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She recognized it at once: love, one-way deep adoration that bounced off and did not bounce back; careful, quiet love that didn’t care and went on anyway.
— Celeste Ng, Everything I Never Told You
In the strange lull after a comeback ends and preparations for the next one begin, Heeseung finds that he doesn’t need to self-regulate as much. It’s a loosening of some sorts, like a string pulled taut in reverse. Reverse, rewind—indeed, Heeseung feels as if he’s regressing or returning to something more familiar. Something that he can’t deny himself.
So he sits at the kitchen counter and watches as Jongseong prepares instant ramen for the two of them. When Jake makes ramen it’s with the two of them together, elbows bumping up against each other and suppressed giggles forging some sort of awkward camaraderie. But with Jongseong, Heeseung is fine with letting him take charge, fuss over the pot unnecessarily, making grumbling noises about how Heeseung’s been spending too much time with Jaeyun all the while.
The familiarity sets Heeseung at ease, propels him to lean forward, chin propped up in his hand. “Are you jealous of Jaeyun?” Heeseung asks, all coy and teasing.
But even if Heeseung has reverted back to what he’s used to, Jongseong has continued on, fiercely and relentlessly forward. Jongseong has never shied away from the truth, but before, such a remark would lead to at least a little embarrassment, some small shred of shame that he can laugh off with a smile.
Now, Jongseong just stares at him and shrugs. “I want to spend time with you too, hyung,” he says, as if it’s that simple.
It was a good night for this, Heeseung thinks. Spending time together, in exactly the way Jongseong likes it—not playing computer games with the others, tag teaming with Sunghoon and Jake, but instead the two of them alone. Riki is asleep in Jungwon’s bed, everyone accounted for and put to rest.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it,” Heeseung remarks as Jongseong separates the ramen into two bowls. Jongseong pushes one bowl over to him, but he doesn’t start eating yet.
“It really has,” Jongseong agrees. He comes around the counter, sits down at the stool next to Heeseung. Their knees knock as he speaks, thighs pressing together, a casual touch. “It reminds me… Do you remember our Friday nights, hyung?”
Heeseung doesn’t even have to pause to think about it. “Yes,” he replies. How many times had he recalled those summer nights by the river, wondering after something that could never come to fruition. Now Heeseung barely knows what day it is; he briefly checks the screen of his phone and it’s Tuesday. He works weekends now.
“I miss it,” Heeseung admits. He’s been staring at his bowl of ramen all the while, neither of them making the first move to take a bite. Jongseong turns to face him, then—Heeseung can feel it, can feel the weight of Jongseong’s curious gaze against his skin.
Heeseung doesn’t think about it before he turns to face Jongseong. Maybe if he did think about it, he would have realized just how close they are. Centimeters away from each other, Jongseong’s stare settling on his eyes, then later, his lips.
“Is this what you want?” Jongseong asks, a whisper.
Heeseung realizes, then, that Jongseong had thought about it—that this move had been calculated in a way, with an awkwardness that Heeseung can only read retrospectively, filling in the blanks like shading in the blanks of a coloring book. Everything already laid out before him.
He hesitates. It’s such a quiet, simple question, but perhaps that’s what makes it hardest to answer.
"I know you like him, hyung," Jungwon says. He tilts his head, looks at Heeseung carefully—eyes always too sharp for his own good. "You're surprisingly easy to read, sometimes."
Heeseung rubs at his eyes. It's far too late at night for this. Or, rather, having to talk about this with Jungwon is making him realize the effects of being awake at four a.m. in a way that normally wouldn't hit quite as hard. Even Riki's asleep, for goodness sake, but instead Heeseung is—
Here. Sitting on the wide Mnet-provided couch with Jungwon, having a heart to heart in a living room that Heeseung spends more time in on camera than he does off of it. It's strange, these attempts at intimacy—at truth—away from a mechanical lens, an unseeing eye, but normally Heeseung doesn't mind. He'd prefer it, even.
"So what?" Heeseung replies, finally. A little defeatist, because he can't prevent it at this point. A little helpless, as he stares right back at Jungwon, at the eighteen-year-old he relies on for emotional support. "So what, if I do?"
Admitting it feels freeing, in a way. Another burden he'd been carrying with him for so long, another thing with which Jungwon can help him spread the weight. But it's embarrassing, in others. And most of all, it's dangerous, unthinkable even. Impossible.
But Heeseung knows, more than anyone else, that he can't change how he feels. That the heart—his heart—is not some fickle thing, quick and flimsy. Instead he gets stuck on things, fixated and obsessive, interested in only the things he likes. And what the hell is he supposed to do when one of his interests isn't music, isn't dancing, but is something he shouldn't have?
Here's the thing: Heeseung had always wanted to be a musician, a singer. He'd sing in front of his family, excited by creating music. He tells his story of discovering his perfect pitch as a variety joke.
But being a boy who likes to sing is one thing. Becoming an idol is something else entirely.
Before Heeseung had been transformed into BigHit's "number one trainee" on the set of I-Land, before he'd met most of the trainees, before he'd gotten his nose done and his teeth fixed, he'd been terrible at a lot of the idol things. He'd only had two things going for him: his affinity for English and his decent vocals. He couldn't dance to save his life. Heeseung joins at the end of winter and he is worn down immediately—by the knowledge that he'd just missed an opportunity to debut, by the cold weather, by all the ways in which he is lacking. He'd had some small notion of talent, of what a trainee was supposed to be capable of, but seeing Yeonjun and Taehyun—his dongsaeng, at that—perform changed all his opinions.
Those first months are slow, difficult. Heeseung stays late at the building, as late as is possible, to make sure he can master basic dance choreography—and that's how he meets Taehyun.
Taehyun is kind and straightforward, blunt yet patient as he practices with Heeseung.
"I'm no good," Heeseung says, once they've gone through what feels like the tenth try of this one song. He's part of one of the more basic dance classes, and yet—the struggle. He stares at the mirror, at the disheveled self that stares back—scrawny and rough, nothing like the polished perfection that lines the billboards outside the building—and sighs.
"You just need to practice more," Taehyun replies. He pats Heeseung's shoulder, a no-nonsense sort of reassurance, and then restarts the music.
And Taehyun's right—Heeseung does just need to practice more. Later, when Heeseung's the one helping others, when younger trainees whisper about his dance skills behind his back, he'll remember this. Nearly everything can come to Heeseung if he practices hard enough.
Almost everything, but not quite. He'll remember that, for more reasons than one.
It's been a long few years. Heeseung's used to the daily grind of it by now, the monthly evaluation cycle that seems near-endless, his name unwavering at the top of the rankings. He's accustomed himself to the harsh rhythms that trainee life demands of him, forces his body along to the beat even when it gets difficult. He'd been able to weather the Belift transfer decently, in the scheme of things—just grateful he had Jongseong's ka-talk ID so that they could still keep in contact despite not being allowed to talk to each other. Just grateful they could grab lunch at adjacent tables in spite of all the rules that split them apart.
But, all that aside, nothing could truly prepare Heeseung for the new pressures of I-Land. He'd known what he's getting into when he signed the contract, but still—there's a difference between knowing he'll film a survival show and actually having to go through it.
Heeseung doesn't quite have the vocabulary to describe the sort of discomfort that comes from being filmed, being watched. It's like a brand on his skin, an itch he can't reach, some deep-seated frustration that bubbles beneath the surface of his skin. Dancing, singing—he's used to recording himself in those cases, knows that monitoring is an important part of improving as a musician and a performer.
But being recorded in his daily life? Having a microphone pack strapped around his waist, needing to maintain an immaculate facade because he knows that it'll be saved to get broadcasted later? That's a different kind of invasion, one that he doesn't know how to deal with quite yet.
It's one thing to have to improve his singing or dancing. It's another issue entirely to have a bad personality.
He wonders if Jongseong has the same fears as him. I-Land's Jay is—a character, to say the least. Jay is stressed yet caring, a little petty yet funny in spite of all that. Heeseung looks at him and knows that there's a weakness there, a weakness that he doesn't know how to deal with. Something soft and raw and aching, something that Heeseung would never reveal to a camera—feelings that are his and his alone to cherish.
And this is a time where he can't have weaknesses, anyhow. So he hardens himself to the rest of the world, brittle and close to breaking, and tries his best to live up to that heavy title the producers have handed to him. The top trainee, even though Heeseung had spent nearly two years seeing true talent at the hands of Choi Yeonjun. The responsible elder hyung, because K would rather stir up dissent and the younger ones fear him.
Heeseung looks at Jongseong, and he can see it in Jongseong's eyes—his hurt at not being picked, at Sunghoon getting chosen over him. He looks away, afraid that it could be caught on camera—that some editor could latch on to something that's meant for him and Jongseong only, their betrayal and communication.
"I'll show you," Jay vows, and Heeseung laughs at that—when he wins at rock, paper, scissors, he smiles once again. Jay's anger is easier to face than his disappointment, than his sadness.
Anger means that Jongseong is determined to do well, to succeed. Anger is where Jongseong burns the brightest and fiercest, a phoenix rising from the ashes. So Heeseung turns his cheek and bides his time and focuses on himself, wondering just how far Jongseong can follow.
Hoping that Jongseong will end up by his side once again.
Jongseong arrives in spring. It's not a remarkable thing, their first meeting. In the span of the years they know each other, it's barely anything. Jongseong, so excited about making it into the same company as Bangtan Sonyeondan, talks a mile a minute, wants to know all that Heeseung can teach him.
"Can you show me again, hyung?" Jongseong asks, a determined furrow to his eyebrows.
Heeseung is reminded impossibly of Taehyun. They've moved to the new building by now. Taehyun practices in a separate room now, away from the other trainees, preparing for a long-awaited debut. Taehyun doesn't have time for him anymore.
"Of course," Heeseung replies. He moves Jongseong's wrists, corrects his posture slightly. "It's more like this, by the way."
And when Jongseong smiles at him, so open-hearted and unguarded and willing, Heeseung's heart soars unbidden.
It's—this is—okay. Heeseung can make new friends.
If Heeseung could describe Jongseong in one word, it would be disarming. Every other trainee had been guarded, held back, in some way or another—it's reasonable, rational, even, to be wary of others. For as much as elders were supposed to look after the youngers, and more experienced trainees could offer their expertise to the new recruits, at the end of the day they knew where their fates lay—in the trainee rankings, in charming through the lens of some instructor's grainy video camera.
But Jongseong cuts through all that. Shared smiles, jokes and laughter, a willingness to be the brunt of a joke just to set someone else at ease—Jongseong has all these in spades.
"Life's too short for all that bullshit," he tells Heeseung one time, during a practice room break. "It's easier to be honest, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess," Heeseung says, after a pause. He doesn't speak without thinking, the way Jongseong does—he likes parsing through things one by one, formulating his words in the best way possible. Speaking prettily, Jongseong will tell him later. Hyung always speaks so prettily.
Jongseong raises an eyebrow. "You don't seem so sure about that, hyung," he says. Sweat shines on his forehead, little droplets on his upper lip. Heeseung can feel that same wetness against his backside, soaking through his t-shirt into his skin.
"Promise," Jongseong continues. "You'll be honest with me, right?" He leans over, rests his head on Heeseung's shoulder.
"Yah, you're sweaty!" Heeseung complains, mind running a mile a minute. He half-heartedly shoves Jongseong off, but he only clings on further.
"Hyung," Jongseong says, persistent as he latches onto Heeseung's arm. "We're best friends. If not me, then who else?"
No one, Heeseung remembers thinking. Absolutely no one at all.
"I will," Heeseung says. He rests his hand on top of Jongseong's, the touch startlingly gentle—a tenderness that Heeseung had forgotten he'd possessed.
He knows, even then, that he is lying.
"Do you remember," Taehyun says, a premonition. He shifts closer to Heeseung, their knees knocking together. "Back at BigHit's old building. You'd stay after and we'd practice together."
Heeseung nods. "Of course," he replies. "You helped me a lot. I always wondered why you did it, honestly."
Taehyun laughs at that, startled and eager. "You never realized?" He turns to Heeseung with a wide smile, sharp teeth glinting in the light. "I liked you, hyung."
Heeseung inhales sharply. "Oh. That would explain things."
"I don't remember you being so shy," Taehyun teases, reaching up to tap his fingers against Heeseung's cheek briefly.
Heeseung ignores Taehyun's fluttering touch, ignores the way his heart rate spikes in reaction to such a simple, casual thing. He's frayed raw, on edge, talking about liking and the way things used to feel back then. It was the end of the world, when he was seventeen. He didn't realize how much of his feelings hung on the sharp edge of Taehyun's smile until he'd lost all of them in the training process.
"I'm not shy, I'm scared," Heeseung corrects. "There's a difference, isn't there?"
"What are you afraid of?" Taehyun asks.
He never thought becoming an idol would mean this. Would mean balancing his inner self with his outer facade to this extent. Would mean worrying over Jay's possible elimination yet trying not to worry at the same time because he doesn't, he shouldn't have the energy to care for someone else to this extent. Because he needs to take care of himself first, and Jongseong is too much. Jongseong willingly lets himself bleed through, writes shit like you're my life's turning point—seriously, what the fuck is his problem, is what Heeseung wondering, heart pounding as he reads through Jongseong's shit handwriting.
It's hard to take. Hard to consider a future where they debut separately.
Later, he hears how Jay had threatened to break the egg if Jungwon got eliminated. The other trainees tease Jay for it, for how much he obviously cares for Jungwon.
But looking at Jongseong—at Jay—Heeseung thinks he's beginning to understand where Jay is coming from.
Jay tries to confide to him, one time. At first Heeseung is relieved—he misses this, misses being with his old friend and just talking—but the mic pack is an omnipresent reminder of all that he can't say. All that he doesn't want to say.
So when Jay says, "it's like ranking last in the trainee evaluations," Heeseung shuts it down as fast as he can.
He plays the dumbfounded ace trainee, pretends that he can't relate to Jay's struggle even when he's spent the majority of his training sharing Jongseong's blood, sweat, and tears. He looks at Jay, trying so earnestly to reach out despite all of the barricades between them—physical and mental, social and psychosocial—and shakes his head minutely. Not now, he thinks, wondering if Jongseong can read him with just eye contact alone. Can understand him. He'd been able to when Heeseung had chosen Sunghoon over him, accepting the defeat with some sort of comic relief, but this is a little more subtle.
What's better with Jongseong: a lot of things, Heeseung's finding. The cycle of monthly evaluations isn't just a cause for dread, anymore, but also a source of excitement. Jongseong drags him to the nearest shopping center at the end of each month, and they shop for clothes and accessories together.
Jongseong is kind of a fashion nerd, Heeseung realizes. He has opinions on whatever Heeseung chooses, and soon enough Heeseung finds himself selecting crazier and crazier items just to elicit an incredulous laugh or amused scoff from Jongseong.
Heeseung doesn't know anything about clothes, really, but Jongseong tells him it doesn't matter.
"Just choose whatever you like, hyung," he says. He looks so earnest, even as he compares the two nearly-identical looking snapbacks in his hands. "Seriously. Fashion is all about expressing yourself, you know?"
Heeseung nods. Jongseong is comfortable in a lot of different fields, a lot of different areas—he's got a knack for Japanese and English, he likes music and art and fashion, he's an all-rounder where Heeseung fixates on just one thing at a time. A jack-of-all-trades.
He tells Jongseong this as they check out of one store, and Jongseong laughs at him a little for that. "Wouldn't that mean I'm the master of none?" he asks. "Like, it's nice, but I'd rather be like you—good at the important things."
Jongseong's good at the important things to Heeseung, too. It's just that their definition of important is different.
Like:
To Heeseung, it feels important that Jongseong can help him choose between three different pairs of jeans, voice appreciative as Jongseong tells him which pair works for him best and why.
To Heeseung, it seems important that Jongseong can drag him to a Chinese restaurant and know immediately the best dishes to order on the menu, choosing the perfect combination for Heeseung's tastes without even putting in any effort.
To Heeseung, Jongseong is important, point blank. And that's starting to become a little scary.
"Oh my god." Jongseong's eyes widen as the new trainees for the week introduce themselves, and he nudges Heeseung frantically in his excitement.
"What is it?" Heeseung asks, perplexed. Both of the trainees look young—much younger than him—and Heeseung tries to keep his trainee mindset—do they look like competition?—but it's just so difficult. They both seem like babies, honestly.
"The one on the left," Jongseong whispers loudly. Sunghoon turns to face them, interested, the volume of Jongseong's voice not helping hide things. "The one with curly hair. I know him."
"You do?" Heeseung replies. "From where?" He keeps his eyes trained on the kid Jongseong's pointing out, short and curly-haired and graced with adorable dimples.
"Jungwon and I were trainees together," Jongseong says. "From before." From before Jongseong joined BigHit, he means, those tenuous days spent at SM Entertainment that Jongseong—for all his loudmouthed openness—had never elaborated on.
“Are you guys close?”
Jongseong shakes his head. There’s an eager glint in his eye, though, something that tells Heeseung that Jongseong’s hatching some sort of plan in his mind.
He doesn’t say anything until after their vocal lessons, where Jungwon shows off his voice—high, clear, and well-trained—to the rest of the trainees. Clearly a product of another agency’s training.
But sure enough, during their next break Jongseong turns to him and announces, in between sips of water, “We have to be friends with him.”
“We have to?” Heeseung asks.
But that’s the thing about Jongseong: when he sees someone he likes, he just approaches them like that. Straightforward and forthright about what he likes and what interests him in a way that Heeseung can only begin to imagine.
“Come along with me,” Jongseong insists, tugging on his arm.
“Why do I have to come along too?” Heeseung replies. He doesn’t shake his arm from Jongseong’s grip, although Jongseong’s hold on him is loose enough that he could if he so wanted to.
It’s the end of day, and they’ve finished practice for the day. Jungwon’s on the other side of the practice room, packing up his backpack, silent and apart from the other trainees. Jongseong’s “master plan” for befriending him had turned out to be pretty simple, actually—just asking Jungwon to join them at the fried chicken place they like so much. No one can say no to food, right? Jongseong had asked Heeseung. And Jongseong isn’t wrong, but Heeseung doesn’t get how he factors into all of this regardless.
“For fun?” Jongseong asks, pleading almost. “All the trainees look up to you, he’s more likely to say yes if he can eat with”—Jongseong’s voice goes a little high-pitched, a little mocking—“Heeseung-hyung.”
Heeseung sighs at that. He’s started noticing it more and more, nowadays—whispers that follow him like a second shadow, unfounded admiration that he doesn’t quite know how to deal with. He knows that Jongseong is like that too, to an extent, but that’s different—something that goes both ways, unbalanced as it may be.
“Okay, fine,” Heeseung finally decides. And just in time, too, for Jungwon has started making his way across the practice room to exit.
Jongseong intercepts him before he can leave, Heeseung right behind him. Jungwon’s eyes widen in surprise at first, and it makes Heeseung realize what it must look like—two senior trainees, stopping a younger and lesser-experienced trainee from leaving the building.
Heeseung tries to smile at Jungwon.
“Hey, Jungwon-ah,” Jongseong begins. “We were wondering if you’d want to grab some fried chicken with us? My treat, of course.”
Jungwon’s eyes dart between Jongseong’s earnest expression and Heeseung’s face, eyebrows furrowing as if to express, who the hell is this boy?
“I’m sorry,” Jungwon begins, and Heeseung can already see the rejection on the tip of his tongue.
So it’s just Heeseung and Jongseong eating fried chicken together, for now. Heeseung looks at the boy across from him and tries not to seem too relieved about it. They’re comfortable, like this. And Jongseong doesn’t seem too disappointed.
“At least I tried,” Jongseong says with a shrug. He takes a savage bite of the chicken drumstick in his hand.
Heeseung nibbles at his own piece of fried chicken. “You can’t make everyone like you,” he says simply. It’s the truth, something he knows all too well. Though, he has to admit, Jongseong can probably come closer than most.
“Well…” Jongseong smiles at him, a little cheeky, then. “At least you like me, right?”
“Yah,” Heeseung protests, taken off guard for a second. Again, disarming. Who says stuff like that? He avoids Jongseong’s eyes, looks down at the plate of chicken bones in between the two of them, and forces a laugh. “Don’t say things like that, it makes me cringe.”
More than that, it brings him closer to something he doesn’t want to acknowledge yet—moth to flame, ready to burn to ashes if he moves even a centimeter more forward.
After monthly evaluations they have a routine, now. Jungwon will part ways with them, most times—back to his home, back to his grandmother—and Jongseong and Heeseung and the others will head to the Han River. At night, everything is especially beautiful, it feels like—so many things unseen surrounding them, so many secrets hidden in the shadows of every step.
Heeseung drags his feet, a little deliberate and slow, and Jongseong follows his pace. They’re far enough from the other boys that their voices fade off into the distance, swaths of sound instead of distinguishable words.
It’s spring again. How many springs have passed since they’ve known each other? How many springs will they share together? The cherry blossoms are coming into bloom, although at night their soft pretty colors at nothing but shades of grey, barely illuminated by the street lights. If Heeseung was a romantic, he’d say that everything feels a little dreamlike, a little otherworldly.
He isn’t a romantic, though.
They settle at the base of a tree, Heeseung with his back against the rough bark. There’s a tree root digging into his leg but he doesn’t mind, not really. Not when Jongseong sits flush against his side, head dangerously close to resting on Heeseung’s shoulder.
Heeseung knows his own body. Knows that his shoulders are bony and narrow, not meant for supporting Jongseong. But he wants, regardless.
The others are playing frisbee in the distance. Sunghoon, for all of his supposed figure skating prowess, isn’t so good at catching flying objects—Heeseung stifles a laugh. It’s a comfortable silence, nothing actually quiet given the sounds of nature, of people all around them.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Jongseong says, voice a little quiet.
“All of a sudden?” Heeseung asks, hesitant. “Why?”
“Why is it so hard to answer?” Jongseong replies, lifting his head from Heeseung’s shoulder, turning to face him directly instead. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all, hyung, and it’s been two years.”
“Jongseong-ah, you’re my closest friend,” Heeseung tells him. And he’s saying the truth, in that moment—a truth that he doesn’t know will change soon enough. “Isn’t that enough?”
Jongseong’s eyes reflect the streetlights, and Heeseung can’t bring himself to look away, to blink from that eye contact, to avoid the inevitable.
“Is it selfish to want more, hyung?” Jongseong muses, leaning in a little closer. “To get to know you better?” He’s physically affectionate on even his bad days, but these days Jongseong tends to direct that attention more towards Jungwon than to him. Jongseong’s so close that Heeseung can sense his body heat, his physical presence like a magnet, like a brand, something inescapable.
Maybe Jongseong has noticed. The intangible thing between them, as wispy as dandelion seeds flying through the air, insubstantial yet planting weeds of thoughts in Heeseung’s mind.
Heeseung feels as if he’s treading through two different conversations right now—one above water, one below, the same body of his weathering two separate lived experiences. He doesn’t know what to say, so he turns his cheek instead. Gazes out to the river, wonders if it’s too late to join the others in tossing around the frisbee. “Maybe it is.”
“But, Jongseong,” Heeseung continues. He tries to think of something, anything, that could suffice to change the subject—a little meaningless fact that would be easy to give to Jongseong. “Um, I… When I was a kid, my parents would call me princess.”
Jongseong’s brow wrinkles at that. “Princess?” A couple blinks later, and Jongseong’s looking at him with that fond smile, the sort of gaze that Heeseung sees the most directed at Jungwon. “Wow, hyung is so cute.” It occurs to Heeseung that perhaps that’s how Jongseong looks at him when Heeseung doesn’t notice.
“Yah, shut up,” Heeseung replies. The heaviness that had been between them from before dissipates, just a little.
And their conversation stays a secret to this sweet spring night. It’s only a couple of weeks before things change irreversibly, anyhow.
Heeseung’s a natural introvert, he prefers keeping to himself in some ways, but Jongseong brings out a different side in him—the silly side that Heeseung usually keeps to himself as he trains.
Heeseung finds himself wanting to appeal to Jongseong, in some strange sort of way. Jongseong’s a dork, that’s for sure, but he’s got these strangely accurate standards for things and a moral code that belies how much care he puts into people.
Either way, there’s this small lick of satisfaction that Heeseung feels after he tells Jongseong the whole story of how he discovered he had perfect pitch. Down to the way his father had farted, down to the note that Heeseung had been able to name on the spot, Jongseong can’t stop smiling.
“You’re so funny, hyung,” Jongseong tells him. “Finding out from a fart? You’re insane.”
And that’s just the start of things. Jongseong likes hip-hop, Heeseung likes all sorts of music; they exchange playlists. When the other trainees find out about how much Jongseong likes rap music, they nickname him jjongsaeng. Jongseong wants to talk to him further, so they exchange ka-talk IDs. Jongseong likes fashion, Heeseung’s just learning; they go shopping.
Sangwon arrives the last to BigHit, and he’s the one who completes the three of them, makes things easier again. Whatever bubbling tension Heeseung had felt is eased by Sangwon and his gentle smiles, his innocent focus on food and his enthusiasm for training.
Jongseong is different with Sangwon, too, more doting, more eager to look after him. It’s a side of him that Heeseung has never seen before, and it makes him wonder if that’s how Jongseong wants to be treated—if he wants to be taken care of, a little, too.
Heeseung becomes used to hanging out with all three of them together. He still wouldn’t say that he knows Sangwon well, but they have a mutual understanding, a friendship forged more from what they share with Jongseong than what they could mean to each other.
It’s good to have Sangwon there, Heeseung reminds himself. Sangwon is a buffer between him and Jongseong, a bridge too—something that both connects and prevents. And that’s what they need right now.
All of these feelings are fleeting in the face of training, the real work that he has to focus on. The only respite is his conversations with Jongseong and Sangwon during breaks, those sweat-stained talks of a better life, a better world.
“What if we went away somewhere,” Sangwon wonders aloud. “Traveled. I don’t know.”
“I don’t know,” Heeseung says. “That sounds fun.” It sounds fun in the same way that impossible things always sound fun, a sliver of loveliness that he could never possibly experience himself. He looks over at Jongseong, then. Jongseong’s been to the most places out of all of them; it goes without saying that he’d have most of the leverage behind it. "Maybe once we debut."
Heeseung doesn't know if he's even surprised when he hears what Jongseong says in reply. "Why wait till then?" Jongseong asks, eyes shining.
So Jongseong brings both of them to Brunei for a weekend. The way he proposes it all casual, like, I just thought it would be fun to travel with you guys belies how much it means to him.
And—pushing everything aside, ignoring the obvious—it’s fun. Heeseung sees a side of Sangwon he’d never witnessed before, more playful and teasing than his usual maturity betrays.
Sangwon’s more truthful to him, too, when Jongseong isn’t around—when Jongseong is out across the beach buying snacks or figuring out things for all three of them to do together.
“The way you look at Jongseong-hyung,” Sangwon begins. Heeseung, who’d been watching the ocean waves with a relaxed eye, turns to face Sangwon. His heart stutters in his chest, staccato and severe. Sangwon doesn’t continue that thought, thankfully.
Heeseung swallows. “Jongseong’s a lot, isn’t he,” he says, fighting to maintain some semblance of neutrality in his tone. The shame that rushes through his veins, the embarrassment, wondering if Sangwon knows.
“Yeah, he is.” Sangwon pauses. “But it’s not a bad thing, hyung.”
“It’s not,” Heeseung agrees. In fact, some days he’s grateful for it—for the ways Jongseong had reached out to him, rendering him a little less lonely.
“If you want to talk,” Sangwon begins. An open offer, a sentence that isn’t quite complete.
Heeseung shrugs. Maybe with time he’ll open up to Sangwon. Maybe, months from now, he’ll admit the truth. In the end, Heeseung never gets the chance.
Jongseong brings him aside as soon as they get to the dorms, clearly concerned. His eyebrows are set into a deep frown and he looks more stressed out than Heeseung has seen him since I-Land—a couple weeks since then and Heeseung had been relieved at that newfound relaxedness, only for it to make itself present once again.
“What is it, Jongseong-ah?” Heeseung asks. They stand in the hair and makeup room together, surrounded by mirrors and beauty products, all the things that should inspire a better self, some sort of narcissism.
Heeseung looks at Jongseong and only feels a minor sort of dread.
“You aren’t—you’re not considering being leader, right?” Jongseong asks.
Heeseung frowns at that. “You heard what they said,” he points out. Among the contenders for Enhypen’s leader, management had narrowed it down to him and Jungwon. Why wouldn’t he consider it? “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“You and I, we aren’t suited to being leaders,” Jongseong replies bluntly. He reaches out, rests a hand against Heeseung’s forearm. “Come on. You know this.”
Heeseung blinks away from Jongseong’s gaze, which right now seems to see right through him—down to the marrow, down to the bone, like a knife inserted neatly into his chest. “I’m the eldest, though,” he says to the wall behind Jongseong. “It makes sense for me—”
“Hyung,” Jongseong interrupts. “You already have to do so much for us—”
“It makes sense for me to take responsibility,” Heeseung continues. “Jungwon’s just a kid.” He thinks of Jungwon, seventeen years old and impossibly mature. Jungwon, who cries only in Heeseung’s arms and had to grow up much before his time. And him, Heeseung, already twenty—already an adult, for goodness sake—
“Look at me. What do you really want?”
Heeseung looks at him, then. Faces his earnest expression, and admits the truth:
“I don’t really know.”
They don’t get along at first, all seven of them. There are pieces that don’t fit, jagged edges and scars that still smart in the aftermath of I-Land. The apartment doesn’t have a sofa at first, and Heeseung still remembers the way the cold tile floor felt against his knees during their first nightly chat as a group. All cold, unyielding surfaces, wondering if they could ever soften. But they do soften, eventually, all of them—they can never unlearn the feeling of being watched, the feeling of performing constantly, but they adjust to it nonetheless. Heeseung spends late nights on the couch with Riki, so many all in a row that after a while it becomes a routine, just the two of them.
A gradual softening, slow enough, should leave Heeseung feeling steady. And it does, to an extent—but there’s also a small part of him that worries, what if?
A month after they make their debut, once the promotions have finally started winding down a bit, Sunoo corners him in the dorms. It’s hard to have a private conversation in a bedroom meant for seven teenagers, but Sunoo shuts the door behind him firmly and smiles that smile at Heeseung—a smile that he hadn’t known the meaning of, a charm he’d once been afraid of yet envious to master.
“Relax, hyung,” Sunoo tells him. “You don’t have to take care of us anymore.”
Heeseung swallows. He doesn’t know exactly what Sunoo is talking about, but he can guess well enough—looking out for Sunoo and Riki, making sure their vlives run smoothly, staying away from Jay in hopes that his obvious favoritism isn’t transmitted to everyone else watching.
“Really,” Heeseung says. Not a question, not quite a statement either. Just something lingering in between.
Sunoo shrugs. “I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “There’s no need to burden yourself. Jungwon’s the leader anyways.”
But that’s the problem, Heeseung wants to tell Sunoo. Being a leader, while difficult, is at the very least a more straightforward—a more obvious—role than his position as the eldest hyung. He’s the oldest, so he’s responsible for them, but to what extent? Where can Heeseung find himself among the shifting lines of his life?
He isn’t quite sure, yet.
Heeseung’s name is called first to debut, and it’s surreal. Everything passes by him in a blur, fast and furious with the lights blinking around him, and before he knows it he’s on a bus home with the rest of the chosen trainees—with the rest of Enhypen.
Even the knowledge that they’ll still be filmed in the apartment—fodder for their new reality tv show, one of the managers explains—can’t bring that much of a damper on his mood. The cameras, the lights—that’s when he realizes it, honestly. That this show, the show of being an idol, that the show will never stop.
Heeseung doesn’t know if he’s cut out for this. He isn’t used to whatever an idol entails, doesn’t know what to say to the millions who voted for him, the countless fans who have already supported him to where he is right now. It’s not enough to sing or dance—he has to entertain, too, to have that shred of charisma that attracts something more. But he’s not so sure about that.
He will always be that boy who loved to sing, that boy who loved music, a boy for whom being an idol is secondary to being an artist.
But he’ll have to figure out this whole idol thing, eventually. Just another thing he’ll make natural with time, given enough effort and practice.
Their first vlive together as a group had been awkward enough, but this unit live—just him, Riki, and Jongseong sitting in a conference room, one of their managers watching on the other side lest they say anything out of hand—might be worse. There’s a difference between filming for I-Land or Enhypen&Hi and going on vlive. The boring or awkward parts can’t be mended with cute variety captions or edited out entirely. Instead, their fans are watching it with them, experiencing every torturous second as it ticks by in tandem.
It’s painfully obvious how little they know each other, too. Heeseung the ace, the center—can they come up with anything new? Riki asks if Jongseong’s passion is rapping, and Heeseung barely stops himself from laughing at the ridiculousness of it all—of sitting with a boy he’s barely spoken to before this month and the person he’s shared half his heart with already.
After that, it’s like he can’t stop himself, though. Heeseung scribbles down jjongsaeng on Jay’s member profile and explains, feeling a little giddy with it, the meaning behind the nickname.
As soon as they turn off the camera, Riki stands up. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he announces, striding out of the room quickly.
Jongseong turns to him immediately. “Jjongsaeng?” he asks, laughing incredulously. “It’s been years since I’ve heard that. I can’t believe you remember.”
There’s something about Jongseong’s tone that rubs Heeseung the wrong way, sets him amiss. “Of course I remember,” Heeseung says, feeling defensive for no reason. “It’s not like I didn’t know you for four years, too.”
“Still,” Jongseong starts, and Heeseung has the sinking feeling that he won’t enjoy hearing what follows. Riki enters the room, the door nearly slamming behind him.
“Time for dinner,” Riki announces.
It’s a fine balancing act, is the thing. Heeseung knows that for two old friends, sometimes Jongseong and him don’t always seem like it. But that’s because there are people he’s never fully even talked to before in Enhypen, and he won’t be able to balance everything out if he focuses on his favorites. How can anyone compare to the boy he spent years training alongside, and traveled to another country with? He doesn’t know.
Jongseong hacks at the back of Heeseung’s hoodie and inadvertently creates a masterpiece.
“Made by Jay,” he announces, satisfied. “Doesn’t it look cool, hyung?”
Jake and Sunghoon are watching, mouths agape, by the counter. Heeseung observes himself, looking down at the pink hoodie. What had once been a simple sweatshirt is now transformed by the quick work of Jongseong’s hands. To be honest, Heeseung doesn’t see what’s so cool about it. But just looking at Jongseong’s smile—the pleased way in which he’s regarding Heeseung right now, after so much time spent in strife—is cool enough.
It reminds Heeseung of the quiet happiness of their youth. The way they used to shop for clothes in close proximity, Jongseong adjusting the fit of his clothes in overcrowded dressing rooms.
Heeseung smiles at Jongseong, feeling inexplicably fond. “Of course it is.”
Is this what you want Jongseong had asked him. The question hangs in between them, fragile and delicate, something that could shatter if swayed the wrong way.
Heeseung looks at Jongseong. Truly looks at him, under the bright kitchen lights. Heeseung remembers it all—the nights at Han River, the early mornings in the practice rooms, the phantom touch of a mic pack digging into his side. None of that’s here now. All there is is their bowls of instant ramen and Jongseong staring right back. Jongseong is tired and messy and lovely, so lovely.
“Yes, Jongseong-ah,” Heeseung replies, simple and sure. It tastes good on his lips, so he repeats himself for good measure: “Yes, yes it is.”