Jongin yanks his towel from the near chair. It cracks the air, and he flinches. Maybe he is edgier than usual.

Tossing it aside, he replays a song and goes through the choreography, losing himself in the thrill of pure movement. His body follows something other than himself, and he becomes a passenger to enjoy the experience.

Finally, his gut calls for attention. Its rumbling moans interrupt the beat, and Jongin realizes it actually hurts a little, how empty he feels.

He collapses on the floor and hunches over his legs, catching his breath. After a drink, he feels better and leans back against the mirror. Smears of sweat will probably be left behind; he feels bad for the janitors who clean every night, but he also wonders about the years of literal blood, sweat, tears, and unmentionable fluids that have dropped to the floors in the old studio. Mops can only do so much.

If he wasn’t so exhausted, he might tuck his towel beneath himself, but he’ll be showering eventually. Some extra dirt and grossness will wash away with everything else.

He lets his head tip back against the mirror, eyes closed to focus just on his breathing and heart. It’s tempting to stay there and nap. Fatigue weighs him down, heavier the longer he sits.

“I’ve waited long enough.”

Jongin surges forward, slapping a hand over his ear. Goosebumps erupt over his heated flesh. No one is even in the room, but he clearly heard someone speak.