the principles of uncertainty [d]
the principles of uncertainty.
chansoo.
~2.5k
pg, but read at your own risk.
[WARNINGS]hopelessness? depression? lots of sadness, but also fluff... what is this
angst and fluff. yeah idk.
[life doesn't work the way you want it to, but sometimes that doesn't really matter]
A/N: depression tw. i'm serious.
also this is for shronda for the chansoonet exchange! :) i'm sorry this isn't exactly what you prompted T__T (neither full canon nor full billiards stuff), but i hope you like it
the principles of uncertainty.
Chanyeol meets his dream in the most unlikely of places. He meets it in a lowly basement, in a stuffy atmosphere, holding a beer can in one hand and a cue stick in the other, huffing over lost points, taking a swig from the beer can. He meets it in the form of Do Kyungsoo.
“Sucker,” Chanyeol grins, then leans down, getting himself at eye-level with the surface of the pool table. He eyes the cue balls, shifting left and right until he finds the right angle.
“You know,” Chanyeol hears the guy say (because at the moment, Chanyeol doesn’t know this guy’s name--they’ve only just met ten minutes ago), “I was so much better before I stopped playing for a while.”
Chanyeol takes a shot and gets two balls into the corner pockets.
“Nice,” the guy nods.
Chanyeol shrugs, then looks up at the guy, who has the sleeves of his black sweater rolled up. His cheeks are red (from the heat? the beer?) and he’s staring at Chanyeol curiously.
Chanyeol decides to ignore it.
“So what stopped you?”
“What?”
Chanyeol props his cue stick up and leans against it (lightly--he doesn’t want to damage them and end up paying for them), “What stopped you from playing for a while?”
“Life,” the guy shrugs. “You know.”
“Work, eh?” Chanyeol supposes the guy is probably around his age, late teens, maybe even early twenties, probably just into college.
“Kind of, yeah.” The guy sighs. “Working on dancing and singing.”
“Dancing?” Chanyeol taps the cue stick on the ground curiously. He thinks about the SM building nearby. “You’re a trainee?”
“Yeah,” the guy sighs sharply, and for the first time he doesn’t seem very happy with where he is. “I guess.”
“What do you mean, I guess?” Chanyeol’s eyebrows furrow. His heart is furling and unfurling inside of his chest; he’s doing everything he can from bursting out questions. Questions like how did you do it? How long have you been training? What is it like? Do you see idols every day? Is it nice there? How does it feel to sing and dance every day? When are you going to debut? How can I do it too?
“I mean,” another sigh escapes his lips, “you never know if you’re going to be a trainee. Stay a trainee. Leave as a trainee. Quit after ten years. You never know if you’re going to debut. Getting in isn’t everything, you know.”
Chanyeol stares. He’s confused.
“I’m sorry--what do you mean?”
“Becoming an idol isn’t as easy as you might think,” the guy says, frowning. He’s examining the design on the cue stick, as if he’s not really talking to Chanyeol, but himself. Or something. “Staying one isn’t, either.”
Chanyeol feels sick. He’s meeting his dream, alright--his dream of getting into SM Entertainment, becoming an idol, finally doing what he wants instead of searching here and there for part-time jobs, reassuring his mother that pursuing music is a good decision--you just wait, Mom, I’ll prove you wrong-- but this isn’t the dream he was expecting. He had been expecting a smiling person, someone who would tell him “it’s easier than you think,” or “just keep working hard,” or “the food there is great!”
That’s the last Chanyeol sees of the guy--or so he thinks. Years pass and Chanyeol frequents the same billiards place again and again, hoping to see the person (maybe get a chance to ask him more questions), but he never returns. Too busy, Chanyeol assumes. He keeps his eye out for the guy on TV, searches the prettily-made faces for that guy he had met a few weeks ago (which turns into a few months ago, which turns into a few years ago). Sometimes, he squints at a rookie group and tells himself maybe he got plastic surgery and looks different now. But usually he just looks away after a few seconds. It pains him to see people in the position he had yearned for for so long. It almost feels like every idol out there has stolen his position--his chance to finally be on stage and not just on the asphalt grounds of Seoul parks, busking late at night.
But luck comes to Chanyeol as it does to many. And when it comes, Chanyeol is prepared. He auditions for the nth time, sings, plays the guitar, and searches the judges’ faces for a sign of approval.
Three days later, he gets an invitation in the mail. The second stage. He goes. He gets in. He moves on.
In the span of three months, everything around him changes. He goes home with the SM card, waving it in front of his mother’s face. In joy, she calls out a family reunion--calls his sister home, buys packs of samgyeopsal, gets out the soju, invites his uncles, tells them all “my son is going to become famous!” Hope is real. It’s alive. Life is raw. Chanyeol smiles and he ignores the tiny discomfort sitting at the very bottom of his stomach, whispering the words a certain billiards player three years ago had said to him. Something about uncertainty, something about unpredictability. Something about the loss of hope.
But like most things in life, Chanyeol’s trainee period isn’t as he expects it. He walks in on his first day and sees a group of trainees sitting at the cafeteria tables eating lunch. Among them is the boy he had seen three years ago. There is no hesitation this time, no mistake. It’s him. They make eye contact--it’s fleeting, it’s momentary, but it’s sure. The recognition is alive in both of their eyes.
Chanyeol approaches him later when they pass by each other in the hallway (Chanyeol’s on his way to the bathroom after his first official vocal lesson). The boy’s eyes are floored. His face is tired. There are bags under his eyes.
“What’s your name?” Chanyeol stops him.
He turns around. “Kyungsoo. Don’t talk to me.”
“Why?”
Kyungsoo leaves. Something about this place, despite the fact that so many revere it, isn’t very comfortable. Chanyeol makes two fists as he walks into the bathroom.
Luck is on Chanyeol’s side again when he is informed, eleven months later, that he is going to debut. Happiness shrouds around him like most beautiful, distracting clouds do. He goes home again and another family reunion is organized. They order ten pounds of samgyeopsal. This time, extended family are invited. Chanyeol is happy, but he is also tired. One year of incessant exercise, singing, rapping, practicing. For a moment he had almost slipped into depression. He had pulled himself out immediately, knowing that his dream would become a failure if he fell in any deeper (he knew quite a few trainees who had to leave because of it). His mother tells him “you’ve lost weight, son!” and wraps him a ssam. Chanyeol eats it obediently, smiling weakly. He looks miserable--but don't take his expressions wrong--he truly is happy. Debut! After only eleven months. Life couldn’t be better.
When he returns to Seoul for the first meeting with his to-debut members, he looks at ten vaguely familiar faces. He knows a few--Baekhyun, Jongdae--but most, he doesn’t. There are so many trainees here, it’s almost like a school.
The manager sitting at the back of the room is speaking with the person he knows as Junmyeon, the trainee who had been here for almost seven years. They call him sunbae because he deserves it--even though they’re the same age, they know from his face that he is much more worn. Seven years of directionless practice can do an amount on anyone.
“Is everyone here?” Junmyeon turns around and looks at the faces, his eyes quickly coursing through the room for a headcount. “One person is missing.”
The door opens, as if on cue. Kyungsoo.
“Alright.” Junmyeon looks at Kyungsoo as he walks over to the back of the group and sits himself down on the hardwood floor.
“Congratulations,” he says. His voice is dry. “You’re all debuting now as one group.”
Kyungsoo refuses to talk to Chanyeol for six months. Six whole months--even though they’re supposed to be friends now, co-members, part of the same group, “we are one.” Perhaps it’s something to do with the fact that Kyungsoo has been here for five years and Chanyeol only eleven.
Chanyeol learns quickly that Kyungsoo is the cynic of the group.
“Let’s go out and eat, guys!” Baekhyun says on one occasion after they’ve practiced for eight hours straight on their debut song (which, even if nobody dares to say it aloud, they all hate terribly). “We need a break.”
“Break now before we’re plunged into the hell that is debut and promoting season,” Kyungsoo mutters. He’s close enough to Chanyeol and Baekhyun for the both of them to hear.
“Oh, come on,” Baekhyun laughs. Kyungsoo says nothing the entire time while they are at the restaurant. He just eats. Then leaves.
One month before their scheduled debut, Chanyeol begins to hate his life.
It isn’t a mappable, easy process. It starts out with a seed of doubt. Within days, it blooms into something ugly and terrifying. Chanyeol considers sneaking out in the middle of the night and driving off forever. He could move to China, maybe. That way, nobody would find him.
When he eats, the food turns into sand. When he sleeps, his dreams turn into open mouths, baring fangs, eating fortune, spitting out insults and critiques in the form of comments, in the form of ruthless netizens. Something like “his ears are too pointy!” or “kill him!” or “he shouldn’t be an idol, he’s only been training for 11 months.” Even “his music is terrible. he doesn’t deserve to be a singer.” He wakes up in cold sweat every night. Kyungsoo and Baekhyun, his roommates, are luckily deep sleepers. He doesn’t tell anyone about his nightmares. He gets three hours a sleep a night.
One week later, he feels miserable. His head feels heavy and his feet begin to drag on the ground.
“What’s wrong with you? We’re debuting soon! Pick yourself up!” Junmyeon doesn’t understand. He’s been hardened over the years, to the point of becoming a sort of pumice rock. Unmoldable, rough, coarse.
It’s during lunch that he picks at his salad and begins to contemplate jumping off of a bridge. It’s simple and clean. Chanyeol doesn’t know how to swim. It would be quick. He thinks about what Kyungsoo had told him many years ago. The words are faded from his mind, but the feeling of the moment is stuck. Something about hopelessness. Unpredictability. Nothing is ever promised.
“Chanyeol!”
His head snaps up. The rest of the group is leaving. Junmyeon is frowning. “Get up! Finish your salad--it’s been forty minutes. We have to start vocal practice.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
It isn’t Chanyeol. Someone else. But Chanyeol doesn’t care. He throws out his salad, untouched, and follows the blur of humans, souls, dreams, foolish individuals who think what they work for is what they will get, into the training room.
Five days later, on a Saturday, they’re promised free time. It’s seven o’clock at night, but finishing at seven is a gift for them. Sehun and Jongin decide to go shopping. A few others decide to go for chimaek. Chicken and beer near the Han River. They’re in groups now, in little groups of friends. Chanyeol is alone, as usual. He decides to take a walk outside.
He blocks himself off from the world, fixing earbuds into his ears, glancing at the glimmering lights on the river as he listens to the sad music.
Unhappiness shrouds around him like a wrinkled hand--ugly and disgusting, but surprisingly strong. It grips his heart with a ruthless fury, taking everything he has and shriveling it into a tiny, ugly piece of nothing. The street lamps are dim and so is his mood.
His steps slow to a halt at the very center of the bridge. Behind the music in his ears he can hear the rushing of wind, cars, honking. Lights are around him, but never inside him.
“What have I done,” he sings along softly. He puts his chest to the railing, looks down into the churning waters, sloshing this way and that, quiet, patient, calm, waiting.
“What have I done,” he repeats, feeling the syllables soft on his tongue. The wrinkly fingers squeeze him even more, until he’s a tiny ball. A tiny raisin. Throw the raisin in the water, he thinks. Don’t let it litter the streets. Throw the raisin in the water.
He lifts his hands up on the topmost railing. He looks down at the water, still calm, still waiting, looking up at him with the multitude of eyes, the wavering reflections of the bridge’s lights.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he sings softly, and the music doesn’t just fill his ears anymore. It fills him. Throw the raisin in the water, he thinks.
Throw the fucking raisin into the water.
He closes his eyes.
The fucking raisin.
A hand grabs his shoulder. He screams, jumps back. His tailbone hits the ground, hard.
“What the fuck?” Chanyeol snaps the earbuds out of his ears. Everything stops all of a sudden. The honking of cars is loud around him. People are screaming, cars are screaming. Life is screaming. He looks up into the eyes of a familiar figure. Kyungsoo.
“What the fuck?” Chanyeol repeats, then gets up. Anger. He pushes Kyungsoo’s chest. “The fuck do you want?”
Kyungsoo just stares at him. “I’m sorry.”
The lights break down around Chanyeol. He can’t hear the cars. He can’t really see, actually--something is shrouding his eyes, something streaming down his cheeks, something is escaping his lips. All he can really discern is that he’s alive, and that someone is sorry, and that someone is patting his back, repeating “it’s okay” over and over and over and over again. At the end of it all, he hears something like “let’s play pool” and he finds himself nodding because it feels nice when someone his holding his hand again.
“S-s-s-superior orchestra,” Chanyeol teases, laughing hysterically.
Kyungsoo lets out a squint, glaring at Chanyeol and punching his ribs. “Shut the fuck up, you dumbass.”
“S-s-superior,” Chanyeol cries, grabbing onto Kyungsoo’s shoulders.
Baekhyun turns around, a smirk on his face (the same smirk that precedes every dumb joke). “When are you two going to get married?”
Kyungsoo kicks his shins. Baekhyun squeals and hops away to Junmyeon, crying about physical abuse and possible expulsion.
Chanyeol laughs at Kyungsoo some more, and momentarily, their eyes meet. They’ve never talked about the Han River Bridge incident. There’s really no need to. They’re there for each other, in the darkest moments. What started off as an always-there-for-you friendship quickly turned into a love-hate one. And Chanyeol doesn’t mind it at all. I’m glad I’m friends with you, Kyungsoo, Chanyeol thinks as he looks into the eyes of his friend and rubs his head. Thanks for always being there.
chansoo.
~2.5k
pg, but read at your own risk.
[WARNINGS]hopelessness? depression? lots of sadness, but also fluff... what is this
angst and fluff. yeah idk.
[life doesn't work the way you want it to, but sometimes that doesn't really matter]
A/N: depression tw. i'm serious.
also this is for shronda for the chansoonet exchange! :) i'm sorry this isn't exactly what you prompted T__T (neither full canon nor full billiards stuff), but i hope you like it
the principles of uncertainty.
Chanyeol meets his dream in the most unlikely of places. He meets it in a lowly basement, in a stuffy atmosphere, holding a beer can in one hand and a cue stick in the other, huffing over lost points, taking a swig from the beer can. He meets it in the form of Do Kyungsoo.
“Sucker,” Chanyeol grins, then leans down, getting himself at eye-level with the surface of the pool table. He eyes the cue balls, shifting left and right until he finds the right angle.
“You know,” Chanyeol hears the guy say (because at the moment, Chanyeol doesn’t know this guy’s name--they’ve only just met ten minutes ago), “I was so much better before I stopped playing for a while.”
Chanyeol takes a shot and gets two balls into the corner pockets.
“Nice,” the guy nods.
Chanyeol shrugs, then looks up at the guy, who has the sleeves of his black sweater rolled up. His cheeks are red (from the heat? the beer?) and he’s staring at Chanyeol curiously.
Chanyeol decides to ignore it.
“So what stopped you?”
“What?”
Chanyeol props his cue stick up and leans against it (lightly--he doesn’t want to damage them and end up paying for them), “What stopped you from playing for a while?”
“Life,” the guy shrugs. “You know.”
“Work, eh?” Chanyeol supposes the guy is probably around his age, late teens, maybe even early twenties, probably just into college.
“Kind of, yeah.” The guy sighs. “Working on dancing and singing.”
“Dancing?” Chanyeol taps the cue stick on the ground curiously. He thinks about the SM building nearby. “You’re a trainee?”
“Yeah,” the guy sighs sharply, and for the first time he doesn’t seem very happy with where he is. “I guess.”
“What do you mean, I guess?” Chanyeol’s eyebrows furrow. His heart is furling and unfurling inside of his chest; he’s doing everything he can from bursting out questions. Questions like how did you do it? How long have you been training? What is it like? Do you see idols every day? Is it nice there? How does it feel to sing and dance every day? When are you going to debut? How can I do it too?
“I mean,” another sigh escapes his lips, “you never know if you’re going to be a trainee. Stay a trainee. Leave as a trainee. Quit after ten years. You never know if you’re going to debut. Getting in isn’t everything, you know.”
Chanyeol stares. He’s confused.
“I’m sorry--what do you mean?”
“Becoming an idol isn’t as easy as you might think,” the guy says, frowning. He’s examining the design on the cue stick, as if he’s not really talking to Chanyeol, but himself. Or something. “Staying one isn’t, either.”
Chanyeol feels sick. He’s meeting his dream, alright--his dream of getting into SM Entertainment, becoming an idol, finally doing what he wants instead of searching here and there for part-time jobs, reassuring his mother that pursuing music is a good decision--you just wait, Mom, I’ll prove you wrong-- but this isn’t the dream he was expecting. He had been expecting a smiling person, someone who would tell him “it’s easier than you think,” or “just keep working hard,” or “the food there is great!”
That’s the last Chanyeol sees of the guy--or so he thinks. Years pass and Chanyeol frequents the same billiards place again and again, hoping to see the person (maybe get a chance to ask him more questions), but he never returns. Too busy, Chanyeol assumes. He keeps his eye out for the guy on TV, searches the prettily-made faces for that guy he had met a few weeks ago (which turns into a few months ago, which turns into a few years ago). Sometimes, he squints at a rookie group and tells himself maybe he got plastic surgery and looks different now. But usually he just looks away after a few seconds. It pains him to see people in the position he had yearned for for so long. It almost feels like every idol out there has stolen his position--his chance to finally be on stage and not just on the asphalt grounds of Seoul parks, busking late at night.
But luck comes to Chanyeol as it does to many. And when it comes, Chanyeol is prepared. He auditions for the nth time, sings, plays the guitar, and searches the judges’ faces for a sign of approval.
Three days later, he gets an invitation in the mail. The second stage. He goes. He gets in. He moves on.
In the span of three months, everything around him changes. He goes home with the SM card, waving it in front of his mother’s face. In joy, she calls out a family reunion--calls his sister home, buys packs of samgyeopsal, gets out the soju, invites his uncles, tells them all “my son is going to become famous!” Hope is real. It’s alive. Life is raw. Chanyeol smiles and he ignores the tiny discomfort sitting at the very bottom of his stomach, whispering the words a certain billiards player three years ago had said to him. Something about uncertainty, something about unpredictability. Something about the loss of hope.
But like most things in life, Chanyeol’s trainee period isn’t as he expects it. He walks in on his first day and sees a group of trainees sitting at the cafeteria tables eating lunch. Among them is the boy he had seen three years ago. There is no hesitation this time, no mistake. It’s him. They make eye contact--it’s fleeting, it’s momentary, but it’s sure. The recognition is alive in both of their eyes.
Chanyeol approaches him later when they pass by each other in the hallway (Chanyeol’s on his way to the bathroom after his first official vocal lesson). The boy’s eyes are floored. His face is tired. There are bags under his eyes.
“What’s your name?” Chanyeol stops him.
He turns around. “Kyungsoo. Don’t talk to me.”
“Why?”
Kyungsoo leaves. Something about this place, despite the fact that so many revere it, isn’t very comfortable. Chanyeol makes two fists as he walks into the bathroom.
Luck is on Chanyeol’s side again when he is informed, eleven months later, that he is going to debut. Happiness shrouds around him like most beautiful, distracting clouds do. He goes home again and another family reunion is organized. They order ten pounds of samgyeopsal. This time, extended family are invited. Chanyeol is happy, but he is also tired. One year of incessant exercise, singing, rapping, practicing. For a moment he had almost slipped into depression. He had pulled himself out immediately, knowing that his dream would become a failure if he fell in any deeper (he knew quite a few trainees who had to leave because of it). His mother tells him “you’ve lost weight, son!” and wraps him a ssam. Chanyeol eats it obediently, smiling weakly. He looks miserable--but don't take his expressions wrong--he truly is happy. Debut! After only eleven months. Life couldn’t be better.
When he returns to Seoul for the first meeting with his to-debut members, he looks at ten vaguely familiar faces. He knows a few--Baekhyun, Jongdae--but most, he doesn’t. There are so many trainees here, it’s almost like a school.
The manager sitting at the back of the room is speaking with the person he knows as Junmyeon, the trainee who had been here for almost seven years. They call him sunbae because he deserves it--even though they’re the same age, they know from his face that he is much more worn. Seven years of directionless practice can do an amount on anyone.
“Is everyone here?” Junmyeon turns around and looks at the faces, his eyes quickly coursing through the room for a headcount. “One person is missing.”
The door opens, as if on cue. Kyungsoo.
“Alright.” Junmyeon looks at Kyungsoo as he walks over to the back of the group and sits himself down on the hardwood floor.
“Congratulations,” he says. His voice is dry. “You’re all debuting now as one group.”
Kyungsoo refuses to talk to Chanyeol for six months. Six whole months--even though they’re supposed to be friends now, co-members, part of the same group, “we are one.” Perhaps it’s something to do with the fact that Kyungsoo has been here for five years and Chanyeol only eleven.
Chanyeol learns quickly that Kyungsoo is the cynic of the group.
“Let’s go out and eat, guys!” Baekhyun says on one occasion after they’ve practiced for eight hours straight on their debut song (which, even if nobody dares to say it aloud, they all hate terribly). “We need a break.”
“Break now before we’re plunged into the hell that is debut and promoting season,” Kyungsoo mutters. He’s close enough to Chanyeol and Baekhyun for the both of them to hear.
“Oh, come on,” Baekhyun laughs. Kyungsoo says nothing the entire time while they are at the restaurant. He just eats. Then leaves.
One month before their scheduled debut, Chanyeol begins to hate his life.
It isn’t a mappable, easy process. It starts out with a seed of doubt. Within days, it blooms into something ugly and terrifying. Chanyeol considers sneaking out in the middle of the night and driving off forever. He could move to China, maybe. That way, nobody would find him.
When he eats, the food turns into sand. When he sleeps, his dreams turn into open mouths, baring fangs, eating fortune, spitting out insults and critiques in the form of comments, in the form of ruthless netizens. Something like “his ears are too pointy!” or “kill him!” or “he shouldn’t be an idol, he’s only been training for 11 months.” Even “his music is terrible. he doesn’t deserve to be a singer.” He wakes up in cold sweat every night. Kyungsoo and Baekhyun, his roommates, are luckily deep sleepers. He doesn’t tell anyone about his nightmares. He gets three hours a sleep a night.
One week later, he feels miserable. His head feels heavy and his feet begin to drag on the ground.
“What’s wrong with you? We’re debuting soon! Pick yourself up!” Junmyeon doesn’t understand. He’s been hardened over the years, to the point of becoming a sort of pumice rock. Unmoldable, rough, coarse.
It’s during lunch that he picks at his salad and begins to contemplate jumping off of a bridge. It’s simple and clean. Chanyeol doesn’t know how to swim. It would be quick. He thinks about what Kyungsoo had told him many years ago. The words are faded from his mind, but the feeling of the moment is stuck. Something about hopelessness. Unpredictability. Nothing is ever promised.
“Chanyeol!”
His head snaps up. The rest of the group is leaving. Junmyeon is frowning. “Get up! Finish your salad--it’s been forty minutes. We have to start vocal practice.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
It isn’t Chanyeol. Someone else. But Chanyeol doesn’t care. He throws out his salad, untouched, and follows the blur of humans, souls, dreams, foolish individuals who think what they work for is what they will get, into the training room.
Five days later, on a Saturday, they’re promised free time. It’s seven o’clock at night, but finishing at seven is a gift for them. Sehun and Jongin decide to go shopping. A few others decide to go for chimaek. Chicken and beer near the Han River. They’re in groups now, in little groups of friends. Chanyeol is alone, as usual. He decides to take a walk outside.
He blocks himself off from the world, fixing earbuds into his ears, glancing at the glimmering lights on the river as he listens to the sad music.
Unhappiness shrouds around him like a wrinkled hand--ugly and disgusting, but surprisingly strong. It grips his heart with a ruthless fury, taking everything he has and shriveling it into a tiny, ugly piece of nothing. The street lamps are dim and so is his mood.
His steps slow to a halt at the very center of the bridge. Behind the music in his ears he can hear the rushing of wind, cars, honking. Lights are around him, but never inside him.
“What have I done,” he sings along softly. He puts his chest to the railing, looks down into the churning waters, sloshing this way and that, quiet, patient, calm, waiting.
“What have I done,” he repeats, feeling the syllables soft on his tongue. The wrinkly fingers squeeze him even more, until he’s a tiny ball. A tiny raisin. Throw the raisin in the water, he thinks. Don’t let it litter the streets. Throw the raisin in the water.
He lifts his hands up on the topmost railing. He looks down at the water, still calm, still waiting, looking up at him with the multitude of eyes, the wavering reflections of the bridge’s lights.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he sings softly, and the music doesn’t just fill his ears anymore. It fills him. Throw the raisin in the water, he thinks.
Throw the fucking raisin into the water.
He closes his eyes.
The fucking raisin.
A hand grabs his shoulder. He screams, jumps back. His tailbone hits the ground, hard.
“What the fuck?” Chanyeol snaps the earbuds out of his ears. Everything stops all of a sudden. The honking of cars is loud around him. People are screaming, cars are screaming. Life is screaming. He looks up into the eyes of a familiar figure. Kyungsoo.
“What the fuck?” Chanyeol repeats, then gets up. Anger. He pushes Kyungsoo’s chest. “The fuck do you want?”
Kyungsoo just stares at him. “I’m sorry.”
The lights break down around Chanyeol. He can’t hear the cars. He can’t really see, actually--something is shrouding his eyes, something streaming down his cheeks, something is escaping his lips. All he can really discern is that he’s alive, and that someone is sorry, and that someone is patting his back, repeating “it’s okay” over and over and over and over again. At the end of it all, he hears something like “let’s play pool” and he finds himself nodding because it feels nice when someone his holding his hand again.
“S-s-s-superior orchestra,” Chanyeol teases, laughing hysterically.
Kyungsoo lets out a squint, glaring at Chanyeol and punching his ribs. “Shut the fuck up, you dumbass.”
“S-s-superior,” Chanyeol cries, grabbing onto Kyungsoo’s shoulders.
Baekhyun turns around, a smirk on his face (the same smirk that precedes every dumb joke). “When are you two going to get married?”
Kyungsoo kicks his shins. Baekhyun squeals and hops away to Junmyeon, crying about physical abuse and possible expulsion.
Chanyeol laughs at Kyungsoo some more, and momentarily, their eyes meet. They’ve never talked about the Han River Bridge incident. There’s really no need to. They’re there for each other, in the darkest moments. What started off as an always-there-for-you friendship quickly turned into a love-hate one. And Chanyeol doesn’t mind it at all. I’m glad I’m friends with you, Kyungsoo, Chanyeol thinks as he looks into the eyes of his friend and rubs his head. Thanks for always being there.