Chapter Text
Two events occur at once: Seventeen’s recent comeback results in zero wins - nothing off of the EP reaching the top fifty on Melon - and Jihoon all but moves into his studio, the door left permanently locked.
Objectively, it’s not a bad comeback. Not their best, but not their worst; they reach a quarter of a million album sales, their music video reaches three million, and the music critics are singing Seventeen’s praises online. Their previous release had double the sales, a couple of wins, and triple the views — but it’s still a decent reception. In everyone’s opinion, at least.
An opinion Jihoon doesn’t seem to share.
The company allows them a hiatus. Two months to relax and see family and friends whilst maintaining their image and their body weight, Younghwan had explained to them before their schedules even began. Anybody that wishes to stay in Seoul and continue releasing work via Youtube or social media are allowed to do so, but there’s no obligation. More than half of the members clear out of the dormitories before Pledis has the chance to change their minds; the announcement is posted to their official Instagram and Twitter the day of.
Jihoon doesn’t leave the studio. Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Chan, and Seokmin remain in Seoul.
Summertime in Seoul is sticky and unpleasant. The humidity makes Jeonghan feel like he can never take in a satisfactory amount of air, and his skin is grossly damp even after a few minutes spent outdoors. Despite this, he follows a routine for the sake of his sanity. The mornings are for walking down to the 7-eleven around their street corner and picking up some iced coffee. It’s not as hot then, with the sun only just beginning to rise beyond the city’s skyline— but where the sun is slacking, the thick curtain of humidity makes up for its absence. And Jeonghan can’t do much to alleviate how uncomfortable the summer can be when he’s forced to wear low hats and a mask.
His family home isn’t far from the dormitories. He can easily take the line back, enjoy the luxury of proper air conditioning instead of a ceiling fan that circulates the same, hot air around until he’s forced to billow his shirt for some relief. Seokmin infers as much, one weekday when Seokmin has to go practice for his musical. Jeonghan is in the kitchen heating up some leftover takeout, and Seokmin falters by the threshold, asks, “Why don’t you go home? There isn’t much to do here without any schedules,” while he hooks the straps of his face mask around his ears.
Jeonghan doesn’t bother to turn around to face him. “I’ll head over there eventually,” he says.
Seokmin seems to pick up that this isn’t something he wants to discuss and hums a response, quietly heads out.
Then the week passes in a slow, dreary amble. Chan and Soonyoung have made the dance studio their second home; Jeonghan performs his self-made schedule of morning coffee, afternoon walks, home-made dinners and solo movie nights. And Jeonghan hasn’t seen Jihoon since he disappeared behind his studio doors seven days ago.
The real reason Jeonghan hasn’t left is that he’s worried. It’s not something he wants to share with Seokmin or anyone else. It’s not their business, really. He and Jihoon have their own routine, a mutual understanding that dates back to when they were trainees and Jihoon was the brooding, silent puzzle that Jeonghan wanted to solve. That’s what it was in the beginning — a game fit for a single player. And albeit ten years of proximity has now been shared between them, Jihoon’s mystery has yet to be deciphered. Perhaps Jeonghan’s never stopped trying to figure it out.
There are facts to Jihoon that Jeonghan does know, however. That he carries the weight of his members on his shoulders so heavily that any perceived failure unhooks his ribs and sets fire to his insides; that there’s no separation of personal life and work life — not like how Jeonghan compartmentalizes — so each dispute, every conflict, wounds him where very little should reach. That Jihoon is an easy target. He renders himself vulnerable, placing his entire worth in numbers and charts and tally marks of success. Top one-hundred to top fifty to top ten to top three. That Jihoon’s convinced this is all he has.
There’s no room for in between. Not with Jihoon. He soars or he sinks. This season, Jeonghan surmises he’s been swallowed whole.
Before, Jeonghan listened and Jihoon spoke. Maybe not readily, but the Jihoon of their early days was a little looser, a little clingier. Jeonghan touches in loud, intimate limbs, listens with silence and gentle eyes. Even as a teenager, Jihoon wouldn’t admit that he craved physical contact; he accepted and gave without words. Jeonghan— a slave to his own hunger for closeness — found himself exploiting that.
This is a dynamic that remains true. Jihoon’s relationships with the other members have slowly morphed into something simple, more permanent and safe — but his and Jeonghan’s never strays from the maze. They’re strangers sometimes, in that exciting, skin-prickling way where you look into someone’s face and find a soul worth keeping. Other times they’re family, two brothers that only have each other and not much else. (These are the days, weeks, that Jihoon tells Jeonghan what he needs with his disposition and not his voice. These are the days, weeks, that Jeonghan listens and touches.)
More rare, they’re something else entirely. Jeonghan can’t translate this into words. That isn’t what Jihoon wants, anyway, so he’s never bothered to. But, still, it could be because Jeonghan thinks in images and not in a constant, internal dialogue. Minghao told him once that often times those that speak multiple languages lose the ability to monologue inside their heads. Minghao can’t. When Jeonghan asked Hansol how he thought, Hansol couldn’t give him a straight answer. I really don’t know — I never thought about it before.
Not like this says much about Jeonghan since he only knows how to speak his native tongue. But he couldn’t stop ruminating over what Minghao said in passing, and it soon came to him that this could play a part into how easily he and Jihoon fold into one another. He thinks of Jihoon, and what comes to mind is a muddied picture of sharp fangs, a rounded face with half-moon eyes and fingers that narrow into pink. His worry doesn’t talk; instead, Jeonghan’s canvas darkens. Neon blue lights, computer fluorescence. The haunting pallor of Jihoon’s face, lips chapped and pupils poisoned with death.
Ten days should be enough time for space. On Tuesday, Jeonghan alters his schedule and goes to the music studio.
Jeonghan knows the code, but he knocks and lets Jihoon decide whether to let him in or not. He has to wait fifteen seconds before Jihoon materializes on the other side, the bill of his snapback low on his face, oversized clothes drowning him.
“I want to go on a walk,” Jeonghan says. “But I don’t want t’go without a chaperone.”
Jihoon remains in the doorway, hand on the handle to keep it closed as much as possible. He doesn’t look up.
They go on a walk.
The sun has yet to breach the skyline, so they’re still left with humidity. The scent of pine smells stronger in the summer. Jeonghan leads Jihoon to the 7-eleven, buys two iced coffees while Jihoon meanders thoughtlessly in the snack aisle, then leads him back out. They start towards a road canopied with trees, cars gliding by on the road to their right.
Jeonghan hands Jihoon his drink (light ice, splash of milk).
“Hangang Park,” Jeonghan says. He uses his free hand to tuck a stray lock of bleach blonde hair behind his ear. “The cherry blossoms aren’t as pretty anymore, but we never got the chance to see them bloom this spring.”
Jihoon makes a noncommittal hum around his straw. They ease to the left when a family passes them from the right.
“I wish we could’ve,” he continues. “Last year we missed it, too. Soonyoung and Mingyu said they’d go with me.”
Another noncommittal hum. The park is still a few kilometers away, but Jeonghan can see the glimmer of the Han river in the distance. The river bank looks crowded.
Jeonghan sighs. His next inhale catches a pine-heavy breeze. “I was more pissed about missing the bloom last year than I let on.” He side glances at Jihoon, whose face is obstructed by his navy blue hat. “Remember? I didn’t say a word until we got to the studio.”
Jihoon nods.
“In hindsight,” Jeonghan says. “I was being a dumb ass. Just because I couldn’t see the flowers bloom didn’t mean I could never see them. Our job is busy, but. But whose isn’t, right? We’re all busy.”
Jihoon takes another sip of his coffee, swallows before he says, “Is this supposed to be a pep talk? Some stupid metaphor about missed chances, or something?”
Jeonghan laughs, two short noises. He knocks his shoulder into Jihoon’s and jostles him towards the curb. “No. I’m just talking.” Another snort. “You should know me better than that.”
“Had to make sure.”
Hangang changes Jihoon. There are mothers sprawled out on blankets, their children chasing one another across the field. School-aged kids have set up tents too small to fit more than two people, but they maneuver themselves until three or four teenagers are crammed inside. And although it’s subtle enough to be missed, the cherry blossoms carry a very delicate aroma. It’s their presence, more so than their smell, that’s calming. Jeonghan finds them a spot on the grass isolated from the crowd; they risk getting caught to tuck their masks under their chins and drink their iced coffees.
“I still think about… how we almost disbanded,” Jihoon starts. Jeonghan watches him watch the glitter of water stretched ahead. “This. It feels like it again.”
Jeonghan carefully settles his coffee onto the side not occupied by Jihoon and leans back on his palms. His legs bend in at the knees. “What does? Hiatus?”
“Yeah,” Jihoon says. “And — the sales.” He picks at the grass with antsy fingers. “We made the same as then. And now we’re on hiatus.”
“Jihoonie.” Jeonghan shifts his weight onto his left hand to lay his right one on Jihoon’s thigh. He applies a hint of pressure; this stirs Jihoon to make eye contact. “Hiatus was decided before the comeback. This is completely unrelated.”
Jihoon’s face is shadowed by the bill of his snapback, but it’s not difficult to see the white of his skin, thin lips pale and chapped. They don’t live on the same floor, so Jeonghan can’t know for certain, but it doesn’t seem like he’s left the studio for more than a quick shower. There haven’t been any food deliveries, either. Jihoon’s muscle mass saves him from appearing gaunt; his pallor tells a different story. Burden is an illness that’s carved him hollow.
“It was,” Jihoon’s inflection wavers. Jeonghan watches his mouth try to form words. “That could change. You know that could change. How am I gonna— I can’t risk —it could happen again. Jeonghan, it could happen, and we could— “
Jeonghan sits quietly as Jihoon’s resolve eviscerates. Jihoon tilts his head down into his knees and doesn’t say anything else.
Jeonghan doesn’t have an internal dialogue. He thinks and dreams in pictures, in his sense of smell and touch. Inside of his head, there isn’t his own voice speaking to him; but there’s Jihoon, palpable in abstract shapes and colors and smells. And there’s Jeonghan, there as well as here, sprawled across the Han riverbank, leaning into Jihoon’s side and swallowing him whole in this reality, being swallowed whole in another. Worry paints Hangang grey.
The eighth floor is empty. Jeonghan tugs Jihoon onto the common space couch with him and stabs at the remote buttons until he has some animated Spiderman movie playing. Then he’s curling an arm around Jihoon’s waist and tugging him close close close, and Jihoon tucks his head into Jeonghan’s shoulder, his palm pressed to Jeonghan’s chest. He keeps curling, and Jeonghan keeps squeezing, and soon enough they’re tangled up in one another, Jihoon’s legs tossed over Jeonghan’s lap, Jeonghan’s free hand holding him on a knee.
He’s in basketball shorts. Jeonghan runs his thumb along the bare, thin skin of Jihoon’s kneecap. The movie volume is too loud, loud enough to carry through the entire dormitory floor — but Jeonghan prefers it this way. Jihoon prefers it this way. It’s a distraction not meant to be watched, only there to fill in the noise, to poorly mask Jihoon’s whimpers as Jeonghan mouths at his jaw and to drown out Jeonghan’s voice as he speaks the things he wouldn’t say otherwise.
Sometimes strangers, sometimes brothers — sometimes something else entirely. Jeonghan can’t explain it, but he doesn’t give a fuck about what this means, why they fall into this routine like they’ve never been anything more than lovers before, or after. Jeonghan tongues the shell of Jihoon’s ear, nibbles at his earlobe and kisses the sensitive skin in gentle, languid presses. Beneath his arms he can feel Jihoon do a whole body shiver, his gasps impossible to be hidden by the noise with Jeonghan this close to his mouth.
His mouth. Jeonghan cups the hand that was on Jihoon’s knee under his chin and lifts his head, kisses that pink mouth. Jihoon is liquid in his arms; sweet little gasps escape him, only to turn into another, high whimper when Jeonghan licks past the seam of Jihoon’s lips. Jihoon’s fisting Seungcheol’s shirt at the shoulders, still shivering, mouth falling open for Jeonghan to lick over his tongue, steal his soft sounds and keep it for himself.
All for himself. The irony isn’t lost on Jeonghan; he despises that Jihoon loses himself in his members, in the band. Sometimes he wants to shake it out of him, drag him up from his studio office chair and tell him to stop fucking doing this, stop carrying everyone’s burdens as his own, stringing them together until Jihoon is more machine than man. A robot whose only purpose is to please his ‘brothers’. Because if this is all Jihoon has, all he is, who will he be when Seventeen is gone? How do you become your own person when your formative years were spent living for twelve others, for thousands?
Jeonghan says this — genuinely believes this — and yet here he is, unwilling to fight his primal desires to mark, to claim, to suck petals where Jihoon can’t hide it so everyone knows, knows Jihoon lets me do this to him. Jihoon only lets me see him vulnerable. He always acts so strong, but this is him: pliant, desperate for Jeonghan to make it better. Fuck. Jeonghan is a man, too, isn’t he?
Jihoon moans like he sings. Thin, high, more breath than voice. Jeonghan detaches himself from Jihoon’s mouth, grabs a fistful of hair at Jihoon’s nape to force his head backwards and bare the pale line of his throat. And there’s that moan, Jihoon’s eyes fluttering closed, eyebrows inching together and his jaw slack. Jeonghan reattaches to Jihoon’s neck, on the side closest to him, using enough teeth to tease but not to bruise; this time, it’s a sob that escapes Jihoon, a leg jumping up as if by reflex. His fists tighten and pull at Jeonghan’s sleeves.
“Do—on’t leave any, nn—“ Jihoon tries. Jeonghan shushes him.
He presses a trail of wet kisses down down down to the curve of his shoulder, then back up, smile touching his lips as Jihoon continues to shake and writhe on his lap, unable to keep still as if quiet touches were enough to carry him to climax. And maybe they can, since Jihoon hasn’t slept with another person for months now, the last time being Jeonghan. A visceral, more sadistic side of him wants to try, make Jihoon come without ever touching his dick, but he knows that isn’t what Jihoon needs right now. He needs to be pushed to his limit, to crumble and build back up, and Jeonghan wants to do that for him. Wants to—
“Shh,” Jeonghan hums against Jihoon’s throat. He mouths at him, teeth to tongue and back to lips; Jihoon’s skin flushes red so prettily in heat and arousal.
Jihoon doesn’t speak again. And Jeonghan isn’t stupid enough to believe that this can somehow fix everything, fix him. Them. Their quiet moments—when Jihoon unlocks the cage around his heart and lets Jeonghan kiss and fuck the tension from his muscles—aren’t ever going to lift burden. Jeonghan can’t magically make their sales double, triple. He can’t throttle the grief from Jihoon’s mind, have it seep out from his ears with enough effort. It’s an illness that not medication nor the warmth from another body can cure; Jeonghan isn’t a fucking dumb ass.
He’s a man, and he’s Jihoon’s only reprieve. He can be moody, and jaded, and he can be an asshole that ignores instead of faces disputes head-on. There’s a lot wrong with him, he knows. The worst part, maybe, is that Jeonghan wants Jihoon to stop tying himself to the tide of everyone else; yet Jeonghan vibrates with a sick thrill when Jihoon comes to him, shameless and needy to be touched and not spoken to. A game that Jeonghan should’ve never been trying to win— but they all have their own coping mechanisms. And this is his. This is his, and that’s alright, because this is Jihoon’s, too. As long as they’re Seventeen. As long as Jihoon wants him.