It’s early January, a few weeks before his birthday, when Jongin finds himself wandering aimlessly through the night. The wind seems still, but the night is cold. His hot breath rises in front of him, visible by the street lights that line the sidewalk. Snow falls softly, crunching under his feet and occasionally landing on his skin, melting instantly and sending small shivers up his spine. His eyes are fixed on his shiny, black shoes as he trudges along, step after step, letting his feet take him anywhere- just so long as it’s away; away from the bustle of the city, his problems, his stress.

Being a performer in this city has proven to be a challenge for Jongin. Years of training until ungodly hours of the night seemed to have paid off once he landed his first role as a dancer for a small ballet production. He found himself a nice little apartment with a view of the city, along with a small car that at least got him from point A to point B. Over time, Jongin’s name was known all around the city. His shows were sold out every night- they still are. But fame does things to you. Makes you forget the dreams you once had. Makes you lose sight of what’s really important.

Jongin lifted his head and sighed, watching the white vapor from his lungs fill the air and dissipate above him, wondering if it might be that easy for him to just simply fade away when… Jongin’s eye is caught by something. He squint’s a bit, his pace becoming even more lax as he peers into the darkness. There’s a small figure not too far ahead on the path, standing under a street lamp and looking up aimlessly at what Jongin presumes to be the sky, though there are no stars or moon tonight to even look at. He finds it strange there is someone else even here at this time when normally the park is abandoned long before the sun falls.

With nowhere to go and nowhere to be, Jongin slows his pace even more as he approaches the stranger, keeping his face straight and his head down, though his eyes can’t help but wander over to the figure curiously. As he comes to pass beside the figure, his eyes rest on the figures side profile, and he can feel his feet stopping.

The man’s face is almost pure white under the illuminating light from the street lamp, just like the snow surrounding them, and the breath that trickles from between the other’s pink lips. His eyes are wide and shimmering, the corners of his mouth curved up in a small smile as he continues to stare up into nothing, though it looks as if he can see everything.

The delicate lips suddenly part just a bit more, his soft voice ringing out into the silence of the night. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He whispers without even looking away from what he’s been staring at, and Jongin suddenly realizes what the other has been so mesmerized by- the falling snow.

This causes Jongin to realize he’s stopped, and has been staring. He brushes off his embarrassment, keeping a straight face and dipping his head again. “..A downright nuisance, if you ask me.” He muttered, his tone harsher than he had meant it, but he wasn’t exactly a people person. He honestly wasn’t one at all anymore.

The other’s face softened as he smiled just a little fonder into the sky, before turning to look at the stranger with his large, innocent eyes. “Perhaps, sometimes it can be.” He said softly, his eyes seemingly just as bright as the streetlight they stood under. “But look at how it falls so gracefully, and shines as it catches the light.” He told him. “There is beauty in that alone, if anything.”

It takes a moment longer than Jongin would like to admit before he can think again, blink, breathe. He scolds himself for it. He lets out a ragged scoff, his infamous smirk playing on his lips. “..What a childish thing to say.” He manages before his feet seem to almost jolt back into motion, and he’s grateful. Grateful to get away, because the things this stranger seemed to stir in him were terrifying. Time does things to you. Makes you grow up. Makes you realize the world is nothing like what it seems. And neither are people. Innocence is a dying factor, and ignorance is annoying.

“Take care.” He hears the man whisper softly as he walks on, and it’s all Jongin can do to not glance back, though when he thinks the distance is great enough, he eventually does. The stranger is gone, and the sudden chill sets in again, aching his worn bones and pushing him to hurry home.

Jongin walks into his now large, empty apartment stories above Seoul and sighs, not even bothering with the lights because the beams from outside his window are enough. He makes his way back to the bathroom, starting the shower and stepping in. The water melts the chill from his body, and soothes the ache in his muscles for the time being while his mind wanders, and all he can seem to think about is snow, and how beautiful it looked falling around the stranger’s face. Perhaps it wasn’t the snow that seemed to radiate in his mind after all.

Jongin shook his head as if trying to clear it, and turned the water off. He quickly stepped out and dressed, making his way to his bedroom and plopping down onto his mattress, again not bothering with lights. He laid back, sprawled out on the bed as he tried to relax and keep his mind off of the stranger. No sense in reminiscing when memories only seem to be painful, but that doesn’t seem to stop it from happening anyway.

Jongin was never one to be social. He did when he had to of course, at gala’s or events held by his agency, but his personal life was a wreck. Fame had taught him that drinking was fun, and ing random strangers was not only a thrill, but easy and even better feeling than the relief alcohol brought. It was an outlet for all his build up stress, and he didn’t have to have a pounding headache and upset stomach the day after (most of the time). Even some of the rest of the cast were regulars in his bed. None of them seemed to mind the release- if anything, they welcomed it. Everyone has their own problems, with their own ways to deal with it, and seemed to be both to Jongin.

His ambitions and innocence were lost long ago. People crack under pressure, and the stress of his fame and profession proved difficult to handle after endless hours of practice, and partying. ‘Seems glorious though.’ Some would say. Even ‘easy’. But to this Jongin just snickers, and turns away. He doesn’t expect them to know. Know of the childhood he never had, or the amount of injuries he sustained, or the amount of sleep he missed out on. Perhaps that’s why he’s become so bitter now- the world he grew up in was cruel and harsh, and he had to grow up fast. Too fast. If you weren’t the best, you weren’t cast, and practice makes perfect, so that’s all Jongin did. Going out and ‘living’ wasn’t an option. Perhaps that’s why the stranger’s innocent, carefree remarks seemed to irk him. How could snow be beautiful when all it does is freeze the world around it, and kill everything it touches?

Jongin closed his eyes and sighed, trying his best to halt the thoughts running through his brain so he could get some sleep- he would need it. With practice every morning, and a performance almost every night, Jongin didn’t have time for the memories and thoughts to creep back up on him, and destroy his brain. Because remembering brings pain, and pain leads to drinking, and drinking leads to , and it all just adds to Jongin’s suffering and hate.

Jongin dreams of snow that night. Of pure, white snow and pure, white skin. Of large, round eyes that shine like the street lamps that line the sidewalks of Seoul. Of lips as pink and delicate as flower petals, and a smile as radiant as the gleam from it all combined.

For Jongin, the next day is the same routine. He wakes up early, too early, and drags himself to the dance studio. Rehearsal lasts for hours, perfecting every move as if it hasn’t already been ingrained in him from the months he spent practicing. Jongin’s feet ache and his muscles twitch in small spasms as he tries to relax for a few hours before the show. He goes home and showers, changing into his glorified leotard before heading back to one of Seoul’s grandest theatres where he will perform as the main male role in this ballet.

On stage, he transforms. Kim Jongin becomes the personification of glory, twirling and gliding along the theatres stage. His outfit glistens in the spotlight and his ulterior personality shines as its pulled from within, changing him into “Kai”, the greatest performer of classic dance in Seoul. His stage name can be heard on the lips of everybody who’s anybody, even before you enter the theatre. It is called to him when he enters the stage- loving voices of fans reaching out their praises to his ego and boost his confidence and performance. But “Kai” is only his face when the curtain is open. “Jongin” is someone else entirely. “Jongin” is simply the aftermath of it all. The leftovers that no one wants- no one praises.

It’s after nights like these, when meetings with patrons and guests are concluded and praises have been sung, when celebrating and drinking occurs. Tonight is no different. Higher up’s come and go, drinking their champagne and talking of etiquette and ballet, while Jongin just tries to get drunk and score; though the fish aren’t biting tonight, and Jongin doesn’t have the patience to be a gentleman.

He settles for a coworker on nights like tonight, picking his usual because questions are something neither of them have time to bother with. He whispers his requests in Luhan’s ear, and the other nods slowly, biting his lip and leaning in towards Jongin just a bit more. Drinks are downed faster and lifeless laughter escapes them both in their drunken haze. He pulls Luhan’s hand lightly, letting the other know that the hour is late, and the time has come. They leave the party together, the other’s looking on knowingly, but Jongin doesn’t care. He doesn’t have time to care about others thoughts that don’t care about him. He’s already breaking.

Luhan falls back onto Jongin’s bed easily, already breathless from the millions of kisses they shared coming down the hall. Articles of clothing seem to disappear one by one in the haze of their drunkenness. Lips trail down the length of bodies and toes curl as prodding fingers probe at the soft skin and crevices of their bodies, and for a moment Jongin feels liberated in this ecstasy. But only a moment.

When the high wears off, emotions come at their worst- seizing what little bit of hope the feelings of pleasure might have created in him and dragging him down, crashing at the bottom of a pit that’s dug deeper every day. ‘How can one so high, fall so low?’ One might ask, and if Jongin were clever, he might reply with ‘A broken rope’. But Jongin doesn’t want to think about it. He imagines it’s built up over time. A broken bone here, a crack or sprain there, a childhood gone missing, a price too high for an over glorified dream hardly achieved, fame too great for a fake, body and mind too wrecked to fix.

Luhan leaves right after, like he always does. Leaves Jongin to break on the floor of his apartment and scream profanities at the world that adores someone he’s not; at the world that understands so little and acts like it understands all. Jongin’s sure it’s not just him who thinks this way. He can’t be alone in everything, can he? But Jongin doesn’t voice these questions to Luhan, or to anyone. Be it pride, or perhaps even fear, he refuses. Getting close to someone is the last thing he needs weighing on his mind, and the last thing he would ever choose to do. People are revolting. Scum.

Perhaps that’s why he hates the fact that he can’t forget the stranger from the day before; the first person that talked to Jongin- that talked to the man behind the mask with such openness and genuine curiosity… That talked to him without seemingly knowing him at all: ‘Kai’. Neither of them knew the other. And yet, it was the most real conversation he'd had in years; where Jongin could just be Jongin in all of his terribleness, and still receive that radiant smile in return.

Jongin gripped his head, rubbing his temples and trying to press the racing thoughts from his mind like always, a massive headache already on the way. He pulled himself up into his bed, groaning lightly from the strain and the pulsing in his skull, and fell back. He sighed out raggedly, long and drawn out, his eyes slipping closed. Tomorrow would be another early morning, and another long day. At least there would be no performance tomorrow, and he could keep Kai at bay.