“Play with me.”

The declaration is bold, cheeky, in the way only one person Youngjae knows is able to say it, and he rolls over, listening to the way the sheets rustle under his back. He doesn’t even know what Bambam is doing here at this time- but Yugyeom isn’t coming back for some time and Jinyoung had chosen to stay out, probably to make sure nothing illegal happened whilst the rest of them were out, so Youngjae supposes Bambam must’ve felt lonely.

It must be so very easy to get lonely, Youngjae thinks, when you’re surrounded by friends like he is all the time.

“I’m tired,” he lies, looking up at the ceiling. He hasn’t taken off his eyeliner and his clothes feel gross on his skin, but he’s exhausted.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t go away when you sleep- the kind of tired that etches its way at the back of your eyelids when you meet strange people and go to strange places, the kind that sits heavy in your stomach when you choke down strange food one too many times and hear strange words. It’s different.

Different is good, society would remind him. The company would remind him. Got7 would remind him. But he hates it. He hates different when it laughs at him, when it leaves him alone. He hates different now.

What a selfish, selfish thought, Youngjae chides himself drily. What a terrible, terrible person I am, for being sad when everyone else is so happy.

It sounds worse like that, if that’s possible. Youngjae doesn’t think it’s possible. But then again Youngjae’s been wrong about a lot of things, like the idea that people love him and that people never change.  

The moments when the ideas overlap are the worse times.

He rolls over again, because he’s thinking of showers now and when they’ll actually get to go home, when he’s enlightened to the fact Bambam is still standing there in his concert attire, watching him, sipping idly on a bottle of mineral water.

“You could shower here,” Youngjae offers. “Jaebum-hyung won’t mind. If he comes back at all tonight, that is.”

Bambam puts the bottle back on the glass counter, (he took their water, that brat) and wanders over, plopping down at the foot of Youngjae’s bed and stretching out like a cat.

“We could use his soap,” Youngjae tries to laugh. Bambam doesn’t respond- Youngjae wonders if he’s tired of him too. The thought weighs him down like lead, claims his lungs and his chest and his heart and Youngjae wishes he’d never spoken.

“They really liked Yugyeom,” Bambam says, then, suddenly, and Youngjae blinks, surprised. “Mark’s friends. They remembered him from the time he came to LA, especially Andrew.”

“Yeah,” Youngjae says carefully, wondering what he’s getting at. “He looked comfortable.”

“Yeah,” Bambam echoes. They go back to silence again, before Bambam rolls over towards him, propping his face up on his elbows. Youngjae doesn’t move- the younger boy hasn’t taken out his coloured lenses yet, and for one irrational whirlwind moment he feels like telling him to go get rid of them. They shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be hiding Kunpimook’s eyes with all their alien, gaudy fakeness, not when they’re like this, inches from each other, tangled in sheets, in a quiet hotel room miles away from everyone else.

“So, how’s America been?” Bambam asks, casual as anything. He’s gathered the sheets under his chin, half-burying himself in Youngjae’s blankets, and amidst thoughts like he’d better not get eyeliner on these sheets and I hope he washed his feet, dressed in white like that Youngjae can’t help but think he looks like an angel.

“The food’s great,” he fibs convincingly (or maybe no one knows him well enough to tell it’s a lie). “Mark’s friends are great. Everything’s great.”

“You liar,” Kunpimook laughs, then, and Youngjae decides to reconsider. “You hate the food. You never finish your burgers and you always take out all the relish.”

“That what it’s called? It’s weird,” Youngjae shrugs, all up for pretending food had been his only concern.

“America is weird,” Bambam makes a vague gesture, before clapping a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in mock horror. “Oh no! Did I just make a horrible racist generalization about an entire culture based one aspect of its food or people? Smite me, someone, I can’t live with this regret.”

Youngjae laughs at that, really laughs, so loud for a moment he’s scared the other guests on the floor will complain, but he can’t help it- can’t help the nervous relief that rushes in once at the sound of that, like some secret only the two of them know. He’ll never be able to talk like this to Jaebum- the leader would probably just brush him off with a distracted be respectful, not to Yugyeom either, not while the maknae’s still starstruck by LA and all his alleged friends here, and Jinyoung hasn’t been the same since they touched down- Youngjae’s a little worried and a little intimidated, if he’s to be honest. And of course, Jackson and Mark are entirely out of the question.

“You’d better not let Mark-hyung hear you say that,” Youngjae says, half into the blankets, and Bambam rolls his eyes.

“Mark hyung isn’t in any place to say anything,” the younger boy laughs, the edge of his mouth curling up in a barely visible sneer, and Youngjae’s amazed, almost. A year ago Kunpimook would’ve been horrified by the idea of even hinting anything derogatory about Jackson or Mark, but his dark eyes glint with a comfortable derision now, posture suggesting nothing but ease. “Besides, I don’t think he’ll feel a thing, not while he’s all comfy and liberated here.”

“Maybe that’s it? I guess we’re just uncomfortable?” Youngjae shrugs. “If this is what they do then it’s what they do, right?”

“We’re just not used to it, I guess,” Bambam says unconcernedly, inspecting a fingernail. “Give us a year or something here- we’ll be just like Mark at the end of it. If Jinyoung-hyung doesn’t die first, that is.”

“So you think so,” Youngjae clears his throat. “That sounds great.”

“You evil child. I’m telling Jinyoungie-hyung his favourite son hates him.”

“I meant us turning into Mark,” Youngjae laughs, slapping Bambam’s shoulder. “Maybe more people would want my photocard then.”

“Don’t say that,” Bambam flops onto his back, turning the entirety of his gaze on Youngjae, truthful and clear. “You can’t judge things like that.”

“Nah, you don’t know the online markets,” Youngjae chuckles, flicking a bit of lint from his shirt. “You ever checked how much our merch goes for over there?”

“Once or twice,” Bambam says carelessly, before grinning. “I beat Yugyeom out on sales for photocards and dolls, but he beat me out on badges. Why?”

Youngjae pretends he hasn’t thought much about it, fiddling with the notepad on the bedside table, folding the edges of the paper absently. “You know how much Mark goes for over there?”

When Kunpimook shakes his head, Youngjae makes the numbers with his fingers. “Forty US dollars, Bam,” he laughs. “You know how much I go for?”

The younger boy shrugs, waiting, and Youngjae swallows the lump in his throat.

“Seven, Bam,” he forces a smile. “I go for seven US dollars,” he rests his chin on his palm. “Lucky, I guess.”

There’s a silence Youngjae suddenly regrets ever having induced- he wants Kunpimook to laugh about everything they’ve experienced here, make fun of the way Jaebum’s stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his growing addiction to fast food and the way Jinyoung looks like the only reason why he’s here at all is to keep an eye on the rest of them (especially Mark, especially when he starts drinking), poke fun at how Yugyeom’s trying so hard to get to know everyone and everything, and at that moment Youngjae realises he just wants Kunpimook to tell him it’s okay.

It’s okay to be the only two back at the hotel at nine pm in a city full of excitement and joys undiscovered, okay that he’s surrounded by new experiences and friends and all he can think about is when they can go home, it’s okay to feel what he feels and that he isn’t alone.

But then Youngjae thinks about how Kunpimook’s been shipped back and forth between Thailand and Korea since he was thirteen, thinks about how he’s always so comfortable with Mark and Jackson, and the quiet little question of isn’t this too much to ask sinks its quiet, icy claws in his heart.

“Well that’s tragic, since we judge the fans we have by how much of our merch gets bought,” Kunpimook straightens, and Youngjae’s taken aback in that moment, unsure of how to respond.

“Don’t we?”

“Everywhere we go,” Kunpimook shrugs. “We’re selling what we do, you know? You pay more, you get a higher chance of getting up on stage to have a hug, closer look at us, and everything’s just unfair like that, you know? You aren’t graded based on how much you appreciate us or enjoy our music and effort, you’re graded on how much you can pay.

“Everything’s planned- how long we stay in one place, what we do, everything’s from management top down to us- we’re puppets, Jae,” Kunpimook lets out a strained laugh. “This whole stupid thing about what market we’re supposed to focus on and our target audience at these places- I feel like that’s all just bull, you know?”

Youngjae doesn’t quite get it, not just yet, but he’s listening. “You mean like, what management was saying before the flight? About the different kinds of fans?”

“Yeah,” Kunpimook shrugs. “They don’t get it, you know, I don’t know if you do either, but that feeling just , you know? Having your love for an idol quantified into little dollars and cents like that? The people who can’t afford to get front row seats and buy our photobooks, the people we refuse to take photos with and don’t want to stay around to interact with, that’s how they feel, you know?”

Youngjae doesn’t know what to say, except to nod mutely.

“The moment you do that, Jae,” Kunpimook turns to look at him properly, looking more serious than Youngjae’s ever seen him since the day they’d met, and the older boy can’t help but feel both a little intimidated and a little caught in admiration and awe, gazing at the solemn passion burning in Kunpimook’s eyes. “When you talk about the people who buy photocards like they’re the only people that matter, you’re disrespecting everyone else who can’t show you they support you by pouring their wallets into whatever stupid our company makes them buy, yeah? I’m not saying it’s wrong for us to feel upset we rank last in terms of individual sales, heck, I cried when I found out I came in second last for sticker sales, but when you look at everything at the end of it, stuff like this just doesn’t matter, you know?”

“That’s encouraging of you to say,” Youngjae responds with a tight smile. But the fact is that I come in last for photocard sales, sticker sales and doll sales and you’re always in the top half for all our sales.

“You don’t get it,” Kunpimook laughs, rolling onto his back towards Youngjae, so their shoulders bump, and the younger boy is looking up at him honestly. “You ever stand in a concert crowd before, Jae? Back when I was a fan of Rain at thirteen, and I went to all his concerts and listened to his music, you know what it felt like?” Kunpimook’s looking at the ceiling, smiling slightly, as though remembering a particularly fond memory. “It was just sort of sad. I felt so far and small and I felt like nothing. That’s the worst feeling, you know? Knowing you’re nothing but money to the people you support so much?” he takes the hotel notepad from Youngjae’s limp fingers, starts to unfold all the edges whilst he talks. “So I told myself, if I was ever given the chance to debut, I’d make sure no fan ever felt that way?”

Part of Youngjae feels belittled, part of him guilty, but he doesn’t trust himself to say a word so he shuts up and nods again.

“Eh, none of you ever get it,” Kunpimook sighs, throwing his hands up. “Yugyeom just rolls his eyes whenever I-…”

“No, I get it,” Youngjae says quickly, before offering a nervous laugh. “I guess the fans and I can bond over that. Feeling like nothing.”

Kunpimook chuckles. “You know you’re not, though? I mean, we’re from JYP-…”

“I know,” Youngjae’s lost count of the number of times he’s heard that pathetic excuse of an encouragement, and he’s learned now that the standard operating procedure is to smile and thank whoever it is for their kind concern. But this is Kunpimook, Kunpimook who deserves to know what’s really on Youngjae’s mind, and he ploughs on. “And it makes a difference, sure, when you’re standing above everything and looking down but that’s going to be difficult when you’re never on top in the first place, right? Sure it makes a difference but it’s not like it’s ever enough to fix it-…right?”

Never enough to fix the quiet, sombre emptiness that drags his heart down in his chest whenever he gets lukewarm cheers during a fanmeet or gets ranked last for popularity during interviews, never enough to fix the sinking feeling in his stomach as the rest of them get called for emceeing and guest starring and big ticket contracts while he’s singing to a mirror in an empty room, trying not to get choked up because it messes up his voice and heaven knows he can’t screw up the one thing he’s supposed to actually be good at.

But then Kunpimook gives him a sad sort of smile, barely visible in the dim light, against the stark white of the sheets, and Youngjae feels infinitesimally disappointed.

“No,” Kunpimook admits. “I don’t get it-…not enough to say I do, anyway,” he rolls further into Youngjae’s space, though, swinging an arm around the older boy’s waist with a sweetly charming smile. “Maybe we can bond over that.”

Youngjae lets out a breathy laugh, tension imperceptibly leaving his shoulders- Kunpimook has that effect on people, the ability to melt their hearts, pour hot chocolate in the cracks between their ribs and lungs, warm them from the inside out with cheesiness and cute smiles, except what solidifies the warmth into a confidence in Youngjae’s chest is the earnest honesty behind Kunpimook’s bright eyes, burning soft and precious within.

It doesn’t matter that Kunpimook doesn’t understand because at least he doesn’t pretend to- doesn’t fork out the first superficial explanation off the top of his head for why Youngjae can’t go one day with them without feeling like a piece of trash, and the least Youngjae can do is to reciprocate through the quiet burdens that nestle atop the younger boy’s heart, reach out blindly for his hands to let him know that while it’s true he doesn’t understand, he’s here, he’s here and will always be.

So they lie like that for a while, curled into each other amidst starchy hotel sheets and dim orange lamplight, and all Youngjae can hear is the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the beat of Kunpimook’s heart under thin white fabric, reminding him that they’re here, they’ve got each other and that that’s enough for now.

Maybe even more so.

*

Youngjae stirs from his slumber at the sound of the hotel door opening roughly about two hours after he’s fallen asleep- there are wet patches in the pillow from where his freshly-showered hair had pressed into the fabric, the wrappers of the weird microwaveable snacks Bambam had bought from the convenience store downstairs litter the bedside table and the bathroom light’s still on, but he finds himself already in bed, tangled into Bambam’s exceptionally long limbs, and wonders when they’d fallen asleep.

Jaebum walks in, hair a mess, looking half dead on his feet, flicking on the light as he does so, and freezes as he walks into Youngjae’s line of sight.

“Hyung, it’s-…it’s one in the morning, where did you go?” Youngjae’s rubbing his eyes, trying not to sound as concerned as he probably does, but Jaebum’s still staring, and the younger boy self-consciously tugs a hand through his hair, wondering if there’s something on his face.

“What?” he mumbles, before Jaebum squints, and the spell seems to break as he scowls.

“Is that-…geez, it’s just Bambam,” he says in annoyance, glancing at the door. “Bambam, what are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too, hyung,” Bambam grumbles, finally stirring from his sleep, curling an arm around Youngjae’s waist to bury his face in the older boy’s stomach. “Now if you could just keep quiet for the next five hours or so-…”

“Go back to your own room,” Jaebum sighs loudly, dumping his bag on the bed.

“No, it’s okay, I want him to stay,” Youngjae says quickly, and Jaebum sends a partially suspicious, mostly annoyed glance at Kunpimook, who flashes a thumbs up in the leader’s direction without looking up.

“We need to sleep,” Jaebum argues, and Kunpimook mutters a and I wonder why you can’t do that properly with me in Youngjae’s bed into the older boy’s stomach before the leader steps out of the room, looking around in irritation. “Yugyeom, could you come and get Bambam?”

Bambam groans in defeat, as Yugyeom trudges in about ten seconds later looking about twice as ragged as Jaebum is and twice as tired, barely sparing anyone a hello before walking straight up to Youngjae’s bed and tugging the covers off.

Youngjae wonders why Yugyeom isn’t moving, then, before the maknae speaks, in a tone that would suggest he’s this close to being entirely done with life and everything it encompasses.

“Why are you wearing my clothes,” he deadpans, and Bambam sighs long and loud, before untangling himself from Youngjae in defeat to blink prettily up at Yugyeom.

“Oops? Wasn’t looking which suitcase I was grabbing a set of clothes from?” he suggests innocently. “Besides, doesn’t look like you’re complaining.”

Youngjae watches in confusion, wondering if he’s missing out on something as Yugyeom opens his mouth to say something, before glancing sideways, as though just remembering that Jaebum’s in the room. But then he rolls his eyes, reaching down, and things go back to normal.

Youngjae tries not to laugh as he watches Yugyeom lift a squalling Bambam out of the bed bodily, complaining about how much easier it’d be to carry him if he’d just stop moving, and notes the pensive look on Jaebum’s face with some amusement as the maknae pair stumble back out to the corridor, arguing noisily about whose turn it is to sleep on the extra bed tonight and who should be the sacrificial lamb to ask Jinyoung to hurry it up in the bathroom.

“You guys had a nice time?” Jaebum asks, once the door’s shut behind them, still looking vaguely annoyed, and Youngjae falls back on his own pillow, blinking sleepily.

“Yeah, we did,” he beams, not caring that he probably looks like an idiot, smiling to himself like that, and Jaebum scoffs quietly from where he’s getting his clothes for a shower, rolling his eyes.

“Did you have a good night?” Youngjae chooses to ignore that, though it still pricks at his heart, and Jaebum shrugs, heading over to the bathroom.

“Yeah, it was pretty good.”

Youngjae stares up at the ceiling as the bathroom door snaps shut, feeling the odd vestiges of misery come back to settle heavily on his chest, and sighs as he rolls over, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to fall asleep again.

But his phone buzzes with a LINE message, then, and he blinks awake, reaching over to the bedside table curiously to see who it is.

Youngjae laughs when he sees the attached selca of Kunpimook discreetly pushing a grumpily asleep Jinyoung’s nose upwards in the semi-darkness, a wide grin on his own face, and the laugh mellows to a smile at the message underneath.

u have no idea how much im risking for dis if jinyoung hyung ever sees this im dead u hear me dead

so cheer up, hyung!!! (^-^)g \o/

thks for talking (^o^)/ it was nice chatting with u (>^3^<) <3333

Sometimes you don’t need someone who understands, Youngjae realises that night with some relief, after he’s typed out a response and tucked himself up to his nose in stiff blankets, waiting for sleep to claim him once more, listening to the distant, muffled sound of Jaebum showering, of Mark and Jackson in the other room, laughing and conversing in raucous English, of Yugyeom thumping his bare feet moodily in the hallway two doors away because Bambam's locked him out of their room again.

You just need someone who cares.

And it’s a comfort, he thinks, falling asleep with the reminder of the soothing warmth Kunpimook’s body had brought to his soul, knowing that someone does, after all.