The time projected by Jaebum’s clock on his ceiling changes to 1:31AM the moment his eyes snap open, irritated and tired, sleep seemingly missing his address for the night. It doesn’t help the digits hover above his bed, red and taunting before he decides this it is: he’s tried and tested, moved from one side of the bed to the other but nothing will lull him to sleep. Not even a carefully selected playlist containing nothing but smooth instrumentals, various classical pieces he does not know the name of but sounded good enough to pass as bed time music. It’s a little childish perhaps, but Jaebum had never been one to fall asleep too easily especially on days which were hardly demanding. 

And then it dawns on him, right out of the blue. He is hungry but simply anything won’t do. No. He needs to get up and make something; something sweet and a little time consuming, a seemingly perfect combination to drain him of whatever energy he did not even know he had enough of. 

The only light which illuminates his steps comes from a forgotten dim lamp in the living room, a book left forgotten on the arm of the couch in his rush to sleep. But he doesn’t stop to switch it off, letting it cast a warm yellow light into the room while he moves off towards the kitchen area right at the back. What he wants is simple but how he’d get it is an entirely different story. 

A low rumble of his stomach encourages him on though, protesting something along the lines of come on, Jaebum, we both want this and he obliges.

The kitchen is small but almost spotless, perhaps the least used room in this apartment. It’s not that Jaebum is a bad cook but there is no time to squeeze in his schedule to cook when a pile of takeaway menus stand on a small table by the entrance. That, or he simply eats out, often a treat provided by the many artists he works with because apparently, eating with Jaebum is something like a privilege because who would’ve known? Who would’ve known that JB from that GOT7 group would one day become one of the most sought after composers in the country? 

But there are things about that JB from that GOT7 group which do not change even years down the line, two years after the group held their final concert as a seven. For example, his specialty remains kimchi stew and fried rice and he does have a Simpsons kitchen set which he doesn’t have to hide because very few cross the threshold of his apartment; at the end of the day, this place remains a sanctuary, a place so private he wishes to maintain it much like he kept his room a secret from fans years ago. 

So at age 31, Jaebum stands by the small kitchen island, phone in hand but regardless of how many recipes he goes through, none sound right for some reason. Pancakes are universal, nothing out of the ordinary but Jaebum enjoys his a certain way and there is only one way to achieve it. It’s close to 2AM by now, but his finger hovers a name as if uncertain whether to make the call or not.

He does.

He lets the phone ring once, twice, three times and he is almost convinced Choi Youngjae will not pick up. Almost. 

On the fifth ring, he does. 

“Hello?”

His voice is distant, low and raspy, heavy with sleep but not grouchy. It surprises Jaebum he picks up so fast but some things change, don’t they? People drop old habits and pick up new ones; apparently, Youngjae becomes a person easier to wake up in the course of the two years Jaebum hadn’t seen him.

“Hello. Youngjae, I need your help,” he says, quickly but still uncertain, almost working up a plan to excuse himself. It’s too late though, because Youngjae hums in acknowledgement, silently encouraging Jaebum to go on. 

The composer’s fingers wrap around the device a little tighter, pressing the phone to his ear as if eager to cling to every word, every small noise given by his old band mate. Nostalgia pushes its way into Jaebum’s mind but he tries to will it down. Pancakes first, nostalgia after.

“Okay, hyung,” the younger says, just a little more alert, voice a little more clear. 

“It’s been a while and maybe it’s not the most convenient of times, but do you still remember how to make pancakes?”

Silence ensues and Jaebum almost regrets his decision. Almost. Youngjae laughs, something much lower than what Jaebum remembers but he supposes this is all because of the hour. “One and a half cups of flour, a cup of milk and an egg. Also, three tablespoons of melted butter, three teaspoons of baking soda and don’t forget the pinch of salt, hyung. Sugar too, but if you have vanilla essence or vanilla sticks, that works even better.” He pauses and Jaebum hears some shuffling, sheets being moved around. Youngjae presses on suddenly. “Or a drop of rum! Rum essence, hyung, it works just fine too.”

Jaebum checks it all, runs over the list in his head and then, “what about sparkling water? You’d use sparkling water too sometimes, wouldn’t you?”

“Hyung—” Jaebum zones out, fumbling around while trying to focus on how the word sounds coming from Youngjae as if nothing changed; as if they hadn’t fallen out of touch for a solid two years. “—either milk or sparkling water or it’ll come out too runny and weird.”

“Okay,” Jaebum says and his mouth remains open, not really wanting the conversation to end there. 

Besides, where is the promise that another two years won’t pass before they get in touch again? Two years is a long time and only endless, odd work hours have kept Jaebum going the way he had. But look back on his composing credits, look back on all his works and Jaebum creates songs which, to those who know of him well enough, lead back to Youngjae. 

They lead back to stolen kisses and hand holding which is less than subtle thought to be nothing more than fan service on the surface but something much deeper than that. They lead back to late nights spent talking and nights spent doing nothing: Youngjae clicking away at whatever game he’d choose to keep him up, Jaebum jotting out late night thoughts which could be turned this way and that into lyrics suitable enough to present to management in hopes of a thumbs-up. They lead back to hardships and joys and everything else in between until something runs dry. 

Their longevity wears thin; Jackson too busy with numerous shows he hosts, going back and forth from Korea to China. Mark becomes the face of street brands he’d wear so often and LA welcomes him back home. Jinyoung is a prominent actor, climbing up the ranks much quicker than anyone ever anticipated and JYPE clings to him the same way they had done with Suzy. Bambam is a sensation in Thailand and does everything: from hosting to national dramas with the occasional modelling. Word has it he runs into Mark often when both are in New York; the older introducing his collaboration with Fear of God, the younger becoming the face of Yves Saint Laurent. Yugyeom dances and teaches others to. Dance programs seek him out to be a permanent member of the judging panel and Jaebum sees him sometimes. They dance together: from freestyles to their old choreography just for old times sake. And Youngjae? Youngjae shines on stages, singing melodies which can either break or soothe the soul and of course, the industry is much smaller especially for big names like them but they dance around each other. Always under the same roof but never in the same room. When Jaebum leaves, Youngjae arrives. When Jaebum arrives, Youngjae leaves.

“Hyung?” Youngjae speaks again, voice breaking the silence. “Are you making the pancakes?”

“Yeah,” Jaebum confirms. “I’ve got everything. Thank you, Youngjae.” 

“Hyung, I can stay on the phone until you’re done,” he offers. 

“Okay,” the older agrees without missing a beat. “Okay, that’d be reassuring.”

Youngjae laughs but does not say anything and Jaebum takes it as his cue to begin. 

His phone is on loudspeaker but Youngjae does not speak much with the exception of a curious “what step are you on now?” whenever Jaebum makes just a little too much noise. He tells Youngjae he probably miscounted the amount of sparkling water used and gets told it’s fine; he can fix that with a little more flour though more pancakes are bound to come out of the mix unless he intends to make them really thick. Jaebum laughs, proceeds to remind Youngjae his favourite ones are the thin ones when—

“You don’t like them too thick because you fell in love with the thin ones we had while touring Europe.” 

“Four years ago around this time of the year, right?”

“The managers weren’t too happy with how many you ate in one go, hyung.”

“Nor was my stomach.” 

Youngjae laughs. He laughs loud and hearty and cheerful just like Jaebum recalls him to laugh, the ha ha ha so pronounced, so familiar and so warm, he can’t help but not laugh; less because of the memory and more because of Youngjae. 

In the middle of their laughs ringing loud at 2AM, Jaebum knocks over the pack of flour and what was previously a spotless black counter top becomes entirely wait. He curses between his teeth but he’s not mad. More amused, anything. Youngjae hears it, of course, questions what is wrong and Jaebum confirms his mess. Only, he wishes it was embarrassing; he wishes Youngjae was there to see it so Jaebum could feel embarrassed rather than nothing.

They fall silent again, the only noises breaking the pregnant pause being the light sizzling of the pan as Jaebum fills a ladle with some of the mixture and begins making the pancakes. On the other side, light clicking and small noises similar to booms and cracks ensues; he doesn’t need to ask the vocalist to know he is playing a game and Jaebum can’t help but wonder if his nightly sessions are still a thing. He wants to ask but a light smell of burning catches up to him and he fumbles around quickly, the noise apparently loud enough to disrupt Youngjae.

He doesn’t have to but Jaebum still informs him he nearly burned the last pancake. 

“How do they taste, hyung?” the vocalist asks once he finishes laughing and says burning a pancake shouldn’t even be a mistake someone does.

Jaebum, for the first time in years, flushes. It’s not the slight heat generated by the oven, it’s not the clammy summer night but Youngjae’s ease when talking with Jaebum. As if they haven’t fallen out of touch, as if they were still old friends who shared a room, a mattress.

“Bad,” he responds a minute later and pulls a face. The pancakes taste really bad and it leaves a burnt taste behind although sweetness is still there but out of reach. It’s that sweetness which apparently, only Youngjae and Youngjae alone could do as well as they had been done in Europe. “I’ve done everything you said I should do, though. I don’t get it.”

“Practice makes perfect,” he gets reminded and Youngjae’s voice is sleepy again, the clicking and small game noises no longer coming from his end. The watch around Jaebum’s wrist indicates it’s close to 3AM so it’s no wonder Youngjae may just wanted to call it a night. 

It dawns on Jaebum, as he sits alone by his kitchen counter with a stack of failed pancakes and Youngjae on the phone to him, that there is something inexplicable about this moment. Something remarkable and gallant; a kindness expected of someone like Youngjae but there’s something else there. Something Jaebum can’t quite place his finger on or explain as accurately as possible but it feels like this—

It’s close to 3AM on a late July Monday morning and he has badly made pancakes in one corner of Seoul while Youngjae sits in a bed across the city and instructs Jaebum what to do. Perhaps it was his lack of sleep and the adrenaline rush which came with it, that moment when you feel you can do anything which guided him to reach out to the younger; on any other day, during any other hour, Jaebum wouldn’t have done it and Youngjae? Youngjae is as busy as Jaebum if not, much more. He wouldn’t need to call Jaebum at 2AM to ask how to make pancakes because Youngjae knows how to make them. He probably won’t even need to call him for kimchi stew or fried rice recipes because as far as Jaebum knows, Youngjae is too demanded of a singer to do anything more than sleep in his own home. 

In a bigger and more accurate sense, there is something finite about this moment. It happens once and only once and an uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach, filling it all up until there is no more space for the pancakes tells him even Youngjae knows. 

“Hyung, I should really go to sleep. I have to be somewhere in three hours,” Youngjae says and Jaebum does detect a very small apologetic hint in his voice but they must say their goodbyes. 

Time does fly when you’re having fun. 

(Or pretending to.) 

“Right. You should really go, Youngjae. Thanks a lot for staying on the line.”

“I’m not sure if I was too helpful since they taste bad.”

“I don’t think I have the touch for them.” He pauses, sets down his fork and moves away from the kitchen. He feels drowsy at once, limbs suddenly lacking energy and Jaebum feels himself being pulled down by something other than tiredness. He feels weighed down by the impeding goodbye. 

“You just need to practice them, hyung,” Youngjae encourages and Jaebum is taken back to the time when they were still in their early twenties with no clue about the distance squeezing its way in between them years down the line. He’s taken back to the time when he feels hopeless and helpless, back to the days when he’d feign being fast asleep as he’d roll over and cling to Youngjae as if he was a solid assurance. An assurance that seven of them may squeeze in an apartment and their room may be too hot and too small but it’s okay to start small, it’s okay to struggle because in the end, their happiness would be incomparable.

“Okay,” Jaebum says but he lies; this isn’t his thing. This is Youngjae’s and there’s only so much nostalgia he can handle, really. “Go to sleep, Youngjae. Take it easy at your schedules.” 

Youngjae laughs, a laugh which tells Jaebum he, of all people, would know one simply can’t take it easy at their schedules but he still says, “I’ll try. Good night, hyung.”

A few more seconds of silence follow as if the younger seeks out to hear the rustle of Jaebum sliding in his bed, making a cocoon out of his blankets and then the line goes dead.