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Wonwoo often felt alone. He was a quiet person, rarely expressing his thoughts to people around him. Quiet as it was, it wasn’t weird that he didn’t have anyone that he felt like he could turn to when times got rough. One would think that being a part of a group with so many members, he would have someone he could turn to.
He did, he knew he did. He could always go to Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Joshua or sweet Mingyu. But he was just… He wasn’t good at talking about his issues. Books had always been something he’d preferred before humans, he just wasn’t good with people. Even when he needed to be.
But, he was worried.
Worried that one of these days, the others would grow tired with him. That they would no longer be able to bare with him when he had his bad days. He often asked himself if he could manage this any longer, and he wanted to. He had to.
Wonwoo had endured their training, while others didn’t, so he must be able to go further. But such a thing as going forward when you can’t see the end, is quite hard. And it takes a toll on you. This whole entire thing had fucked him so hard in the ass that he didn’t know which way was the right one anymore.
Hansol had it rough. He was the youngest in the hip hop unit, and often the most cheerful one of them together with Mingyu, but he had a hard time keeping his façade up. Being young should be something amazing, and happy, but he just felt clueless.
He could lie awake at night for hours, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck he was doing. He had to keep it together, you had no time being weak in this industry. And this industry was rough, only the best of the best made it to the top, and even then the success was fragile and could break into a million pieces at any moment.
During the times after a show, when Hansol washed off his makeup and saw his clean skin, covered in red patches, he wondered. If his body couldn’t handle it, could he? The stress got to him, visible by the bags under his eyes and his cried-out eyes after an especially long and harsh night.
Hansol hated the makeup. He really did. All these beauty standards that he had been held to his entire life, never being good enough because he either wasn’t Korean enough or he wasn’t American enough. He wasn’t enough. Feeling like you don’t belong is the worst possible feeling, and he felt it every single day.
Facemasks were his best friend. That was a good thing about the beauty standards, if you didn’t want to show your bloated face, you could just hide it behind a mask. Like he did with all of his issues, physical and mental.
When they got spare time, he preferred to just lie in his bed. The others probably thought it was because he was tired, but he didn’t sleep. He slept so incredibly fucking badly. He could sleep for a couple of hours, before waking up.
He’d never know if it was day or night, in the space of their dorm. It could be bright, it could be dark, but he felt like he was hovering through oblivion regardless of the time.
Honestly, he couldn’t see the end of this endless darkness.
Mingyu was a puppy most of the time. He was happy, adorable and cheerful, despite looking like the complete opposite. But this was just what he showed to the fans, to other people. Inside, he was dull.
He had talked himself into that if he said he was okay, one day he would finally be. He’d be whole, and he’d feel okay. Unfortunately for him, that’s not how life works. He really needed to vent, to talk to someone. The thoughts in his head were dragging him down, and he had such a hard time to manage with every day life without falling apart and crying.
It happened over and over, he had so many thoughts that he just couldn’t get out of his head. Would they succeed?
Would he earn enough money?
Would they stay together?
If, or when they split up, would he be able to make it on his own?
Was he interesting enough without his members? All these question, filling his head and consuming him, every day.
He just wanted to feel alright again, like he did when he was younger.
For Seungcheol, it was hard to be left alone. He was a leader of a group of 12 boys, of course they would need to go to him for advice. He was the oldest, and even though both Joshua and Jeonghan took some of the weight of his shoulders he couldn’t expect them to carry as much as he did. He wouldn’t do that to them. He loved all of them too much, every time he could he would take the burdens of another member and put them on his own shoulders.
Jihoon knew. Soonyoung knew. Being unit leaders, and responsible for the two biggest parts of their performances, they understood what he went through. Jihoon had the entire weight of their albums becoming successful on his shoulders, and the fate of their promotions laid heavy on Soonyoung’s choreographies.
But still.
They’d never feel this. All 12 boys, on top of his shoulders, all their doubts and worries. Seungcheol was responsible, and in a way, he was their guardian. The leader that they could look to for anything, and he couldn’t fail them. He musn’t
Even though his eyes may be bloodshot and the bags under his eyes were getting more prominent each day, each week, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t slow down. Seungcheol had to push on, to help his members, and push his own issues aside. The eldest had to be strong, he had no time for pain and no time to waste.
The four of them felt safe together.
The best kind of night was when the units had their private sessions with eachother. When the vocal team wrote songs, when the performance team created choreographies. And the hiphop team, they wrote their raps. Or at least that was what they were meant to do.
These nights were secretly spent up on the Pledis company buildings roof, Seungcheol having dragged the other boys up there. They would sit together, notepads in hands, curled together in a pile, writing and speaking softly. About their worries, about everything. It was to come up with their lines, in the beginning, but it turned into soft conversations with reassuring words.
Mingyu would be sat down leaned against the wall with Wonwoo lying inbetween his legs. One hand tangled in the raven hair and one hand scribbling out lyrics as he looked at the older boy with a familiar look in his eyes. Wonwoo would glance up and meet the younger boys eyes, before quickly turning his stare back to his notebook again.
Seungcheol would be pressed up against Mingyu, shoulder to shoulder. Usually the elder would rest his head on him, as he was shorter and he made a perfect head rest. Mingyu didn’t mind.
Hansol, the youngest of them all, would be lying on his back with his head in their leaders lap. Sometimes, he would let his arms rest his lyricbook on his chest, as he closed his eyes and tilted his head to press his nose into Seungcheol’s stomach. The only response he’d get from the leader was a hand running through his hair, or running down his arm in a reassuring move.
Wonwoo and Hansol would talk softly, immersed with their words about pain and suffering and beauty and reality. The older of the two would sometimes slip into talking about a book he read, and the younger would listen. Not because he had to, but he wanted to. He enjoyed hearing the older talk so passionately in his deep, smooth voice.
There was a certain simplicity, about sitting on the roof, in the middle of the night, writing and chatting and enjoying eachothers company and touching. If it wasn’t for the extreme light pollution in Seoul, they would be in the middle of an American teenager romcom.
But there were no bright stars to gaze over, only a dulled dark sky with faint, faint stars and the occasional airplane passing over. There was no silence, no rustling leaves and crickets playing in the damp night air. There was only the cars down on the street, honking, and the four of them. Together, on the roof.
Laughing, talking, maybe crying. But all so gently, all so softly.
They had their own little bubble up there, during those late nights. Sometimes, it felt like they were floating in space. And they were afraid, that if they were too loud, that their bubble would pop, and it’d all be over.
But they had their safe space. Their bodies warm against eachother, the stains of ink on their hands, leftover eyeliner around their eyes. They had eachother, and it was alright.