting cute when he wants to, so he gets away with a lot, because people forgive him easily. He likes dance and martial arts, so his family regularly encourages his talents. And he's the youngest son, so he gets doted on, too. Wooyoung has never seen Chansung be upset about his parents or his siblings, ever. The guy just has a really good home life. Chansung's spoiled because he will never understand just how lucky he is.
It's not that Wooyoung's not thankful for what he has. He knows that his life could be far worse than what it is. His parents are strict, but they love him, and that, in Wooyoung's opinion counts for a lot. And in disagreements with his parents, Wooyoung can always count on his grandmother to be on his side, to patch him up afterwards, if the disagreements get out of hand. It's just that sometimes, Wooyoung wonders if Chansung -- or people like Chansung -- has ever wanted anything. Something that can't be bought with money. Wooyoung knows Junho does. And Wooyoung, well, he wants a lot. His list could probably fill a whole book, starting with "being allowed to practise dancing." Apart from the obvious, it would mean no more sneaking out of his room late at night, because Wooyoung's room is on the second floor of their family shop, and climbing down the backyard tree is a pain in the ass.
Number two on the list of "Things Wooyoung Wants": no more wood splinters in his skin.
On the way home, passing by the new Dreamhouse store, Wooyoung's eyes catch on a new display set up in the front window. There are some new leather gloves up for sale, and Wooyoung can't help but think that they would be useful for tree-climbing. He mulls over them for a few seconds, and when he looks up, he almost jumps out of his skin. The young shopkeeper guy is staring at him from the other side of the glass. The guy smiles and waves to Wooyoung, his eyes curving into friendly crescents.
Wooyoung gives him a curt nod and hurries away, hoping that his ears aren't as red as they feel.
Good-looking. Yeah, Wooyoung can see that.
It's 8:15 on the dot and Wooyoung's got one leg outside his bedroom window when his door opens and his mom peers in. Wooyoung freezes, half his body bent and knee on the ledge. Oh dang.
"Getting some fresh air, are we?" she says, raising an eyebrow.
Wooyoung could probably say yes, but that wouldn't really explain why he’s dressed up in street clothes and wearing his favourite baseball cap. It certainly wouldn't explain why there are lumps of towels stuffed under his blanket to give the impression that a body is sleeping on the bed.
"Er," Wooyoung stutters, and climbs back inside his room. He hears himself ask, "Did -- did your show finish already?" and immediately winces. Shit, of all the things to say. Way to be even more obvious.
"Not yet," his mother answered, voice clipped. "Which is why I came up here. I was wondering why you got all your homework done so quickly tonight."
"I was just--" Wooyoung starts to say, but his mother holds up her hand.
"Are Junho and Chansung going to be there, at least?" she asks, and Wooyoung tries not to frown -- for some reason his mother always feels much safer when either Junho or Chansung are with Wooyoung. What kind of fairness is that, Wooyoung thinks. He's the oldest of them.
"Yes, both," he admits. "We're meeting at the community centre." There's no point in denying it, now that the cat's out of the bag. "I was only going to go for a bit. And I have my cell phone in case I need to contact you." He puts on his best innocent face and hopes that his mom is in an allowing mood.
"Well," she says reluctantly, after a moment. "I guess you can go for a while, since you helped me close shop today. But don't stay out for too long. Your father will be home from his evening shift around 11, so I expect you no later than 10:30, understand?"
Wooyoung can't keep back his smile. "Of course."
"I mean it, Wooyoung," his mother continues. "Don't forget how your father reacted the last time he caught you coming home from dance practise."
"I won't," Wooyoung says. "I'll be back in time."
"Good. Go out the front door, please."
Wooyoung does, happily.
At the community centre, about ten kids have already gathered in an area clear of chairs and are practising some basic b-boy moves to the beat of someone's boombox. Wooyoung spots Chansung's height right away and heads over.
"Wooyoung, you're here!" Chansung grins at sight of him, and reaches up to pinch Wooyoung's cheek. Wooyoung ducks, batting his hand away. Chansung laughs.
"Where's Junho?" Wooyoung asks, looking around. Out of the three of them, Junho's the most addicted to practise, so it's a surprise that he's not here yet.
"Over there." Chansung points to the corner of the building, where two small figures are talking quietly in front of the back exit. One of them is Junho, and the other guy is --
Wooyoung's eyebrows rise. "He's back?"
Chansung shrugs. "Guess so. They were talking when I got here. Junho's probably trying to recruit him again."
"Hm," Wooyoung says.
In past weeks, there's been somewhat of a mystery going on, in this rag-tag little dance group of theirs. There's this kid who all of the sudden started frequenting their community centre. At first, Wooyoung had only seen him a few times, a small figure standing at the end of the hall, by the back door, wearing a large jacket, a Yankees cap, and a ratty backpack, looking around occasionally as if he was waiting for someone. But he never approached anybody, and no one ever went up to him. The guy had a bit of a pale, shifty look to him; during a few minutes during one practise, when Wooyoung had paused to catch his breath, he'd noticed that the guy's gaze kept returning to those still dancing. And Wooyoung had realized: the guy was listening in. He was watching them.
Chansung had been curious ("Guys, wow, do you think he's a pervert? He's so tiny though, I could take him! Don't worry, Wooyoungie, your virtue is safe with me."), and he'd had suggested they go up to him and see what he was all about, but Junho preferred to mind his own business. Wooyoung didn't like to make assumptions, so he shrugged it off too -- so what if they had an audience? It wasn't like the guy was bothering them.
And then one day, Junho had gotten to practise early (early even by his own standards) and had seen the guy dancing.
"Wooyoung, you will not believe--" Junho had blabbered to him on the phone, as Wooyoung rushed towards the community centre that night, "I mean. I mean, there wasn't even any music, and he was dancing, and b-boying, and I do not understand why he hasn't stepped up before and-- because he's there practically every practise, isn't he? The frustrating thing is that as soon as he saw me watching him he just froze up and went pale and then when I went over to talk, he kept on trying to leave. Honestly, I have to say it was a little awkward, because I don't even think he's fluent in Korean. Maybe he's from overseas or something. Oh, fuck, I need to show you this one move he did, I think I remember it correctly, Wooyoung, are you here yet?"
"What?" Wooyoung had said. He'd gotten lost in Junho's rant five minutes ago.
"THE GUY!" Junho had all but yelled. "He's a b-boyer! A very talented one!"
"Thug Life guy?"
"YES."
"Like, better than your brother?"
Junho had made an exasperated sound. "No one is better than my brother," he said, with a tinge of annoyance. "But he was still very good. I tried to recruit him to join our team -- maybe we'd finally be able to win a few tournaments -- but he left pretty quickly. I didn't get his name."
"So what does this mean? He watches us, doesn't participate, but he's had this secret hidden skill all this time? What kind of behaviour is that?"
"I don't know. I assume he's shy since he doesn't seem to be able to speak Korean very well."
"Did you ask where he was from?"
"No, I was preoccupied. I was trying to get him to show me some of his moves. But then when more people started showing up, he left."
"Is he coming back?"
"I hope so."
And, after a week or so of no-shows (in which Junho had whined and moped and blamed himself for scaring the guy away and Chansung had called him insane), Thug Life Dude did come back, when no one else had been in the centre. Again, it was Junho who caught him dancing. Ever since their first meeting, Junho had become completely obsessed with improving his own skill, and had started coming to practises hours in advance. Wooyoung supposed that after living under his brother's shadow for so long, Junho had forgotten that there were plenty of other people in the world with talent for performance. So he'd shown up and there was the guy again, moving like dance was his body's way of breathing. Cue another failed attempt at recruitment, and awkward conversation, and the guy fleeing. By the time Chansung and Wooyoung had shown up, Junho was livid.
"Just leave him alone," Chansung had told him. "If he doesn't want to join, then fine."
"Except he does," Junho had said. "I can tell he wants to join. Just from the way he looks at me when I talk to him. But something's stopping him."
There were a hundred possible reasons why, and of course Wooyoung's imagination had immediately spun a number of fanciful tales: dancing reminded him of a dead girlfriend and the memories hurt, he couldn’t dance in public because he suffered some kind of debilitating trauma as a child, or maybe he was under some kind of ancient curse? Maybe he was like Wooyoung, whose parents didn't approve.
"Stage fright?" Chansung had suggested. Oh, Wooyoung had thought, that was really way more plausible.
"Maybe. I don't know." Junho bit his lip in thought. "It doesn't feel like shyness, exactly. It's like he's afraid to make friends." He'd crossed his arms, looking resigned. "Anyway."
So they'd left it at that. After the second time he'd gotten caught, the guy once again took a leave of absence, and Wooyoung stopped caring about the frustrated glances Junho gave to the center's back door when he thought no one was looking. Today's the first time they've seen the guy in over a week. How predictable of Junho to try talking to him again -- Junho determined was like snapping turtle on a lure, he just didn't let go. Wooyoung watches warily as the guy makes an abrupt motion like he's about to leave, and then Junho says something, and the guy hesitates, and his shoulders slump, and he nods carefully. Then they're turning around and heading over to where all of them are gathered. Junho looks extremely satisfied with himself.
"Wooyoung, Chansung," Junho says when he gets closer, "this is Park Jaebeom. He's from the US, and he's living by himself in Korea now. I convinced him to practise with us today, to see if he likes it. Jaebeom hyung, this is Wooyoung, this is Chansung."
"Pleased to meet you," Jaebeom says carefully, bowing once. "Er, sorry if I've been acting weird, coming around here every so often. I was only watching. I, uh, didn't want to bother your team or anything."
He seems a bit hesitant to be talking to them, as if he's scared that something will go wrong. But his voice is high and pleasant, and up close, his face doesn't look scary after all. He's quite short, and he's got really girly earrings, but somehow they suit him. He reminds Wooyoung of some kind of elf. Wooyoung feels himself smiling slightly, and Jaebeom blinks at him, taken back.
"Hey," Chansung says, reaching to shake Jaebeom's hand. "Are you going to join the team? You are, right? Junho hasn't shut up about how good you are since he saw you dancing. I hope you're looking forward to him bugging you at all hours for practise. He'd rather practise than eat."
"Be quiet," Junho sputters, going red. "It's not like that," he tells Jaebeom.
"It's cool," Jaebeom says, and Wooyoung can hear a trace of American accent on his tongue. "I used to be obsessed with training too."
"It was totally gay though," Chansung nods solemnly. "Junho's got a total one-track mind and he -- woah, watch it!" He ducks as Junho makes a mad swipe for him, and darts away laughing like a hyena, with Junho hot on his heels.
Jaebeom stares after them, then meets Wooyoung's eyes.
Wooyoung shrugs, "They're just like that," and Jaebeom breaks into a small understanding smile. It makes his whole face look much friendlier.
"Anyway," Wooyoung adds, not too grudgingly. "Welcome."
Jaebeom laughs. "Thanks for having me."
Oh my God, Wooyoung thinks. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Jaebeom was so good at dancing, what the hell. Suddenly Junho's obsession with getting the guy to dance with them made a whole lot of sense, because wow, that is a talent that you want to have on your side. Junho's face had been so smug once Jaebeom had taken his turn in the dance circle, probably because Wooyoung's eyebrows nearly lifted off his head and Chansung's jaw had progressively dropped lower and lower the longer Jaebeom had danced. But he had just been that good. Wooyoung has seen plenty of great dancers before -- Junho's brother, for one -- but this guy was near their age, and he was so good.
Practise is over; Wooyoung's walking home and he's still reeling.
Jaebeom danced in the way that Wooyoung wants to dance. When Wooyoung watches professional dancers like Junho's brother take the stage, their dances are amazing and pull at Wooyoung's gut, but it’s different because they are choreographed. It's clear that every step is planned for miles in advance, each combination trained to perfection by professionals. When Jaebeom danced, it wasn't so much choreography, as it was just his body moving. He danced like his heart dictated it, like he didn't even need to think, didn't need to breathe. He put everything he had into his dance, and Wooyoung wants to be able to do that. Wooyoung wants to dance like it's all he knows. Let the rest of the world fade away, but allow Wooyoung the thrill of life in his own body.
Wooyoung shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. It's 10:14. He picks up his pace. He's still got plenty of time to get home, but he really does not want to risk being late. It's been months since his father forbade Wooyoung from spending so much of his free time dancing, and the last time that Wooyoung got caught sneaking out of the house (that had been the last time he'd used the front door), the consequences had been... bad. He had ended up telling Junho and Chansung that he'd accidentally gotten hit while playing baseball with some neighbourhood kids.
Once he reaches the start of his street, Wooyoung pauses mid-step. He hears music. At this time of night? He looks around. The roads are mostly empty, as expected of a small shopping district after business hours, but the few lingering people don't seem to take any notice of the faint melody, straining through the air. It can't just be him hearing things, can it? The song is upbeat but simple, soothing on the ears, and Wooyoung can't help but think that there's something familiar about the voice singing. Wooyoung likes it right away. He feels like he could dance to it. The lyrics seem to be in English, and Wooyoung doesn’t recognize the song.
He debates about following the sound, but then finds it a moot point as he finds that the music increases in volume in the same direction that Wooyoung takes home. It's not too long later when he finds its source: a small boombox, set on the front steps of the new Dreamhouse store. And sitting beside it, with his hands clasped around his knees and eyes calmly tracking the passing traffic on the road, is the man who works in the store. Apron guy, without his usual apron. He glances up as Wooyoung approaches, and catches Wooyoung staring at him. Wooyoung tries to look away, but it's too late.
"Hello," Apron guy calls, twiddling his fingers at Wooyoung. "Nice night, isn't it?"
Wooyoung doesn't recognize his accent, other than it's not Korean. He raises and lowers a shoulder. "It's fine." He hopes he sounds bored enough; the last thing he wants to do is get lured into a conversation right now.
But it doesn't work. "You're from the family who runs the convenience store at the end of the street, aren't you?" the other man asks, his smile affable. "I see you pass by the shop every day."
"Yes," Wooyoung says, and stops walking. He doesn't know why he stops -- certainly nothing in the other guy's tone had prompted it, but something about the way that the shopkeeper's eyes glitter from the dim glow of the streetlights is very... arresting. He has very large eyes. And very thick eyebrows.
"It's nice to officially meet you," the shopkeeper says, getting up from his steps. "I'm Nichkhun. I own this place." He extends a hand.
Wooyoung examines it for a second before finds himself reaching over and returning a soft, warm grip. "Wooyoung," he says.
"You were looking at the gloves in my window display this morning, weren't you?" Apron guy -- Nichkhun -- says pleasantly. "I'm closed right now, but I can let you in to see them, if you're still interested."
"I'm not," Wooyoung says quickly. "I don't have any money with me, besides."
Nichkhun grins. "You don't have to pay with money if you don't want to. I take any kind of trade."
Oh, that's right, Wooyoung remembers. "You're a pawn shop."
"Is that what people are calling it?" Nichkhun asks, laughing. "I'm not really. If people only wanted to pay with money, that'd be fine. It's just that if they don't have money, then they can use something else. As long as the payment is equal."
What kind of business sense was this. "Equal to what?" Wooyoung says waspishly.
"To what they want to have," Nichkhun answers. "Did you want the gloves?"
"No," Wooyoung says. "I don't need anything, thanks." He checks his watch. 10:20. "I have to get home." But just as he's about to leave, the happy beat streaming from the boombox slows down, the last long note held by the singer comes to a close, stops, and the song restarts again. The music pulls at Wooyoung. He asks, "What's that song?"
Nichkhun brightens. "Do you like it? A friend of mine wrote it and made that CD. It was his favourite song to dance to."
"It's all right," Wooyoung says, which is sort of an understatement but whatever.
"Well, I play it all the time, feel free to come by the shop if you want to listen. Or if you need something else. I'm sure to have it."
His easy confidence is part annoying, part amusing. Wooyoung's not impressed. "I heard your shop has any random selection of products at a time," he replies, a tiny smirk on his lips. "How will I know that I'll find what I'm looking for?"
Nichkhun shrugs. "I've got anything."
Wooyoung barely stops himself from rolling his eyes at the cheesiness of a well-used promotional slogan. "You mean you have everything."
"No," Nichkhun says. "I really mean I have anything. Whatever you want. If you can pay for it, it's yours."
Wooyoung has grown up in his family's store. They're a tiny business, all things considered, but they still operate the same way that any other larger establishment would. Wooyoung knows all about the comings and goings of refilling stock, ordering new shipments, keeping inventory. And outside of possessing some hugely inflated ego, which, based on Nichkhun's soft voice, he doesn't particularly seem to have, there's really no reason to go around making sensational claims like that. It's practically a boast against Wooyoung's own store, and considering that Dreamhouse has only been around for two weeks, it's a bit disrespectful.
Some kind of displeasure must have shown on his face, because Nichkhun holds up his hands hurriedly, eyes widening. "Oh! Oh, no, sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he rushes to say. "I'm not trying to show off or anything. It's just the way my store works. I have anything anyone could want."
"What?" Wooyoung says, unsure of how to respond.
"Yeah!" Nichkhun smiles proudly. "I sell all sorts of things. Clothes or electronics or -- how do you say it, that, your," he purses his lips, fumbling for a word. "Your heart's desire!" he announces triumphantly.
"Huh?" Wooyoung asks.
"Is that not how you say it?" Nichkhun's eyebrows furrow. "I read it from a Korean storybook, so maybe I pronounced it badly. Yer. Heart's. Desure?"
"No, that's not, it was right before -- you sell that? How can you sell that?"
"I mean, it varies person from person," Nichkhun says, "but with the right payment, I can sell anything. Wait, except food," he adds as an afterthought. "It doesn't keep. I tried. You know, um, it was a really bad idea."
Wooyoung doesn't know whether he's supposed to laugh. He stares at Nichkhun. Maybe the guy isn't quite right in the head? Nichkhun gazes back at him with a patient smile.
"Is there something you're looking for, Wooyoung?" he asks kindly.
It's on the tip on Wooyoung's tongue to answer something impossible, just to be dickish, although even in his own mind, he's not sure what he wants to say. Wooyoung wants a lot of things, maybe too many things. But none of them can be bought in a store. And none of them are appropriate things to share with someone he's just met. None of them are appropriate things to share, period. It's strange that Wooyoung would even think of them, talking to this ridiculous person about ridiculous things, but something about Nichkhun is strangely warming. Trustworthy. It's like--
Wooyoung's watch beeps. It's 10:30.
"Dang."
Things are crashing on the second floor of the house; he can hear it even on the front step of their shop. Wooyoung, with his hand on the doorknob, pauses and wonders if he should take the window instead. It's 10:38. He's eight minutes late, but his father isn't supposed to be back until 11, at the earliest. What happened? The voice yelling definitely belongs to his father, and if the sheer volume emitting from the man is any indication, he is not in the best of moods. So much for Wooyoung’s successful night out. He considers waiting outside until his father's tantrum blows over, but then he hears mention of his name and then a reply in his mother's panicked voice, and he knows that he's been caught. If Wooyoung didn't face the consequences now, they would only get worse later. He takes in a deep breath and opens the door.
He immediately regrets it as he hears the heavy clatter of chairs being knocked over and thumping footsteps raining down from the floor above. His father's purple, enraged face emerges from the top of the staircase and Wooyoung is alarmed to realize that he's drunk. Something must have happened to him; his father hasn’t gone drinking on weeknights since he got his new night-shift job. Fuck, Wooyoung thinks. It's going to be a bad argument today.
"Wooyoung!" his father bellows, and Wooyoung winces.
"Yes? How was work?" he bends down to untie his shoes out of habit. Maybe if he buys enough time his grandmother will intervene before things get too out of control. Or even better, maybe his dad will see Wooyoung being calm and calm down himself.
Wooyoung always hopes for these things, but they never happen.
His father clomps down the stairs and Wooyoung notices that he's still in his factory uniform, complete with his boots. Oh, did he-- oh no. Wooyoung whips his eyes up just in time to receive a slap to the top of his head.
"What have I told you about going to those dance practises?" his father yells. "What part of 'forbidden' don't you understand?!"
"I was just--" He sucks in a breath as he's given another slap.
"You went! You disobeyed me! You put off your studies to waste time gallivanting off with a bunch of delinquents!"
"They're not--"
"You listen to me, Wooyoung," his father's words are fast and sharp; Wooyoung can practically taste the anger emanating from him. "I have had enough of your disobedience. Your mother and I slave every day to save up for your education and future, and yet you squander all of our efforts by investing yourself in, in dance of all things! I won't have it! This has gone on for too long, and I won't have it!!"
Before Wooyoung can register what's happening, his father is marching up the stairs again, with a murderous expression on his face. Wooyoung raises a hand and gingerly touches his bruised cheek, then his forehead. Shit, they'll colour. And there's school tomorrow.
A shriek from his mother lets him know that his father’s tantrum is not yet over. As Wooyoung rushes up to the second floor, where their bedrooms are, the deep, worn voice of his grandmother greets his ears, berating her son to stop this foolish nonsense and listen to reason. Behind her trails Wooyoung’s mother, arms crossed tightly across her chest and a tic in her jaw. She turns when she sees Wooyoung and heads over to him, grabbing his wrist with one hand and using the other to briefly touch his injured face.
"Your father got laid off today," she murmurs to him. Wooyoung had already figured as much from the presence of the uniform. In front of them, grandmother and son continue to argue. "He was already intoxicated when he got home over an hour ago, and was furious when he found out you'd left. We've tried everything we could to get him to relax. Say nothing to worsen the situation, Wooyoung." Her grip on his wrist is unbearably tight and up close, Wooyoung notices that the edge of her bottom lip is split; her eyes, ringed with red. Wooyoung feels his stomach tighten.
"Wooyoung," his mother whispers urgently, and Wooyoung's heart drops, knowing exactly what she's about to say, "I know that you might not believe me, but your father really does have your best interests at heart. His temper just overpowers him sometimes -- this is really not the best time to be telling you this, but we've been having trouble making ends meet lately -- and now with the stress of losing his job, I'm afraid--"
"STOP THIS!" his grandmother shouts, and both Wooyoung and his mom whip around to see his father storm into Wooyoung's room and start flinging objects haphazardly to the ground. Wooyoung pulls away from his mother and goes to his door, watching in silence as his favourite possessions -- his CD collection, the high-quality earphones he'd spent a whole month saving for -- are all snapped or smashed against the floor, demolishing his normally tidy room. Even his stereo is hurled down with enough force to make a very sickening crack.
Shit, Wooyoung thinks. This is really bad.
His grandmother is clutching at her breast, gasping deeply, and Wooyoung puts a hand under her elbow to steady her. She looks up at him and in her expression is pity, regret and sadness; in some ways, it's even worse than seeing his room being destroyed. Wooyoung looks away.
"--foolish past times," his father is muttering, as he breaks CD after CD on the edge of Wooyoung's desk. "Not taking this seriously, no sense of reality at all, the stupid boy -- after all we've tried to teach him, and he--"
He’s not going to stop, Wooyoung realizes. Not this time. Not until he trashes everything Wooyoung loves.
"Dad," Wooyoung calls.
His father whirls around, eyes livid. "Hear me, Wooyoung. I will have no more tolerance of your useless hobbies after this day."
Wooyoung knows he shouldn't argue against him. This is the worst mood he's seen his father have in months and anything Wooyoung could say right now will only add fuel to the fire. But there's a hard lump in his throat that won't go down because he's just lost all his music and his grandmother looks as if she might faint at any given second -- Wooyoung wants this to stop. He's so fucking tired of having this same argument, again and again.
"But I don't want to give it up," he says. "I like to dance. I like music."
His father's lips straighten to a very fine line. "You cannot hope to make a decent living as a dancer, of all things, especially not as a," and he sneers the English word, "b-boyer. How many times have I told you this?"
Wooyoung fights for words. He's always had a quick tongue and a good grasp of language, but it's difficult for him to put into sentences what dancing means to him, in a way that someone like his father would understand. Anything he might say will just sound cliché and pedantic, and his father won't get it. Wooyoung's been dancing for years and his father still can't grasp the joy that it brings his son, to be able to use the power of his own body to the fullest, to be taken in by the music, to be able to show your deepest emotions through the twist of your limbs. His father is as stubborn as a mountain and refuses to try to see sense from Wooyoung's point of view. Wooyoung gave up trying to explain a long time ago.
"It's not about that, dad," he says quietly, looking down. "I'll try harder with everything. I can do well in school for you, and get into a good college, but it's not going to stop me from doing what I enjoy. I just... want to dance, that's it."
There is a long, long silence, and Wooyoung concentrates on keeping his breaths steady. A bead of hope uncurls deep in his stomach and when he hears his father take one step closer, Wooyoung looks up, expectant--
His father's fist strikes him hard, across the face. His grandmother gasps. His mother stifles a scream. Wooyoung staggers backwards, unable to take his eyes from the clenched hand lowering back to his father's right side. There's a jagged portion of a CD clutched within his fingers, and as soon as Wooyoung figures out what's happened, he feels a sudden, deep sting bloom across his face. His left cheek has been cut. Cut.
"No son of mine," his father pronounces, one stressed word at a time, "will spend his life pursuing a daydream. Your ridiculous dancing is a novelty, and this is the real world, Wooyoung. It is time you grew up. You are no longer a child."
Wooyoung slaps his hand to his cheek to stem the blood. I'm bleeding, he thinks numbly. Their fights have never gotten this serious before. Wooyoung's actually bleeding. And his father doesn't look sorry.
"Fuck you," Wooyoung spits, running to the washroom and locking the door. He runs water in the sink until it's filled to the brim, then dunks his face in it. The cold water burns against his bruises and his cut and Wooyoung only pulls out when he's run out of air; he blinks quickly the moisture in his eyes. Tap water, he tells himself, not tears. You're not crying, you're not crying. The water in the basin has turned pink and Wooyoung lets it drain while he fumbles a large band-aid onto this cheek with shaking fingers. After he thinks he's patched up enough, he sits on the toilet, puts his head between his knees, and listens to his parents shriek at each other, voices muffled through the walls. Wooyoung doesn't move until he hears two sets of footsteps fade down the stairs, and the front door slamming open, closed.
He half expects his grandmother to knock on the door but then remembers that she'd practically yelled herself hoarse tonight; she's probably sitting in her armchair, exhausted. Wooyoung should really go check on her, see if she's okay, but he doesn’t want to leave the bathroom. He doesn’t want to go back outside, where his father is. His dad cut him. Fuck. A strangling need takes hold of Wooyoung: he needs to get out of this house--
A thought catches his mind.
He could do it.
His parents are gone, his grandmother's in her room -- he could. He really could. He wants to. Badly.
He will.
Wooyoung exits the bathroom as silently as he can and darts inside his room. He spares a moment to stare at the mess littering his floorboards and desk (Wooyoung's hands twitch; he'd always worked hard to keep his room spotless and organized), and an even longer moment trying to get a hold of the cold fury gripping his entire body. His chest feels constricted and he can't seem to get enough air. For his father to hate something Wooyoung loves so much... Wooyoung doesn't know if he can ever feel safe sleeping within these walls again. All the more reason to get out, he tells himself.
He has to do this quickly, before his parents return.
His duffel bag is in its usual spot in his closet and Wooyoung folds in as many clothes as he can fit. He takes his school uniform, his notebooks, his cell phone, his wallet, and makes a brief trip to the washroom again to grab his toothbrush. He hurriedly writes a note to his grandmother and tiptoes to her room; as expected, she's sitting in her chair, eyes closed. Her lips are flattened in an unhappy grimace. Wooyoung watches for long enough to make sure her breathing is regular, then leaves the paper outside her door. Back in his room, he makes one last survey of the chaos at his feet. He debates a long time over bringing his small-framed family portrait or not (all four of them, smiling brightly at Wooyoung's elementary school graduation; Wooyoung can't really recall if they were smiling because if they were saying cheese or because everyone was actually happy) and in the end decides to leave it. It's not like he'll never come back. He just needs to get away from this place for a while, clear his head. He can't deal with his father right now -- the thought of the look on his face after he'd hit Wooyoung makes Wooyoung's stomach lurch.
Wooyoung has his bag on his back and has one foot on the sturdy tree branch outside his window when he pauses. He hops back inside and sticks his hand under the mattress of his bed, and carefully extracts all of his novelettes. He won’t have his father destroying something else Wooyoung loves. He wraps them up in one of the sweaters he'd taken and tucks the bag under his arm. His duffel is a heavy weight on Wooyoung's back as he scales down the backyard tree. But once he gets to the main street, his feet moving quietly on the night-chilled sidewalk, he feels strangely lighter. Buoyant, even. The air smells clearer. He's full of a shivering adrenaline, the anxious energy allowing more strength in his every step.
He’s scared out of his mind.
Where can he go? He's only got two choices, really. Junho's place, or Chansung's. Chansung has three siblings, so his house is pretty jammed packed as it is. Junho's house is bigger, but it's farther away, and Wooyoung would have to bus there -- but he doesn't have any bus tickets, and how much do bus tickets cost again? But Wooyoung doesn’t really want to go to either of them. Junho would definitely ask questions about Wooyoung's face. Actually, the injuries are noticeable enough that even Chansung would worry about him. As would both of their parents. They'd probably call Wooyoung's house and tell them where he was.
Wooyoung doesn't want to explain all this -- his fucked up life -- to his friends. He's only got the two of them.
His feet have stopped. Wooyoung had been staring at the sidewalk the whole time he’d ran, not consciously paying attention of his direction, and now, for the first time, he realizes where he is. Ah.
Huh.
There had been no internal decision he made to come here - in fact, the possibility had never even crossed his mind, but now, thinking about it... it doesn’t seem such a bad idea. Just for one night. Just until Wooyoung figures out what the hell he's going to do with himself. And just like his feet involuntarily propelled him here, they are slowly walking up the front steps now; his hand is rising, and his finger is pressing the doorbell. Wooyoung breathes. Waits.
Two minutes later, a bleary-eyed Nichkhun opens the door and lets Wooyoung into his shop.
Team: AU! Awesomely ultimate.
Rating: PG-13, warnings for some themes of domestic abuse.
Fandom: 2PM
Pairing: Slight Nichkhun/Wooyoung
Summary: A strange new shop has opened up at the end of Wooyoung's street. It's everything Wooyoung never knew he wanted.
Author's Note: Thank you very much to those who helped look over parts of my story for me and gave me encouragement for this. Actually, I'd like to apologize to everyone, because I only had enough time to get half the fic beta'd, so I'm really sorry for any typos or errors you might come across. I take full responsibility of those. Feel free to chuck tomatoes. If you are thinking, "Holy crap, this author is nuts writing so many parts; it sure as heck better not suck," then I am inclined to agree with you on both counts, my friend. Thanks in advance for reading. *high-five*
Prompt Used: Chu~ by f(x)
This can’t be happening, Wooyoung thinks, as he clutches Jaebeom’s unconscious body a little tighter in his lap.
It can’t be.
This has to be some sick dream of Wooyoung’s, because that’s the most logical explanation for all of this. Things like bartered hearts and songs that weave spells and shops that can read people’s wishes, these don’t happen in real life. That’s all make-believe stuff. Storybook fodder. Possible only in the imagination.
And yet, here is Wooyoung, holding a dying man in his arms, as their ride speeds towards a shop housing a mysterious shopkeeper who Wooyoung knows is the only person able to help them.
It’s unbelievable. Just like everything else that has happened to Wooyoung in the past few weeks.
In their seats on Wooyoung’s left side, Junho and Chansung are in between yelling at Taecyeon and gaping at Jaebeom. They’re scared. All they know is that Jaebeom looks ready to die, and for some reason, they are not taking him to the hospital.
They don’t understand that Jaebeom can’t be helped at the hospital.
Wooyoung does though, he understands; he knows what Jaebeom needs, and he knows where to get it, but he’s still scared. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this scared before, not even during any fights with his father, not on any stage, not even that one time Nichkhun had yelled at him. They’re racing against the clock right now, Jaebeom is dying and Nichkhun’s shop is falling apart (what do you think will happen to the shopkeeper) and it’s Wooyoung’s fault because he should have known, he should have realized -- how could he have spent so much time with both Nichkhun and Jaebeom and not seen --
Fuck, Wooyoung thinks. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“Nichkhun?” Junho is asking, voice high and alarmed. “Knows Jaebeom hyung?”
“Yeah--" Wooyoung manages to say, but doesn’t get any further than that because Jaebeom’s head flops heavily onto Wooyoung’s shoulder and his pulse, his weak, erratic pulse, which has been beating weakly under Wooyoung’s palm all this time, skips, flutters, and disappears entirely.
Oh, Wooyoung thinks. No. No.
This can’t be -- Jaebeom can’t be --
This isn’t how the story is supposed to end.
But this isn’t a story. This is life, and in life, no one is guaranteed a happily ever after. Least of all Wooyoung. And yet -- and yet, Wooyoung can’t help but think, it’s still not over. They can still make it. He won’t let it finish here. Wooyoung has been plagued non-stop with impossible things the past few weeks, so what’s one more? Wooyoung caused this, and he can fix this.
He squeezes his eyes shut and forcefully dredges up his memory, everything that has happened to him leading up to this point, and Wooyoung remembers --
one
A few things to know about Jang Wooyoung:
First. Wooyoung doesn't love easily. It takes time for him to warm up to others, if he bothers to do it at all, and even after that, it takes time for others to get adjusted to him too. For some reason, people assume that Wooyoung's a "nice guy" and are inevitably surprised to find that he is not.
Second. Wooyoung may not be a nice guy, but in his opinion, he's far from horrible. It's just that from first glance at Wooyoung's pleasant face, people automatically assume that Wooyoung's personality has a matching pleasantness. Which it doesn't. This usually disappoints people, but Wooyoung could care less. It isn't Wooyoung's fault if they judge by appearances.
Third. Those who Wooyoung does care about and in turn are okay with Wooyoung, these people are rare and far between. Sometimes Wooyoung wonders if there is something wrong with him, after all, since everyone around him seems to have a nice sphere of social connections and Wooyoung can count the number of friends he has with one hand. Save some time: Wooyoung's got two. Two friends.
Fourth. All this may make Wooyoung sound a bit cold-hearted, but this goes back to the "nice guy" misconception and the judging-a-book-by-its-cover metaphorical crap. Because neither of Wooyoung's two friends would hesitate to reveal how stupid and childish Wooyoung can be sometimes, if he's in the mood. Wooyoung is like the earth: he's a sharp rock with a melted core, and although he's got way more layers of hard than soft, the fact is that the softness exists, and can be found, if anyone bothered to look deep enough. Example. Wooyoung's favourite books are those old, romantic legends -- those stories featuring knights and their destinies, fantastical settings and supernatural powers, which, quite frankly, are nothing but bloodied-up, testosterone-injected fairy tales, and fine, Wooyoung acknowledges this even if he’s not proud of it. That's why no one but his friends and his grandmother know about his secret collection of novelettes, nearly decomposing with age, hidden under his mattress at home.
Of course it's lame, but Wooyoung can't help liking them. He likes their simplicity, their one-dimensional morals. The protagonists in those stories make everything seem so easy. Work hard, and anything is possible. Trust in yourself, and you can become better. An ordinary boy can become a hero. Magic is real, destiny is true. Good people always get a happy ending.
Fifth. Wooyoung still believes in fairy tales. Not even his grandmother knows this.
The new shop at the end of the road has been open for about two weeks now and Wooyoung still has yet to pay it a visit. Every day he walks past the shop twice, once on his way to school and once on his way home, and although he can clearly see the assortment of knick-knacks lined up in the store window (vases and globes and small, decorated boxes), he still has no idea what exactly the shop sells. What kind of name is Dreamhouse for a store, anyway? It's way too sugary for Wooyoung's tastes. The first time he'd read the plaque hanging above the shop door, he'd immediately thought of dolls and doilies and other frilly things that girls probably loved; he'd turned away quickly, losing interest. Whoever the shop is supposed to appeal to, it isn't him.
Wooyoung has good intuition. A few days after the shop opens, he notices a change in his usual walk home. A trip that would usually take him at most twenty minutes had extended to almost thirty because of the pedestrian traffic; specifically, the appearance of a large crowd where there was none before, walking slowly in front of him, taking up all of the sidewalk space, giggling and completely ignorant of Wooyoung's attempts to politely bypass them. Girls. Lots and lots of school girls. All headed to the Dreamhouse shop. At first there had been only two or four of them (girls always travelled in pairs, and Wooyoung never understood this, but he liked the neatness of it), but as time passed, the numbers grew, and now there seems to be up to twenty girls who travelled home with Wooyoung daily. This would have been great, if any of them actually talked to Wooyoung. Instead, they're busy talking about the new store, and the apparently really cute store manager.
There's a young man with a bright orange apron who Wooyoung sees puttering about the inside of the store from time to time (in fact, he's the only person Wooyoung has ever seen working there) and Wooyoung wonders if this is the person all the girls seem to be going crazy over. Recently he's found himself getting annoyed on the guy's behalf, because it seems like lots of girls go into the shop, talk with the apron-guy, then leave, without buying anything. Had it been Wooyoung's family store people were loitering around in just to get a good look at Wooyoung's face, he'd be frustrated. But from the brief glimpses of the apron-guy as he walks by the store, Wooyoung has never seen anything but a smile on the other boy's face. For some reason, that's a little frustrating, too.
It isn't long before more people start going to the shop and rumours start spreading about the strange person working there. Rumours like, he's foreign, he can barely speak Korean, and he's living by himself and manages the store on his own. There are less believable ones too, ones that say he's got some secret power that makes all the girls fall for him, that he's got some sixth sense that allows him to take one look at you when you walk in the shop and immediately know what you're looking for, that his shop is crazy: it sells anything and everything you want, and you don't even have to pay with money.
"It's a pawn shop, you mean," Wooyoung clarifies, when Chansung recounts all this to him over lunch one day. "It's got a little of everything, so you can find anything."
"Yeah, but not just that," Chansung says, waving a hand. "Like, Kwonnie, right? He went in with Sunye yesterday, and she got these earrings, and Kwon was like, oh, it would be so nice if you could have a matching belt, or whatever, and then the guy -- the shopkeeper -- goes to his storeroom and pulls out a matching belt. Just like that."
Wooyoung looks at Junho. Junho looks at Chansung. "So?" Junho asks. "The guy has sets of accessories."
"Okay, yeah, but he does that kind of thing with everyone," Chansung says. "Whatever people mention, he just has it. It's weird. Even Jinwoon thinks it's weird."
"Jinwoon went to the shop too?"
"Yeah, he got a new pair of drumsticks there. He traded his favourite scarf for them, but he says they're the best sticks he's ever used. Really good balance or something."
Junho turns to Wooyoung. "Do you believe all this stuff? You live on the same street; you must have visited there before."
Wooyoung scoffs. "Why would I bother? There's nothing I need I can't get at our place or the mall."
"How -- how about a sense of curiousity," Chansung suggests, grinning.
"If I wanted the ability to be amused at everything, I'd just act like you for a day," Wooyoung snipes.
"Oh, by the way, Wooyoung," Junho says. "Can you make it to dance practise today? Your dad's not going to ground you again, is he?"
"I'll be there," Wooyoung says firmly. "He can't ground me if he doesn't see me leave the house."
Junho sighs. "Wouldn't you prefer talking to him instead? So you don't have to sneak out all the time?"
"He doesn't understand," Wooyoung says, absently folding his paper lunch bag into a neat square. "It'd be a waste of time." At Junho's skeptical look, he adds, "Don't worry about me. It's fine."
"Wooyoungie's a big boy, Junho," Chansung pipes up. "Just let him do the mature thing of crawling out his window late at night so his parents won't catch him breaking his curfew."
Wooyoung gives him a shove. "Shut up. Not everyone has such lax parents as you do, Mr. I Hang Out When I Want To, Where I Want To."
"Hah, yeah," Chansung grins. "You're missing out, Woodong." His tone of voice suggests certain lewd or indecent dealings, and Junho sighs again. Thankfully, the school bell rings, signalling the end of lunch, so Chansung is kept from further elaborating on what exactly he gets up to whenever and wherever he wants.
As they make their way back to class, Wooyoung's mind is crowded. Half of it is planning the escape plan for tonight so he can make it to dance practise at the community centre (what time will they finish eating dinner, what time will Wooyoung finish his homework, will his grandmother turn in early, are any of his mother's favourite shows on tonight and how loud will they be, when does his father leave for his late shift at the factory, and more importantly, when will he come back), and the other half is imaging how different Wooyoung's life would be, if his family was more like Chansung's.
Chansung's spoiled. He doesn't realize it, but he is. Not in the material sense. In the general sense. In the way that he's free to do what he feels like. Chansung is tall, strong and handsome, and is good at acting cute when he wants to, so he gets away with a lot, because people forgive him easily. He likes dance and martial arts, so his family regularly encourages his talents. And he's the youngest son, so he gets doted on, too. Wooyoung has never seen Chansung be upset about his parents or his siblings, ever. The guy just has a really good home life. Chansung's spoiled because he will never understand just how lucky he is.
It's not that Wooyoung's not thankful for what he has. He knows that his life could be far worse than what it is. His parents are strict, but they love him, and that, in Wooyoung's opinion counts for a lot. And in disagreements with his parents, Wooyoung can always count on his grandmother to be on his side, to patch him up afterwards, if the disagreements get out of hand. It's just that sometimes, Wooyoung wonders if Chansung -- or people like Chansung -- has ever wanted anything. Something that can't be bought with money. Wooyoung knows Junho does. And Wooyoung, well, he wants a lot. His list could probably fill a whole book, starting with "being allowed to practise dancing." Apart from the obvious, it would mean no more sneaking out of his room late at night, because Wooyoung's room is on the second floor of their family shop, and climbing down the backyard tree is a pain in the ass.
Number two on the list of "Things Wooyoung Wants": no more wood splinters in his skin.
On the way home, passing by the new Dreamhouse store, Wooyoung's eyes catch on a new display set up in the front window. There are some new leather gloves up for sale, and Wooyoung can't help but think that they would be useful for tree-climbing. He mulls over them for a few seconds, and when he looks up, he almost jumps out of his skin. The young shopkeeper guy is staring at him from the other side of the glass. The guy smiles and waves to Wooyoung, his eyes curving into friendly crescents.
Wooyoung gives him a curt nod and hurries away, hoping that his ears aren't as red as they feel.
Good-looking. Yeah, Wooyoung can see that.
It's 8:15 on the dot and Wooyoung's got one leg outside his bedroom window when his door opens and his mom peers in. Wooyoung freezes, half his body bent and knee on the ledge. Oh dang.
"Getting some fresh air, are we?" she says, raising an eyebrow.
Wooyoung could probably say yes, but that wouldn't really explain why he’s dressed up in street clothes and wearing his favourite baseball cap. It certainly wouldn't explain why there are lumps of towels stuffed under his blanket to give the impression that a body is sleeping on the bed.
"Er," Wooyoung stutters, and climbs back inside his room. He hears himself ask, "Did -- did your show finish already?" and immediately winces. Shit, of all the things to say. Way to be even more obvious.
"Not yet," his mother answered, voice clipped. "Which is why I came up here. I was wondering why you got all your homework done so quickly tonight."
"I was just--" Wooyoung starts to say, but his mother holds up her hand.
"Are Junho and Chansung going to be there, at least?" she asks, and Wooyoung tries not to frown -- for some reason his mother always feels much safer when either Junho or Chansung are with Wooyoung. What kind of fairness is that, Wooyoung thinks. He's the oldest of them.
"Yes, both," he admits. "We're meeting at the community centre." There's no point in denying it, now that the cat's out of the bag. "I was only going to go for a bit. And I have my cell phone in case I need to contact you." He puts on his best innocent face and hopes that his mom is in an allowing mood.
"Well," she says reluctantly, after a moment. "I guess you can go for a while, since you helped me close shop today. But don't stay out for too long. Your father will be home from his evening shift around 11, so I expect you no later than 10:30, understand?"
Wooyoung can't keep back his smile. "Of course."
"I mean it, Wooyoung," his mother continues. "Don't forget how your father reacted the last time he caught you coming home from dance practise."
"I won't," Wooyoung says. "I'll be back in time."
"Good. Go out the front door, please."
Wooyoung does, happily.
At the community centre, about ten kids have already gathered in an area clear of chairs and are practising some basic b-boy moves to the beat of someone's boombox. Wooyoung spots Chansung's height right away and heads over.
"Wooyoung, you're here!" Chansung grins at sight of him, and reaches up to pinch Wooyoung's cheek. Wooyoung ducks, batting his hand away. Chansung laughs.
"Where's Junho?" Wooyoung asks, looking around. Out of the three of them, Junho's the most addicted to practise, so it's a surprise that he's not here yet.
"Over there." Chansung points to the corner of the building, where two small figures are talking quietly in front of the back exit. One of them is Junho, and the other guy is --
Wooyoung's eyebrows rise. "He's back?"
Chansung shrugs. "Guess so. They were talking when I got here. Junho's probably trying to recruit him again."
"Hm," Wooyoung says.
In past weeks, there's been somewhat of a mystery going on, in this rag-tag little dance group of theirs. There's this kid who all of the sudden started frequenting their community centre. At first, Wooyoung had only seen him a few times, a small figure standing at the end of the hall, by the back door, wearing a large jacket, a Yankees cap, and a ratty backpack, looking around occasionally as if he was waiting for someone. But he never approached anybody, and no one ever went up to him. The guy had a bit of a pale, shifty look to him; during a few minutes during one practise, when Wooyoung had paused to catch his breath, he'd noticed that the guy's gaze kept returning to those still dancing. And Wooyoung had realized: the guy was listening in. He was watching them.
Chansung had been curious ("Guys, wow, do you think he's a pervert? He's so tiny though, I could take him! Don't worry, Wooyoungie, your virtue is safe with me."), and he'd had suggested they go up to him and see what he was all about, but Junho preferred to mind his own business. Wooyoung didn't like to make assumptions, so he shrugged it off too -- so what if they had an audience? It wasn't like the guy was bothering them.
And then one day, Junho had gotten to practise early (early even by his own standards) and had seen the guy dancing.
"Wooyoung, you will not believe--" Junho had blabbered to him on the phone, as Wooyoung rushed towards the community centre that night, "I mean. I mean, there wasn't even any music, and he was dancing, and b-boying, and I do not understand why he hasn't stepped up before and-- because he's there practically every practise, isn't he? The frustrating thing is that as soon as he saw me watching him he just froze up and went pale and then when I went over to talk, he kept on trying to leave. Honestly, I have to say it was a little awkward, because I don't even think he's fluent in Korean. Maybe he's from overseas or something. Oh, fuck, I need to show you this one move he did, I think I remember it correctly, Wooyoung, are you here yet?"
"What?" Wooyoung had said. He'd gotten lost in Junho's rant five minutes ago.
"THE GUY!" Junho had all but yelled. "He's a b-boyer! A very talented one!"
"Thug Life guy?"
"YES."
"Like, better than your brother?"
Junho had made an exasperated sound. "No one is better than my brother," he said, with a tinge of annoyance. "But he was still very good. I tried to recruit him to join our team -- maybe we'd finally be able to win a few tournaments -- but he left pretty quickly. I didn't get his name."
"So what does this mean? He watches us, doesn't participate, but he's had this secret hidden skill all this time? What kind of behaviour is that?"
"I don't know. I assume he's shy since he doesn't seem to be able to speak Korean very well."
"Did you ask where he was from?"
"No, I was preoccupied. I was trying to get him to show me some of his moves. But then when more people started showing up, he left."
"Is he coming back?"
"I hope so."
And, after a week or so of no-shows (in which Junho had whined and moped and blamed himself for scaring the guy away and Chansung had called him insane), Thug Life Dude did come back, when no one else had been in the centre. Again, it was Junho who caught him dancing. Ever since their first meeting, Junho had become completely obsessed with improving his own skill, and had started coming to practises hours in advance. Wooyoung supposed that after living under his brother's shadow for so long, Junho had forgotten that there were plenty of other people in the world with talent for performance. So he'd shown up and there was the guy again, moving like dance was his body's way of breathing. Cue another failed attempt at recruitment, and awkward conversation, and the guy fleeing. By the time Chansung and Wooyoung had shown up, Junho was livid.
"Just leave him alone," Chansung had told him. "If he doesn't want to join, then fine."
"Except he does," Junho had said. "I can tell he wants to join. Just from the way he looks at me when I talk to him. But something's stopping him."
There were a hundred possible reasons why, and of course Wooyoung's imagination had immediately spun a number of fanciful tales: dancing reminded him of a dead girlfriend and the memories hurt, he couldn’t dance in public because he suffered some kind of debilitating trauma as a child, or maybe he was under some kind of ancient curse? Maybe he was like Wooyoung, whose parents didn't approve.
"Stage fright?" Chansung had suggested. Oh, Wooyoung had thought, that was really way more plausible.
"Maybe. I don't know." Junho bit his lip in thought. "It doesn't feel like shyness, exactly. It's like he's afraid to make friends." He'd crossed his arms, looking resigned. "Anyway."
So they'd left it at that. After the second time he'd gotten caught, the guy once again took a leave of absence, and Wooyoung stopped caring about the frustrated glances Junho gave to the center's back door when he thought no one was looking. Today's the first time they've seen the guy in over a week. How predictable of Junho to try talking to him again -- Junho determined was like snapping turtle on a lure, he just didn't let go. Wooyoung watches warily as the guy makes an abrupt motion like he's about to leave, and then Junho says something, and the guy hesitates, and his shoulders slump, and he nods carefully. Then they're turning around and heading over to where all of them are gathered. Junho looks extremely satisfied with himself.
"Wooyoung, Chansung," Junho says when he gets closer, "this is Park Jaebeom. He's from the US, and he's living by himself in Korea now. I convinced him to practise with us today, to see if he likes it. Jaebeom hyung, this is Wooyoung, this is Chansung."
"Pleased to meet you," Jaebeom says carefully, bowing once. "Er, sorry if I've been acting weird, coming around here every so often. I was only watching. I, uh, didn't want to bother your team or anything."
He seems a bit hesitant to be talking to them, as if he's scared that something will go wrong. But his voice is high and pleasant, and up close, his face doesn't look scary after all. He's quite short, and he's got really girly earrings, but somehow they suit him. He reminds Wooyoung of some kind of elf. Wooyoung feels himself smiling slightly, and Jaebeom blinks at him, taken back.
"Hey," Chansung says, reaching to shake Jaebeom's hand. "Are you going to join the team? You are, right? Junho hasn't shut up about how good you are since he saw you dancing. I hope you're looking forward to him bugging you at all hours for practise. He'd rather practise than eat."
"Be quiet," Junho sputters, going red. "It's not like that," he tells Jaebeom.
"It's cool," Jaebeom says, and Wooyoung can hear a trace of American accent on his tongue. "I used to be obsessed with training too."
"It was totally gay though," Chansung nods solemnly. "Junho's got a total one-track mind and he -- woah, watch it!" He ducks as Junho makes a mad swipe for him, and darts away laughing like a hyena, with Junho hot on his heels.
Jaebeom stares after them, then meets Wooyoung's eyes.
Wooyoung shrugs, "They're just like that," and Jaebeom breaks into a small understanding smile. It makes his whole face look much friendlier.
"Anyway," Wooyoung adds, not too grudgingly. "Welcome."
Jaebeom laughs. "Thanks for having me."
Oh my God, Wooyoung thinks. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Jaebeom was so good at dancing, what the hell. Suddenly Junho's obsession with getting the guy to dance with them made a whole lot of sense, because wow, that is a talent that you want to have on your side. Junho's face had been so smug once Jaebeom had taken his turn in the dance circle, probably because Wooyoung's eyebrows nearly lifted off his head and Chansung's jaw had progressively dropped lower and lower the longer Jaebeom had danced. But he had just been that good. Wooyoung has seen plenty of great dancers before -- Junho's brother, for one -- but this guy was near their age, and he was so good.
Practise is over; Wooyoung's walking home and he's still reeling.
Jaebeom danced in the way that Wooyoung wants to dance. When Wooyoung watches professional dancers like Junho's brother take the stage, their dances are amazing and pull at Wooyoung's gut, but it’s different because they are choreographed. It's clear that every step is planned for miles in advance, each combination trained to perfection by professionals. When Jaebeom danced, it wasn't so much choreography, as it was just his body moving. He danced like his heart dictated it, like he didn't even need to think, didn't need to breathe. He put everything he had into his dance, and Wooyoung wants to be able to do that. Wooyoung wants to dance like it's all he knows. Let the rest of the world fade away, but allow Wooyoung the thrill of life in his own body.
Wooyoung shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. It's 10:14. He picks up his pace. He's still got plenty of time to get home, but he really does not want to risk being late. It's been months since his father forbade Wooyoung from spending so much of his free time dancing, and the last time that Wooyoung got caught sneaking out of the house (that had been the last time he'd used the front door), the consequences had been... bad. He had ended up telling Junho and Chansung that he'd accidentally gotten hit while playing baseball with some neighbourhood kids.
Once he reaches the start of his street, Wooyoung pauses mid-step. He hears music. At this time of night? He looks around. The roads are mostly empty, as expected of a small shopping district after business hours, but the few lingering people don't seem to take any notice of the faint melody, straining through the air. It can't just be him hearing things, can it? The song is upbeat but simple, soothing on the ears, and Wooyoung can't help but think that there's something familiar about the voice singing. Wooyoung likes it right away. He feels like he could dance to it. The lyrics seem to be in English, and Wooyoung doesn’t recognize the song.
He debates about following the sound, but then finds it a moot point as he finds that the music increases in volume in the same direction that Wooyoung takes home. It's not too long later when he finds its source: a small boombox, set on the front steps of the new Dreamhouse store. And sitting beside it, with his hands clasped around his knees and eyes calmly tracking the passing traffic on the road, is the man who works in the store. Apron guy, without his usual apron. He glances up as Wooyoung approaches, and catches Wooyoung staring at him. Wooyoung tries to look away, but it's too late.
"Hello," Apron guy calls, twiddling his fingers at Wooyoung. "Nice night, isn't it?"
Wooyoung doesn't recognize his accent, other than it's not Korean. He raises and lowers a shoulder. "It's fine." He hopes he sounds bored enough; the last thing he wants to do is get lured into a conversation right now.
But it doesn't work. "You're from the family who runs the convenience store at the end of the street, aren't you?" the other man asks, his smile affable. "I see you pass by the shop every day."
"Yes," Wooyoung says, and stops walking. He doesn't know why he stops -- certainly nothing in the other guy's tone had prompted it, but something about the way that the shopkeeper's eyes glitter from the dim glow of the streetlights is very... arresting. He has very large eyes. And very thick eyebrows.
"It's nice to officially meet you," the shopkeeper says, getting up from his steps. "I'm Nichkhun. I own this place." He extends a hand.
Wooyoung examines it for a second before finds himself reaching over and returning a soft, warm grip. "Wooyoung," he says.
"You were looking at the gloves in my window display this morning, weren't you?" Apron guy -- Nichkhun -- says pleasantly. "I'm closed right now, but I can let you in to see them, if you're still interested."
"I'm not," Wooyoung says quickly. "I don't have any money with me, besides."
Nichkhun grins. "You don't have to pay with money if you don't want to. I take any kind of trade."
Oh, that's right, Wooyoung remembers. "You're a pawn shop."
"Is that what people are calling it?" Nichkhun asks, laughing. "I'm not really. If people only wanted to pay with money, that'd be fine. It's just that if they don't have money, then they can use something else. As long as the payment is equal."
What kind of business sense was this. "Equal to what?" Wooyoung says waspishly.
"To what they want to have," Nichkhun answers. "Did you want the gloves?"
"No," Wooyoung says. "I don't need anything, thanks." He checks his watch. 10:20. "I have to get home." But just as he's about to leave, the happy beat streaming from the boombox slows down, the last long note held by the singer comes to a close, stops, and the song restarts again. The music pulls at Wooyoung. He asks, "What's that song?"
Nichkhun brightens. "Do you like it? A friend of mine wrote it and made that CD. It was his favourite song to dance to."
"It's all right," Wooyoung says, which is sort of an understatement but whatever.
"Well, I play it all the time, feel free to come by the shop if you want to listen. Or if you need something else. I'm sure to have it."
His easy confidence is part annoying, part amusing. Wooyoung's not impressed. "I heard your shop has any random selection of products at a time," he replies, a tiny smirk on his lips. "How will I know that I'll find what I'm looking for?"
Nichkhun shrugs. "I've got anything."
Wooyoung barely stops himself from rolling his eyes at the cheesiness of a well-used promotional slogan. "You mean you have everything."
"No," Nichkhun says. "I really mean I have anything. Whatever you want. If you can pay for it, it's yours."
Wooyoung has grown up in his family's store. They're a tiny business, all things considered, but they still operate the same way that any other larger establishment would. Wooyoung knows all about the comings and goings of refilling stock, ordering new shipments, keeping inventory. And outside of possessing some hugely inflated ego, which, based on Nichkhun's soft voice, he doesn't particularly seem to have, there's really no reason to go around making sensational claims like that. It's practically a boast against Wooyoung's own store, and considering that Dreamhouse has only been around for two weeks, it's a bit disrespectful.
Some kind of displeasure must have shown on his face, because Nichkhun holds up his hands hurriedly, eyes widening. "Oh! Oh, no, sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he rushes to say. "I'm not trying to show off or anything. It's just the way my store works. I have anything anyone could want."
"What?" Wooyoung says, unsure of how to respond.
"Yeah!" Nichkhun smiles proudly. "I sell all sorts of things. Clothes or electronics or -- how do you say it, that, your," he purses his lips, fumbling for a word. "Your heart's desire!" he announces triumphantly.
"Huh?" Wooyoung asks.
"Is that not how you say it?" Nichkhun's eyebrows furrow. "I read it from a Korean storybook, so maybe I pronounced it badly. Yer. Heart's. Desure?"
"No, that's not, it was right before -- you sell that? How can you sell that?"
"I mean, it varies person from person," Nichkhun says, "but with the right payment, I can sell anything. Wait, except food," he adds as an afterthought. "It doesn't keep. I tried. You know, um, it was a really bad idea."
Wooyoung doesn't know whether he's supposed to laugh. He stares at Nichkhun. Maybe the guy isn't quite right in the head? Nichkhun gazes back at him with a patient smile.
"Is there something you're looking for, Wooyoung?" he asks kindly.
It's on the tip on Wooyoung's tongue to answer something impossible, just to be dickish, although even in his own mind, he's not sure what he wants to say. Wooyoung wants a lot of things, maybe too many things. But none of them can be bought in a store. And none of them are appropriate things to share with someone he's just met. None of them are appropriate things to share, period. It's strange that Wooyoung would even think of them, talking to this ridiculous person about ridiculous things, but something about Nichkhun is strangely warming. Trustworthy. It's like--
Wooyoung's watch beeps. It's 10:30.
"Dang."
Things are crashing on the second floor of the house; he can hear it even on the front step of their shop. Wooyoung, with his hand on the doorknob, pauses and wonders if he should take the window instead. It's 10:38. He's eight minutes late, but his father isn't supposed to be back until 11, at the earliest. What happened? The voice yelling definitely belongs to his father, and if the sheer volume emitting from the man is any indication, he is not in the best of moods. So much for Wooyoung’s successful night out. He considers waiting outside until his father's tantrum blows over, but then he hears mention of his name and then a reply in his mother's panicked voice, and he knows that he's been caught. If Wooyoung didn't face the consequences now, they would only get worse later. He takes in a deep breath and opens the door.
He immediately regrets it as he hears the heavy clatter of chairs being knocked over and thumping footsteps raining down from the floor above. His father's purple, enraged face emerges from the top of the staircase and Wooyoung is alarmed to realize that he's drunk. Something must have happened to him; his father hasn’t gone drinking on weeknights since he got his new night-shift job. Fuck, Wooyoung thinks. It's going to be a bad argument today.
"Wooyoung!" his father bellows, and Wooyoung winces.
"Yes? How was work?" he bends down to untie his shoes out of habit. Maybe if he buys enough time his grandmother will intervene before things get too out of control. Or even better, maybe his dad will see Wooyoung being calm and calm down himself.
Wooyoung always hopes for these things, but they never happen.
His father clomps down the stairs and Wooyoung notices that he's still in his factory uniform, complete with his boots. Oh, did he-- oh no. Wooyoung whips his eyes up just in time to receive a slap to the top of his head.
"What have I told you about going to those dance practises?" his father yells. "What part of 'forbidden' don't you understand?!"
"I was just--" He sucks in a breath as he's given another slap.
"You went! You disobeyed me! You put off your studies to waste time gallivanting off with a bunch of delinquents!"
"They're not--"
"You listen to me, Wooyoung," his father's words are fast and sharp; Wooyoung can practically taste the anger emanating from him. "I have had enough of your disobedience. Your mother and I slave every day to save up for your education and future, and yet you squander all of our efforts by investing yourself in, in dance of all things! I won't have it! This has gone on for too long, and I won't have it!!"
Before Wooyoung can register what's happening, his father is marching up the stairs again, with a murderous expression on his face. Wooyoung raises a hand and gingerly touches his bruised cheek, then his forehead. Shit, they'll colour. And there's school tomorrow.
A shriek from his mother lets him know that his father’s tantrum is not yet over. As Wooyoung rushes up to the second floor, where their bedrooms are, the deep, worn voice of his grandmother greets his ears, berating her son to stop this foolish nonsense and listen to reason. Behind her trails Wooyoung’s mother, arms crossed tightly across her chest and a tic in her jaw. She turns when she sees Wooyoung and heads over to him, grabbing his wrist with one hand and using the other to briefly touch his injured face.
"Your father got laid off today," she murmurs to him. Wooyoung had already figured as much from the presence of the uniform. In front of them, grandmother and son continue to argue. "He was already intoxicated when he got home over an hour ago, and was furious when he found out you'd left. We've tried everything we could to get him to relax. Say nothing to worsen the situation, Wooyoung." Her grip on his wrist is unbearably tight and up close, Wooyoung notices that the edge of her bottom lip is split; her eyes, ringed with red. Wooyoung feels his stomach tighten.
"Wooyoung," his mother whispers urgently, and Wooyoung's heart drops, knowing exactly what she's about to say, "I know that you might not believe me, but your father really does have your best interests at heart. His temper just overpowers him sometimes -- this is really not the best time to be telling you this, but we've been having trouble making ends meet lately -- and now with the stress of losing his job, I'm afraid--"
"STOP THIS!" his grandmother shouts, and both Wooyoung and his mom whip around to see his father storm into Wooyoung's room and start flinging objects haphazardly to the ground. Wooyoung pulls away from his mother and goes to his door, watching in silence as his favourite possessions -- his CD collection, the high-quality earphones he'd spent a whole month saving for -- are all snapped or smashed against the floor, demolishing his normally tidy room. Even his stereo is hurled down with enough force to make a very sickening crack.
Shit, Wooyoung thinks. This is really bad.
His grandmother is clutching at her breast, gasping deeply, and Wooyoung puts a hand under her elbow to steady her. She looks up at him and in her expression is pity, regret and sadness; in some ways, it's even worse than seeing his room being destroyed. Wooyoung looks away.
"--foolish past times," his father is muttering, as he breaks CD after CD on the edge of Wooyoung's desk. "Not taking this seriously, no sense of reality at all, the stupid boy -- after all we've tried to teach him, and he--"
He’s not going to stop, Wooyoung realizes. Not this time. Not until he trashes everything Wooyoung loves.
"Dad," Wooyoung calls.
His father whirls around, eyes livid. "Hear me, Wooyoung. I will have no more tolerance of your useless hobbies after this day."
Wooyoung knows he shouldn't argue against him. This is the worst mood he's seen his father have in months and anything Wooyoung could say right now will only add fuel to the fire. But there's a hard lump in his throat that won't go down because he's just lost all his music and his grandmother looks as if she might faint at any given second -- Wooyoung wants this to stop. He's so fucking tired of having this same argument, again and again.
"But I don't want to give it up," he says. "I like to dance. I like music."
His father's lips straighten to a very fine line. "You cannot hope to make a decent living as a dancer, of all things, especially not as a," and he sneers the English word, "b-boyer. How many times have I told you this?"
Wooyoung fights for words. He's always had a quick tongue and a good grasp of language, but it's difficult for him to put into sentences what dancing means to him, in a way that someone like his father would understand. Anything he might say will just sound cliché and pedantic, and his father won't get it. Wooyoung's been dancing for years and his father still can't grasp the joy that it brings his son, to be able to use the power of his own body to the fullest, to be taken in by the music, to be able to show your deepest emotions through the twist of your limbs. His father is as stubborn as a mountain and refuses to try to see sense from Wooyoung's point of view. Wooyoung gave up trying to explain a long time ago.
"It's not about that, dad," he says quietly, looking down. "I'll try harder with everything. I can do well in school for you, and get into a good college, but it's not going to stop me from doing what I enjoy. I just... want to dance, that's it."
There is a long, long silence, and Wooyoung concentrates on keeping his breaths steady. A bead of hope uncurls deep in his stomach and when he hears his father take one step closer, Wooyoung looks up, expectant--
His father's fist strikes him hard, across the face. His grandmother gasps. His mother stifles a scream. Wooyoung staggers backwards, unable to take his eyes from the clenched hand lowering back to his father's right side. There's a jagged portion of a CD clutched within his fingers, and as soon as Wooyoung figures out what's happened, he feels a sudden, deep sting bloom across his face. His left cheek has been cut. Cut.
"No son of mine," his father pronounces, one stressed word at a time, "will spend his life pursuing a daydream. Your ridiculous dancing is a novelty, and this is the real world, Wooyoung. It is time you grew up. You are no longer a child."
Wooyoung slaps his hand to his cheek to stem the blood. I'm bleeding, he thinks numbly. Their fights have never gotten this serious before. Wooyoung's actually bleeding. And his father doesn't look sorry.
"Fuck you," Wooyoung spits, running to the washroom and locking the door. He runs water in the sink until it's filled to the brim, then dunks his face in it. The cold water burns against his bruises and his cut and Wooyoung only pulls out when he's run out of air; he blinks quickly the moisture in his eyes. Tap water, he tells himself, not tears. You're not crying, you're not crying. The water in the basin has turned pink and Wooyoung lets it drain while he fumbles a large band-aid onto this cheek with shaking fingers. After he thinks he's patched up enough, he sits on the toilet, puts his head between his knees, and listens to his parents shriek at each other, voices muffled through the walls. Wooyoung doesn't move until he hears two sets of footsteps fade down the stairs, and the front door slamming open, closed.
He half expects his grandmother to knock on the door but then remembers that she'd practically yelled herself hoarse tonight; she's probably sitting in her armchair, exhausted. Wooyoung should really go check on her, see if she's okay, but he doesn’t want to leave the bathroom. He doesn’t want to go back outside, where his father is. His dad cut him. Fuck. A strangling need takes hold of Wooyoung: he needs to get out of this house--
A thought catches his mind.
He could do it.
His parents are gone, his grandmother's in her room -- he could. He really could. He wants to. Badly.
He will.
Wooyoung exits the bathroom as silently as he can and darts inside his room. He spares a moment to stare at the mess littering his floorboards and desk (Wooyoung's hands twitch; he'd always worked hard to keep his room spotless and organized), and an even longer moment trying to get a hold of the cold fury gripping his entire body. His chest feels constricted and he can't seem to get enough air. For his father to hate something Wooyoung loves so much... Wooyoung doesn't know if he can ever feel safe sleeping within these walls again. All the more reason to get out, he tells himself.
He has to do this quickly, before his parents return.
His duffel bag is in its usual spot in his closet and Wooyoung folds in as many clothes as he can fit. He takes his school uniform, his notebooks, his cell phone, his wallet, and makes a brief trip to the washroom again to grab his toothbrush. He hurriedly writes a note to his grandmother and tiptoes to her room; as expected, she's sitting in her chair, eyes closed. Her lips are flattened in an unhappy grimace. Wooyoung watches for long enough to make sure her breathing is regular, then leaves the paper outside her door. Back in his room, he makes one last survey of the chaos at his feet. He debates a long time over bringing his small-framed family portrait or not (all four of them, smiling brightly at Wooyoung's elementary school graduation; Wooyoung can't really recall if they were smiling because if they were saying cheese or because everyone was actually happy) and in the end decides to leave it. It's not like he'll never come back. He just needs to get away from this place for a while, clear his head. He can't deal with his father right now -- the thought of the look on his face after he'd hit Wooyoung makes Wooyoung's stomach lurch.
Wooyoung has his bag on his back and has one foot on the sturdy tree branch outside his window when he pauses. He hops back inside and sticks his hand under the mattress of his bed, and carefully extracts all of his novelettes. He won’t have his father destroying something else Wooyoung loves. He wraps them up in one of the sweaters he'd taken and tucks the bag under his arm. His duffel is a heavy weight on Wooyoung's back as he scales down the backyard tree. But once he gets to the main street, his feet moving quietly on the night-chilled sidewalk, he feels strangely lighter. Buoyant, even. The air smells clearer. He's full of a shivering adrenaline, the anxious energy allowing more strength in his every step.
He’s scared out of his mind.
Where can he go? He's only got two choices, really. Junho's place, or Chansung's. Chansung has three siblings, so his house is pretty jammed packed as it is. Junho's house is bigger, but it's farther away, and Wooyoung would have to bus there -- but he doesn't have any bus tickets, and how much do bus tickets cost again? But Wooyoung doesn’t really want to go to either of them. Junho would definitely ask questions about Wooyoung's face. Actually, the injuries are noticeable enough that even Chansung would worry about him. As would both of their parents. They'd probably call Wooyoung's house and tell them where he was.
Wooyoung doesn't want to explain all this -- his fucked up life -- to his friends. He's only got the two of them.
His feet have stopped. Wooyoung had been staring at the sidewalk the whole time he’d ran, not consciously paying attention of his direction, and now, for the first time, he realizes where he is. Ah.
Huh.
There had been no internal decision he made to come here - in fact, the possibility had never even crossed his mind, but now, thinking about it... it doesn’t seem such a bad idea. Just for one night. Just until Wooyoung figures out what the hell he's going to do with himself. And just like his feet involuntarily propelled him here, they are slowly walking up the front steps now; his hand is rising, and his finger is pressing the doorbell. Wooyoung breathes. Waits.
Two minutes later, a bleary-eyed Nichkhun opens the door and lets Wooyoung into his shop.