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weary bones instantly melt once his body touches the soft mattress. the scent of home is obnoxiously comforting, nauseatingly soothing. a lot like calming balm to the battle wounds still bleeding, a psalm for the damaged and the torn. a gentle contact, the gentlest, a vast difference from the pressing tension that is today, growing like treacherous thorns deep within—of plastering the jolliest smiles to those who cared, witnessing the misty stars in their eyes once they vowed to love, to support, to stay, forever.
and it's outlandish, yet oh-so-graciously, they weren't afraid to make more promises, confident that they would never break them.
and it's a blessing, oh-so-sacrilegious, that they didn't notice the dying constellations in his own. even if they did—they didn't say.
he shivers.
like creepy ghosts haunting the wake, lurking in the recesses of slumber, jongseong will do anything to exorcise the demons away—so they won't become a part of him—they won't be him. it's easier when there aren't loopholes in the packed schedules, not a chance to ponder about yesterday and think about tomorrow—only now, now, now, in the still-sealed books of the cursed present he didn't dare to read.
and for a while, jongseong is content with it. with fate.
then, the cracks begin forming.
then, reality becomes so... ugly, more grotesque than the makeshift scenarios in the locked rooms of his head. it's a manic cycle of trying to forget and wanting to treasure the final dying moments—but jongseong is only human, and there's so much he could take, so many he couldn't.
because for how long can he hide under the pretence of professionalism, when every call, every comment, every tweet, and every post talks about the what-ifs, but never the gut-wrenching truth; yes, it is, no, it isn't? how can people assume something they don't know? how will he live with those vicious remarks polluting the once-peaceful community?
he can choose not to.
but one thing about jongseong is he's never a quitter.
yet jongseong's afraid of the word. forever doesn't feel like a long time anymore. it's no longer an unshakeable promise, but a fragile thread of hope that becomes the damning knot around the neck, and he's gasping—yet again, as someone starts pulling, and jongseong can't resist. doesn't.
maybe he deserves this.
he's never fearful of the number. 7 has always been a long-lasting brand, like eternal tattoos on their wrist, a soulmate mark, invisible to the eyes but ever-present in the heart, a passing comment he once expressed when alcohol was cordial in the system—and the other 6 agreed with a smile that felt too honest, too innocent, too hopeful.
who would've thought?
who would've thought it was only an impending nightmare masked by the sweetest daydream?
nothing could've ever prepared jongseong for this bitter, bitter separation.
but god is fair, and god made it stop—this time, longer than momentary. oh, the irony.
there's this searing warmth, a zeal that continuously simmers, on the busted frost of his skin. lethargic, but this cures him more than any pledge of escapism, and it's mending and destroying him all the same. because when jongseong flutters his eyes open, ever so slowly, even in the darkness, he can easily trace the silhouette of jaeyun, the rough lines that make him so true, so real. busy rummaging through his belongings, doing things that are so jake-coded, amid the craze, despite the tiredness. and that makes everything more gut-wrenching to jongseong.
between these four walls, a getaway from actuality, existing on the same bed, from the sliver of silver between the closed blinds, jaeyun doesn't glow from manufactured sparks. it's not like in the books. never close to the lies in the romcom movies. the world doesn't stop moving. the ground doesn't shake. but everything within jongseong shifts—to all things jaeyun are. because his presence does, ablaze, so effervescently, something in the way he moves and breathes and the way he always is—all golden shimmers and absolutely spellbinding and just... consoling.
it isn't dark, not anymore.
his breath hitches.
but jongseong's still terrified, if only if, so he reaches out, finding the hand that didn't let his go when one did. he found it. oh.
jaeyun jerks in surprise, flinches instantly, a quiet kamjakkiya! befall the lips, and it feeds jongseong's hungriest ego, more so than he believed—that this isn't a transfixed imagination made-up from bottomless anxiety, shots after shots to forget how to feel, adamant on not thinking—that jaeyun is as real as he can be, so close to him, now, always, now.
"shit," he groans, holding back the string of curses. "you scared the shit out of me, jay," jaeyun exclaims, all the while huffing staggered breaths, calming down the heightened senses with hands performing repetitive motions on the chest. the slightest bit of annoyance coats the timbre of jaeyun's voice, sending potent goosebumps down the end of his spine, tingling, lividly resurrected.
it's the first time in days, that jongseong laughs, not to feign the gauche awkwardness away, not to fill the excruciating silence, not to keep the insanity at bay—but the utmost sincere, hearty, and liberating chortle that rekindles the glint of hope, that this is worth fighting for, this isn't a losing battle—them.
and jongseong can't help but say, "you're so...stupid," because undoubtedly, jaeyun is an imbecile. the biggest fool to ever live. but he's jongseong's clumsy idiot, and nothing will ever change that—right?
jaeyun rebuts with the same defence. you're stupid, too.
it's a rare instance that jongseong doesn't fight back with words, but the quarrel is still so them—so jay and jake.
and they go back and forth, front and back, left and right, before they fall into this familiar pattern, within the safest zone. a well-known routine between the two—a lot of mindless bickering and teasing punches on the stomach and claw pinches at the waist and breathless giggles and straining screams and ya! and stop! and jay! and jake! and shit—jongseong's whole body trembles from overflowing bliss that he wills the surge to land atop jaeyun, letting him break his fall.
and he does.
the sudden change of tempo—no questions, as there are no answers. jaeyun accepts jongseong into a pair of awaiting arms, chest to chest, body to body, limbs on limbs, and the silence becomes their trustworthy shield once more.
one, two.
one, two.
jongseong stares at the ceiling; lines and textures, dents and bends, he sees them all, and he draws these shapeless visions in midair, fingers colouring the picture with a tired smile, dejected, but never defeated. jaeyun mirrors him, slapping and pushing until five miraculously move against five, as he encloses their dimming stars together.
even if he becomes the blackest hole, at least, he's not alone. he hopes so.
and jongseong whispers to the gaping void, to jaeyun, wishing it would echo something different, "it hurts," because he's so tired of pretending it doesn't.
yet—what resounds in the shattered shell is another wave of scars that continues bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding.
jaeyun brings their fingers together, so achingly near to the quaver of his own lips, as he leaves dainty kisses all over, and by the end of this haze, jongseong knows it all too well—flowers will bloom again, because no winter lasts forever, not when jaeyun's here.
but it's still so fucking cold, and jongseong's freezing to death, all over again, always the same.
quietly, he acknowledges, "i know." and when their hands rest on jaeyun's chest, he continues, stripping himself of every busted layer, barren and shaken, "it's killing me, too."
he should've known that this isn't only dire for him, but to hear it directly from jaeyun, when the rest of them have been walking on eggshells, afraid to talk about it even behind closed doors, scared to concede the shitty truth, is the first step of healing in jongseong's long journey.
it goads him to say, "i'm sorry," even when he knows, no one's at fault.
but it's easier to disclose the perpetrator, associate them with a face and a name, so that jongseong can use it to dump all the sadness, all the unfairness, all the heartbreaks, nothing will be too complex, and he can solve this riddle without begging for hints, for closure.
yet jongseong refuses to be the bigger person in this—he only wants to be himself. he doesn't want to get the longer end of the stick—he only wants to prevent the stick from splitting.
and this is him, baring his soul empty to someone who never judges; this is jongseong, still mourning for the loss of those beautiful 10 years, with someone who turned his life downside up, his ultimatum, his ride or die.
but turns out, jongseong's the first to face this abrupt death, and he doesn't know if he'll ever survive.
maybe he didn't.
he doesn't.
there's a knock on his forehead, or a flick of the fingers against it, jongseong can't tell; every pain is identical to the other. but he's scowling from the discomfort. he awakens from the stupor, only to have jaeyun closer now, laser-focused on him and nothing else.
"you seriously need to stop thinking. it's frustrating. i can hear you loud and clear," jaeyun fakes-whining, inserting just enough edge in these pacifying words for jongseong to realise its importance—just before either of them can dive head-first into the misery of unnecessary mental gymnastics once more.
it's supposed to be a joke, to lift the dread in the air, when jongseong admits, "i'm annoying, i know. sorry for being a nuisance." but everything comes off a bit too brash, too sharp and too cutting—and jongseong doesn't mean it to be this way.
yet jaeyun knows when to push and when to pull, always so aware of jongseong's turbulent state of being, the questions in the head, never translated into coherence—when he has always been so adequate with words. deceiving him all the same, is his ultimate strength. so this time, when nothing's stopping the free-fall, when he fails to speak his mind, jaeyun pulls jongseong close, closer now that he's tucked in the spaces of jaeyun's embrace, closest that he breathes and breathes and wishes he doesn't—
but jaeyun gives him the reason to—always.
"i–i didn't mean it that way..." jongseong can't fake the quiver, the shatter of every syllable as these confessions escape the confinements of chapped lips.
"i know," softer. fragile. honest. fond. so wickedly enamoured.
he perilously wants to appear strong and reliable—for fuck's sake, he's the mat-hyung now, the oldest, the most reliable and headstrong and brave—and he must carry this responsibility without fail, even without mercy or grace or help from everything and anything.
but he's only park jongseong—he's only jay; the soft-hearted and often sensitive park jay who doesn't know if he can shoulder this duty, not when he has always been someone who relies on a greater figure for support.
but he can't be that someone anymore.
he has to be the one.
and the crash will hurt more than the heart can endure, but jaeyun assures, "you can be scared, jay-ah."
jongseong looks up, and he sees jaeyun, a saviour, a friend, his dearest—and jaeyun smiles at him, as powerless as he can possibly be, "we can be scared. i got you. you don't have to carry everything alone. we're in this together."
"i don't want to put this weight on you, jake," i don't want it to hurt you as much as it hurt me. but these notions can never exist in reality, not with the endless gleam of hope in jaeyun's eyes, and so much patience, so much understanding that he's infinite—when jongseong is so little and weak and erratic.
jaeyun scoffs, but it's out of fondness, because he's so used to this jay-shenanigan on every tuesday, or every other day, and there's nothing he can't handle.
"did i ask you to?" he raises his eyebrow, and it's all it takes for jongseong to pout—absent-mindedly.
and jaeyun is quick to steal a kiss on the lips, just enough for jongseong to feel the gush of butterflies squirming in the stomach, this deep devotion that runs in the blood, goes absolutely haywire because of it—because of jaeyun.
jongseong can't help it—he closes his eyes and relishes the kiss, savours the warmth, and etches the sensation in the box of memories. if one day, he's bound to separate, or if their paths diverge into six different routes, it won't be difficult for jongseong to extract the folder and let the files play. if it's too much to handle, he'll press pause and resume when he's better at accepting. by then, it probably won't be this devastating—of remembering the shape of jaeyun's lips on his before everything ends, before it's too late to hold on.
jaeyun continues, in the hushed whispers, in the tightening hold around the waist, "stop putting words in my mouth, jay. it's something i would do even if you didn't say. i'll do it for the team. i'll do it for us. i'll do it for you."
patient thumbs run along the closed seams of his mouth, urging jongseong to open up, to be free, to let go, even if only for a second too long, a forever too short. and jongseong is always so hopelessly pliant under the scrutiny of jaeyun's selfless love, that he meets his gaze. in the middle, they'll always find each other, again and again, without a miss.
"jaeyun-ah," if he says his name one more time, will it be like a sacred prayer, and will god ever listen? is his love greater than jongseong's love for jaeyun, for the team? because he only wants to be together—if forever is too absurd an idea, let it be close, as close as time can be—with them, with jaeyun.
is it really that impossible?
the brilliance of jaeyun's smile, is no longer blinding. rose-tinted glasses. heart bokeh. swirls of pink and the colours of peace, shades of green and the evermore blue—all in jaeyun, from jaeyun, because of jaeyun.
"i'm listening."
"can you promise me?"
"tell me."
even if there's a smouldering boulder in the throat, jongseong swallows it all, as much as it kills him, as much as it scorches him.
"will you stay? stay with me. stay with the group. don't go. don't leave me. please..."
i can't go on without you.
i can't do this without you.
jaeyun-ah... i can't.
it has to be you.
it has to be with you.
jongseong should've learned his lesson, but there's always a slip in this destiny, now that he knows just how much jaeyun cares, how much jaeyun loves. even if it's not entirely for him, but it's enough to harbour the other four from the thunder and storm—and that's more than jongseong can ever ask for.
"how can i leave the people i love?" there's a pause in the air, the glitch in the system, that renders jongseong restless again. but jaeyun pinches his nose as he voices, stating his point, "how can i ever leave you? are you crazy?"
perhaps he is.
the accusatory tone doesn't hit the supposed nerve now—because nothing comes close to this tranquillity, this peace, when jaeyun breaks into endless fits of chuckles when jongseong stares at him incredulously, hitting him out of nowhere for good measure. and it escalates, the laughter, now heartier, more sincere, as both of them are now brave to let go—a piece of themselves to the universe that never halts in motion, even when they want it to.
as the thrill comes to a screeching standstill, jaeyun arrives to save the day again—oh, what a romeo.
"we'll be alright, jay-ah," he repeats, determined, "it'll be alright," and the third time's the charm, "you'll be alright. because i'm here, and nothing will ever take me away from you. god has to work overtime if he wants me to leave you or the group."
"promise?" jongseong asks, holding his breath.
jaeyun never stops smiling.
even with unshed tears in his eyes, no rain or storm or the fucking apocalypse could ever cease his prettiest sunshine.
"cross my heart," jaeyun promises.
and jongseong finally—breathes.
"so, according to the list, evan will be performing before you guys. so there'll be around 15 minutes before your turn. please be aware of this change as we..."
immediately, jaeyun searches for jongseong in the crowd of people in the waiting room. there, he's standing still, comatose, suddenly pale.
the desire to wrap him in his arms eats him alive, animalistically, in lavish gusto, that it's sickening, this monstrosity. sharp nails claw the walls of his parched throat, and he has so much to say, wants to do all the impossible and the unthinkable. but with many cameras and flashing lights recording every inch of their movement, jaeyun knows better not to.
but he wishes he could. fuck, he should.
the thread that connects them stresses, and jongseong's already looking, already searching, already pleading. please. please. please.
and jaeyun can't do anything else other than hold that stare, for as long as he can, even if it's the least he can do. i'm here. i'm here. i'm here.
the announcement arrives in deafening chimes. it ruptures like pretty fireworks and scalds like a fourth-degree burn. in the blur of callings from the in-ear and the motions and gestures of move! move! move! jaeyun loses jongseong to the gloom, to the musky backstage air until it happens without notice, without an ounce of mercy.
the pull is gratifying, now that jongseong sees him from a reachable distance. no longer just a figment of imagination during those longest days and shortest nights—obscured by the forced smiles and laughter hardly sincere.
everything he practised, the possible interaction, the unavoidable brief passings in corridors, hallways, recording booths and practice rooms, keeping his cool, vanishes—all in vain.
once, it was easy—to hold on, to tangle five fingers against five, under the table, away from the keen eyes of the world.
once, it was easy—to carry the weight of a balled fist in his own, relishing the cold shiver of nervousness, masked so perfectly well with the cool-shade stunner of a smile.
and once, it was easy—to admire in this open secret, of wandering eyes, wondering, conveying assurances in stolen glances and giddy giggles.
he can't really breathe. impossible, his brain echoes the warning signs in deadly reds and ruthless blacks. but jongseong never listens to anything but the muted voices in the heart, deep down, the sea of longing washes over the most bereft shore—and he's alive, once more.
it didn't feel like an entire ocean was separating them.
it was only the ripples of two souls existing, orbiting in each other's axis, waiting to collide.
and he was satisfied with the thought of it—with the idea of swimming to the sea only to return once the sun glitched in the twilight horizon—for the home he always had was never beyond reach, always there and nowhere over.
maybe he was too complacent.
maybe he was too sure.
because it feels like an entire ocean separates them now—once jongseong passes by heeseung. on this stage, everything is smaller, all things are ginormous, and jongseong sees everything he misses about heeseung under the microscope—yet he still overlooks the bigger picture.
the bond ruptures—again.
jongseong tumbles to the floor, carelessly holding onto anyone—anything—as the crushing sensation oozes into his constricting chest, drilling into his muddled head. and all he can see, all he can feel, is nothing but red and blue.
"jay!"
he opens his eyes. dreading the cold whiff of wind on his skin, frigid cheeks and the pricking pain in his hand, like sharp knives dangling from the blaze of his existence. somehow, he only wants to exist, to float, to not matter anymore—even to himself.
"...jongseong?"
he's afraid to search for the familiar resonance of that voice, someone he misses, someone he can't live without—because all pretences of bravery and strength will shatter once and for all, if he ever finds his again.
but his heart sings the melody that only he knows, and—
"hee–heeseung-hyung..."
saying his name aloud, no longer just in between whispers in the corners of the room, in the memories of deleted photos and recycled videos, jongseong feels this immense weight of freedom becoming the shell of his body, the edge of his soul, now that he's allowed—he can, embrace the name he called but never answered, the prayers that bruised the blasphemous knees in those darkest nights.
and it's manic how jongseong can't stop repeating, "heeseung-hyung," because this is a dream, and he doesn't want to wake up—he's drunk, out of his head, off his wits, and jongseong never wants to be sober. not again, not anymore.
but even with every calling, even with every whisper, jongseong still can't breathe.
he wants closure, or anything to put a stop to these thoughts, these questions, because he can't take it—he can't live like this, he can't even move on now that all his past comes collapsing to this irreverent present—and the future still seems so fucking bleak.
"you're awake," heeseung says, matter-of-factly, talking like strangers, acting like acquaintances, behaving like mere colleagues.
but what about the promises? what about those times spent in the dance studio, practising and breaking their bones and mending their low spirit with cups of ramyeon by the han river?
what about the talks of debuting in the same group and receiving all the awards in the world, just them against the mockery and negativity, and you can never be successful because they fucking proved them wrong—heeseung and jay and jungwon and jake and sunghoon and sunoo and ni-ki did—
what about the fights and the tears and the heart-to-heart conversations and those confrontations and screaming and crying and being so mad for nothing and finding forgiveness and swears of we can do this, jongseong-ah, and as long as we're together, hyung—
what about them? a voice in his head ridicules.
nothing matters.
you don't matter to him.
pathetic.
"i have to go—"
he doesn't need you anymore.
loser.
"hyung!"
you're nothing to him.
but still, even when he's about to die again, the second death, the most painful one, jaeyun is—jaeyun is here—always, here.
"he needs to go," jaeyun doesn't look at anyone but jongseong when he continues, despair in his voice, "let him go, jay-ah."
if only jongseong isn't good at reading between the lines, it wouldn't feel like his heart is now in pieces, but it's the only thing he does best—it wouldn't hurt. it won't. but it still does because he knows what jaeyun meant—he knows he should.
the grip around heeseung's wrist loosens.
heeseung appears apologetic, but there's already one of the manager hyungs waiting for him by the door, so he leaves, hastily, almost knocking over the bed, tripping over his own feet, and doesn't look back.
does jongseong wish heeseung did?
the emptiness is now, yet again, overbearing.
it feels definite now.
nothing will change either of their trajectory.
jongseong mourns the loss of something he once had—someone he once thought was forever.
and it still kills him as it did the first time.
"i'm so stupid—"
"jay—"
"i should've handled things better—i was so stupid—i don't know what happened to me—he doesn't care—he doesn't want to see us anymore—he—"
"jay, calm down! there's nothing wrong with you!"
jongseong stops moving.
and jaeyun dives, deep into the oasis of jongseong, enveloping him in the overdue hug, because there's nothing he can do—nothing but hold him. and hold him. and hold him.
"jay-ah..." and it's so hard—it's fucking impossible, not to cry when jongseong becomes the sea again, one with the killer waves, drowning both of them in this resurfaced grief.
but jaeyun insists, "jay-ah..." anything to bring jongseong to the shore, let him dry under the sun—from his arms around jongseong's waist, searing kisses to the crown of his head.
shapeless tears on his chest, on the shoulder, and jaeyun takes it all in, broken bones and busted skin and shattered heart and weeping wails, all of jongseong—until inevitably, he becomes another ocean of his own—drowning deep, but never sinking. he won't be—because of jongseong, his dearest.
another whisper, the last to many of the firsts, jongseong-ah, and he doesn't chase after the running time. he's here, and he'll be jongseong's shore. jaeyun will be—everything to jongseong, for jongseong, because of jongseong.
closing his eyes, jaeyun takes jongseong with him—as they drown, together.