A/N: BGM - Alive - Sungkyu

There was a boy. A boy with dark hair, like the starless night sky has been woven into his hair. A boy with brown eyes. Not coffee brown, or chocolate brown, or burgundy. Somewhere between honey and caramel and a shade of autumn brown that is breathtaking, welcoming; but at the same time, it rips everything apart inside of you when you look at it.

He used to work at a small café, tucked between a hair salon and an old rickety skeleton of a building, near Hapjeong. Perhaps you’ve seen him? The boy who smiled at customers like he’d known them forever. Who stomped his feet when the old heater at the café was leaking and needed repair. The boy who preferred SNSD’s Gee to Nell’s Hopeless Valentine.

Every person Sunggyu meets, he asks them the same question in the hopes that someone would know him. He doesn’t ask his fans though – that would be just weird and he hardly ever has the time. He asked s, his managers, his stylists. They all called him crazy or an idiot. Sometimes they think he’s just joking. They don’t understand.

He had the most hopes for Jungryul manager. Because he was the one who had actually been to that café, where Sunggyu used to work as a barista. The manager had scouted him there, at the café, while he was working alongside the boy whose hair smelled like sandalwood even though they used the same freaking shampoo.

But it took him seven whole years to muster the courage to ask the one person who had most definitely seen him. Sometimes, he wonders if he’s afraid to find out or afraid to share the memory of the boy with someone else – what if it tears at the wound he’s been so meticulously stuffing with stale gauze. It’s either that or the pain (not the pain from the blisters on his feet on the nodules in his neck, no, he’s used to that) took seven years to reach the point of being unbearable.

(The pain that has been constantly growing, like a moon, until it reached its full-fledged glory of excrescence and borderline madness.)

With a lump in his throat and several caseating cavities in his heart, he asks Jungryul manager if he remembers the boy, his co-worker, whose footfalls were measured, like elegant dance steps.

“I remember the boy, very slender right? Smiled a lot…”

“Yes, that’s him!” Sunggyu exclaims.

At least someone remembers him other than himself. It relieves him, because it means he wasn’t…Sungjong wasn’t a figment of his imagination (sometimes he pretends Sungjong is not – was not real, just to see if things are better that way; they’re worse). Then again, he’s always known Sungjong was real. Even today, he can feel the younger’s filling warmth in the palm of his hand. Like Sungjong has been holding his hand only a second ago, pulling him through the streets on a cold winter night, lit by Christmas lights and laughter of people who had families and lovers and all those things you apparently need to be happy (he only needed Sungjong).

The memory is etched in his brain, like a stain that doesn’t go away with detergent or hot water or vinegar. The scents he smelled that night, wafting out of air vents and the snow covered earth, are still fresh. They fill his nostrils every Christmas Eve, and every moment he chooses to remember them. They’re at his beck and call, the memories. It’s too easy to get lost in them, in the warmth of Sungjong’s hand and the toffee smell of his breath rising like white spirals between them.   

“I noticed him because he looked so pretty, like a girl. But we weren’t thinking of making a girl group, so I concentrated on you.”

It’s as if it was just yesterday. Sungjong came in wearing a pink shirt and a matching scarf and he laughed at him. Later in the day, the younger had stepped on his foot ‘accidentally’, or so he said when he apologized. But he had a way of getting back at Sunggyu. Either he would play a prank on him, or laugh in front of him until Sunggyu clutched at his chest, trying to breathe. Because the younger’s laughter always made his chest tighten painfully – it was too bright, too honest, and too magical (which is why he was never too bothered about Christmas miracles; Sungjong’s laughter was enough).

Once he told Sungjong how his laughter really made him feel. The younger had rolled his eyes, shook his said, and told him not to be an idiot. “My laughter doesn’t have that kind of power, hyung.” Ah, the boy was so naïve.

He wonders how it has all changed. He himself has a changed a lot and most of it has nothing to do with age. Perhaps Sungjong wouldn’t be able to recognize him now, or look into his eyes the same way. How long has it been again? Seven long, difficult years. The sun went around the earth seven times, without letting them meet. How cruel is the world?

(It’s a rhetoric question because he’s found out the answer to that long ago.)

If that day - that day when Sungjong was passing him encouraging notes written on paper napkins with the little stamp of the café on one corner – had turned out differently, everything would have changed. The morning had started out with nervousness and frenzy – if only it had continued that way. If only he couldn’t have warmed up his voice adequately. If only the napkins with Sungjong’s messily scrawled ‘Fighting, you can do it!’ hadn’t found their way into the pocket of his apron.

(The messages had been misspelled and the ink blotted the napkins thickly, but he hung them up on the wall of the rooftop room he was renting out.) 

“Why did you pick me?” he asks the CEO bitterly.

He’s probably had a bit too much to drink. They’re at the Christmas dinner thrown by the company, celebrating INFINITE’s  5^th successful year. The six members are at the center of attention, Sunggyu at the very core for being the most popular member and a widely successful solo act. Everyone on the streets knows his name. It’s more than he could ever hope for.

Yet, his mind is full of the boy, the tender, delicate boy who held his hand and told him to believe in his dream. The boy with eyes that comforted him more than words or songs. And when he ran his fingers through his hair to familiarize himself with his new, shorter haircut, Sungjong had sheepishly wiped off the tears on his cheeks with his thumb.

(Every time he had cried in front of Sungjong, the younger had pretended not to notice because he had known it would hurt his pride, but had found a way to comfort him without making it seem obvious.)

“What do you mean? It was the best decision I ever made,” the CEO replies in a drunken slur and fist pumps pathetically.

“If you hadn’t picked me…”

“Your life would have been ruined. You came to Seoul to be a singer, remember? If I hadn’t picked you, where would you have been now?”

Sighing, he downs another glass of vodka, as bitter as they come. The taste poisons his throat, so he drinks more and more (it’s an unintentional act but metaphorically, he’s killing himself over and over again, something he can’t bring himself to do in reality).

He knows the answer exactly. He would have been with Sungjong, doing something, getting by somehow. And…he would have been happy.

It’s not like he’s not happy now. No, he is still capable of feeling superficial happiness. He hangs out with s and laughs at Dongwoo’s crazy stunts and Hoya’s awkward jokes and Sungyeol’s dancing. He cherishes their maknae, Myungsoo, and he watches dramas with the members, pretending to lust after pretty actresses. From the outside, he seems like just another 27-year old celebrity, popular, rich, happy. He makes sure no one sees the emptiness.

(Not like it can be seen but he fears that there might be some sign, some symptom, visible to the eye that would be the end of his career – because how can he not be happy when he has everything? he’s just not allowed.)

He wants to deny that the reason he’s on the verge of becoming an alcoholic has anything to do with his past life. It actually has nothing to do with his past life, except for that boy. Sungjong’s the only thing he misses from his barista days. Back then, he couldn’t return home to Jeonju or look into his father’s eyes. Money was sparse and opportunities limited. Nothing to be happy about. But then, he had Sungjong by his side. The boy who held him tightly, insistently, after hours when they were cleaning up the café; moonlight dredged the dusty windows of the shop and stars were interspersed in Sungjong’s hair, like they have found their rightful place – everything he needed to be happy.

(It was everything and nothing at all.)

“Hey.” Someone rests a hand on his shoulder.

He looks up to find Jongwan. Quickly, he puts down his drink and folds his hands in his lap reverently. This life made it possible for him to be as close to Nell’s Kim Jongwan as he is now. It’s bizarre – back then it was something he could only dream about. A teenage boy with the passion of a dedicated fan, his eyes used to close automatically at the soothing tone of Jongwan’s voice, lulling him to his happy place (not that it has changed, except for the teenager part).

(Speaking of his happy place, nowadays it also involves the gentle touch of Sungjong’s smooth skin, unbroken by the viciousness of society.)

“I wanted to talk to you about the songs you wrote.”

“Do you like them?” he asks apprehensively, feeling sweat gather on his eyebrows. He holds on to a thin wisp of hope – maybe all those nights staying up late wasn’t a complete waste of time (not that he could find sleep anyway).

Jongwan’s eyes brighten.

“I didn’t know you were this talented. How come you didn’t write before?”

His insides shrivel up. Instead of filling pure pleasure, he feels strange, like he has been caught cheating. The reason he didn’t write before is because he was afraid that if he put pen to paper, it would make it more permanent (and the hole in his heart wider than it already is). Songs of his loss, loneliness, and missing that boy – the boy who cradled his insecurities as he sang lullabies of hope to him - they would all become true. Up till now, a part of him has tried to deny that he needed something more than what he already has.

“The sadness is really tangible…the emotions…I cried while listening to the demo.”

He looks at Jongwan disbelievingly, but the man shows no signs of lying. Nell’s songs always made him cry and now to hear that his songs has made his childhood hero cry – it was the best Christmas present he’s had in the last seven years.

“Thank you so much, hyung.”

His tears freefall while he hugs Jongwan.

(Maybe he needed to heart that, that his emotions, what he feels for Sungjong is real, is tangible, is something solid and slow and painful, like a tumor, crushing him from the inside.)

He hates himself though – he’s using Sungjong’s memories to write his songs and yet, he has no place for him in his life. No, that would be a lie. He has a place for him in his life. He has left a wide gaping hole for Sungjong to walk in any time he wants to. Because his life is incomplete without him (there is no illusion of wholeness on his part). It’s a decision he’s made, to not give anyone else the place Sungjong held, holds.

(Well, it wasn’t a mere decision; he just couldn’t. He tried fitting key after key, but the lock is one of a kind.)

So no, it isn’t a choice. Choice is when he made that other decision. Choice is when he decided that the boy who had kept his dreams alive meant less than his dreams.

“Hyung, you okay?” Myungsoo asks in passing.

He only nods. The maknae continues on his way to get a refill. If this was Sungjong though…when it had been Sungjong, the younger had taken one look at his eyes and known he had been lying.

(Sungjong always knew.)

With a gentle hand on his back and a slight lean of his head on his shoulder, he would have said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, hyung.” And despite all his apprehensions and crushing fears, Sunggyu would find shelter in the pale luminescence of the younger’s unadulterated affection.

It’s getting chilly; the heat from the barbecue grill can’t thaw the sighs he had frozen inside his chest long ago. He remembers walking hand in hand with the boy, whose hands were warm even when everything else was freezing. The snow under their feet crunched, giving the illusion of firewood crackling. But none of them could afford a fireplace. Sungjong with his voice like the earth that soaks up rainwater eagerly, asked him if he knew what he had gotten him for Christmas.

Sunggyu only shook his head. His cheeks crimsoned at the thought of what he had gotten the younger – here Sungjong, receive the pain. Accept it, drown in it. I’m sorry it’s the best hyung could do for you.

(At that time, he wouldn’t have admitted that something else could have been done, something that didn’t involve hurting the younger.)

But not yet. He wanted to walk longer, their gloved hands intertwined. With a shudder, he realized that this might be the last time. He didn’t want it to be like this. Quickly, he slipped off his glove and pulled off Sungjong’s mitten. Skin on skin felt better (more connected). He clasped the younger’s hand and put them both in the pocket of his parka, like he was stowing away a dirty secret. “You’re being strange today, hyung.” There is a hint of fear in Sungjong’s voice. He knew, he always knew.

(It was like he had sixth sense.)

Sunggyu’s throat felt on fire even though he hadn’t had anything to drink yet. “That’s because I have something to say.” Sungjong asked if it could wait until they went home and had the turkey. There was soft reprimand in his dulcet tones. The younger knew, and he was trying to draw it out.

For a moment, he wondered if he should delay it until Christmas was over. Twenty-four extra hours wouldn’t hurt. He didn’t start until Monday anyway. One last time, they could sleep side by side, arms and legs all tangled but hearts racing like they had never been alive before.

But if he went to sleep beside Sungjong tonight, he wouldn’t be able to wake up from the dream. Steeling his heart, he told the younger. They had stopped walking and were facing each other, their intertwined hands still in his pocket. “They picked me.” He bit down on his lips to prevent himself crying. The wind was howling all of a sudden, trying to drown out his voice. Snow started to fall thickly and persistently, intent on swallowing the two of them in the whiteness so that they didn’t walk away from this place.

(Nature was playing matchmaker. Sunggyu had already made up his mind though.)

He didn’t know how he did it, but Sungjong congratulated him, hugged him, enveloping him in the scent of guilt and defeat and vague despondency. “I wish you well.”

It’s kind of ironic that at that moment, Sungjong’s cracked lips looked somewhat like his splintered heart. The boy with the cracked lips and warm heart - fingers that let you go while begging you to stay. Sunggyu asked him if he could ever forgive him. Sungjong replied that he already had.

“Take care, hyung.” Damn. How much of his heart had he broken, how much of Sungjong had he damaged in between his ‘I’ll take care of you, hyung’ and his ‘Take care, hyung’?

(It’s still better that the younger didn’t have a meltdown in front of him. If he had … he would have still left and that knowledge scared him.)

“Sunggyu-ah, you shouldn’t drink anymore,” says the CEO. He is also carrying two drinks.

“If I had told you I was gay seven years ago, would you have still picked me?”

“What’s with this trip down memory lane kiddo?” The CEO looks conflicted and drunk. He won’t be capable of any coherent thought, Sunggyu knows. “Yeah, sure. You were great.”

He doesn’t know if that’s the truth or not because now, in the light of his immense popularity and the money he makes for the company, it would be stupid to admit that there is a reason why the CEO would have not chosen Sunggyu. Today, it probably seems utter nonsense that anyone wouldn’t have picked him. And yet, he had failed more auditions that he had passed.

That’s one thing he regrets not saying to his CEO seven years ago. But there’s another thing he regrets not saying, seven years ago, when the boy who had thawed his frozen heart whispered goodbye in his ear one last time. It’s something he had said in his head over and over again, that Christmas Eve. It’s something he still says, from time to time, to himself.

“But it doesn’t have to end for us.”

“End what, hyung?” It’s Woohyun, with creases between his eyebrows. The CEO’s slumped over on the table, blissfully oblivious about what Sunggyu’s going through.

“There was a boy…”

“Right, this is about him again.” Woohyun sounds irritated. “Why don’t you go and find the café? Even if he doesn’t work there anymore, they would know where he is.”

“I did. Last year. And the year before. And the year before that.”

“And?”

It’s like he’s drowning – the same fear, and desperation, and helplessness. He’s drowning in his own body and there are no lifeboats, no lifeguards to save him. The boy who was like a lighthouse beckons to him in the middle of the stormy sea. His hair is the black starless sky in the backdrop.

“What’s going on?” Sungyeol’s voice joins in the conversation.

“Sunggyu hyung’s pining over the boy he used to work with at the café,” Woohyun’s voice is semi sarcastic.

“Hyung, just forget him, will you?”

Sunggyu’s used to these bouts of depression during Christmas time. It’s not like he doesn’t feel his absence at any other time of the year, it’s just every Christmas Eve he recalls that if the sun now suddenly decides to turn in the wrong direction and the earth rotates and revolves in the opposite way, they could go back to the moment seven years ago and he can redeem himself, finally.

Instead of answering Sungyeol’s question, he wants to ask him how to do it. How do you forget someone who constitutes your entire memory?

He sighs, and drinks some more. He drinks and drinks until he can’t feel. Until the alcohol absorbs his whole constellation of feelings.

There was a boy from Jeonju with eyes full of dreams and heart full of mistakes waiting to happen. Lips full of lies he told and mouth full of truths he will never say. And shadows, he has shadows instead of skeletons in his closet.

There was another boy, who did everything right but still couldn’t hold onto happiness. This boy fell in love, only to fall and not feel. It was this boy Sunggyu will cry for, tonight.