feel it break; hoya-focused; pg-13; 600+ words
warning for minor(?) character death
A/N: hoya/sunggyu if you squint and tilt your head sideways and hang upside down while wearing a mask or something i dont even know
howon spots him through the scope.
he’s still the same; with his strange fashion sense (except now he looks impeccable in a designer suit), his small eyes (now wide and attentive), his pouty pink lips (pursed in a straight line), his short and think fingers (clasped together on top of the desk), and his expression (blank and impassive and exuding authority).
howon feels something stir in his chest when he notices how dark his hair is, stark against his pale skin and healthy again-before it was ruined with product and dye and heat those years ago-and his face bare without the foundation and concealer and even the sleek stroke of eyeliner under his eyes.
it’s been years since they’ve last talked-where their conversation was stilted and awkward even with the other (ex) members to keep them company and howon had to face the truth.
howon had to face the truth that it was never going to be the same again and that everyone had moved on except for him and some of the (ex) members were finally settling down and some were still in the entertainment industry or trying to hang onto it as tight as possible and some were doing the impossible and moving on and leaving behind bright lights and deafening screams and becoming someone else.
they’re worried for howon, they had said before he had cut off communication and isolated himself. he’s stopped dancing and singing and rapping and they think he doesn’t do anything anymore and he doesn’t even have a girlfriend for gods sakes.
when they leave, they say that they wish him luck and that they hope he gets back on track. they clap him on the shoulder and it sounds final.
he doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he’s doing fine, great actually, because the bills are finally being paid and he doesn’t even have spare time to stew in his own thoughts anymore because he can just go to target practice like he’s been doing for the past few years because he kills people for a living.
he stopped crying after the third guy-some famous soccer player that had a ridiculous affair even when he was just recently married and she couldn’t stand the smug face he wore when she turned on the news.
not even his own family knows how he’s managing on his own after what had happened. howon’s sure they don’t care anymore-since, after all, he failed as a singer and as a dancer and as a son.
howon takes aim and his finger ghosts over the trigger.
the man laughs at something his coworker says and howon notices how much older and tired he looks-even when they had stayed up all night practicing the same dance move over and over and they hadn’t had a chance to eat or sleep or even breathe yet he didn’t look as horrible with bags under his eyes and skin pale.
he stands up from his spot at the head of the table, his hands clasped behind his back and taking on the same stern look he used when someone said the wrong thing at a recording or they missed a miniscule step during a performance or anytime he had to lecture them for the thousandth time.
howon remembers the fact that he never wanted to be with them in the first place-didn’t want to become part of infinite and having to take care of people other than himself and singing music he didn’t want to sing and learning dances he didn’t want to dance. he didn’t like what he did but he still stayed and became someone no one else could be and lending silent words of comfort no one else could.
he’s almost finished with his proposal-something about laying off workers in other sections around the world. he doesn’t gesture with his hands, not as much as the others do anyway. he just nods and nods and uses his eyes and mouth.
howon thinks he’s wasted too much time thinking-thinking over ridiculous things that should be forgotten.
howon pulls the trigger.
A/N: hoya/sunggyu if you squint and tilt your head sideways and hang upside down while wearing a mask or something i dont even know
howon spots him through the scope.
he’s still the same; with his strange fashion sense (except now he looks impeccable in a designer suit), his small eyes (now wide and attentive), his pouty pink lips (pursed in a straight line), his short and think fingers (clasped together on top of the desk), and his expression (blank and impassive and exuding authority).
howon feels something stir in his chest when he notices how dark his hair is, stark against his pale skin and healthy again-before it was ruined with product and dye and heat those years ago-and his face bare without the foundation and concealer and even the sleek stroke of eyeliner under his eyes.
it’s been years since they’ve last talked-where their conversation was stilted and awkward even with the other (ex) members to keep them company and howon had to face the truth.
howon had to face the truth that it was never going to be the same again and that everyone had moved on except for him and some of the (ex) members were finally settling down and some were still in the entertainment industry or trying to hang onto it as tight as possible and some were doing the impossible and moving on and leaving behind bright lights and deafening screams and becoming someone else.
they’re worried for howon, they had said before he had cut off communication and isolated himself. he’s stopped dancing and singing and rapping and they think he doesn’t do anything anymore and he doesn’t even have a girlfriend for gods sakes.
when they leave, they say that they wish him luck and that they hope he gets back on track. they clap him on the shoulder and it sounds final.
he doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he’s doing fine, great actually, because the bills are finally being paid and he doesn’t even have spare time to stew in his own thoughts anymore because he can just go to target practice like he’s been doing for the past few years because he kills people for a living.
he stopped crying after the third guy-some famous soccer player that had a ridiculous affair even when he was just recently married and she couldn’t stand the smug face he wore when she turned on the news.
not even his own family knows how he’s managing on his own after what had happened. howon’s sure they don’t care anymore-since, after all, he failed as a singer and as a dancer and as a son.
howon takes aim and his finger ghosts over the trigger.
the man laughs at something his coworker says and howon notices how much older and tired he looks-even when they had stayed up all night practicing the same dance move over and over and they hadn’t had a chance to eat or sleep or even breathe yet he didn’t look as horrible with bags under his eyes and skin pale.
he stands up from his spot at the head of the table, his hands clasped behind his back and taking on the same stern look he used when someone said the wrong thing at a recording or they missed a miniscule step during a performance or anytime he had to lecture them for the thousandth time.
howon remembers the fact that he never wanted to be with them in the first place-didn’t want to become part of infinite and having to take care of people other than himself and singing music he didn’t want to sing and learning dances he didn’t want to dance. he didn’t like what he did but he still stayed and became someone no one else could be and lending silent words of comfort no one else could.
he’s almost finished with his proposal-something about laying off workers in other sections around the world. he doesn’t gesture with his hands, not as much as the others do anyway. he just nods and nods and uses his eyes and mouth.
howon thinks he’s wasted too much time thinking-thinking over ridiculous things that should be forgotten.
howon pulls the trigger.